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On October 22, 2005,
I drove across the Mississippi River and entered Arkansas at
long last. It was a momentous occasion for me because it
meant that I had now visited all 50 states. I was in Mississippi to attend a conference in Tunica, a popular casino area. I arrived one day early just so I could finally visit Arkansas. Rather than just spend a few minutes there, I decided to stay overnight and drive around the next day. Renting a car at the Memphis airport, I drove down Highway 61 into Mississippi for an hour until I came to the road leading to the Helena Bridge, a narrow, two-lane bridge spanning the wide river. At 5:00 on the dot I reached the other side and entered Arkansas. I pulled to the shoulder the first chance I got and stepped out of the car to enjoy the moment. Conceding that it wasn't very enjoyable in that particular spot, I drove on to the welcome center a mile or two up the road. It was closed, but I got a picture of myself next to the sign. Then I went into the town of Helena. It was obviously a depressed area, with many dilapidated houses and buildings. I found the town's main street and parked next to Oliver's restaurant. It seemed like the only business open, other than a nearby liquor store. I walked up the levee for a look at the river on the other side. In a gazebo at the top were a black man, his face weathered and scarred, and a teenage black girl, who asked me what time it was (5:20). I asked them where Reach River Park was, a waterside park I had read about. They said it was a long walk to get there and pointed out a paved path that followed the top of the levee. I fell into conversation with them, asking them about the town. They said Helena was a depressing place, with no stores any more. All big stores were in West Helena, the neighboring town. The man pointed to the big casino, visible across the river in Mississippi, and said it had sucked the life out of Helena, causing businesses to close.
I asked if there were any bars in town, since I hoped to spend a few hours in one that night after dinner, hopefully meeting some local folks. The girl, an attractive 19-year-old, said there was a blues club called Fonzies, but she complained that if you weren't 21 you couldn't get in. They said that mostly on weekends people drove their cars around the town, and parked near where we sat, drinking beer. The man said white people and black people all hung out together. He said if you poured your drink into a cup and didn't drink from the bottle, the police didn't bother you. Then he asked me, directly and unashamed, for some money so he could get a beer. I fended off the request awkwardly, saying perhaps when I returned from my walk I would do that. We went on talking for some time, me revealing I was from Pennsylvania and that it was my first time in Arkansas. They then went into a sort of defense of Helena, saying it was a laid back town where people weren't in a hurry, like up north. The girl said it was a safe place without any of the shootings that made places like Memphis or Little Rock so dangerous.
When I got near the river, I had to climb down a very rocky hill to reach the shore. And then I was walking along the sandy banks of the muddy Mississippi River. I could see the metal bridge I had driven across in the distance and the casino sticking out above the trees. Other than that I saw nothing but water and trees on either side. Behind me the setting sun cast an orange glow on the sky. The only sound I could hear was the lapping of water against the banks and the chirp of an alarmed bird flying quickly away. I took a peaceful walk up and down the sandy shore, until darkness began to creep into the sky. Then, reluctantly, I headed back.
When I neared my car I was not exactly surprised to hear someone shout at me from a half block away. "Hey!" It was the black guy I had met earlier. He was coming for his beer money. In anticipation, I had put a couple ones in my back pocket. He walked up like we were old pals and put out his hand to shake mine. It was then I discovered his hand was slightly misshapen, perhaps with a finger missing. He asked about my walk and I told him I had reached the river. Then he said, "Hey, uh, I thought you was goin' to buy me a beer." I acted like I had
forgotten and then said, "where's the beer store." He was
more than happy to point it out. I half thought about
getting a beer for myself too, but I was really hungry by
then, and wanted to check into my hotel in West Helena
before eating, so as we walked into the store I said, "Tell
you what, get yourself one on me," and handed him the money.
He was more than appreciative. In fact, he invited me to come back later and hang with him and his buddies at the pool hall down the street. I asked where it was and he came back outside to walk with me to the corner. I peered through a window into a dark building, in which sat a couple of pool tables. Some black men were shooting, while others lingered outside. A sign said, "No alcohol allowed on premises." It was clearly not a bar. The man said he would be there all night and he hoped I'd come back (to buy him more beer). He seemed friendly, though, and I asked him his name as I left. He said it was Kitty. I drove out of town in the coming darkness, following my map to West Helena and the Motel 6 where I had booked a room. I checked in, then turned around and headed back to Helena, parking next to Oliver's Restaurant again. Inside, a waitress called me "sweetie" and sat me at a table near the small corner bar, around which four men gathered, watching both the LSU game and the World Series. Through a big picture window I had a clear view down the deserted main street. Overhead the ceiling fans spun lazily. I ordered catfish and a beer.
