The Magic of Magic Springs

                Magic Springs was one of my favorite places to visit as a child growing up in the Natural State. Few things could match the excitement of piling into the car with family or friends on a hot summer morning and heading from Sherwood (Pulaski County) down to Hot Springs (Garland County) for a day filled with roller coasters, water slides, arcade games, and the unmistakable smell of sunscreen and funnel cakes drifting through the air.

                For many Arkansans of my generation, Magic Springs was more than just an amusement park. It was part of summer itself.

                Magic Springs officially opened on July 22, 1978, during a time when Hot Springs was searching for new ways to attract tourists and families. Local businessman Bob Sykes and a group of investors believed Arkansas could support a major amusement park that could compete with attractions in neighboring states. Built in the wooded hills just outside the city, the park quickly became one of Arkansas’s most popular destinations.

                In its early years, Magic Springs offered rides, live entertainment, and attractions for visitors of all ages. Before long, the Arkansas Twister became the park’s signature attraction. The towering wooden roller coaster rose high above the trees and could be seen from nearly everywhere inside the park. For countless Arkansas kids, finally finding the courage to ride it felt like a rite of passage. As for me, someone who has always been terrified of heights, I never quite managed to work up the nerve.

                Despite its popularity, Magic Springs struggled financially almost from the beginning. Like many regional amusement parks, it dealt with mounting debt, ownership changes, and attendance numbers that often failed to meet expectations. By 1995, things had become so difficult that the park shut down completely. For a while, many Arkansans believed Magic Springs was gone for good.

                Later that same year, the property was purchased during a foreclosure sale by a Belgian investment company and plans quickly began to bring the park back to life. A major turning point came when Hot Springs voters approved financial support measures designed to help reopen the attraction and boost tourism in the Spa City.

                After extensive renovations and improvements, the park reopened in May 2000 as Magic Springs and Crystal Falls. The addition of the Crystal Falls water park made the attraction even more appealing during Arkansas’s brutally hot and humid summers.

                The early 2000s became something of a golden era for Magic Springs. New rides were added, attendance improved, and the Timberwood Amphitheater began bringing nationally known performers to Hot Springs, including country stars like Tracy Lawrence, Collin Raye, and Clay Walker. For many families, a trip to Magic Springs became an all-day experience filled with thrill rides, water attractions, concerts, and memories that lasted long after summer ended.

                 Like many amusement parks across America, Magic Springs has continued to face challenges over the years. Ownership and management have changed several times, maintenance costs have risen, and some longtime attractions have disappeared while newer ones have taken their place.

                One of the saddest moments for longtime visitors came when the Arkansas Twister ceased operation ahead of the 2025 season. For generations of Arkansans, the legendary wooden coaster had become one of the defining symbols of the park. News of its closure sparked an outpouring of nostalgia online as former visitors shared memories of the slow climb up the lift hill and the wild ride that followed.

                Even today, Magic Springs remains woven into the memories of countless Arkansas families. For many of us, it was the place where summer truly felt like summer. It was where friendships were built while standing in long water slide lines, where exhausted kids fell asleep in the backseat on the drive home, and where teenagers tried their best not to scream on roller coasters in front of their friends.

                Over the years, I’ve realized that not every Arkansas landmark is a historic battlefield or famous building. Sometimes the places that stay with us the longest are the ones connected to laughter, excitement, and childhood memories. And for generations of Arkansans, Magic Springs will always be one of those magical places.

The KAAY Story Struck a Chord Across Arkansas

                Wow! In the five years I’ve been writing All Around Arkansas and sharing Arkansas-related stories on my social media pages, I’ve never received the amount of attention that my recent story and related posts about KAAY 1090 AM have generated.

                The response has truly been incredible. My posts have been liked and shared hundreds, if not thousands, of times. It’s about as close to “viral” as any subject I’ve ever covered, and I sincerely want to thank each and every person who helped make that happen.

                What has been so fascinating is realizing just how far the reach of KAAY extended. It wasn’t simply a radio station located in Little Rock (Pulaski County), no, it was a part of people’s lives. KAAY became a soundtrack for countless childhoods, teenage years, road trips, late nights, and special memories. The station connected with listeners in a way that few forms of media ever have.

                Over the past several days, I’ve received countless Facebook messages, emails, and comments from people sharing their own memories of “The Mighty 1090.” I’ve heard from people across Arkansas, throughout the United States, and even from listeners around the world who remembered tuning in.

                Some of the stories have been especially meaningful. I’ve heard from veterans who fondly remembered listening to KAAY while serving overseas. For them, the music and voices coming through the radio weren’t just entertainment, they were a reminder of home during a difficult and uncertain time.

                I’ve also heard from listeners in places like Cuba who remembered hearing American music coming across the airwaves. That’s a powerful reminder of the unique influence radio once had. Before the internet, streaming services, and social media connected the world instantly, a powerful AM signal could cross incredible distances and bring people together.

                Perhaps the most meaningful part of this entire experience has been hearing from so many people who thanked me for helping keep the story and legacy of KAAY alive through my syndicated newspaper column and social media posts.

                That is exactly why I started All Around Arkansas in the first place.

                Every week, my goal is to tell the stories of the people, places, and moments that helped shape our state. Sometimes those stories are about forgotten communities, historic landmarks, famous Arkansans, or pieces of history that deserve another moment in the spotlight. At other times, they are about things like a radio station that may no longer exist in the same form, but whose impact continues to live on through the memories of the people who experienced it.

