Flyover People
Cheryl Unruh
Tuesday, May 6, 2008
The few times I’ve driven on U.S. Highway 71, I’ve felt a little guilty.
The creation of the 71 bypass around Fayetteville, Ark., in the ’60s brought grief to my maternal grandparents.
I was just a small girl, but knew that the highway (well, the government) was taking their land and that they were going to have to leave their farm.
When Grandma mentioned a difficulty they were facing because of the proposed road, she’d add, “That darned Highway 71,” in a voice that sounded sometimes angry, sometimes defeated.
Their house wouldn’t be paved over, but the bypass was to cut through their property and they weren’t willing to live that close to the highway.
Recently, on a return trip from Hot Springs, instead of driving the usual route through Oklahoma, I took I-540 north toward Missouri. In Fayetteville, I-540 follows the same route as Grandma’s nemesis, the 71 bypass.
At the south edge of Fayetteville, I exited the interstate and immediately came upon what I was looking for: Dowell Memorial Cemetery.
When I was a youngster, Dowell Cemetery seemed like a forgotten graveyard, lost in the middle of deep, dark woods. The cemetery was a short trek down the dusty road from my grandparents’ small farm which they owned during the ’50s and ’60s.
Much has changed in the 40 years since I was a regular visitor to this area. Dowell Cemetery is probably the only surviving landmark. And I’ll bet it remains only because cemeteries are so dad-gummed difficult to move.
When I pulled off the interstate the other day, I drove past the cemetery on the road that once led to my grandparents’ home. It was now paved and I drove only a few hundred yards before I overlooked the four-lane highway: 71.
Grandpa had built their house himself in 1953. It was a low-level, low-budget home several miles southwest of Fayetteville, near the Boston Mountains.
That little home in the country was a sweet place. Huge shrubs along the road hid their house from view. Out in back was Grandma’s wildflower garden. And under the shade of hickory trees, Grandpa kept rows of rabbit hutches.
It was a place where good memories formed. In the evenings we sat in the backyard, talking over the sounds of insects and frogs.
I was tucked in for the night in the front bedroom under a pink and lavender-striped bedspread, and owls hooted me to sleep. In the mornings, Grandma made pancakes and sausage and served sliced peaches in tiny, colorful bowls.
But in these intervening 40 years, trees had been cut, mountains moved, concrete poured. Nothing looked the same. The woods had been turned into a four-lane highway. It’s as if Grandma and Grandpa’s place had never existed.
My grandparents relocated to Siloam Springs. And as far as I know, they didn’t hold a grudge. Still, I knew it had been a difficult event for them and so, as an adult, I felt a stab each time I had the occasion to drive on U.S. 71.
Grandma and Grandpa died in the 1970s and they were buried right here in Dowell Cemetery, just down the road from their old farm. The cemetery, once out in the boonies, was now adjacent to a huge highway interchange.
This was the first time I had visited my grandparents’ graves. And I had a short, one-sided conversation with them.
I sat on the ground in front of their headstone, used a twig to dig out some dirt stuck in the carved letters of their names. I admired the tiny wildflowers growing near the headstone. Grandma would’ve been pleased about the flowers.
The gulf of years had changed many things: the land had been rewritten, my grandparents were dead, I was getting older.
Back in the car, I suddenly felt proud to drive on that darned U.S. Highway 71. My grandparents had made their contribution; a piece of that highway belongs to me.
“Flyover People” is online at www.flyoverpeople.net.
F Cheryl Unruh can be reached at cheryl@flyoverpeople.net.
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