Monday, November 12, 2007

Terlingua International Chili Cook-off, 2007

Chili Progress Report
Terlingua, November, 2007
Bill R. Baker

Many years ago, New York journalist H. Allen Smith got into a great debate with Dallas journalist Frank X. Tolbert over who knew more about chili. Tolbert challenged Smith to meet in the remote Texas ghost town of Terlingua in order to settle the dispute. Thus, in 1967 began the hallowed Terlingua International Chili Championship cook-offs. Smith faced Wick Fowler. There were three judges: The indomitable Hallie Stillwell (if you are a Texan unfamiliar with her, shame on you), Floyd Schneider, and Dave Witts. Stillwell voted for Smith, Schneider selected Fowler, so the final say went to Witts. He took one taste of Smith’s chili, fell to the floor, and pled his taste buds had been damaged beyond repair and he would be unable to continue. It was declared a draw.

As an avid reader of H. Allen Smith (to the best of my knowledge I own, and have read, every book he ever wrote, about forty), I was aware of that beginning. Smith wrote The Great Chili Confrontation published by Trident Press in 1969. However, when I visited Terlingua last week, I was surprised to see two “Terlingua International Chili Championship” cook-offs. Smith’s 1967 article for Holiday magazine stated, “…the chief ingredients of all chili are fiery envy, scalding jealousy, scorching contempt and sizzling scorn.” So it has proved to be with chili cook-offs. The big Terlingua rift came in 1982, when Wick Fowler brought in two European chefs to compete. By that time, as now, chef contestants had a series of hurdles in the form of local competitions they had to win before being invited to participate. They protested the foreigners (illegal aliens?) had not qualified. Fowler found their view “ridiculous” and, along with a few loyal followers, opened a new site behind Arturo White’s store the next year. It is still informally called the “Behind the Store” cook-off though formally named “Original Viva Terlingua International Frank X. Tolbert – Wick Fowler Memorial Championship Chili Cookoff.” The larger one is the “Chili Appreciation Society International” (CASI) cook-off.

This year, on November 3, some friends and I went to the CASI cook-off and a few days of camping in the Terlingua and Big Bend area. Actually, we camped (nice campers – no roughing it) in a park with full hook-ups in Study Butte. The butte is named for a local physician, Will Study (pronounced "stoody"), who around 1901 developed the Big Bend Quicksilver Mine at the eastern foot of the butte. Embarrassingly enough, the hook-up included TV cable so we watched football much of Sunday pm and evening. The other campers are fit hikers and reached the summits of several high peaks. I got a lot read on “The Jamestown Project”. The evenings were great! We sat around the campfire, told tall tales, drank moderate amounts of various beverages, and enjoyed great food prepared by our volunteer chef. The weather was wonderful.

I had not been in the Big Bend for six years. Air pollution has become a great problem. During our three full days, there were no clear views of the distant mountains. We are not being responsible stewards of our world.

The cook-off has been called, “Padre Island for Adults”. I’ll let you view a few of my photos and decide if that is a reasonable description.

Several of us volunteered to be judges, but I had to drop out. It required excellent knees to stand in the waiting line. There were contestants from all over the world,. My impression is that no more than one-third were from Texas. Cooks lined up bringing large Styrofoam cups of their chili for judging. One was carrying her covered container and a Pomeranian in her right hand while smoking with her left. By the time I turned on my digital zoom, she had finished the cigarette. Winners of the first round went to the second, etc. until a final round placed the top ten. This year’s first place winner was Debbie Ashman, from Bastrop, Texas. Steve Nadeau, of my home town of Boerne placed sixth. Steve’s wife, Margaret, won first place in 2005. This year, she was presented Rick Perry’s “Yellow Rose” award for her community service. They are a beautiful couple with Steve contributing some small part. I enjoyed meeting them, even though Margaret and I knocked each other’s hats off when we kissed. (It wasn’t the first time I have had my hat knocked off by a kiss – nor, I hope, the last). The most heartening thing I saw was a valiant male dog, missing his left fore leg, making the best of things by bracing his left shoulder against a tire while lifting his left hind leg to anoint a chosen new possession (see photo).

