The Arkansas Beginnings

19 October 2008

At Bull Shoals, on the White River, morning saw fog tumbling across the surface. The high water allowed only a glimpse of the limestone bluffs. An artist had sculpted a huge sundial near the campgrounds and was out refurbishing his work. Learning of my planned route, he suggested I just roll straight through Harrison and don't look back. "Nothing to offer", "full of racists and hate." A white supremacist group is headquartered nearby. En route to Harrison, I stopped to ask directions of an older couple, out doing yard work. They echoed the same warning, in bitter tones of resignation, suggesting no hope for that place.

I continued, but the landscape seemed somehow bloodier, tainted. The otherwise beautiful array of sunlit oaks were drenched in hateful suspicion. I considered their advice, but kept course for Harrison. Rolling into town, I eyed bystanders with a condemning doubt. I found lodging, and set about exploring town and taking care of some odds and ends. Harrison is a sleepy, but tidy town. Nearly everyone i interacted with, from Monty at the bike shop, to the librarian, to the convenience store clerk, to the innkeeper, to a couple of random strangers, was abundantly generous and sympathetic, in the sense that you can tell that this is how they are, and not because they had to be. And, far from having nothing to offer, Harrison houses Homey Hearth, the heavenliest harbor a bicyclist has ever dreamt. Hmmm.

To top it off, on Sunday, Fred invited me for dinner and arranged for me to stay at his in-law's place south of town. In perfect Sunday fashion, Fred, Sarah, Doreen, Norm, Janie and I had a blissfully placid afternoon, together making dinner, playing cards, enjoying easy and genuine company and watching the sun set over the horse pastures and woods near Snowball Creek, consuming with it the last dismal residues of the previous morning's negativity.

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