My meal came, with somewhat smaller portions than I had been expecting, and I dug in. Near the end, I caught the attention of the woman again and asked her about local sites I should be sure to see. She gave me directions to the Confederate Cemetery and mentioned several historic homes. She revealed that she was Paula Oliver, part owner of the restaurant and the new director of the town's Main Street group, devoted to bringing the town back to life. She told me that, in the '60s, Helena was a bustling town. But industries gradually pulled out, and when Wal-Mart came to West Helena, it sealed the fate of the local stores, none of which were willing to change their business practices to compete with Wal-Mart. She felt the town was already dead before the casino went up across the river.
When we finished talking, my beer was gone and I was not sure what to do. I had thought I'd join the men at the bar, but two more had come in and now all six stools were taken. I still had Kitty's offer to mull over, but it didn't seem a very good one. It was 8:00 by then and I wondered if the locals would already be gathering, like Kitty and the girl had earlier told me, to hang out and drink booze from cups. I imagined myself sidling up and falling easily into conversation, learning the town's inner secrets. But when I stepped outside into the cool evening, there was no crowd awaiting me. I could hear noise up the street from Kitty's pool hall gang, but I wasn't ready to face them yet. I got in my car and drove into the deserted downtown, stopping by Fonzie's to peer through the window. Lights were on but the place was empty. Perhaps it didn't open until late.
The name could mean many things. It could just be the name of a playing card, plain and simple. Or it could be calling itself the queen of clubs (i.e. dance clubs). Or the word "queen" could meanŠsomething I didn't want to find out about. After almost opening the front door to peek in, I got back in my car and drove to my motel. There I watched Saturday Night Live, content to let the queens have their club to themselves that night.. The next day, after taking a run in the brisk morning air, I drove to the only restaurant in either town open for breakfast on a Sunday morning. It was called Ginger's. As luck would have it, Ginger's was opening for breakfast for the first time ever today. And as I stepped into the empty restaurant, it became quickly apparent that word of its opening had not yet spread. I was completely alone, save a sleepy looking cook and an elderly waitress. The walls were covered with memorabilia, including a giant mounted alligator gar, no doubt pulled from the river nearby. Each of the booths was dedicated to a member of Ginger's family, and I chose the "Coffee Booth," dedicated to her grandmother Vergie. It featured some of Vergie's coffee cup collection on the shelves above. Ironically, I didn't order coffee. The waitress was Ginger's visiting aunt from Florida. After I ordered my eggs and potatoes, I could hear them being cracked and cooked in the back. Otherwise the only sounds were the ticking of the clock across the room and the shuffling of the waitresses feet as she moved around. Again, this meal was much smaller than I had hoped, but I ate it without complaint in my sunny window booth, looking at Vergie's coffee mugs.
I walked pensively among the soldiers' graves, many marked with small Confederate flags. Some had died natural deaths in the 1930s. Others had been killed in the battle of Helena, which took place the same day the Confederates were retreating from Gettysburg. The Rebels had lost this one too, sacrificing many men in their quest to take Helena back from the Union forces, who commanded the hilltops. Some of the graves were marked only with initials and the words "Killed in Helena." No doubt many families far away never learned what happened to their sons and husbands. They just never returned from the war.
I hurried off to St. Mary's Catholic church for the 10:00 mass. The pews were mostly empty for the day's only mass. Afterwards I joined a handful of people in the church hall for some bad coffee and donuts. I talked only briefly with a woman there, who welcomed me. Then I headed out. During mass the sun had gone away, replaced by clouds and a bone-chilling wind. I had no jacket, just a sweat shirt. I stopped for a photo of the Pillow-Thompson house, reportedly one of the finest examples of Queen Anne architecture in the South, then left Helena for good.
From an elderly
white man in a cowboy hat and business suit, talking with
his friend in the church hall: "I like to get up in the
morning wearing nothing but what I wore to bed and go into
the living room to read the paper, without having to put on
warm clothes first." From a black guy washing his hands in the men's room of the Hays supermarket: "I don't like mosquitoes. I don't like bugs. I don't like grass. I like this weather." As for me, the chill, refreshing at first, was started to seep into my bones. I wished I had brought a jacket. I took some back roads hoping to catch the flavor of the area, but all I really saw were flat farm fields, mostly growing cotton. When I saw my first cotton field I actually stopped the car and ran over to see what a cotton plant looked like. I picked a small piece just so I could say I had done it. After a few dozen such fields, though, it was a little less exciting.