I appreciate, greatly, the invitation from Layman Hendrex and his hospitality in sharing his camper. Also, it gave me a great opportunity to get to know and increase my friendships with Fred Brown, Jack Horton, Jim Hull, Walter Klingman, Dale Ledbetter, Ed Prather, Melvin Carley, and Richard McGuire. I thought I knew some of them fairly well, before we went, but I know them much better, now. A truly fine collection of individual men.

Discussing the Big Bend for McCall’s in 1956, Ludwig Bemelmans said, “Leaving Highway 90 at Marathon, we came to the Big Bend country toward sunset, that part of Texas where the Rio Grand makes a U-shaped bend in its course. In a lifetime of traveling, here I came upon the greatest wonder. The mantle of God touches you; it is panorama without beginning or end. No fire can burn so bright, no projection can duplicate the colors that dance over the desert or the bare rock formations that form the backdrop. No words can tell you, and no painter can hold it. It is only to be visited and looked at with awe. It will make you breathe deeply whenever you think of it, for you have inhaled eternity.” Other than that, I have no evidence Mr. Bemelmans drank.

Pictures are more eloquent than words. See the following:


















Sunday, November 11, 2007

Le Bistro de l'Olivier

An Evening at Le Bistro de l'Olivier
Bill R. Baker
January, 2007



Rue Quentin Bauchart was surprisingly warm for a January 29 evening as we approached Number 13, the site of Le Bistro de l'Olivier. In fact, at 7° C, it seemed quite balmy compared to the severe ice storm we left last week in South Texas. Until four nights ago, the only Olivier we knew was Lawrence, but now, as we went in for our second visit, the entire wait-staff (i.e., both Marc and Joel) treated us as friends, if not quite regulars.

Typical Americans, we arrived early for dinner, around 19H30 (military types will have no problem with this Gallic approach to the hour). Our concierge at the Hotel Francois 1er recommended it on our arrival in Paris, the l'Olivier being only a few steps away around two corners. Parisian directions are a little vague, but a second start put us on the right route.

It is a neighborhood place. We had opportunity to compare it to better-known places, but none we liked better. Not that it is cheap! If it involves food and Paris, it is expensive. The food is very good but what makes this place special is its local ambience; it has a small town feel three blocks from Louis Vuitton on the Champs Elysees.

Two patrons were seated when we arrived, and more began to trickle in. A lone elderly man (God, he was older than I am), was greeted by Joel, who shook his hand and showed him to a table. Later, Joel sat at the table and chatted with him as he took his order --- the antithesis of the "haughty French waiter". Marc seated us and took our initial orders to launch the evening, a big bottle of Evian and one of Bourgogne Pinot Noir. Both were good. As the place filled, it appeared at least one-half the diners came often. By the time the evening was over, we numbered twenty-five or so.

My journals usually describe more detail than necessary, but most things of interest have been said, many times, about Paris. Everyone knows the Eiffel Tower, the Louvre, Notre Dame de Paris, Arc d'Triomphe, Champs Elysees, la Bastille, et alii ad nauseum. In addition to food, though, I want to mention a couple of places we found of particular, if less wide spread, interest.

One is called the Musee de Moyen Age, museum of the middle ages, also called the Cluny.

