THE ARKIE

 

Petit Jean River Bridge, Danville, AR

Comments  directed to our Texas-Arkansas football stories contained words like "hillbilly," "inbreeding" and "moonshine" to describe people from Arkansas.

Only one of those words is offensive, the two others being associated with skill, craft and survival.

Having spent forty years in Arkansas and Northern Texas with several visits to relatives in Oklahoma, it's difficult to distinguish a cultural difference between the three areas divided only by arbitrary state lines and regional pride.

We moved to Danville, Arkansas in rural Yell County in 1970.  Danville, the county seat, was situated in the beautiful Petit Jean River Valley between Mount Nebo and Petit Jean Mountain, the two highest points in the state.

Winthrop Rockefeller, then Governor of Arkansas, had a big ranch on top of Petit Jean Mountain where he raised Santa Gertrudis cattle for fun and recognition while viewed as a philanthropist.

Next to his ranch on Petit Jean Mountain, Rockefeller had an automobile museum, open to the public, displaying his massive collection of Stutz Bearcats, Pierce Arrows, Packards and other vehicles.

His brother, Nelson Rockefeller, was Governor of New York and later Vice President, both men being sons of John D. Rockefeller of Standard Oil fame and money.

"You're a Yankee, ain't ya?" were the first words spoken to me in Danville.

Being from Seattle, I'd never identified with either side in the Civil War.  To me, it was like being asked if I was Iroquois or Sioux. 

Others assumed I was from New York, the home of all city slickers, people who would never survive in rural Arkansas.

Leroy Dennis was the first "Arkie" I got to know, a tall man, WWII war hero, coming back from the war with his right hand shot off, replaced by a hook.

He was known by everyone in Danville, everyone in Yell County, by his first name.

Leroy had a thirty acre spread on the outskirts of Danville, but, also, a nice house downtown.  He slept nights in the downtown house, but spent all day at the "farm."

He did everything with his left hand and only support from his right hook; fixing his tractor, building another house on the farm, repairing his fences, tending his cattle, even frying okra or yellow squash from his garden.

Leroy had two grown daughters he'd always protected, but was not too fond of either of his sons-in-law.

His wife Bernice, a super efficient waitress at the Danville Grill, came home each evening raving about the important people who'd come in to "the grill" that day.

Leroy was humble to a fault.  Although he knew he could do most anything, he always prefaced his confidence with "might could."

Your most ridiculous suggestion as to how to do something would be met with "might work."

One night in the early 70's our van's engine died returning from an out of town trip.

We were on the outskirts of town at 3AM and called Leroy who met us a few minutes later in his old Ford pickup.

"I think I've thrown a rod," I told him, repeating the most serious engine trouble I'd heard about.

"That's possible," said Leroy, opening the hood and removing the distributor cap.

"Jim, can you turn the key to "on," not "start," but "on?'

Leroy, using his left hand, spun a dime inside the distributor, noting where it sparked.

Next, he turned his attention to the spark plug wires, pushing two of them down more securely.

"Now, try to start it."

"VROOM!" went my engine.

"I think that'll get you goin'," offered our friend.

That, friends, is an Arkie.