I'm from "The City With a Smile"

I wrote this almost 15 years ago on April 8, 2009, as a column for The Rock Island Argus/Moline Dispatch newspapers when I was a reporter there. It is especially poignant today on April 8, 2023. If you’d like to assist with Wynne’s recovery following last week’s devastating tornado(s), visit here.

You may not know it right off by looking at me (or maybe you do), but I'm from The South – Wynne, Ark. to be exact, also known as “The City With a Smile.”

If you're looking for Wynne on a map, it's right there near Birdeye, Marked Tree, Bald Knob and Cherry Valley.

I only bring it up because people ask me all the time where I'm from. It's usually one of the first questions I'm asked by strangers. I don't really know why. I don't particularly think it's the way I talk.

I always thought my accent was pretty ambiguous and unassuming, except for maybe my pronunciation of numbers and days of the week, I've been told.

Possibly it's because from October to April, I'm screaming in horror about the weather. It could be because I was very fascinated to learn I had moved to the home of the John Deere tractor. Where I'm from, having that green and yellow in your field is a status symbol.

There could just be something about me that screams “you ain't from 'round here.” It could be that I say things like “you ain't from 'round here.”

Whatever the case, I have a number of citified friends who find my simple upbringing absolutely fascinating, those who just can't fathom a town of less than 10,000 with more wheat, bean and rice fields than it has buildings.

They are utterly mesmerized when I spin true tales of slaughtering hogs, picking peas and organized tractor pulls. When they were kids, they were told by their parents to be indoors by the time the street lights popped on.

Where I'm from, we didn't have too many street lights, and playing hide-n-seek outside well after dark was the highlight of a warm summer evening.

We didn't have many swimming pools or fire hydrants to cool off in. But we had water hoses. And a person's worth could be measured by the size of the buck they shot last deer season or whether they were a starting player for their high school football team.

Truth be told, I guess I can see the humor in all that. But I wouldn't trade my upbringing for any amount of money. Being raised well below the Mason Dixon Line tends to imbue a person with a certain amount of ingrained charm and hospitality, that if stuck with, is second to none. Unfortunately, it's just not always stuck with.

Many city-raised folk have similar qualities, but there's something intrinsically special about being raised where you smile and wave at anybody and everybody who crosses your path, whether you know them personally or not.

Where every elder is known as ma'am or sir, as are strangers, regardless of their age. Where there aren't many cities or suburbs, but plenty towns and county roads. Where there are no taxi cabs or transit buses, but you can catch a ride “on the next thing smokin.'”

Where first cousins are more like siblings, and second and third cousins are more like first cousins. Where a town's true size and worth is measured by whether it has a Super Wal-Mart. And where newspapers are delivered once a week. That's where I'm from.