Hot Springs
August 20, 2015

My fingers are typing whilst my eyes are reveling in the sights as we traverse the Ouachita Mountain Range, exclaiming over the expansive views when we top out and wind our way down the other side. 

Traveling on Arkansas Highway 7 out of Hot Springs, Arkansas, overnight destination Carthage, Missouri, we are thrilled with the lovely high(er)-country forests and enchanting rivers and creeks, and then lush farmlands as we descend.  A slow and winding route, well worth the extra time.

At one point in our Tennessee odyssey, we were near our ancestral clan homes in Dickson; in Arkansas we similarly skirted past Owenville and Collegeville, towns found by our Major Ezra Owen.

Our short stay in Hot Springs was marked primarily by lethargy - a bit of winding down, finally getting around to finishing reading Henrietta Lacks, which had been relegated to the back burner way back when we got to Tryon.

James Catron . . . 

Since the last time we were here, I discovered that my great grandfather, James Andrew Catron, was resident in the town in 1930.  It is a bit curious: He began in Tennessee, lived for a long time in Colorado Springs, thence to Los Angeles after his divorce, where he ended up and is buried, so why Hot Springs?

My guess is that he went there to “take the waters”, as it was called.  The mineral springs are touted to be beneficial for what ails you.  People now, as then, soak in the water to promote wellness and/or to cure illness.  James Catron died in 1945 from arteriosclerotic dementia; perhaps he was experiencing symptoms of that disease as early as 1930.

I had the address at which he was renting for $6 per month and wanted to get a photo of the building; unfortunately, the older structure has given way to a newer apartment building across from the convention center.  The blocks in the other direction, though, gave a truer picture of what it was like in 1930 - a hodge-podge of mostly two-story wooden ramshackle houses are cheek by jowl in a haphazard way, most of them divided into apartments, possibly used as boarding houses back in the day.

Bowling, aficionado . . .

Hot Springs was our first taste of “civilization” for such a long time, we opted to celebrate by going bowling!  We had not bowled since Chris’ shoulder surgery last November; in fact, it’s likely been two or more years since we hurtled those balls down the lanes.  Considering that, we did not cover ourselves in shame.  The showoff señor beat me by one pin with his 427 series.

Why stop in Hot Springs unless one is going to enjoy that unique benefit?  I indulged myself at the historic Buckstaff Bath House while Chris had the truck serviced.  Yes, a person has to make sacrifices, but I try to bear up.  I am a hot springs aficionado, intending to sample as many as I can.

Bathhouse Row is a National Park, preserving a block of ornate early 20th Century structures that catered to the appetites of folks in past eras who hoped for cures from diseases that had no other hope.  The current buildings replaced much older ones, some little more than wooden shacks that corroded and deteriorated quickly because of the mineral water.  Each is unique.

I love the magnolia-lined walk along Bathhouse Row.

Fordyce is now open for tours throughout its three floors, and has interesting, often odd - even horrifying, exhibits of implements that were used for the therapies of days gone by.  It is the largest on the Row.

 

 

I offer here a small sampling of past bathhouse appliances and procedures, some of which are reminiscent of a medieval prison dungeon but all of which were purported to be beneficial, many of which I couldn't fathom how they were used.  I used a couple of these, but surely would have passed on the electric bath.

I'm pretty sure I would forgo this procedure, too.

The oil can is for in case the Tin Man shows up for his monthly lubrication.

Buckstaff was the only one actually operating when we were here previously; a second - Quapaw - has opened up shop in the meantime.  I love going through the old-fashioned spa procedure at Buckstaff, which uses all the old equipment.

This is how it goes: After undressing in a private cubicle, an attendant wraps you toga-like in a sheet.  You are taken to the bathing area where you climb into a huge porcelain tub on a pedestal.  Tubs are in individual cubicles each separated by a marble divider.  The tub is large enough that you can submerge everything from your toes all the way up to your neck in hot mineral water.

To the end of the tub is attached a contraption that looks like a giant mixmaster - a metal tub extends from it into the water and provides a jacuzzi-like experience.  The soak is for about 20 minutes.

She must have taken the economy package - a stainless steel tub instead of porcelain.  Note the mixmaster contraption at the foot of the tub.

Next step is to lie on a stainless steel table with an elevated head on hot wet towels and to be covered with the same, all providing the effect of being swaddled.  I dozed off there, thus I am unsure of the time involved.  Latoya, my attendant, awakened me when it was time to go into the steam cabinet.  Yup, it’s a cabinet, metal, of two parts.  It opens up to allow you to step in and have a seat facing outward.  Two doors lower to cover your shoulders and two more close like barn doors to complete enclosing you into the box.  There is a further upper glass door which she didn’t close.  There I was: nothing sticking out except my head, sweating like a pig for the prescribed period.  By then I was beyond worrying about the passage of time, just nod and follow instructions and keep sweating.

Somewhere in there was a sitz bath followed by my favorite - the needle shower.  This takes a leap of faith; you step into a curtained alcove amidst torture-chamber-looking pipes and valves and are pelted all over by needle sprays of more hot mineral water.

That step sets you up for your 20-minute massage which I followed with a rocking-chair session on the lovely front veranda until my ride arrived.  As the woman rocking next to me said, “It kinda takes the starch out of you, doesn’t it.”  As the day wore on, I realized that my starch had indeed completely evaporated in all those mineral fumes - aaaah.

We had to also try out the newly opened Quapaw Bath House, a completely different experience.  There, bathers wear swim suits in the open shared pools varying in temperature between 97 and 103 degrees or opt for clothing-optional private pools.  Quapaw is set up similarly to tiled Roman baths and is open to far-overhead arched stained glass ceiling.  At the tops of the walls were a series of charming mountain scenes in stained glass that I thought were wonderful.







