Old Fashion Fun

My Dad is from a town named Arkansas City, Kansas.  Just across the Oklahoma border, it's pronounced "ar-kansas-city" and not like the state "Arkansas".  If you pronounce it like the state, then you are definitely not from around those parts.  You might be from "the city" which is local dialect for Oklahoma City.  If, however, you refer to the town as "Ark City" then you are a local born and breed.  It's a thing.

Every year the town embarks on a tradition of hosting "Arkalalah".  Now, before you think this to be a po- dunk festival, stop right there!  I "googled" the history of this fine event.  Straight from their very own website, here it is:

The History of ArkalalahIt all began in 1928. The big depression was on the way and everyone was blue and discouraged. John Floyd, Clyde Boggs and "Pat" Sommerfield decided something new was needed for the town - maybe a fall festival of some kind to help the morale of the people. A citizen's meeting was called, committees appointed and the first Arkalalah was off to a flying start.  A prize of $15 was offered for a name. Mrs. J.W. Moore wrote "Arkalalah" on a strip of paper. Ark, for the town and alalah, the Indian word for good time. http://www.arkalalah.com/about.html

We walked the streets of the festival, watched the 82nd annual Arkalalah parade, laughed at the lame jokes told by the local town radio announcer as he MC'd the event and spent lots of hard earned cash on large portions of fried foods.

After the days events, it inspired my Dad to take us (my Chris, Parker, Libby and Mom) around the town to see his childhood stomping grounds.  Most of the buildings no longer stood.  We saw them only through his memories eyes.

As we drove about in the country, I was reminded that these were the paved and unpaved roads that I drove as a 13 year-old-kid.  My grandmother never obtained her drivers licences.  And, since I would soon have mine, she thought I should try my hand at driving.  And, drive I did!  All over that countryside, with little training and no licence.  We delivered Avon.  We picked up milk from a local dairy.  We popped by old neighbors just to visit.

Floods.  Floods of memories.

• The old barn that stood as a reminder of where to turn down the dirt path to my grandparents home place. 
• The white one-room church that my parents got married in.
• The cemetery on the hill where my grandparents where buried.
• The field I would help my grandfather plow while sitting on his John Deere tractor.

In that 8 hour day, I took trips down memory lane.  It was good for the soul.  It was better because I shared them with my family.

Still smiling,
christina