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.

Arkansas's Only Revolutionary War Battle

            You may be surprised to learn that one of the final actions of the Revolutionary War took place right here at our state’s first European settlement, Arkansas Post. Known as Colbert’s Raid, the brief but intense battle serves as a reminder that even as peace was being negotiated an ocean away, conflict still took place on the American frontier.

            In the early morning hours of April 17, 1783, British Captain James Colbert led a force of approximately 100 men, including British soldiers and Chickasaw warriors, against Fort Carlos III and the small village clustered around it at Arkansas Post. Ironically, the attack came months after a peace treaty had been signed between Spain and Britain on January 3, 1783. However, news of that agreement had not yet reached the residents of Arkansas Post.

            The Spanish garrison stationed at Arkansas Post was quite small. In fact, it only consisted of 33 soldiers from the Louisiana Fixed Infantry Regiment, supported by four Quapaw warriors and a handful of officers, including Captain Jacobo du Breuil and Lieutenant Luis de Villars. Despite their limited numbers, they would soon be forced to defend both the fort and the civilian population that relied upon it.

            Colbert’s men began their attack at approximately 2:30 a.m., which caught those at the settlement off guard. Colbert and his soldiers quickly swept through the village and captured Lieutenant de Villars, his family, and several other residents before most of the townspeople could flee to the safety of the fort. With hostages secured, the attackers turned their attention to Fort Carlos III, hoping to seize control of the strategic post.

            What followed was a determined defense. From behind the fort’s walls, Spanish soldiers and their Quapaw allies mounted a counterattack, using both their defensive position and coordinated resistance to hold off the assault. The fighting lasted for several hours, but Colbert’s men were ultimately unable to breach the fort’s defenses. Facing mounting resistance and limited success, they withdrew. Spanish losses were light, with just two men killed and one wounded, while Colbert’s force suffered at least one dead and one injured.

            The aftermath came swiftly. One week later, a combined Spanish and Quapaw force of around 120 men tracked down Colbert’s camp. In a decisive move, they overtook the raiders and freed the prisoners taken during the attack, which effectively ended the ordeal.

            Colbert’s Raid holds a unique place in both Arkansas and American history. It is recognized by historians as the only Revolutionary War battle fought in Arkansas and one of two engagements of the war that took place west of the Mississippi River. Though small in scale, it underscored the strategic importance of Arkansas Post as a gateway for controlling river traffic and regional trade.

            The raid also reflects the broader geopolitical landscape of the time. Spain had entered the war in 1779, as an ally of the American colonists, successfully capturing British-held posts along the Mississippi, including Manchac and Baton Rouge. By 1783, British forces in the region had been largely pushed out, leaving them to rely on smaller operations like Colbert’s Raid in an effort to disrupt Spanish authority and commerce.

            Ultimately, Colbert’s Raid stands as a final clash of the Revolutionary War that highlights the complex relationships between European powers, native allies, and colonial forces in the western reaches of the conflict. Even in its closing days, the war’s reach extended far beyond the better-known battlefields located in eastern United States, touching remote places like Arkansas Post.

            To learn more about Colbert’s Raid and the history of Arkansas Post, consider visiting Arkansas Post National Memorial. Managed by the National Park Service, the site is located near Gillett (Arkansas County) in the heart of southeastern Arkansas. Inside the park’s visitor center, guests can watch a 20-minute film that brings the settlement’s story to life. The center also houses a collection of artifacts and exhibits that trace the long and significant history of Arkansas’s first settlement and its earliest days as Arkansas’s first territorial capital. For more information, visit the park’s website at www.nps.gov/arpo.

            And as I close out this week’s All Around Arkansas, I’d like to wish you and yours a very happy Easter.

The Tiny Town of Slovak

 

                In Arkansas, where quirky town names are almost as common as wide-open landscapes, drivers can stumble across some real head-scratchers. Venture across the flat fields of the Delta, and you might pass places that sound as if they belong on another continent—or were named after long-forgotten settlers. One such place is Slovak (Prairie County), a name that might conjure images of Europe rather than rural Arkansas farmland. But Slovak isn’t just a curious label on a highway sign. Behind the name is a story that stretches thousands of miles across the Atlantic.

            Drive east through the Delta, and you might pass right by Slovak without noticing it. It’s a little more than a speck on the map. Grain bins dot the horizon, church steeples rise above fields, and two-lane highways cut through the farmland. Yet if you slow down long enough, you’ll find a history far larger than the town itself.

