Yesterday, Monday, we had planned to move from Burns Park, where we’d been staying for the past week, to Maumelle COE Park just 12 miles away. Because Dar was in full “capitulation phase” with her cold, we did consider delaying the move another day, but she decided all the activity with moving would help take her mind off the misery. Maumelle is a couple notches above Burns in facilities and maintenance, and it’s right on the banks of the Arkansas River. Instead of just being parked in the woods, its being parked in the woods and on a river.

About mid-day, we broke camp at Burns, made the short drive to Maumelle, and found a very nice campsite near the river. There are more people here than one might expect — the place is probably half full — as snowbirds from the north make this an annual stop on their way south for the winter. The park is close to major highways but secluded and quiet. It’s just about perfect.

Dinner last night was chicken soup for my sweetie (it can’t hoit), and I boiled up some spaghetti so I could use up some extra sauce I had made last week. A Christmas cookie, direct from the cookie factory in Wisconsin this past weekend, served as desert. I’m not hopeful the cookies will actually make it to Christmas. I’m not even sure they’ll make it to Thanksgiving!

No explorations to report on today. The sequential impact of this virus (first me, then Dar) is putting a crimp in our style. But we’ll have most of a week to see the Arkansas State Capitol, the Clinton Library, and a few other adventures — and the weather looks like it’ll cooperate.

T

Here’s a quick update covering the past week.

We arrived here at Burns Park Campground in North Little Rock last Sunday afternoon. The campground is a nice enough place and is close to our ideal camping experience because it is heavily wooded, has clean asphalt roads, and well-separated campsites. However, some sites aren’t very level and the park has a neglected feel to it.

Monday and Tuesday were rainy and Dar was getting ready for her trip to Wisconsin. It’s become a tradition, with her Mom and Sister, to get together on a long weekend in November and turn the farmhouse into a Christmas cookie factory. I dropped her off at the Little Rock airport on Wednesday and off she went.

Unfortunately, as much as I was looking forward to the time alone and having ALL 300 square feet to myself for a few days, it turned out to be less than what I’d hoped. About the time Dar left, it became clear I was coming down with a cold — a depressing thought as we’ve both stayed relatively illness-free since we’ve been on this journey.

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An observation… the phases of having a cold virus:

First, there’s an awareness phase. This is that point in time where you’re feeling “not quite right”. Not bad, mind you. Just not right. You’re becoming aware that something’s not right.

Then there’s the battle phase. Once you’re aware a bug has invaded the sanctity of your body, you begin to battle it with everything you can throw at it… orange juice, vitamin C, tinctures of zinc, positive mental attitude, and various herbs, potions, and snake-oil that you’ve heard other people swear by. The objective is to fight it off… to beat it.

Third, is the capitulation phase. In this phase, the objective changes from one of fighting it off to one of trying to minimize the symptoms. Cold medications, cough medicines, non-steroidal anti-inflammatories, decongestants. Most of what these things do is put you in a drugged stupor, which is maybe better living with the full-blown symptoms… I don’t know. You hunker down and realize all you can do is let it run it’s course.

Fourth, is the climax phase. A cold, like a good novel, usually has a climax… the point at which the block of concrete in your sinus passages is at its maximum, you have a Kleenex or two packed into each nostril, and no medication seems to quell the throbbing in your head. This usually occurs at night, keeps you from sleeping, and causes thoughts that there may actually be some benefits to death.

Lastly, is the healing phase. Once you’ve passed this “hell night”, the healing phase begins. There are some lingering symptoms for a few days, but you feel hope and renewed zest for life that only grows stronger with every wad of yuck blown free from your nasal passages… with every ball of mucus coughed up and liberated from your lungs. For at least a short period of time, as the drug-induced stupor passes, you savor every moment of feeling good, of life, … of NOT being sick.

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I reached capitulation phase on Wednesday night and then climax on Thursday night. Friday, another rainy day, I never stepped foot outside. I tried to read but mostly stared at the TV and felt sorry for myself. By Friday night it became clear that I was starting to heal. I slept soundly for 10 hours and woke to a new day, in more ways than one, on Saturday morning. The sun was lighting up the woods more brightly than any time since we arrived. I was actually starting to feel alive again. I took a long vigorous walk through the park. It felt great.

By the time I picked Dar up at the Little Rock airport on Sunday afternoon, I felt much better. Unfortunately, as we greeted each other near the x-ray machines in security, she informed me that she was in her own capitulation phase. She was somehow able to hold the virus at bay for most of her big weekend, but now the virus was winning the battle.

T

After thoroughly enjoying a couple days with Bill & Sue near West Plains, MO., we fired up the bus-house and pointed her South again. We got back on Hwy 412/62 eastbound in Northern Arkansas until reaching Ash Flat. A right turn onto Hwy 167 southbound took us through Evening Shade, Cave City, Pleasant Plains, and Velvet Ridge. At Bald Knob we picked up Hwy 67 southbound, a 4-lane divided road that goes right to Little Rock.

I really wanted to stay at a Corps of Engineer campground some 30 or so miles north of Little Rock at a place called Toad Suck Ferry. Of course, the only really good reason for wanting to stay there without seeing it first is the name. What could possibly be the origin of the name “Toad Suck”?

