Compared to other Southern states (one thinks of Mississippi and its abundance of esteemed writers), Arkansas boasts comparatively few authors of note. The Razorback State has ample material, as evidenced by my Ozarks childhood. My foothills Granny baked a 'possum with all the trimmings every winter until she passed in 2000. We might be short on literati, but not on characters and storytellers.
One must admit, the handful of authors we share with the nation and the world do tend to be big guns. Maya Angelou, John Gould Fletcher (with ancestors from my hometown of Maynard), and E. Lynn Harris all made considerable splashes in their respective genres. Though people associate John Grisham with Mississippi, the best-selling novelist hailed first from Black Oak and Jonesboro.
But today, I focus on a notable Natural State native we lost: Charles Portis. Portis gave us, among other titles, True Grit, and in doing do so blessed us with Rooster Cogburn, arguably one of John Wayne's best roles and the only one for which he won an Oscar.
All Arkansas grandfathers--and a good many grandmothers--of the 1980s watched "Television Westerns" of an evening. The Duke's movies were particular favorites of Quimby and Vival Seawel and their grandsons. And when Rooster Cogburn came on (a reprise of the immortal character), we marveled at the juxtaposition of the old Arkansas coot and the Yankee spinster (portrayed by Katherine Hepburn)--a match made in Hollywood heaven, with a little boost from Arkansas.
Portis also gifted our American consciousness with an Arkansas girl of gumption if ever there was one. Long live young Mattie Ross and her homespun wisdom. "Men will live like billy goats if they are let alone." Truer words were never spoken, Miss Mattie.
I'm basing my praise off the movie versions and sequels of the story, which (since I'm name-dropping on behalf of Arkansas) I should add featured Glen Campbell (born in Billsville--near "Dee-light, y'all). I'd be lying if I said I'd read the book, which I'm sure, Mom, is infinitely superior.
I have read Portis' Norwood, a fun read if for no other reason than what one reviewer called the "Texarkana vernacular." If memory serves, it's a tale of working-class blues bordering on Southern Gothic--trailer house love scenes, a British midget, and a talking chicken.
One midnight a decade ago on a stroll across Little Rock's Big Dam Bridge, I remarked to my friend and fellow bridge walker that I'd like to meet the reclusive local author Charles Portis. My friend, a keeper of a CIA-worthy low profile, cleared his throat in a telling manner.
"He's not a recluse," my friend said in a tone more defensive than usual.
"You flippin' know him," I accused. I pressed until my buddy admitted a friendship with the family. But our man Portis, it seems, had no desire for the limelight, preferring anonymity but rejecting the label of "recluse."
"He just doesn't want too big a deal made of him," my friend shared.
His kinfolk were honorably and fiercely protective.
A respecter of fellow introverts, I withdrew my request. Let's be honest, I could tell there wasn't a snowball's chance, so I let it go and memorized the author's face from Google images in case I ever happened to bump into him at Whole Hog. Neighbors, they say, saw him frequently, and, not knowing of his literary accomplishments, assumed he was just another old white man.
I reckon he preferred it that way.
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James Seawel of Maynard is a freelance writer and licensed clinical social worker with the U.S. Air Force currently on assignment at Ramstein Air Base in Germany.
Editorial on 02/24/2020