            Slovak began as the dream of immigrants who crossed the ocean in the late 1800s and early 1900s, searching for land and opportunity. Many came from what is now Slovakia, then part of the Austro-Hungarian Empire. Like countless immigrants before them, they were drawn by the promise of fertile soil and a fresh start. They found that promise in the rich farmland of the Arkansas Delta.

            But the land they settled was far from ready for farming. Early settlers faced dense vegetation, swampy ground, and the relentless heat of Delta summers. Fields had to be cleared, marshy areas drained, and homes built from scratch. The work was slow and often exhausting, but over time, the settlers carved productive farms from the wilderness.

            The growing community was first known as Slovactown before settling on the simpler name Slovak. What held the settlement together, though, wasn’t a courthouse or a schoolhouse. It was the church.

            The parish of Saints Cyril and Methodius became the center of community life. Named for the missionaries who brought Christianity to the Slavic peoples in the ninth century, the church served as both a spiritual home and a cultural anchor for the immigrants who built the town. Sunday services, weddings, funerals, and festivals all revolved around its walls.

            For generations, the church has been more than a place of worship. It has preserved language, traditions, and a sense of belonging that ties families in Arkansas to their ancestral homeland. During community gatherings, older residents still share stories of parents and grandparents who arrived speaking Slovak and slowly learned English while working the fields.

            Food has always been a powerful link to the town’s heritage. During community festivals and gatherings, recipes carried across the Atlantic generations ago still appear on tables. Kolaches, sweet pastries filled with fruit or cheese, remain a favorite. Hearty soups, smoked meats, and other Central European dishes once fueled long days of farm work and continue to bring families together today.

            Like many small rural communities across the Natural State, Slovak has grown quieter over the years. Modern highways, shifting agricultural trends, and the pull of larger cities have reshaped life across the Delta. Younger generations often leave for jobs elsewhere, and farming itself has changed as operations become larger and more mechanized.

            Even so, the spirit of the town hasn’t disappeared.

            Families still gather for church services and reunions. Familiar surnames appear on mailboxes and gravestones. Stories of immigration, hard work, and community life continue to circulate around kitchen tables.

            It’s easy for places like Slovak to slip under the radar. They rarely appear on travel itineraries or national headlines, and their populations could fit comfortably inside a single city block. Yet towns like this reveal a quieter side of how America was built—not just through major cities and famous figures, but through small, determined communities planting roots in unlikely places.

            In Slovak, immigrants drained wetlands, carved farms from the Delta soil, and built a church long before paved roads arrived. They carried their language, recipes, and traditions with them, weaving those customs into the fabric of Arkansas life.

            Driving through Slovak might take less than a minute. Understanding its story, however, may take a little longer.

Saying Goodbye to an Old Friend at the Museum

                Last Thursday afternoon, I found myself walking through a place that once felt like a second home. I had returned to Historic Arkansas Museum in Little Rock (Pulaski County) for a memorial service honoring a friend and former co-worker, Pat Proctor.

                The occasion was a solemn one, but the gathering was warm. Faces I hadn’t seen in years filled the room: people like Aisha, Felicia, Katie, and Leon, who had once shared lunch breaks, exhibition openings, and the everyday rhythms of museum work. Some had retired, some had moved on to other careers, but for a little while, we were all back where we used to be, remembering someone who had been part of our small family (commonly called our HAMily).

                The service itself was simple and heartfelt. Stories were shared, laughter occasionally broke through the sadness, and the memories painted a picture of someone who had meant a great deal to those around them. Memorial services often carry a quiet weight, but this one also carried something else, gratitude for the time we had known our friend and for the place that had brought us together in the first place.

                After the service ended, several of us walked outside onto the historic museum grounds. The afternoon air was cool, and the sun was shining, and for a moment we stood quietly among the historic buildings that have been preserved there. For those of us who once worked at the museum, the grounds hold a particular kind of familiarity. Every path, fence line, and weathered board carries memories.

                Historic Arkansas Museum sits in the heart of downtown Little Rock, but when you step inside its gates, it feels like stepping into another century. The museum is best known for preserving and interpreting some of the oldest surviving structures in central Arkansas. Several of the buildings date back to the early 1800s, when Little Rock was still a rough frontier town along the Arkansas River.

                Among them are the Hinderliter Tavern (the oldest standing building in Little Rock), the Woodruff Print Shop, and other restored structures that once formed part of the early settlement. These buildings survived events that reshaped the city, including the turmoil surrounding the American Civil War. Their survival is remarkable in itself; many structures of that era were lost to time, fire, or development.

                The museum as we know it today owes much to the vision of Louise Loughborough. In the 1930s, when historic preservation was still a relatively new idea in Arkansas, Loughborough recognized the importance of saving what remained of the city’s early architecture. She worked tirelessly to protect the Hinderliter House and eventually helped establish what became the Arkansas Territorial Capitol Restoration, the early name for the museum.