We have a reproduction of a fifteenth century tapestry in our dining room and wished to see the original. It is called the Vendange and celebrates the harvest festival when grapes are picked, pressed, and fermented into wine. In it, the lord and lady of the manor make their well-appointed way among the workers. One worker is stomping out the vintage in a large wooden tub while his wife collects the juice in a pitcher. Above, two men rotate a lever pressing large clusters of grapes. It appears a careless worker is about to get her arm crushed, but surely she will move it at the last second. A couple of centuries ago, someone sewed our tapestry to a similar (though only casually related) one. They are still together. It is a lovely thing and tells an interesting five-hundred year old story. The Cluny is in a magnificent building dating back to the time the Romans conquered the Celtic Parisii, the former inhabitants who lent their name to the city. The Romans built the building just on the left bank from the Ile de la Cite, now the site of Notre Dame de Paris and the main police station. The basement of the Cluny had both a hot bath and a cold bath, neither currently in use. Upstairs is a great collection of medieval stuff, including the tapestries. As in America, many harried teachers herd many beautiful children from site to site, hoping to infuse a little learning and culture. Also, as in America, the children are of many colors with the boys competing for coveted viewing positions (less out of interest in better viewing than of winning), while the better-behaved girls walk two-by-two talking and laughing.

The other site for special mention is Place des Vosges (pronounced vozh), a square on the edge of the Marais district a few blocks from the Place de Bastille. Place des Vosges is a lovely green square containing four formal fountains, an equestrian statue of Louis XIII (I have a little trouble keeping the Louis' numbered correctly) and is surrounded by great red brick architecture. Victor Hugo lived here.

Before the revolution, it was called by some royal name, but that seemed inappropriate in a Republic. To stimulate tax collection, the government formed a competition; the first region to pay its taxes would get its name on the square. The Vosges region paid first. The Vosges Mountains border Alsace and are the French equivalent of the Black Forest on the other side of the Rhine. Actually, les Vosges is even prettier than the Black Forest, and when Stella and I drove through both thirteen years ago, far less densely populated by locals, tourists, or cuckoo clocks.

We had lunch at a brasserie on a corner facing the Place des Vosges. How do you tell a brasserie from a bistro from a restaurant from a cafe? I don't know. It isn't by price. I am a bit embarrassed to harp on price, but it is a shock. Our Continental breakfasts at the hotel are wonderful and hearty. We have eggs, hot and cold sausages, half a dozen cheeses, fruit, juice, and a basket of the best products of some of the best bakeries anywhere. Therefore, we require little for lunch. We had: Two liter bottles of Evian (eight Euros each) and two Nicoise salads (sixteen Euros each). Our bill came to forty-eight Euros. Since the service is nominally included, I added a small tip of five Euros for a total of fifty-three Euros. One Euro = $1.34. Of course, the salad (various greens, celery, carrots, tuna, hard-boiled eggs, anchovies, dressed with olive oil and vinegar) was delicious. Surprisingly, we ate at tables on the sidewalk, a typical side-walk café. They had ingenious propane heaters keeping us comfortable under the umbrellas.

A couple of days ago, we had a similar meal (substitute onion soup for the salads) on the far more popular Champs Elysees. Prices were similar.

Parisians have the reputation for being brusque, unfriendly, and arrogant. My tales of Paris many years ago may have added to that reputation. On this seven day stay, we experienced none of that; in fact, quite the opposite from all strata we encountered. And they were all good-humored. The staff at our hotel, the Francois Premier, were particularly helpful, and its breakfasts were superb.


