peter martin

Arkansas Farm (via Peter*Martin)

On my full circuit of the United States, I somehow managed to cross the mighty Mississippi river twice in the dead of night - once coming and once going - and therefore failed to see anything more than a notably large void, an inky velvet expanse of silent night. Tennessee and eastern Arkansas, the bread in the Mississippi sandwich on my westward route, therefore went largely unseen to my tired eyes, no more than occasional flashes of light and rest areas as I hurtled through. A new day, however, introduced a clear line of sight at the riches that Arkansas had to offer, or at least those which happened to surround the interstates. Vast fields of cotton waiting to be harvested and the complex yet simple irrigation systems serving them were fascinating to this New Englander. Figuring out why the rows were laid out in circular fashion gave me a comic sense of pride, despite the fact that what took me an hour or two to conclude would have been common knowledge to anyone who has ever grown up in proximity to farmlands; ie, most Americans, if not most of the world. Watching the cropduster planes divebombing the fields and pulling up at obscenely acute angles right near the highway kept me deeply absorbed as well, nearly causing me to drive off the highway at times. Before I knew it Arkansas had been exhausted, and my entry to Texas was soon announced by signs for the border town of Texarkana. For the record, I think this “Texarkana” naming concept is genius and all states did this. The possibilities are endless, with such gratifying and accurate results as a border town between New Jersey and New York christened “New Jerk”.