                Over time, the site grew into a full museum dedicated not only to historic buildings but also to Arkansas history, decorative arts, and traditional crafts. Galleries filled with artifacts, tools, and artwork help tell the story of the state, from its territorial days to the present. Outside, interpreters demonstrate historic skills such as blacksmithing, printing, and woodworking, bringing the past to life for visitors of all ages.

                For many Arkansans, school field trips to the museum are a childhood memory. I remember visiting the museum in the fifth grade. Students wander through cabins and workshops while learning how people lived two centuries ago. For others—like those of us gathered there last week—it’s also a workplace that becomes part of your life story.

                Standing on those grounds again, I was struck by how much history the place holds, not just the official kind recorded in exhibits, but the personal kind that lives in memory. Every museum preserves objects, but places like this also preserve relationships. Co-workers become friends. Visitors become regulars. Over time, the museum becomes part of the city’s shared story.

                As the afternoon sun dipped lower, our group slowly began to drift apart. There were hugs, promises to stay in touch, and the familiar “we should do this again sometime.”

                Walking back toward the gate with my friend, Katie, I glanced once more at the old buildings standing quietly against the skyline of modern Little Rock. They’ve witnessed nearly two centuries of change—wars, growth, and thousands of Arkansans passing through.

                Last Thursday, they witnessed something else: a group of old friends remembering one of their own. And in a way, that felt fitting. Places dedicated to preserving history remind us that every life leaves a mark. Our friend may be gone, but the memories remain—woven into the stories we tell, the friendships we keep, and even the old places that brought us together in the first place.

Close Encounters in the Natural State

                When we think of Arkansas, scenes of its winding rivers and streams, beautiful landscapes, and wide-open Delta skies come to mind. Yet, for over a century, some of our fellow Arkansans have gazed upward, encountering phenomena they struggled to explain.

                Reports of unidentified flying objects (UFOs), now referred to as UAPs or unidentified anomalous phenomena, have woven their way through the history of the Natural State, with sightings dating to the 19th century. One of the earliest series of reports emerged in 1896 and 1897, when witnesses across the country reported seeing enigmatic “airships.” Here in Arkansas, residents near Hot Springs (Garland County) and the Ouachita Mountains described a cigar-shaped craft illuminating the night sky. The newspapers of the time covered these accounts with a blend of amusement and intrigue, with some local lawmakers even humorously suggesting a tax on these strange vessels, as if they were transporting goods.

                Whether the sightings were hoaxes, misidentified aircraft, or simply something unexplainable, they signaled the start of Arkansas’s long-standing relationship with the mysteries that hover above us.

                Fresh interest in UFOs took off in the 1950s and 1960s. In 1952, a resident from Prairie Grove (Washington County) reported a disk-shaped object flying swiftly across Cove Creek Valley. While such reports were common nationwide, they struck a particular chord in rural areas, where crystal-clear nights made any unusual lights stand out.

                A particularly remarkable series of sightings took place on August 4, 1965. Across northwest Arkansas, many residents shared their encounters with strange aerial objects. In the small community of Viney Grove (Washington County), one witness described a slender, silver craft with illuminated windows hovering just above the treetops. Others from Blytheville (Mississippi County), Fayetteville (Washington County), and Fort Smith (Sebastian County) shared similar experiences, recounting accounts of lights or aircraft operating in ways that defied conventional understanding.

                The magnitude of these reports caught the attention of Project Blue Book, the United States Air Force’s investigative program running from 1952 to 1969. Though the majority of sightings were eventually attributed to natural phenomena or standard aircraft, a fraction remained unresolved—an aspect that has only fueled ongoing speculation.

                In 2024, Arkansas witnessed an intriguing surge in reports of unidentified aerial phenomena. Across the state, many individuals recounted experiences involving bright lights hovering in the dark, rapid-moving objects, and formations of orbs spaced evenly across the night sky. Some of these sightings have occurred near military sites, including the notable Little Rock Air Force Base in Jacksonville (Pulaski County), leading to speculation about potential secret aircraft testing. 

                Experts remind us that the majority of contemporary sightings often have logical explanations. Unfamiliar with certain patterns, observers might mistake commercial drones, military maneuvers, high-altitude jets, weather balloons, or even satellites like SpaceX’s Starlink for something more mysterious. Atmospheric phenomena can also cause light distortions and optical illusions, particularly during twilight hours.