Friday evening, Stella and I celebrated my seventy-seventh birthday at Le Fermette Marbeuf 1900. This restaurant was built in the 1800's and its elaborate art deco glasswork was rediscovered some forty years ago buried under layers of Formica. Now, it is a moderately priced attraction about five short blocks down Blvd. George V from the Champs Elysees (corner of George V and Rue Marbeuf). It is beautiful, crowded, noisy, and has good food. Travel guides say it attracts the theatrical set (whoever they are), but all Frenchmen look very much alike to me, so I can’t say. The service was cordial and pleasant if a lot more harassed than Bistro l'Olivier. Actually, the multitudes of wait-staff were in danger of colliding while serving. Fortunately, they must all drive in Parisian traffic and are adept at traveling at high speeds diagonally across multiple lanes. Did I say lanes? I'm not sure there is a French word for lanes --- if so, it does not apply to streets. In Paris, a street is as many lanes wide as the number of cars fitting side by side at that moment. My driving experience in Paris began forty years ago when I borrowed a friend's nine-passenger Ford station wagon and drove here with my family of six plus my parents. I thought it was wild, then. Since, several more Parisians have afforded cars. Either I was too stupid to recognize my limitations then, or too timid now. I learned that if I could catch the eye of a crowding driver, turn my steering wheel in his/her direction, and accelerate, I could get through any given problem. Come to think of it, I applied that lesson to my military and academic careers many times. I look forward to our taxi trips, tomorrow, since I will not be driving. I saw a medieval stained glass at the Cluny. I do not know what it represents, but it may well be Parisian traffic.


L'Olivier has a prix fixe (pree feese) menu as well as la carte. The first evening, we ordered a prix fixe with Stella having a mushroom tart, lamb stew, and some chocolate cake. After advice, I selected grilled ewe's milk cheese with bitter herbs, the lamb stew (they were out of my first choice) and a dessert of cake (also chocolate) with pears and pear ice-cream. Of course, all was good, but Stella found the lamb resistant to being chewed. I think the pear ice-cream was the outstanding item that evening. The forty Euro bottle of wine was fine. Tonight, I had bouillabaise a la carte, and shared a bit of Stella's spaghetti with clam sauce starter and some chocolate dessert. She had grilled tuna as a main course. Of course, a bottle of Bourgogne Pinot Noir added its part and the final coffees wrapped it up.

At le Fermette Marbeuf on Friday, Stella's pumpkin soup and sea bass with crab sauce were good as was my mussel soup and veal. Since it was my birthday, the ninety Euro bottle of Rhone was a particular treat. We shared a rum baba dessert, which was not nearly as good as the coffee. A highlight was a pleasant conversation with an incurably English couple from Northumberland, who sat only an elbow away in the crowded place. He owns a department store which has been in his family one-hundred and fifty years. They have three daughters, one of whom shares my birthday, and the two who live in Dubai.

For anyone taking a taxi from Airport Charles DeGaulle to Paris, I suggest going to the Taxi stand after clearing immigration and customs. We did not, and welcomed the fellow who offered help from customs. He was courteous and fine, but he did not have a meter in his cab and charged us seventy-eight Euros. We are now back at Charles deGaulle waiting for our Chicago flight. Our legitimate cab driver, called by our hotel, charged a bit less than fifty, just as it showed on his meter. Maybe he had a tailwind. I hope we have one going home.

Saturday, November 10, 2007

Arkansas, October, 2007

An Arkansas Ramble
Bill R. Baker

Merriam-Webster says “ramble” is a 15th century Middle English word derived from romblen or romen, which meant to roam. It lists three definitions:
1. a: to move aimlessly from place to place
b: to explore idly
2. to talk or write in a desultory or long-winded wandering fashion
3. to grow or extend irregularly.
I believe you will agree, the following qualifies on all counts.

Normally, I keep a journal on trips, but this time I did not. I apologize for that, because journals have immediacy reports written, even a week later, cannot duplicate.

We, my wife Stella DeVoise and I, left on Tuesday, October 16th and drove to Jefferson, Texas. The first day did not go very well. Max, our 6 month old Bichon Frisé pup, got sick en route, twice! We have taken Max and Sadie, his littermate, on several short trips, and getting sick was unprecedented. It was also very unsettling since we have planned many road trips in the future. We did have opportunity of visiting the Village Bakery in West, Texas for a good supply of kolechniki (kolaches with sausage) and poppyseed kolaches. My relationship with West, Texas, a Czech heritage town, and the Village Bakery, began July 4, 1948 and has continued. From West, we drove east over back roads with a stop at Wal-mart in Corsicana for more paper towels. Fortunately, we did not need to use them for any more upchuck duty for the rest of the trip.