At one point, as I drove route 79, a cop started tailing me, and he stayed there for 10 miles or more, making me very nervous. Eventually I reached West Memphis, where I got on the highway and crossed the river into Tennessee, ending my visit to Arkansas. |
They
talked about the big annual International King Biscuit Blues
Festival that took place two weeks ago and how it brought
thousands of people to the town. They pointed to the nearby
stage built a few years ago for the event. 
The girl
asked me again what time it was, now 5:45, and then said she
had to leave. I decided it was a good time to make my break
too, so I bid them farewell and then set out along the path
atop the levee. As I walked, I could see the empty,
crumbling buildings of the town to my left. After about a
quarter mile, the path met a road heading toward the river.
It stretched on for almost a half mile. I realized then I
could have driven right to the park, but rather than walk
back for the car, I kept going. 
I left
the levee trail and walked into town, where I strolled down
the deserted main street. Almost every storefront was empty
and long abandoned. A liquor store and a hair salon were
both doing good business, and I saw an antiques shop and
Fonzies blues club, but that was about it for businesses.
Four blocks of empty buildings, the lined parking spaces in
front of them all free.
A lady
whom I took to be a waitress stopped at my table, looking
somewhat hesitant, and inquired, "I hope you don't mind me
asking, but where are you from?" I told her, and we
exchanged some pleasantries. She said she had lived in
Arkansas all her life, but didn't like the humidity. She was
looking forward to autumn. She told me about a pair of
scenic state highways that passed through Helena.
Paula's
plan was to use the King Biscuit blues festival as a
springboard to reinvent Helena as an entertainment town full
of blues clubs, similar to Memphis' Beal Street. She wanted
to restart the movie theater (since the nearest one was now
an hour away) and get a few more music festivals organized
to bring in tourists. She said the town had received a
national heritage grant to help preserve it and bring it
back to life. 
I
decided to head out. Maybe I'd find a bar in West Helena.
When I got there, I cruised what I determined to be the main
street, but no bars presented themselves. Still hungry after
my meager catfish dinner, I stopped in Taco Bell for a
burrito. Then I passed my motel and continued down the road.
A mile or so out I spotted a well-lit building that bore
every indication of being a bar, despite looking like a
warehouse. A handful of cars and pickups sat outside. It had
no windows, but I could hear music when I parked and turned
off my engine. The only thing troubling me was the name on
the side of the place: Queen of Clubs. 
I drove
down the main street of Helena again, parking and taking
some pictures. Olivers and the pool hall were closed and I
saw almost no one as I walked around. From there I headed to
the Confederate Cemetery. Signs pointed me into the regular
cemetery first. At the back of it, a small sign directed me
along a very narrow, almost precarious one-lane road that
curved through the woods and climbed a hill. Then it crossed
a meadow, went up one last steep hill and ended in the
hilltop Confederate graveyard. 
The
graveyard was a quiet, somber place, covered with a carpet
of leaves. Though it sat on a hilltop, a wall of foliage cut
off views in all directions. A few sagging metal benches
offered the rare visitor a place to reflect. A tall stone
monument gave thanks to the men who died for the South.
I drove a half hour to the Louisiana Purchase
State Park, where I walked a boardwalk over a swamp, passing
scores of water tupelo and bald cypress trees, their bases
flared out wide. At the boardwalk's end sat a stone monument
marking the initial point of the survey of the lands
acquired by the Louisiana Purchase back in 1803. Normally
this monument was under water, but the swamp was rather dry
on my visit. A friendly ranger walked up while I ate my
lunch and told me it usually rains in the fall and fills the
swamp. I sat for a while in the chilly air, listening to the
wind rustling the branches high above me. Then I headed
out.
Several people had told me that the temperatures
a week before had been in the 90s, so this cold snap was a
big change. For the better? I heard it both ways:
I
followed signs marking "The Great River Road," a route that
followed the Mississippi. Actually, what it really did was
follow the closest roads to the river, none of which
actually came within sight of the river. At no point did I
ever glimpse the Mississippi. I passed several
crescent-shaped lakes that were once part of the river,
formed when it changed its course and isolated them.