Driving north on I540, I still catch myself looking back to the southeast and seeing glimpses of old Highway 71 as it winds its now lonely way over Boston Mountain in the heart of the Ozarks. I don’t look for too long because I’m reminded of the old anonymous quote – “When I die, I want to go peacefully and quietly in my sleep like my grandfather did – not screaming and shouting like the passengers in his car.”
So I look back to the road ahead, now the one more traveled, the one used by most who are making the familiar trek from almost anywhere in the state with Fayetteville as their destination.
I have made more than my share of trips to the home of the University of Arkansas. The first times were as a young boy, when my parents would take me to Razorback games, like the one against Tulsa back in the mid-seventies. I think that was 1974, when we had a pretty good team and Tulsa didn’t. In the 4th quarter it was raining like a hurricane. The lead was 60-0 and mom had headed to shelter at the Student Union about an hour earlier. Not dad, though we stayed till the soggy end.
When I was younger than that, our family moved from Little Rock to Sioux City, Iowa. But every Christmas we would load ourselves and luggage and presents in the station wagon and head out from the western edge of Iowa, where the Great Plains begin just on the opposite bank of the Missouri River. Our destination was my grandparent’s home in Conway, Ark., which took us south on Highway 71, from Fayetteville to Alma.
One of my favorite stops along the way was the Ozark Mountain Smokehouse on Mt. Kessler. There was never a better taste than that smoked ham and cheese on white bread that Roy Sharp started producing back in 1941, after he had supposedly retired. There was a huge mural on one of the walls that depicted life in the country of the Ozarks. I believe most of it was destroyed in a fire they had some years back. Now it’s all for sale, as many businesses probably are on that 50 mile stretch. That’s progress, I suppose.
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Monday was a great day to sit in front of my fireplace and read a new novel, Stephen King’s “11/23/63,” about a schoolteacher who learns of a way to travel back in time to 1958, and stay for as long as he likes. He plans to alter history, which, from the book’s title, you have guessed what event he plans to affect. If you’re a King fan, like I have been for 35 years, you’ll need to get this one – he’s at his best.
It was also a good day to watch some football and cook a big pot of ham and beans. The secret to this recipe is from another smokehouse in the Ozarks. That would be Coursey’s in St. Joe, on Highway 65 near Harrison. They use pieces of ham hock, which makes anything you choose to put it in taste better.
Mrs. Paula Hale, whose father started the business, says that it began as a dirt-floored cabin (which is still standing outside the new, modern display room). “My father hung each ham from a nail in the wall and wrapped it in a dry-goods box,” she recalls.
They also sell ham and turkey sandwiches, on white or wheat. They pile on the meat. And be sure and add some smoked cheese, Swiss or cheddar.
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So on New Year’s Eve we drove to Fayetteville again, north on I540, this time to take our friend Fred to dinner. It has been less than two months since he had his double bypass, and he’s doing great. “I survived,” he says, “so I’m doing great.” At the restaurant, Nibbles, we enjoyed a good meal, oblivious to the younger revelers that surrounded us, and listened to Fred tell us the story of his near-death experience. At the end he said he is thankful for God and for his surgeon, Dr. Jim Counce. We are, too.