                KAAY is a perfect example of that. The station may have changed over the years, but the memories remain. The songs, the voices, the personalities, and the feeling of hearing that familiar signal are still alive in the hearts of thousands of former listeners.

                To everyone who has taken the time to share a memory, send a message, leave a comment, or share one of my posts — thank you. I have enjoyed reading every story, and I’ve learned just as much from all of you as I hope you’ve learned from me.

                If I’ve helped bring back even a few great memories of “The Mighty 1090,” then I’ve accomplished exactly what I hope to do each week with All Around Arkansas.

                History isn’t just found in books or museums. Sometimes it’s found in an old photograph, a familiar song, or the sound of a radio station that once meant something special.

                Thank you for allowing me to help preserve those memories. I’m truly grateful.

Happy 190th Birthday, Arkansas!

            This past Monday, Arkansas celebrated a milestone that deserved far more attention than it received. June 15 marked the 190th anniversary of Arkansas entering the United States as the 25th state in 1836. Nearly two centuries later, it is remarkable to reflect on how far the state has come from its rough-and-tumble territorial beginnings to the Arkansas we know today.

            In 1836, Arkansas was still considered part of the American West. Much of the state was rugged wilderness filled with dense forests, swamps, rivers, hills, and mountains. Roads were primitive, travel was difficult, and many communities were isolated from one another. The Arkansas Territory had existed for only 17 years before achieving statehood.

            Before becoming a state, Arkansas was part of the Missouri Territory following the Louisiana Purchase from France in 1803. As settlers gradually moved into the region, the federal government established the Arkansas Territory in 1819. The territorial capital was initially located at Arkansas Post (Arkansas County) before later moving to Little Rock (Pulaski County), which was viewed as a more central location better suited for growth and commerce.

            Life in territorial Arkansas was far from easy. Most residents lived in small farming communities and relied heavily on rivers for transportation and trade. While the population remained relatively small compared to eastern states, it continued to grow steadily as settlers arrived seeking opportunity and land. Cotton agriculture soon became one of the territory’s major economic drivers, particularly throughout the fertile Delta region.

            When Arkansas petitioned for statehood, the nation was already wrestling with the growing issue of slavery and the balance of power in Congress. Arkansas entered the Union as a slave state only one year after Michigan was admitted as a free state, helping preserve the fragile political balance between free and slave states at the time.

            On June 15, 1836, President Andrew Jackson signed the bill admitting Arkansas into the Union. At the time, the state’s population was just over 50,000. Today, Arkansas is home to more than three million residents.

            What makes Arkansas history especially fascinating is how closely the state’s story mirrors the broader American story. Arkansas experienced westward expansion, the turmoil of the Civil War, Reconstruction, the rise of railroads, agricultural booms and busts, industrial growth, and the long struggle for civil rights. From the days of steamboats traveling the Arkansas River to modern aerospace manufacturing and international corporate headquarters, the state has continually reinvented itself while maintaining its distinct identity.

            The Arkansas of 2026 would be almost unimaginable to those who celebrated statehood in 1836. Back then, there were no paved highways, electricity, the internet, or smartphones. Traveling across the state could take days. Today, Arkansas is connected by interstate highways, thriving industries, universities, state-of-the-art medical centers, and a growing technology sector.

            Yet despite all the changes, many qualities of Arkansas remain remarkably familiar across generations. Arkansans still value faith, family, community, and resilience. Small towns across the state still gather for local festivals and Friday night football games. Farmers continue working the rich Delta soil, while the Ouachita and Ozark mountains draw visitors seeking beauty, recreation, and quiet escapes.

            It is easy to overlook milestones like a 190th birthday because history can sometimes feel distant from everyday life. But anniversaries like this remind us that Arkansas is far more than lines on a map in the southern United States. It is a place shaped by generations of ordinary people who built homes, businesses, schools, churches, and communities.

            From a frontier territory carved from the wilderness to the 25th star on the American flag, the Natural State has spent the last 190 years writing a story that is still unfolding. If the past is any indication, the next chapter may prove just as remarkable as the first.

The Mighty 1090: KAAY

 

For much of America, Little Rock (Pulaski County) was at one time just another dot on the map. But after sunset in the 1960s and 1970s, one Arkansas radio station changed that forever. Across the Great Plains, deep into the Midwest, and even into Cuba, listeners slowly turned their radio dials until they found a powerful signal on 1090 AM: KAAY.

Known as “The Mighty 1090,” KAAY became one of the most influential radio stations in the South and, in many ways, one of the most important stations in the U.S. Its 50,000-watt clear-channel signal traveled vast distances at night, allowing people hundreds (and sometimes thousands) of miles away to hear a station broadcasting from West 7^th Street in Arkansas’s capital city.

During the day, KAAY operated as one of the South’s dominant Top 40 powerhouses. But after dark, the station transformed into something entirely different.

Beginning in 1966, KAAY launched the groundbreaking underground music program Beaker Street, hosted by smooth-voiced deejay Clyde Clifford, whose real name was Dale Seidenschwarz. Ironically, Clyde Clifford was not a stage name he created himself, but the name of the comptroller of KAAY’s parent company, LIN Broadcasting. In fact, all of KAAY’s deejays adopted on-air names borrowed from members of LIN’s board of directors and executive team.