We arrived at the Delta Street Inn in Jefferson, Texas around 8 pm. Our cordial hosts were Pam and Bob Thomas.

They welcomed Max and Sadie as they did us. They have an old shot-calling Dachshund, who makes them appreciate dogs.

Jefferson was an important seaport (Yes, I said seaport in NE Texas) due to its access, through Caddo Lake, to the upper reaches of the Red River. There was a logjam in the 19th century that prevented large vessels going above Shreveport. If northeast Texas cotton, and there was a lot of it, was to be shipped, Jefferson was where it happened. It was an important goal of the North’s Red River Campaign of the Civil War.

We wanted to see Jefferson, so we stayed two nights. We explored the town and its environs. We visited nearby Uncertain, Texas (I have identified with this town all my life) and Caddo Lake.

There is a wood-burning steamboat that gives tours of the swamps, bayous, and open water of Caddo Lake. Despite my well-laid plans and early exploration, I got lost and did not make its departure. I did get a picture of it a couple of hours before departure, however.


Thursday, we drove north across the Red River into Arkansas. We went near Lanesport where many of our ancestors first entered Texas (e.g., Davy Crockett entered there). My particular ancestors, who visited Lanesport twice, made their first crossing from Texas into Arkansas, but that is a story to be written later (On your toes, it’s coming). We progressed north to Mena, where we turned west to follow the scenic Talamena highway to Talahina, Oklahoma. Along the way, we had seen hundreds of motorcyclists on the highway. A few miles out of Mena, before the Queen Wilhelmina State Park, we were stopped by a biker and a long line of traffic. The obvious thing to worry about, on the Talamena highway, it going over the side of one of the steep mountains. The highway follows the crests of the Winding Stair Mountains. The biker announced, “Biker down”. The length of the line convinced us to turn around. We went to a nearby State Park to take Max and Sadie for a little run. Please do not expect to hear of every place we stopped to do that pleasant chore.


In Fort Smith, Arkansas, we made a left turn to cross the Arkansas River and go the very few miles into Roland, OK. Our goal was a visit with Joe and Jean Knox.

At the beginning of my matriculation into the sixth grade, my parents got rural school-teaching jobs in a school called Rock Hill. We had lived, for several years, in the teacherage of the Culbertson School, always referred to as Apple, about 12 miles over primitive roads, northeast of Hugo, Oklahoma. Rock Hill was only four miles in the same direction. The pay was better, but there was no teacherage (I note spell-check does not recognize teacherage, think parsonage --- it was a house to accommodate teachers). When they started at Rock Hill, we moved into Hugo, Oklahoma. I attended sixth and a part of seventh grades in Hugo as well as high school. In sixth grade, two of my classmates were Joe Thomas Knox and Jean Campbell. Joe lived about three blocks away. Jean told me she was a cousin to some of my friends from Apple. I was very much a country kid in the city (OK, town, but I thought it was a city!). We had many other friends in the class, but germane to this tale, I will only mention Margaret Knox (not related to Joe). Sixth grade, half of seventh, and all through high school, we were friends. Joe had a successful career in the United States Army, retiring as a Colonel. As it happened, I was stationed near him in Germany and got to know his wife and children, there. Joe’s wife died young. Jean Campbell married Lee Loftin, a friend of mine, though a couple of years older, and moved to Fort Smith, Arkansas. Lee, too, died young. At our high school class’ fiftieth reunion (I missed due to a heart scare), widowed Jean and widowered Joe, became reacquainted. Jean’s sister, Margaret, told her she should marry him, because “You know he comes from a good family”. They did. They decided to relocate somewhere between her home in Fort Smith and his in California. They did, about ten miles west of Fort Smith in Roland, Oklahoma. That should put to rest all that “alpha male” myths. They have a wonderful home with a magnificent view. When Stella and I visited with them on June first of this year, they invited us to come see them. Our visit was everything, and more, than one could hope for. I look forward to our next visit. Oh yes, I mentioned Margaret Knox along with this tale. I became infatuated with Margaret Knox in the sixth grade and have found no reason to change. Sure, she married someone else (a nice guy), and I have married a couple of someone elses, but what does that signify? In our third year of high school, there were three Junior students nominated for President of the Student Council: Joe Knox, Margaret Knox and Bill Baker. Joe Knox won without a runoff. After sixty plus years, I am ready to forgive him. I cannot speak for Margaret, of course.