                However, not every sighting can be so easily brushed aside. The federal government itself has recently acknowledged that some UAP cases are clouded by insufficient data, making it difficult to draw definitive conclusions. This admission signals a shift from the age-old ridicule surrounding these narratives to a more curious and open-minded discourse.

                The cultural impact of UFO sightings has solidified its place in Arkansas society. In the beautiful Ozarks, enthusiasts converge at conferences, enthusiastically sharing their stories and theories. Organizations like the Mutual UFO Network actively collect reports and engage in interviews, providing a platform where skeptics, scientists, and believers can gather to deliberate what witnesses might have actually encountered.

                For many Arkansans, the allure of these sightings transcends the question of extraterrestrial life. It delves into the realm of mystery. Set against a backdrop of natural splendor and expansive skies, the night invites contemplation. That strange gleam over a soybean field or a distant mountain can provoke questions that echo long after the light disappears.

                From the mysterious airships of the 1890s to the glowing formations of today, the skies above Arkansas continue to evoke a sense of wonder. In a world that often feels confined by existing maps and measurements, perhaps it’s only fitting that a few lights in the night still elude straightforward explanations. 

Four Years of All Around Arkansas

            This year, the Saline Courier celebrates its 150th anniversary. And this week, I celebrate a milestone of my own: this column turns four years old.

            I’ve never claimed to be much of a mathematician, but by my count, that comes to 208 columns—208 opportunities to write about the people, places, and culture of my beloved home state.

            The idea for All Around Arkansas was born years ago when I worked in the tourism division of the Arkansas Department of Parks, Heritage, and Tourism. I served in the group travel section, where our three-person team promoted Arkansas to tour companies, travel writers, influencers, and conference planners across the country. We attended conventions, pitched destinations, and invited decision-makers to experience Arkansas firsthand—all with the hope of bringing more visitors and more economic impact to our state.

            Often, we hosted tours of some of Arkansas’s most well-known attractions, introducing guests to our history, culture, and, yes, a few tall tales along the way. As a native Arkansan with a deep love for our state’s stories, I was frequently tasked with serving as tour guide. I relished the chance to share the legends and lore that make Arkansas unique.

            But there were also stretches of downtime.

            As a child, I remembered watching “Travelin’ Arkansas,” a segment on KTHV Channel 11 hosted by Chuck Dovish. Dovish crisscrossed the state, spotlighting attractions and colorful stories. It was informative, entertaining, and unmistakably Arkansas. That memory sparked an idea: perhaps I could use my downtime to tell more of our state’s stories.

            At the time, Arkansas Tourism maintained a blog on its website, along with Facebook and Instagram pages. While those platforms highlighted beautiful photographs of iconic destinations, I couldn’t help but feel we were only scratching the surface. We regularly promoted places such as the Clinton Presidential Center, Crystal Bridges Museum of American Art, Johnny Cash’s Boyhood Home, and Crater of Diamonds State Park. All worthy destinations, certainly—but Arkansas is far more than a handful of well-known landmarks.

            There were countless untold stories in small towns and along back roads. I believed we could—and should—be sharing them. And I believed I knew someone who would be more than willing to tell them.

            One day, I approached my supervisor with a proposal. When traveling to conventions or delivering materials to welcome centers and state park visitor centers, I could also gather stories. I could write articles about interesting people and places, take photographs and record interviews. The content could be shared on the tourism website and social media channels.

            My supervisor loved the idea and encouraged me to pitch it to the communications director. She was supportive and said she would present it to upper management.

            Then came the waiting.

            Several days later, I was called into my supervisor’s office and given the news: the idea had been nixed. The explanation was familiar and bureaucratic—“It’s not in your job description.” I walked out disappointed but not defeated. The idea stayed with me.

            Fast forward to January 2022. After subscribing to the Saline Courier, that long-shelved vision resurfaced. What if a local newspaper were interested in a weekly column about Arkansas’s history, heritage, and culture? I emailed the publisher with my proposal. A few days later, he responded with interest and asked for a sample.

            For that first submission, I chose a place close to my heart: Pinnacle Mountain State Park. I had visited the park countless times over the years and once worked at its visitor center before moving into the tourism department. It felt like the perfect place to begin.

            Thankfully, the publisher agreed. Four years later, All Around Arkansas continues to appear not only in the Saline Courier, but in several other newspapers and magazines as well.

            The story of Arkansas is, ultimately, the story of all of us—those who came before, those who call it home today, and those who will shape its future. I am grateful to the Courier for giving these stories a home, and to you, the readers, who make it a point to join me each week.

            There are still countless overlooked stories waiting to be told in the Natural State. I intend to keep seeking them out, and I hope you’ll continue to ride along with me in the years ahead.