At a time when most AM stations relied on tightly controlled three-minute pop singles, Beaker Street broke every norm. Long album cuts, psychedelic rock, blues, folk, and experimental music flowed through Arkansas airwaves into bedrooms, businesses, and car radios across North America. For countless listeners, it became their first exposure to artists who would later become legends. Before long, Beaker Street itself took on an almost mythical reputation.

Part of that mystique came from Clifford’s delivery. His slow, deliberate voice stood in sharp contrast to the rapid-fire style common in radio at the time. Strange background sounds drifted beneath his words, creating an eerie late-night atmosphere listeners still remember to this day. The effect was partly practical; the show was often broadcast from KAAY’s transmitter site in Wrightsville (Pulaski County) rather than the downtown Little Rock studio, and the sounds helped mask transmitter noise. But the result felt almost hypnotic. To teenagers in remote towns throughout the Midwest and South, KAAY sounded less like a radio station and more like a message from another world.

What made the station even more remarkable was its extraordinary reach. Thanks to its powerful nighttime signal, KAAY could be heard far beyond Arkansas. Reports say KAAY could be heard as far north as Canada and as far south as Cuba. During the Cold War, young Cubans secretly tuned in to hear American rock music that was otherwise difficult to access under tight government restrictions.

Think about that for a moment: a radio station in Little Rock influencing underground music culture across an entire hemisphere. That kind of influence is difficult to imagine today in an era dominated by streaming services and social media. Modern audiences can instantly hear virtually any song ever recorded. But during radio’s golden age, stations like KAAY served as cultural gatekeepers. They introduced listeners to new sounds, new ideas, and entirely new ways of thinking, and KAAY was doing it from right here in the Natural State.

The station’s history stretches back further. KAAY originally began as KTHS (which stood for “Kum to Hot Springs”) in Hot Springs (Garland County) in the 1920s, before eventually becoming KAAY in 1962. Over time, the station evolved through different formats as FM radio gradually overtook AM as the dominant home for music broadcasting. By 1985, KAAY officially ended its run as a Top 40 giant and transitioned to religious programming.

Even so, the station’s legacy never disappeared. To this day, older music fans still speak reverently about Beaker Street and the thrill of hearing that distant nighttime signal rolling through the static. Archived recordings and surviving airchecks have become treasured pieces of broadcasting history, and radio historians now recognize KAAY as a pioneering force that helped shape the future of album-oriented rock radio. If you’d like to hear some of those rare recordings and vintage airchecks, they’re available on a website maintained by former employees of KAAY: mighty1090kaay.blogspot.com

In Arkansas, we often underestimate the significant contributions our state has made to American culture. Yet for one remarkable era, some of the most adventurous and influential radio in the nation came not from New York or Los Angeles, but from a transmitter outside Little Rock.

Camp Robinson's Underground Hospital

            Some pieces of Arkansas history remain hidden in plain sight. Growing up in North Little Rock (Pulaski County). I passed Camp Robinson countless times without ever realizing that beneath part of its former training grounds once existed one of the most remarkable military medical projects of World War II: an underground hospital carved deep into solid Arkansas rock.

            Today, most people know it simply as Camp Robinson, but during World War II the sprawling installation became one of the nation’s busiest military training centers. Tens of thousands of soldiers cycled through central Arkansas as America prepared for war overseas. The camp expanded rapidly after 1940, transforming into a massive operation with barracks, rail lines, warehouses, training ranges, and medical facilities spread across tens of thousands of acres. Yet among all those wartime buildings, none was more unusual than the so-called “Underground Hospital.”

            Officially connected to the Fifty-fifth General Hospital unit, the facility was established in 1943, under the direction of Lt. Colonel Charles Gill of the U.S. Army Medical Corps. Gill believed military medicine needed to prepare for a frightening reality of modern warfare: hospitals near combat zones could themselves become targets. His answer was both practical and extraordinary. Instead of building upward, the Army would build downward.

            Soldiers and medical personnel excavated chambers directly into sandstone and solid rock at Camp Robinson. According to wartime records, the underground complex included hospital wards, operating rooms, X-ray facilities, connecting tunnels, and protected passageways leading to the surface. The goal was to determine whether doctors could safely treat wounded troops while shielded from enemy bombing or artillery attacks. In many ways, the project was ahead of its time.

            Years before the public became familiar with MASH units during the Korean War, military planners at Camp Robinson were already experimenting with ways to bring medical care closer to dangerous front lines. The underground design attempted to recreate battlefield conditions while protecting both patients and staff.

            Photos from 1943 show rough tunnel entrances cut into hillsides and reinforced chambers hidden underground. From the surface, much of the operation appeared almost invisible. In an era when air raids devastated cities across Europe and the Pacific, concealment mattered.

            What makes the story especially fascinating is that this remarkable experiment happened not in New York, California, or Washington, D.C., but in central Arkansas.

            Officially named Camp Joseph T. Robinson (named in honor of a former Arkansas governor and U.S. senator) became a crossroads of wartime America. Infantry trainees marched across its dusty grounds. German prisoners of war were later housed there. Medical units trained there before deployment overseas. Celebrities and military leaders visited the installation during the war years, but the underground hospital added an almost cinematic layer to the camp’s history.

            For decades, knowledge of the facility remained relatively obscure. Documents connected to the project were not declassified until 1958. Even many Arkansans who grew up near the base never realized such a place existed beneath the hills.

