Been Thinkin’ About…a long last day

The orange sun slips behind the western mountain ridges. Summer solstice ends, even as the evening news begins its frantic reporting of the Iran bombings by U.S. stealth bombers flying from Whiteman Air Force Base near Knob Noster, Missouri. Historic times for sure. War perhaps averted by war. Punditry ensues. Social media chatter explodes. Divisive voices are raised. Night falls.

Things happen faster these days. We live under the heavy expectation that our voices not only matter but can somehow change policy with a few angry keystrokes. But a tradition of the Ozarks is not one of faster and angrier, but instead slower and maybe kinder. Some 65 years ago, Americans were gripped by the space age threat of nuclear war as the Cold War intensified. As anxieties ballooned, relief was found in a nostalgic, make-believe American past. Pop-culture explored those emotions with shows like “Petticoat Junction” and “The Beverly Hillbillies.” Show creator Paul Henning understood that everyday Americans needed to live — if only for a handful of minutes at a time — in a simpler, kinder era. Henning was also a master at reminding us all that the everyman, in the form of the hillbilly, really did know best. Rural Missouri, and the Missouri Ozarks, were instrumental in the show’s homespun appeal.

Silver Dollar City leaned heavily into “The Beverly Hillbillies” back in the day, with several episodes being filmed at the theme park and featuring renowned City talent Shad Heller, as well as others. Come to find out, lots of Americans were willing to expend money and effort to take their minds off the threat of nuclear annihilation. Go figure. It genuinely warms my heart that Missouri, and the Ozarks, could become that space of nostalgia and hope for a whole generation.

"Now, you have to understand, Josh, that in a nuclear war, there would be a huge flash and then a fireball, and then everything for miles around would be instantly burned up.”

“And then what's called a radioactive cloud would fall and everyone would die." My big sister was explaining to me — a four year old at the time — a very slanted view of world politics. She had started college the semester before and arguments at the dinner table had already gotten heated. One of her favorite teachers was a self-avowed communist from Haiti, and apparently a pretty zealous one at that. My sister continued, "And, Josh, if we do all die in a nuclear war, you need to understand that Mommy and Daddy were responsible too because they voted for Reagan."

I spent the rest of the day imagining nuclear winter and how short my life would be if I survived the initial flash. I also vividly imagined watching my family die in front of me. When I brought the whole nuclear war question up to my mom, she frowned and said, "Maybe, but probably not." And then she went back to the laundry. There was a lot of laundry back in those days. My mom was unflappable like that. Many years later her unflappability became — at least to me — legendary. In the days following 9/11, she focused on the barn, and especially the garden. We drove to town one hot September afternoon to dig up day lilies from our then-pastors' house. Our then-pastors met us at the door of the parsonage, one bleary-eyed from watching the news, the other in a robe. They didn't look like they'd been out of the house for days. My mom brandished her shovel. Our then-pastors pointed to the bed of lilies, saying something about an inevitable economic collapse. My mom just shrugged and started digging flowers.

I asked her about the whole deal as we put the flowers into their new home, a recently tilled row of earth down between the Japanese lilac and the butternut tree. She looked up, hands in the earth, gray-blue eyes earnest. "The whole world's gonna do what it's gonna do, Josh. But long after that's all over, these flowers will still be blooming." I took her at her word. She was probably right. Google Earth shows the butternut tree is still there. I just checked. The day lilies are probably there too. 

It's good to surround oneself with unflappable people. I remember back in March of 2020 as reports of an impending end layered upon one another and I myself began to doom-scroll on social media. Dale Grubaugh, pastor, publisher, soon-to-be-tomato-guy, stopped by. I began regaling him with the latest news, the most recent reports. He held up a hand to stop me. "I'm going to the grocery store. You need anything?" Bear in mind, this was when lots of people were afraid to leave their homes. "Uh, sure," I said. As he went out the door, he looked back, "You might want to stop looking at your phone so much," he said. "Most of us just need to live our lives." I took him at his word. The rest of "lock down" I watched Dale as he went to the store, checked on the sick, argued with funeral homes and nursing homes about their rules, and in short, lived his life in service to those around him, just like usual. Some hollered, usually from behind social media screens, and said he was taking unneeded risks. I just saw a quiet hero. Turns out he was right.

Sometimes people talk about what makes the Ozarks different. Is it the friendliness of the people? The slower pace of life? The beautiful lakes and forests? I'll leave the superficial answers to the focus groups and the test polls. The real answer is the people, people in large part shaped by the eternal mountains to which they were drawn, all those long years ago. A people slow to hysteria, distrustful of change, devoted to family, and honor. A culture resistant to hyperbole, which is the street cred of clicks and eyeballs and tuning into the next crisis. Crises will come and go, no doubt. Tragedies happen. People die and we mourn their passing, often oblivious that our time will also come. But in the end, the day lilies will probably still be blooming. Beneath the summer sky. Of another long last day.