A blogger friend of mine recently posted some pictures of his home state of New Jersey.
I guess the prevailing belief about New Jersey is that it is an extension of New York City, but my friend knows — and his friends and relatives who still live in New Jersey know — that there is more to it, and he posted pictures of waterfalls and beaches and all sorts of rural imagery from the state.
I've decided to — sort of — take a cue from him, and write a little about my home state of Arkansas. Most people think of Arkansas as a rural state, which is mostly true, but there are some appealing attractions if you know where to look.
Now, it's been more than 20 years since I lived in Arkansas, but I still think of it as home. My hometown is actually the place "American Idol" winner Kris Allen calls home — Conway.
I've written some about Conway recently, and I'm sure I'll get back to it, but in this post, I want to write about a special spot in Arkansas that I visited on several occasions — Petit Jean Mountain in nearby Conway County.
As a child, I remember visiting Petit Jean Mountain with my parents. There were picnic tables there, and there was the Museum of Automobiles, which was founded in 1964 by Winthrop Rockefeller. It housed Rockefeller's personal collection of vintage automobiles until 1975, two years after his death. In 1975, the collection was sold, and the land where the museum was located was donated to the state. The next year, the museum reopened under the auspices of a not–for–profit organization, with cars on loan from across the country. Today, there is a permanent collection of automobiles in the museum along with an antique gun collection.
Petit Jean Mountain is also the home of Winrock Farms and Winrock Enterprises, Rockefeller's cattle breeding and business operations that he founded there in the 1950s. They have remained in operation, even though the founder has been gone for more than 35 years.
Rockefeller renewed attention to Petit Jean when he moved there, and one of the things that Arkansans rediscovered was the legend of Petit Jean.I heard many variations on the tale when I was growing up, but the version that seems to be the accepted one says that "Petit Jean" was the name given to a woman who disguised herself as a boy and signed on as a cabin boy with De Soto so she could be close to her fiancee, who had signed on with his expedition.
She survived the ocean voyage, but she apparently became ill when they reached the mountain in modern–day Arkansas. It was only at this time that she revealed her true identity to her fiancee. She died and was buried under the name "Petit Jean" — which means "Little John."
When I was in college, I lived for a time with an older couple. The husband worked at Winrock, and occasionally he had to attend cocktail parties for company clients. One time, he invited me to attend with him so we drove up to Petit Jean Mountain and hobnobbed with the clients. We ate some fancy appetizers and drank some wine — I've never cared much for wine so I couldn't honestly say whether it was good, but Winrock always did things first–rate so I assume the wine was top quality.
My teenage memories of Petit Jean include people closer to my own age. I remember going for hikes there as a high school senior. I took my girlfriend, and we usually had to bring her younger brother and/or her younger sister along. I admit that I wasn't thinking about legends or things like that; I was forever trying to find a few seconds when I could sneak a kiss (or more, if I thought I could get away with it) when we were out of her siblings' view.
She and I broke up shortly after my graduation, and I remember going up to Petit Jean about a month after that happened. I was going camping with my best friend. We stocked up on steaks and mushrooms and potatoes — and my friend used a fake ID to get some beer — and we were on our way. Even in the summer, it was fairly mild on that mountain, but we did encounter some heat, which made a dip in the campground pool very refreshing.
At night, we grilled steaks, baked potatoes, drank beer and smoked cigarettes, and we listened to the radio under the stars. These were the disco days, and it seemed that Barry Manilow was constantly on the airwaves, with "Can't Smile Without You," "Copacabana" and "Ready To Take a Chance Again." I remember my friend making me laugh by calling him "Barely Man Enough" whenever one of those songs came on.
I think, if I could be in Arkansas tonight, I'd like to visit Petit Jean Mountain again. I don't think it would ever be as good as it was, but it would be nice to be back there one more time.
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