            Time, of course, changes everything. Much of the wartime camp disappeared or evolved in the decades after World War II. Buildings were demolished, land was repurposed, and memories faded. Yet historians and archaeologists have continued studying the underground hospital site, recognizing it as a rare example of wartime military innovation, and perhaps that’s what makes the story endure.

            The Natural State’s history is often told through battlefields, politics, railroads, or natural disasters. But sometimes the most compelling stories are the ones hidden in places people pass every day without knowing what once happened there.

            Somewhere beneath Camp Robinson’s landscape, traces remain of a time when military doctors and soldiers dug deep into Arkansas stone trying to solve one of war’s oldest problems: how to save lives in the middle of chaos. So, while it sounds like something from a Steven Spielberg World War II movie set, it happened right here in my home state.

The Marked Tree Siphons

            Most people driving through Poinsett County have no idea they are passing one of the strangest engineering projects in the country.

            Just outside the small Delta town of Marked Tree, three enormous steel pipes rise over a levee like something left behind from another era. They look odd and slightly out of place against the flat Arkansas farmland. But those pipes, commonly known as the Marked Tree Siphons, were built to do something remarkable: carry an entire river over a dam and somehow, they still work.

            The siphons were completed in 1939, as part of a flood-control effort along the St. Francis River. Long before modern drainage systems transformed eastern Arkansas into rich farmland, much of the region was swamp and overflow country. Flooding was a constant problem. Heavy rains could turn fields into lakes, wash out roads and isolate communities for days.

            Local leaders spent decades trying to control the water. Drainage District No. 7, organized in the early 1900s, dug ditches and built levees throughout the area. In the 1920s, engineers constructed a lock and sluiceway system near Marked Tree to help manage the river. But the Delta’s soft soil caused problems almost immediately. Then came a major flood in 1937 and another levee failure in 1938. Officials realized the old system was not going to survive. As a result, engineers came up with a solution that sounded almost impossible. Instead of forcing the river through the levee, they would lift it over the top.

            The final design used three steel siphons, each about nine feet wide and more than 200 feet long. Once the system was primed with vacuum pumps, water flowed continuously through the pipes and across the levee using siphon pressure. In simple terms, the river climbed uphill long enough to cross the barrier before flowing back down on the other side.

            When the project was unveiled in June 1939, crowds gathered to watch. Newspaper accounts from the time described the spectacle of seeing “a whole river lifted 30 feet across a dam.” It sounded exaggerated, but it was true.

            Even engineers were impressed. Tests showed the siphons operated at more than 97 percent efficiency, an astonishing number for a structure of that size. At the time, many considered it one of the most unusual hydraulic projects in the world.

            More than 80 years later, the siphons are still there, still carrying water across the levee and still protecting thousands of acres of farmland in northeast Arkansas.

            What makes the Marked Tree Siphons so fascinating is not just the engineering itself, but the fact that so few people know they exist. The Natural State has never been particularly adept at promoting its lesser-known landmarks. Tourists flock to bigger attractions while places like this sit quietly beside county roads, largely unnoticed except by locals, hunters and the occasional history enthusiast.

            The siphons tell an important story about the Delta because they help to remind people how difficult life once was in this part of Arkansas. Before levees and drainage systems, the landscape was unpredictable and often unforgiving. Entire communities depended on finding ways to control the water. The siphons were not built as a tourist attraction or a monument. They were built because people here needed them.

            There is something very Arkansas about solving a massive problem with steel pipes, persistence and a willingness to try an idea that sounded a little crazy at the time. No grand speeches. No flashy architecture. Just a piece of infrastructure quietly doing its job decade after decade.

            In May 1988, the Marked Tree Siphons were listed on the National Register of Historic Places, and they definitely deserve that recognition. The siphons are a reminder that some of the most interesting places in America are not necessarily the famous ones. Sometimes they are one hidden in the Delta, beside a levee road, carrying a river uphill while most of the world drives by without noticing.

How Baseline Road Got Its Name

 

For most Arkansans, Baseline Road in Little Rock (Pulaski County) is simply another busy street along the southern edge of the capital city, lined with neighborhoods, churches, businesses, and the routines of everyday life. Thousands of people travel the road each day without giving much thought to its unusual name. But on a recent drive from Benton to Little Rock, I noticed an exit sign for Baseline Road and found myself wondering where the name originated. It sounded too specific to be random. After researching its history, I discovered a story that spans more than two centuries, tracing back to one of the most significant surveying projects in American history.

The story begins with the Louisiana Purchase. In 1803, the United States, under President Thomas Jefferson, acquired a massive expanse of land from France, instantly doubling the size of the young nation. Included in that purchase was the territory that would eventually become the state of Arkansas. There was just one problem: much of the land had never been formally surveyed or mapped by the federal government.

Before settlers could legally buy property, officials needed a way to organize millions of acres into measurable sections. Surveyors accomplished this by establishing reference lines known as principal meridians and baselines. Principal meridians ran north and south, while baselines ran east and west. From those fixed points, surveyors created the township-and-range system that still shapes property boundaries across much of the United States today.

Arkansas became tied to the Fifth Principal Meridian, one of the most significant survey lines in the country. Established in 1815, the meridian and its baseline were used not only to survey Arkansas, but also large portions of Missouri, Iowa, Minnesota, North Dakota, and South Dakota.

