I Have Finally Said “Goodbye” to Little Rock

Having lived there for years, and having gone there literally all my life, I’ve always considered Little Rock/Central Arkansas “Home”.  No matter where life has taken me, I’ve always felt rooted there.  I lived in both Malvern and Little Rock, and am intimately familiar with both.  I always look forward to opportunities to return.

So, yesterday, I had a business trip to Little Rock.  I had intended to drive, but at the last minute decided to fly, thus getting into town around 4:30.  Got the rental car (I’ve got car fever a little, and the rental car was a brand-new Jeep Grand Cherokee, black with tan leather interior with all the electronic goodies; I wanted it badly). 

Since I had time, I decided to drive to Malvern and visit the Cemetery.  I do that about once a year.  I know, they’re not there—just monuments—but I still do it.

I’m told you never get over the death of your mother.  You cope, you understand, you live with it—but you never get over it.  I think that’s right.  So I had myself a good little cry.  I miss you, Mom.

I don’t know who put the flowers there, but thank you.

There are 7 generations of my family buried in that cemetery.  I won’t be; my spot is directly next to Dad’s, on the left, but I’ve decided funerals are just a waste of money.  I’m to be cremated; Nathan has promised to spread half my ashes over Mother’s grave, the other half over the Gulf of Mexico, with a small thimble-full to go on the field at Donald W. Reynolds Razorback Stadium—at halftime of an Alabama game when the Hogs are ahead.

>>o<<

After the quick trip to Malvern, I wound up back in “The Rock” looking for something to eat.  Went to one old haunt—gone.  Second—gone.  Finally wound up at a third, remembering the food there being good.  It was terrible.

Afterward, I just drove around aimlessly for a while.  Went by War Memorial Stadium.  Went by my old house.  Went by my old office.  Drove by the Capitol.  Up Cantrell.  Down Kavanaugh.  Up Markham.

>>o<<

They always say, “You can never go home again.”  They’re right.  It’s very weird.  I lived there a long time, but I don’t live there any more.  I know where everything is, I know where all the streets are; it is all infinitely familiar—but it does nothing for me.  It’s just another place, like Memphis, Tulsa, Birmingham, Baton Rouge—nice places, but just…places.  Not “home”.

I could not get over the feeling today at the airport in Little Rock; all I wanted to do was go home.  When the plane landed at Hobby, and I got into the hideous traffic on the Beltway, with the palm trees swaying in the breeze—that’s home now.  Houston is home now.  But probably not forever.

Home, now, is wherever I am.  I am cut loose from the ties.  I am a citizen of the world. 

And I’m not exactly sure how I feel about that.