The locusts descend upon the land.
Not the literal ones, but a kind much worse, in my estimation. The urbanites, long disenchanted with the social upheaval of late, have begun to migrate to the country. My home county, Newton County, Arkansas, is sadly not immune, though we are largely blessed.
Rugged and in the remote mountains of northwest Arkansas, my home county is steeped in both history and poverty. My people scratched out existences in the rocky hill sides as they raised families. I remember my grandmother talking about playing the game ‘jacks’ once and stating that she, as a grown woman, had never actually seen a store-bought jack, as they played with peach pits.
These new comers know nothing of the land, and many care even less about the people. They come down and build their ‘McMansions’ all along every scenic route and over my home country. True, some are good people who will acclimate and become part of the social fabric of my home. It has always been that way, but far too many are odious transplants who denigrate and insult my people. It is this thought that weights heavily on my mind as I drive Hghway 7 on a cool Saturday morning. I wonder to myself, ‘How can one escape this madness?’ as I observe three new buildings on the point of the mountain.
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