The baseline connected to that survey crossed central Arkansas near present-day Little Rock. Over time, roads developed along parts of the line, and eventually the name “Baseline Road” became attached to the route. In that sense, the road’s name is more than a label on a street sign. It’s a quiet reminder of the moment Arkansas began transforming from largely unmapped frontier into organized American territory.

Surveying the land in the early 1800s was difficult and often dangerous work. Crews pushed through forests, swamps, rivers, brutal heat, insects, and rough terrain while carrying heavy chains and primitive instruments for miles at a time. Some spent weeks camped deep in the wilderness, carefully measuring and marking the landscape one mile at a time. Accuracy mattered because the lines they established would later determine farms, towns, roads, and legal property descriptions for generations.

Even today, many of Arkansas’s land records still rely on the township-and-range system created from those original survey lines. Long before GPS or digital mapping, the baseline and meridian system provided the framework for land ownership across the frontier. That makes Baseline Road more than just another street name. It is a surviving piece of a much larger story about expansion, settlement, and the mapping of the nation itself.

Little Rock is filled with reminders of Arkansas history, from the Arkansas River to the old railroad corridors that helped shape the city’s growth. Yet Baseline Road may be one of the easiest historical markers to overlook precisely because it feels so ordinary. The name blends seamlessly into daily life, familiar enough that most people never stop to ask where it originated from.

Hidden inside that simple name is the story of surveyors carrying chains through the Arkansas wilderness, of a growing nation organizing new territory, and of the early foundations that helped shape Arkansas as we know it today.

Sometimes history survives in grand monuments and preserved buildings. And sometimes, it survives quietly on street signs passed by thousands of Arkansans every single day.

How Morrilton Was Almost "Moosetown"

            There are places across Arkansas whose names feel so permanent, it’s hard to imagine them ever being called anything else. Morrilton (Conway County) is one such town. Today, most people associate it with Petit Jean Mountain and the state park that sits atop it, a historic downtown, and its busy stretch along Interstate 40. However, in the years following the Civil War, the community that would become Morrilton nearly adopted a very different identity altogether. For a time, people simply called it “Moosetown.”

            The story begins during the railroad boom that reshaped Arkansas in the late nineteenth century. In those days, few things mattered more to a town’s future than whether the railroad chose to pass nearby. Communities fortunate enough to land along the tracks often flourished almost overnight, while others slowly faded into the background. Sometimes, entire business districts relocated in pursuit of the opportunities rail travel brought with it.

            At the time, Lewisburg was one of the leading communities in Conway County. Sitting along the Arkansas River, it had already spent decades establishing itself as an important center for commerce, education, churches, and local government. But when the Little Rock and Fort Smith Railroad pushed through the area in the early 1870s, the tracks bypassed Lewisburg by several miles. That decision changed the county’s future almost immediately.

            Attention quickly shifted toward a new depot site. Businesses, merchants, and landowners understood what the tracks could mean for growth and prosperity. Among them was E.J. Moose, who owned land near the developing rail stop and became closely connected to the new settlement taking shape there.

            As the community grew, the locals began referring to it as “Moose’s Town.” Before long, the name was shortened to “Moosetown,” and for a while, the name stuck.

            Now, that was hardly unusual in early Arkansas history. Many towns picked up unofficial names long before anything formal appeared on a map. Some were named after landowners or postmasters. Others borrowed the name of a railroad stop or simply adopted whatever local residents called the place often enough for it to catch on. In this case, E.J. Moose’s influence on the young settlement made “Moosetown” an easy fit.

            It is interesting to imagine how differently the town might be perceived today had the name survived. “Moosetown, Arkansas” carries a much different sound than Morrilton, Arkansas. It feels more rustic, maybe even a little whimsical by modern standards. But at the time, it was simply the informal name attached to a fast-growing railroad community trying to establish itself.

            Eventually, local leaders decided the town needed something that sounded a bit more polished. So, the settlement was renamed Morrilton in honor of Lot M. Morrill, a former governor of Maine and a railroad official tied to the line that helped shape the region’s development. During the railroad era, it was common for communities to choose names that projected importance, ambition, and stability.

            As rail traffic and commerce continued to grow, Morrilton quickly surpassed nearby Lewisburg in both size and influence. Businesses, homes, and investment followed the railroad, and the center of activity in Conway County permanently shifted. Lewisburg, once among the county’s most prominent communities, gradually became the much smaller town it is today.

            Still, the old Moosetown story remains one of those fascinating little pieces of Arkansas history that could have easily disappeared over time. It also serves as a reminder of how much chance shaped the Arkansas map we know today. A slightly different railroad route, or a different decision by local leaders, could have left generations of Arkansans calling the town by another name entirely.

            And for a brief moment in time in Conway County, one of Arkansas’s most familiar town names was almost something quite different.

Sulphur Springs' Kihlberg Hotel

 

                Many Arkansas towns and communities feel like they’re living in two eras at once. You can pass through them today and see a quiet main street, a few aging buildings, maybe a handful of homes tucked into the hills. Nothing about them immediately suggests ambition or grandeur. But look a little closer, and you might start to see traces of something bigger that once stood there. In the small town of Sulphur Springs (Benton County), that “something” once rose five stories high. That something was the Kihlberg Hotel.

