East Calico Rock, Arkansas

We traveled to the Ozarks this Thanksgiving to nurture our connection with grandma. This trip, I looked for beauty in a culture that mystifies me simply because it is not my place. Hardwoods dominate the landscape; the trunks of the Black Oaks look as if they were sketched in pen by artists. Sun glistens in coppery leaves that curl inward and twist in the wind on their stems, loathe to leave their branches. That might be a metaphor for the culture.

I asked my husband how many families established Mountain View. About ten, he said, and then he named them all. Their descendants still live here.

Forests, creeks and rivers, and multi-colored stone bluffs attract hunters and fishermen, mountain bikers and hikers. The Folk Center offers tourists a look back in history, when life was dependent on the work of many hands. Studios draw local craftsmen and artists who have kept endeavors like quilting and weaving, candle and soap making, leather tooling and copper jewelry alive. They demonstrate their arts and crafts, tell stories, and play music.

In our wanderings, we happened upon this picture of the past that tells a story about the future. East Calico Rock once boasted a cotton gin, a planing mill, and many other enterprises. The bridge and railroad trestle allowed workers, goods and services access to new industry. Once this town prospered because of its connection between natural resources, enterprising people, and a train and a river boat stop.

America is dotted with ghosts towns like East Calico Rock. Resources dwindle, people leave, connections die. How will generations to come document the enterprises that we will inevitably lose to disuse or misuse? Will they speak in wonder about our networks of airports, tele, and data communications—those vehicles that connect us—the way we recall the riverboat days? Idealized like a Grandma Moses painting, or judged harshly like a Diego Rivera mural, what will the ruins and artistic representation of our present life look like?