Welcome to Earle

Long before I held any regard for slow moving pick-up trucks and farm equipment, two of us Memphis 

folks decided on a nice weekend at Heber Springs. In a cabin. In the woods. With my parents. Never 

one for following directions or reading a map, I still knew by instinct and tradition what a straight-shot 

highway looked like on a map and was familiar with color coding for highway type. Straight to me 

meant moving on down the road. Hwy 64 out of Marion, due west, was my suggestion.

“Sounds like a plan,” he said.

            Two hours, max, was estimated for the trip. I’d packed for a weekend that could include a black-tie dinner or a fish fry, swimming or dock-sitting. I had not packed for a weekend in jail.

            Highway 64 is an east-west highway but not without its potholes and pitfalls. Farming communities such as Wylie and Crawfordsville are allowed to have farm implements on the road, just like normal vehicles. Who knew?

Praying mantis and dinosaur derivatives lumbered along the road, fresh from the fields, spewing hay and dirt in their wake. Interspersed were farm trucks. Men who spit tobacco and hung an arm out the window moseyed along as if supper were yet hours away. We’d pass one big, green monster only to be waylaid by another. Our plan for a quick two-hour drive was like Gilligan’s tour – much too long.

            Neither of us had patience as a virtue so we looked for every break in the traffic along the two-lane highway. Pac-man, dot eating, ghost avoiding skill played a large part in darting between trucks and tractors. Finally, the last hay wagon in the never-ending motorcade was behind us.

            “We can give it the gas, now,” I said.

            “Yeah,” he replied, and we were off like an Indy-car on a straightaway.

            We nudged and fudged the posted highway speed to make up time. The paper accordion map showed the highway with no deviation into any town with seventeen traffic lights. We were on our way.

            Seems Earle, Arkansas, annexed a billboard and the land surrounding it on the north side of the east-west highway. I saw it and thought, “That’s odd. A billboard just sitting in the middle of nothing.” Here he came, blue lights and siren blaring.

“Oh, crud,” I said.

            “Oh, double crud,” he responded.

            “Where you folks headed in such a hurry?” asked the Earle police officer. Our story did not impress him. Since we were truly speeding and he had zero sympathy for city-folk who have no respect for farm equipment, he told us, “Follow me.”

            “Where?”

            “Into town. To City Hall.”

            “Oh, crap,” I said.

            “Don’t say anything else. Just sit there and be quiet.”

            Through winding little-town streets, as slow as a bug not knowing his fate, we drove. Parked at City Hall in Wynne, the policeman asked that we come inside. “She’s staying in the car. Just give us the ticket and let us go.”

            “Your license and registration, please,” he drawled. “Seems you folk are from out of state. You’ll have to post a cash bond.”

            They went inside. I sat in the car. I needed my jail outfit because we had little cash – just checks and a credit card. And no way of getting in touch with my parents in a cabin in the woods in Heber Springs.

            After listening to a master-negotiator tell as many sob stories as necessary, the officer allowed us to give him all our cash a check for the remainder of the fine. He let us keep $10 for emergencies.

            “Don’t be speeding anymore. Gotta stay safe,” the cop said.

            “Sure thing, officer. Thank you, sir.”

            We made it to Heber Springs before the Heber cops were sent to investigate roadside ditches and potential mangled wreckage.

            The lone billboard screams, “Welcome to Earle.” You can’t miss it.