                The Kihlberg Hotel was built by the Sulphur Springs Sanitarium Hotel and Bath Co. and opened for business in May 1909. The five-story building was constructed from native limestone and was designed to be a full-fledged resort and spa. The Kihlberg was among the largest and most modern hotels in Arkansas. It featured more than a hundred rooms, a grand rotunda, a ballroom, and even an elevator.

                At the turn of the twentieth century, Sulphur Springs was riding a wave of optimism tied to its mineral waters. Like Hot Springs (Garland County) in central Arkansas, the town believed it could become a destination for visitors seeking health, rest, and luxury. The newly-constructed railroad only strengthened that vision. Suddenly, travelers from Kansas, Missouri, and other nearby states could step off a train and find themselves in a place that promised both healing and comfort. The Kihlberg Hotel was meant to be at the center of it all.

                Named for a local promoter connected to the growing popularity of therapeutic bathing and massage, the Kihlberg was built with a specific guest in mind—well-to-do travelers expecting high-end accommodations to match the promise of the mineral springs. For a brief moment, it must have felt to its residents that Sulphur Springs was on the verge of becoming something much larger. But as often happens in life, vision outpaced reality.

                The same railroad that opened Sulphur Springs to the world also complicated things. Excursion trains brought crowds, but not the kind the Kihlberg had been designed to serve. Many visitors were working-class travelers drawn by cheap fares, looking for a day trip or a short, affordable stay. Smaller boarding houses and modest hotels fit their needs just fine. The Kihlberg, designed for longer, more luxurious visits, had difficulty filling its rooms.

                Then came the setbacks that seem all too familiar in Arkansas’s storied past. Fires damaged the building. The tourism economy began to slip. Changing tastes and new destinations pulled visitors elsewhere. What once looked like a sure thing slowly became uncertain, and eventually unsustainable, the hotel shut it doors.

                In 1924, evangelist John Brown (no relation) purchased the Kihlberg Hotel and established what would eventually become John Brown University. When the university failed to gain accreditation, Brown repurposed the former hotel into a high school academy and later a junior college for women. Both efforts struggled to take hold. By 1930, the building had been renamed the Julia Brown School for Children, and in 1937, it took on yet another identity as a military academy.

                That chapter, too, was short-lived. In January 1940, a devastating fire swept through downtown Sulphur Springs, and severely damaged the structure. Although the building was rebuilt, it was only restored to its second floor.

                In the decades that followed, the former Kihlberg shifted through a variety of uses before eventually passing into private ownership. More recently, there has been occasional discussion about restoring the historic structure, but so far, none of those plans have moved forward.

                Today, there’s little to remind visitors of what the Kihlberg once was. The towering structure is gone. The ballroom is silent. The steady stream of guests has long since disappeared. Still, the story hasn’t vanished. It lingers in the quiet way Sulphur Springs holds onto its past. For a short time, this small town reached for something bigger and built it in stone. 

                Across the Natural State, stories like this are easy to overlook, hidden just beneath the surface—ambitious plans, bold ideas, and dreams that took shape quickly before fading just as fast. They serve as a reminder that history isn’t defined only by what endures, but also by what people dared to try.

                And in Sulphur Springs, for a brief period, they reached high and created something truly worth remembering.

Arkansas at War: The Forgotten Bunkers of Maumelle

            Over the years, I’ve come to realize that some of Arkansas’s most meaningful history doesn’t announce itself with a marker or a museum sign. Instead, it settles quietly into the landscape, so well hidden in plain sight that you can pass it a dozen times without ever realizing what you’re looking at. In Maumelle (Pulaski County), just a short drive from Little Rock (Pulaski County), that history rises from the ground in the form of a few aging concrete bunkers.

            At first glance, they don’t seem like much. Low and rounded, partially buried in the earth, their gray surfaces worn by decades of sun and rain, they look more like something you might find on an old farm or tucked away on forgotten property. But these structures are not relics of agriculture or simple storage sheds. They are remnants of war.

            During World War II, this area was home to the Maumelle Ordnance Works, a sprawling federal facility built almost overnight as the United States mobilized for global conflict. At its peak, the plant covered thousands of acres and employed hundreds of workers producing explosive materials for artillery shells and bombs. Arkansas, far from the front lines, became part of what historians would later call the Arsenal of Democracy.

            The bunkers played a critical role in that operation. Designed as storage magazines for volatile chemicals, they were built with safety in mind. Thick concrete walls, reinforced roofs, and layers of earth were meant to contain the unthinkable. If one bunker exploded, the others might survive. That was the idea, at least.

            There were twenty-one of them originally, spaced carefully across the property. Today, only three remain.

            The most notable is Bunker No. 4, which still stands as a largely intact example of these wartime structures. It is a quiet survivor, one of the few tangible links to a time when this peaceful stretch of central Arkansas played a direct role in a global war effort.

            What makes the story even more striking is what surrounds these bunkers now. The land that once housed a high-security explosives operation has been transformed into neighborhoods, parks, and walking trails. Near Lake Willastein Park, families gather for picnics, children play, and joggers pass by without a second thought. One bunker has even been adapted for public use, its original purpose largely forgotten by those who use the space today.

            It’s a reminder of how quickly a place can change. In the 1940s, this was a site defined by urgency and danger, where the work carried immediate and serious stakes. By the 1970s, it had begun its transformation into the Maumelle we know today—a planned community of quiet streets and everyday routines. And yet, the bunkers remain.