Northeastern Arkansas is lovely. The mountains are old and do not have the spectacular precipices of the Alps or Rockies. They do have the advantages of good soil producing fine forests, both deciduous and evergreen, good grazing and good crops. I particularly love the combination of rolling mountains and good agriculture.


Eureka Springs has the advantage, and the disadvantage, of being in the heart of this verdant scenery. It is overly crowded. We arrived on one of the busiest weekends of the year. Either I did not catch what festival was going on, or I forgot. Accommodations taking dogs are limited, and I understand that, but the whole town was full, anyway. We drove around a bit, checked many places, and went on to Harrison, about forty miles away. First, we went to a site called Inspiration Point. Trite as the name sounds, it was appropriate. Then, we went to E. Fay Jones’ Thorncrown Chapel. I had read much about it, going back to its origin and its many architectural awards. It is beautiful but not as breathtaking as I had expected. All the supporting structures are made of wood and everything else is glass.

I loved the architecture but expected more of a religious experience of it. Perhaps this is a more important comment on me than of the chapel. It is in a beautiful setting.



Eureka Springs, like Hot Springs and a number of other Arkansas towns, got their fame as spas. The springs, themselves, are scenic gardens.

Downtown has tens of lovely 19h century buildings and thousands of visitors. They were all there, that day.


We took the railroad tour, mainly to let Max and Sadie say they had been on a train, I suppose. The conductor is entertaining, the engineer picturesque, and the ride about a mile or so alongside a creek.


Unlike the Thorncrown Chapel, which I had anticipated so much and found less that exhilarating, I enjoyed the statue of Christ of the Ozarks. Pictures of it had left me cold. The fact it was the product of the effort of Gerald L. K. Smith, a Huey Long disciple, had left me cold. I respect the memory of Huey Long, but not that of Gerald L. K. Smith --- probably because my father disliked him in the ‘30’s. I had thought the sculpture a bit primitive. In real life, against the almost indigo mountain sky, it is moving.


After Eureka Springs and Harrison, we drove to Mountain Home and Big Flat. We crossed the White River, along the way.


I had Baker ancestors from this area, and the Bakers being a prolific bunch, there are many there, today.


Before I confuse everyone, you should know that my mother, whose maiden name was Smith, had a mother whose maiden name was Baker, and those are the Bakers I was following. My father’s Baker ancestors are lost a few generations back, but, thanks to the late J. N. Baker of Temple, Texas, my mother’s are known back to Maurice Baker in Maryland colonial times. Following is a short life story I have written on the life of the founder of some of my Arkansas roots.