According to Wikipedia:

The legend behind Toad Suck is that long ago, steamboats traveled the Arkansas River when the water was at the right depth. When it wasn’t, the captains and their crew tied up to wait where the Toad Suck Lock & Dam now spans the river near Conway. While they waited, they refreshed themselves at the local tavern. The dismayed folks living nearby were heard to say: “They suck on the bottle ’til they swell up like toads.” Hence, the name Toad Suck. The tavern is long gone, but the legend lives on at Toad Suck Daze.

But reason won out over “childish desires” (we put it to a vote and the Safety Director had to break the tie) and “we” decided to stay much closer to Little Rock, but still right along the Arkansas River. But even though Toad Suck Daze is normally held in early May each year I may have to do some exploring in that area during the Safety Directors absence (She’s going to Wisconsin for a few daze, er… days).

I may have to refresh myself while awaiting her return.

T

We left Branson on Friday the 7th of November. The destination was the acreage of a couple friends we met in Rockport last year — Bill & Sue, who live near West Plains, MO. We’ve been emailing back and forth during the past month about our respective plans for the winter and they invited us to stop by, see their place, and check out this part of the Ozarks.

Driving in the Ozarks can be a challenge. The roads are little more than collections of curves, hills, and double-yellow lines. Not a lot of dirt was moved when these highways were built, and it seems they had no chain saws since the road seems to wind around any tree of size. There are precious few places where a motorist can safely pass a big bus-house that’s poking along a few m.p.h. under the speed limit.

On the way to West Plains we did have one incident that caused me to stop breathing for a minute and utter a few carefully selected words. As we trekked eastward on Hwy 412/62 in northern Arkansas, I’d been following, for some time, an old filthy Lincoln Mark driven by a very erratic driver. At times he’d be plugging along even more slowly than my preferred speed for that type of road. At other times, he speed up and was a half mile ahead. There was no pattern or consistency.

As we trudged along we came to an intersection. A gas station/convenience store was on the left side of the road. The erratic driver was right in front of us, moving about 45 m.p.h. The road was normal Ozark-quality — narrow, no shoulders, plenty of hills and curves ahead. I was following at a comfortable distance… until… my erratic friend suddenly decided he wanted to turn left into the gas station, but couldn’t due to oncoming traffic. So… he just stops! No visible brake lights… only an old Lincoln parked right in the lane of traffic! Picture a 36,000 pound torpedo about to make a direct hit on the aft section of an old Lincoln “liberty ship”. I’m sure my eyes were bigger than pie-plates as my right foot instinctively, thankfully, found the correct pedal and applied just enough pressure to warm the brakes up to a temperature normally found only on the surface of the sun. From the outside, I think, it all appeared calm and controlled — except maybe for the long blast from my air horn. But on the inside it was a different story. This was our first, what-you’d-call, panic stop.

They say you learn by “pushing the envelope” or “taking it to the limit”. We learned, happily, that both our brakes and sphincters functioned the way they’re supposed to.

T

All Right! I might as well get this out there right off the bat: I actually enjoyed the Andy Williams Christmas Show that Dar talked me into attending yesterday. Yes, I enjoyed it! With all my grumbling about the lines, the crowds, the traffic, aging performers, and all the other touristy hoopla here in Branson, probably no one thought I’d say that. I certainly didn’t.

But I had a great time. First of all, you’ve got to admire someone who’s doing what they love, and enjoying it so much that they’d rather work at their craft than relax, retire, and fade away. He doesn’t say how old he is, but a little research found he’s 81 years old. In person, he certainly doesn’t look like an octogenarian. Even if he has a cosmetic surgeon on retainer (and he probably does), so what? Performing is his passion and looking good is a part of performing. Way to go, Andy.

We were seated on an aisle about mid-way back in the front section of the theater, which was only about half full. But the place holds over 2,000 people so half-a-house is still a good turnout at $39/head. Just after the performance started, an usher knelt down next to me and whispered if we’d like to move to front row center, where they had a few open seats. Of course! Why not? So off we scooted.

When sitting in the middle of an audience, further back, there’s little or no intimacy with the performers. I often like that because I can really relax, maybe nod off — catch a little nap and be thoroughly rested and ready for the drive home. There’s a splendid anonymity to it, it doesn’t matter if you applaud or not, you can just hide-out as part of that large singular mass of humanity.

But let me tell you, Bunky… being in the center of the front row is something else. The performers, I’m told, can only see the first few rows of the audience, and they usually form a bond with this sub-set for the purpose of feedback. There’s an intimacy about it — two-way communication based on eye contact, body language, and emotional reactions. Just like public speakers, performers crave that intimacy during a performance as reinforcement that what they’re doing is working. I got absolutely no rest at all.

During the rest of the performance, Dar was often the subject of old Andy’s  eye-contact. For example, in “Moon River”, Dar melted when he looked at her while he sang “Oh, dream maker, you heart breaker…” You had to be there.

I wouldn’t have been surprised if, at 81 years old, he’d only been on the stage less than half the time, singing a few old favorites, and mostly introducing other performers. But that’s not what we got. I’d guess he was on stage 80% of the time, singing song after song and working with other performers. And this guy can still belt out a tune.

The show was reminiscent of his variety television show and Christmas Specials from the 60’s and 70’s. A strong Christmas theme, a mix of other performers, and a strong talented band. Reminiscent too, was his interplay with the audience, his mannerisms, and his self-deprecating style of humor.

I, we, had a great time.

Now, if we could just do something about that carnival outside.

T