            They are not grand monuments. There are no crowds, no long lines of visitors waiting to step inside. They don’t dominate the skyline or demand attention. Instead, they sit quietly, their purpose long fulfilled and their presence easy to overlook. Perhaps that is exactly what makes them worth noticing.

            In a state as rich in history as Arkansas, it is often the smaller, less obvious places that tell the most compelling stories. The bunkers in Maumelle are more than concrete structures. They are reminders of a time when even the most unassuming corners of the state were connected to events unfolding across the world.

            If you find yourself near Lake Willastein in Maumelle, it might be worth slowing down for a moment. Take a closer look at those low, rounded mounds of concrete and earth. Beneath their weathered surfaces is a story of industry, urgency, and a state doing its part in a global struggle.

            It’s a story that hasn’t disappeared. It’s simply waiting to be remembered. And maybe that’s the point of this column each week—to make sure those quiet stories don’t slip away into oblivion.

The Story of Rimrock Records

            There are places in Arkansas that do not look like much as you pass them on the highway. But every so often, one of those places carries a story large enough to travel far beyond the state line. Rimrock Records was one of those places, a small recording business that managed to leave a surprisingly loud mark on the music industry.

            Founded in 1961 by Wayne Raney and his son, Zyndall, Rimrock was not located in a big city known for music studios such as Nashville, Memphis, or Los Angeles. Instead, it was located in the small town of Concord (Cleburne County) near Greers Ferry Lake. It wasn’t where most people would expect to find a record company, yet for more than a decade, that’s exactly what existed there.

            Rimrock Records was more than a record label. It was a place where music was recorded, pressed onto vinyl, and distributed across the country under one roof. At a time when most small labels had to send recordings elsewhere to be pressed, Rimrock handled the entire process in a small building in rural Arkansas. It stood as a rare example of what determination and creativity could build, even far from the industry’s usual centers, and it did so with a distinctly independent spirit.

            Inside those walls, country, gospel, and rockabilly artists found opportunity. Some were regional performers hoping to put their music on vinyl for the first time, while others were more established names who found their way to Concord for their own reasons. The sound that came out of Rimrock was not as polished as productions from Los Angeles or Nashville, but that was part of its appeal. There was something authentic in it, music that reflected the place it came from. And then, of course, there are the stories.

            Over the years, it has been said that even major artists passed through Rimrock’s doors. Names like Elvis Presley and Ike & Tina Turner have been linked to the studio, with stories suggesting they recorded to get away from public attention. Whether they came for convenience, curiosity, or simply the privacy a small town like Concord could offer, their rumored connection has only added to the legend and mystique that still surrounds the place to this day.

            Rimrock’s run, like many other record companies, did not last long. In 1974, the pressing plant was sold to the legendary Stax Records and moved to Memphis, bringing an end to Concord’s unlikely chapter in the recording industry. It was a reminder of how quickly things can change, especially in a business that rarely stands still. Even so, the legacy of Rimrock did not simply disappear when the equipment was moved.

            Today, Rimrock records, those original 45s and LPs, have become pieces of history. They turn up in collections, flea markets, and antique stores, valued not only for the music they carry but for the story behind them. A quick search online shows several albums still circulating, typically priced anywhere from around eleven dollars to fifty or more depending on condition. Each one serves as a quiet reminder that meaningful things do not always come from major cities or famous studios. Sometimes they begin in places few people think to notice, and that may be the lasting lesson of Rimrock Records.

            The Natural State has long held a deep musical tradition, even if it does not always receive the recognition it deserves. However, hidden within its hills and small towns are stories like the one of Rimrock Records, shaped by ambition, creativity, and the belief that something worthwhile can be built anywhere, even far from the bright lights of big cities.

            Sometimes all it takes is ingenuity, determination, and a company such as Rimrock Records, situated in a wide spot along an Arkansas road, to prove just how far a small place can reach.

Walton's 5 & 10

            

             This past weekend, my wife and I traveled to Bentonville (Benton County) to celebrate her birthday at a Brazilian steakhouse she had been talking about for months. The evening delivered exactly what she’d hoped, an endless parade of perfectly cooked meats carved right at our table, a wonderful ambience, and the kind of meal that feels less like dinner and more like an event. Still, in Bentonville, a good meal is often just the beginning. Before heading home the following day, we made one more stop, a place that tells a much different story but one just as memorable, Walton’s 5 & 10, now preserved as The Walmart Museum.

             Located on Bentonville’s historic town square, the building looks nearly identical as it did when Sam Walton opened the doors in 1950--modest, practical, and unassuming. But what appears to be a simple storefront reveals itself as the starting point of a retail transformation that would stretch not only across the Natural State, but across the country and even parts of the world.

            Inside, the museum strikes a careful balance between remembering and teaching. The front section has been restored to reflect the look and feel of a classic five-and-dime store, stocked with items that would have once filled its shelves decades ago. It’s not hard to picture shoppers wandering the aisles, picking up everyday necessities without any sense that they were standing in what would later be called the birthplace of Walmart. There’s a certain humility in that realization, a reminder that something enormous can grow out of something remarkably simple.

            Further inside the museum area, the story of what became Walmart begins to unfold in fuller detail. Through old photographs, preserved artifacts, and thoughtfully designed exhibits, visitors get a closer look at Walton’s approach to business. His focus on keeping prices low, his attention to customer experience, and his willingness to try ideas others might have dismissed all come into focus. Pieces of his life, including his Ford F-150 pickup truck, early store materials and signage, and even his office, help bridge the gap between legend and reality.