Littleton Baker (1811-1892)
Liittleton Baker was born May 14, 1811 in (what is now) Gwinnett County, Georgia, where his father, John Baker, and his grandfather, Elias Baker, farmed. Elias had been a patriot militiaman during the American Revolution. Gwinnett county constitutes part of the northeastern segment of present-day Atlanta. Littleton, source of first name unknown, grew up there and married a local girl, Martha Adeline Morgan. They farmed there, also. After the State of Georgia refused to recognize Indian ownership of land, the Cherokees were deported to Arkansas and present Oklahoma. The state made former Cherokee land available to farmers, by lottery. Littleton, his brother, Levi, their father, John, and other relatives, were granted land in Chattooga County. They moved to the Broomtown Valley, GA area where they farmed, successfully, for several years. Broomtown Valley lies in both Georgia and Alabama. I have heard a story of one Baker “whose house was in Georgia, but his still was on a mountain in Georgia.” Again, Littleton heard of good inexpensive land in Arkansas, so they moved. Many Bakers still reside in that portion of Georgia.
Big Flat, then in Searcy County, Arkansas but now in Baxter County, was the site of his next farm. Big Flat is exactly that. Though one might expect it to be a fertile valley, it is a large plateau above numerous valleys at the height of local landmarks like Pine Mountain. The 1860 census shows him living there with Martha and several children. According to that census, he was one of the more prosperous farmers in the area, though he had no slaves. He was one of the commissioners who founded the County Seat of Searcy County in 1856. They called it Barrowsville, but it is now called Marshall.
It may be his growing family furnished enough field hands. If his removal to Arkansas was to avoid the looming Civil War, it did not work. By wartime, Littleton was too old to serve. Northern Arkansas and Southern Missouri were filled with people of mixed loyalties. During the war, the authorities (Yankees) arrested Martha for being a cousin (degree unknown to the author) of Confederate General John Morgan. She was taken to Kansas for interrogation. Littleton followed to secure her release. By the time she was released, she was very ill. Trying to take her home, Littleton stopped in Ft. Scott, Kansas to secure medical care for her. She died, and was buried there.
Littleton was left with a number of children to raise. He married Abigail Brown. He and Abigail had several children, the second of whom was Asbury Napoleon Baker, great-grandfather of the author. He was called Poly with a long “o”. In his family Bible, he is called “A. N.” Littleton and Abigail’s grand-daughter said of her grandmother, “She just walked out.” The 1880 census shows him divorced, living with his and Abigail’s offspring on the farm next to his daughter.
Littleton’s obituary stated he had married four times and left 18 children. Fifteen can be accounted for by his marriages to Martha Morgan and Abigail Brown. He had moved to be near a son in Leslie, Arkansas, and was buried in the Sulphur Springs Cemetery near Wiley’s Cove.

The drive from Mountain Home to Big Flat is winding, hilly, and beautiful. The road crosses the beautiful White River of Clinton investment fame. The forests are primarily deciduous with many pines.

There, too, we were too early for much Fall color. In fact, on the whole trip, the most beautiful color was in a parking lot in Harrison.


Not knowing where Littleton’s farm was located, there is not a great deal for us to see in Big Flat. However, we saw it all in a very few moments. On Sunday, many residents were in church.

We were surprised that such a small town (pop. 104) should have a rather prosperous looking liquor stores on each of the four corners of the only street intersection. Later, we learned Big Flat, now in an oddly shaped extension of wet Baxter County, has the responsibility for satisfying the thirsts of many of the residents of dry-voting Searcy County. As Kurt Vonnegut would say, “So it goes.” I recall my late father’s comment on then-dry Oklahoma, “It’s the best arrangement; dries have their prohibition and wets their liquor.”

We drove near the small town of Baker to Marshall. We stopped a short distance south of Marshal at a roadside park with a great view and room for the dogs to get some exercise. There was a rock shop next door, where we did a bit of shopping and had an informative and pleasant conversation with the proprietor. Among other things, I learned the answer to “Why all the liquor stores in Big Flat?” Arkansas is full of rocks, some, including diamonds, more valuable than others. As a dentist who has sharpened many surgical instruments on Arkansas stones, I found him a great source of entertainment.

