Joshua Heston

A long time ago, the Ozarks tourism campaigns leaned into the whole “Ozarks as magic” thing, crafting a unique, hillbilly “other” with wild, folkloric ways and granny women and healing waters.

Somewhere on a spring mountain ridge, I stand barefoot on fine, sharp gravel, watching an orange sun’s glow set beyond the dogwood blossoms, characteristic spring chill at my back.

I pour myself a Styrofoam cup of “Extreme Caffeine” coffee and ask for a box of chicken tenders and wait in line behind somebody buying scratch-off tickets.