            Through the exhibits, Walton is not portrayed as a distant figurehead, but as someone deeply rooted in his community, someone who believed in treating customers like neighbors. That philosophy still feels at home on the Bentonville square, where the pace is slower, and the sense of place is strong.

            Also located inside the museum is an old-fashioned soda fountain, which adds a touch of nostalgia that’s hard to resist. It invites you to sit for a moment, enjoy something simple, and take in the atmosphere. With an ice cream cone in hand, it’s easy to think about the passage of time and how much the world of retail has changed throughout the years.

            The museum’s appeal stretches well beyond business enthusiasts. It speaks to anyone curious about history, to those who appreciate Arkansas’s heritage, and to visitors who simply enjoy stepping into a preserved piece of the past. For locals, especially, there’s a quiet pride in seeing how a hometown venture grew into something recognized across the globe, all while maintaining a connection to its roots.

            If you ever find yourself passing through Bentonville, it’s worth the stop. You may arrive out of curiosity, but you’ll leave with a deeper understanding of how one small storefront helped shape a retail giant and how its story is still very much alive today. It’s the kind of place that doesn’t just tell history, it lets you feel it, in the quiet details and familiar surroundings. And in a town that continues to grow and change, it stands as a strong reminder of where it all began.

            For information on days and hours of operation, check out The Walmart Museum’s website at www.walmartmuseum.com, or give them a call at (479) 273-1329.

From Arkansas to the Squared Circle: The Legacy of Sid Eudy

  

            I’ve been a professional wrestling fan for as long as I can remember—the kind who grew up glued to the television on Saturday mornings and late nights alike. For those of us here in Arkansas, that fandom has always carried a special sense of pride. One of the most imposing and unforgettable figures to ever step inside the squared circle came from our own backyard. That man is Sidney Raymond Eudy, better known to wrestling fans around the world as Sycho Sid, Sid Justice, and Sid Vicious. Later this month, Eudy will be posthumously inducted into the World Wrestling Entertainment (WWE) Hall of Fame during WrestleMania weekend in Las Vegas.

            Born in Moses Lake, Washington, on December 16, 1960, but raised in Marion (Crittenden County), just across the river from Memphis, Eudy’s rise to wrestling stardom felt almost inevitable. At 6-foot-9, with a chiseled frame and an intensity that couldn’t be taught, he looked every bit like the larger-than-life figures who defined wrestling’s boom years of the late 1980s and 1990s. But Sid was more than just an impressive physique, he also had undeniable presence. The moment his music hit, and he stepped into an arena, fans knew something serious was about to unfold.

           Sid first gained national attention in the late 1980s, but it was his runs in World Championship Wrestling (WCW) and the World Wrestling Federation (WWF) that cemented his legacy. In WCW, wrestling as Sid Vicious, he quickly established himself as a dominant force. He initially found success as part of the powerhouse tag team The Skyscrapers before rising to singles prominence and capturing the WCW World Heavyweight Championship twice. His hard-hitting, power-based style and no-nonsense demeanor made him a natural fit at the top during one of wrestling’s most competitive eras.

            When Sid arrived in the WWF as Sid Justice, he was immediately placed in the spotlight. He served as the special guest referee for the main event of WrestleMania VIII, sharing the ring with legends like Hulk Hogan and “The Nature Boy” Ric Flair—a clear sign of the company’s confidence in him. It wasn’t long before he transitioned from enforcer to one of the promotion’s most feared competitors.

             By the mid-1990s, reintroduced as Sycho Sid, he reached the peak of his WWF career. During this run, he captured the WWF World Heavyweight Championship twice, defeating some of the biggest stars of the era. His first title victory came in 1996 when he defeated Shawn Michaels at Madison Square Garden in New York City in one of the decade’s most memorable title changes. He would reclaim the championship again in early 1997, firmly establishing himself among wrestling’s elite.

            What truly set Sid apart, however, wasn’t just his size or his accolades—it was his unpredictability. Fans never quite knew what they were going to get, and that edge made him must-watch television. Whether delivering his devastating powerbomb or unleashing intense, sometimes unscripted promos, Sid commanded attention in a way few others could.

             Across both major promotions, his résumé speaks for itself: a two-time WWF World Heavyweight Champion and a two-time WCW World Heavyweight Champion. Those accomplishments alone would secure his place in wrestling history, but they only scratch the surface. Sid was a central figure during one of the industry’s most iconic periods, sharing the ring with legends and holding his own every step of the way.

            Sadly, Eudy passed away in his hometown of Marion on August 26, 2024, of non-Hodgkin's lymphoma at the age of 63. That night, a video package paying tribute to Eudy aired at the beginning of WWE’s flagship TV show, Monday Night Raw, on the USA Network.

            His induction into the WWE Hall of Fame is more than a recognition of championships and marquee matches, but rather a celebration of a career that left a lasting mark on the industry and on fans like me who grew up watching him. It’s also a reminder that greatness can come from anywhere, even a small town in eastern Arkansas.

            This month, as Sid Eudy takes his rightful place among wrestling’s immortals, fans across the Natural State have every reason to be proud. From Marion to the main event, Eudy’s journey is one worth remembering, and now, one forever etched in the annals of professional wrestling history.