We spent a couple of hours looking for Littleton Baker’s grave; we would have settled just for Sulphur Springs Cemetery. When we got to Wiley’s Cove, we stopped at a service station for directions (Stella was driving). No-one knew where it was though several had heard of it, “all my life.” One very pleasant cook called her mother, “who has lived here” forever. And, sure enough, got details over the phone which she transferred onto a map she sketched on a lunch ticket. It was easy to follow. It did not lead to the cemetery. We drove quite a distance along Baker Road. We asked others. Though each had heard of it, “all my life”, none could help. Given another day, I am sure we could have found it. We did find the Leslie Cemetery, though, and it contained at least one Baker. News that a movie is in production concerning the Mountain Meadows Massacre piqued my curiosity. I do not know if he is a relative of Littleton or not.


We spent the night in Clinton (no relation). Max and Sadie have an investigative routine they follow on entering a new motel room. They inspect, everything, using their visually and olfactorally (I am neither fazed nor surprised Spellcheck does not accept “olfactorally”. Hell, it doesn’t even accept Spellcheck!)

Fog and rain were the order for the day on the drive from Clinton, through Little Rock, Fordyce, and Magnolia into Louisiana. Shortly before Fordyce, we crossed the Saline River at the site of a Civil War battle. I was interested because Pvt. Robert Carroll Isbell, another of my great-great grandfathers, and his son, Pvt. John Allen Isbell, of the 7th Missouri Cavalry (Confederate), fought there. Theirs was a successful effort to block the United States forces from sending reinforcements to the forces of General Nathaniel P. Banks in the Red River Campaign. That occurred before their ill-fated invasion of their home-state of Missouri, that defeat, their runaway through the Indian Nations, crossing into Texas near Gainesville, marching downriver to re-cross the Red River at Lanesport, Arkansas, as mentioned a couple of thousand words back.

We drove through Fordyce,, home town of my dental school classmate and late friend, Bob Benton. “Fordyce on the Cotton Belt, twice as nice as paradise”, was his appraisal. I note he did not practice there. Later, we drove through Magnolia, home of my dental school roommate and late friend, Paul Carrington. Paul and I remained close until his death about fifteen years ago. Bob went earlier. I seem to be collecting quite of large inventory of late friends.

After spending the night in Minden, Louisiana, we drove south the cross the Red River from east to west at Coushatta. The Bayou Pierre lies a short distance to the west and parallel to the Red River from Shreveport to shortly above Nachitoches. It for good marching for many of the Northern troops from where they had left their troopships at Nachitoches. President Lincoln appointed him one of his first Major Generals shortly after the Civil War began, so he outranked just about everybody. As former Speaker of the U.S. House of Representatives, and Governor of Massachusetts, he had been a contender with Lincoln for the 1860 Republican nomination. The Red River Campaign was ill-conceived, but that was the work of Lincoln’s chief general (before Grant), Henry Halleck. As well as its strategically needed cotton, both Lincoln and Halleck wanted U.S. presence in Texas as a warning to France who had invaded Mexico and deposed Benito Juarez, its President. Banks, and Grant, had wanted Banks to march east from New Orleans to free Mobile and open its port. Halleck said “no”. The Confederate general in charge of those parts of Louisiana not occupied by the U.S., was Maj. Gen. Richard Taylor, son of former President Zachary Taylor. (Taylor’s late sister, Sallie, had been the first wife of Jefferson Davis, President of the Confederacy). Taylor outgeneraled Banks. Of course, Taylor’s men were native Louisianans, and Banks’ men came from all over the North. Louisiana is a tough place to get around in on foot or horse. Banks’ forces were soundly defeated just south of the present town of Mansfield. Most of them began their way back to Nachitoches via the strip between Bayou Pierre and Red River. Some went south to Pleasant Hill for another pitched battle. Taylor flanked the Union forces and attacked, again, as they crossed the Bayou Pierre near its mouth.

We found a well-tended state park south of Mansfield, with great fields for bichons to run and two big cannons to bark at.


Lunch at a small downtown café in Logansport, Louisiana produced some memorable crawfish and shrimp. Late that afternoon, even through a bug-anointed windshield and driving into the sun, Boerne, Texas looked awfully good.


End of this particular ramble. Bill R.