 

The grand promenade on the hill behind Bathhouse Row typifies an integral part of spas of old - fresh air in a leisurely stroll were thought to be beneficial to health.  I find no fault with that thinking.

Today, as in the past, locals drink the mineral water regularly.  The city supplies fountains where folks bring carloads of bottles to refill, and of course we took home our share.  As it comes out of the spigot, it is too hot to hold your hand under.

When we drove through that region in June, they were on the national news because of flooding; it seemed the rain would never let up.  When we returned in August, trees were dying for lack of water, so the storm that came through during our stay was a welcome respite.  Unlike home where the vegetation is acclimated to sustained dry periods, those wetter regions suffer quickly without rain.  We saw the same at Tryon: in June, it was deluging - in August, they were on water restrictions because of the tenuous water supply.

Gangsters, racing, baseball, Clinton . . .

Over the years, Hot Springs seems to have attracted some of the seamier side of the populace, even a gangster element thrown in and gambling associated with horse racing, casinos and baseball.

It is the childhood home of Bill Clinton; please note that I did not include that tidbit in the previous paragraph.

Taking this photo reminded me of tourists on Prescott's Whiskey Row.

Rehabbing? . . .

An impressive edifice up the hill from Bathhouse Row has its own place in history.  I am a little fuzzy on its current use and actually on its original use by the military, but there it is, nevertheless - the first Army and Navy general hospital.  Why it would be in Hot Springs, Arkansas, is another of life's mysteries.  Perhaps someone will enlighten me; I can use enlightening in so many areas.

Yo-yo weather, music . . .

Some nights there were "Open the windows and enjoy the evening"; one, however, tended more toward “Hand me another cold beverage and crank up the air”.  Under the better circumstances, we took the keyboard outside for an open-air concert.  We met some fine folks as a result, but one especially tickled my funny bone.  He came trooping up the hill to say he enjoyed the music, but “Something is missing.”  With that, he produced a red Dixie cup with a flourish and deposited it on the keyboard with his tip inside.  A first time for everything!

We are grateful for a rainstorm yesterday that cooled things off considerably.  As we crossed into Missouri mid-day, the temperature was 82.  Night before last, it never cooled off below 80 all night - missing my good Prescott mountain air.

Tennessee talk, Vic . . .

For the entire time we were in Tennessee, Chris was pretty much lost as to what anyone was saying.  Oh sure, he picked up the gist here and there, but mostly if I asked him what someone had told him, he responded that he didn’t know.

First thing when we pulled into our KOA at Hot Springs, we were introduced to Vic, who guided us to our site.  Don't know his origin, but a southern drawl was not evident when he spoke.  His manner of speech put me in mind of a machine gun.  About the time he finished up a third paragraph, I began to grasp what his first words had been, and then didn't know what had been said in the meantime.

Hard to converse with, but a heck of a nice guy, Vic noticed that our trailer had a boo-boo that I have not mentioned - a bit of a run-in with a yellow metal post some states back.  “I can fix that”, he said (at least something along those lines) and a short negotiation later, the arrangement was made.

In almost as short a time, Vic was zipping back and forth between his shop and our site and the job was complete, along with producing a cotter pin to replace one we’d lost off the sway bar and selling us a tool for raising and lowering the stabilizer jacks (mine broke that very morning).  And he did it all without us putting in an insurance claim, taking the trailer somewhere to be worked on and for about a fifth the cost of our deductible - the ultimate win-win situation.

This segment of the drive is one of those parts that are for getting from one place to another - on our way to see the kids tomorrow - so it’s just get in and drive, but a very pretty drive it’s been, even the Interstate part that was necessary so as not to get in so late.  Now that we’ve left Arkansas, I have to revise any previous declarations and say that it is my favorite state.

The countryside has opened up: there have been many distant vistas (you can’t imagine how much you appreciate that until it’s gone) and a multitude of delightful streams.  I could for sure get behind spending several months in Arkansas; we’ve spent considerable time there previously, but there’s so much more to explore.

Taylors, oriole . . .

Ha!  Not to get by without an ancestor, we parlayed our overnight stop in Carthage, Missouri, into a return to ancestral land - Neosho.  We were stopping on our way to cityland to visit the kids, but opted to go to the trouble of unhooking so we could take a run over to nearby Neosho, where my g.g. grandparents, Samuel Sylvester & Sarah Ann (McKinney) Taylor lived and are buried.

Chris easily located the cemetery where we placed flowers on their graves and gave Samuel an American flag as we always do.  One of my Union forebears, he suffered greatly throughout his life from deprivations during the Civil War.  This time, we figured out a way to put directions to their grave into their genealogy chart in case any others go to visit.  It is a huge burying ground; even with the plot number, they are difficult to locate.

A short stop at the Neosho big spring park was pleasant: far more water is gushing from under the limestone ledge than the last time we were here, and a drive by their house, then back to the Big Red Barn RV park in Carthage.  It is a lovely spot, one that we have utilized before and will undoubtedly again, very peaceful.

Ooh, ooh, ooh - a Baltimore oriole just spotted in the RV park - beautiful!

He was stupid . . .

I couldn't resist asking the proprietor of a damaged fuel station what had occurred to cause such havoc.  He told me a semi-truck drive ran over the pump and posts.  When I asked why, his response was: "He was stupid!"  Much elaboration later (he seemed very happy to have someone listen), I still did not understand why the driver ran over the pump, but I did know that it amounted to approximately $40,000 in damage.  Doesn't take much guesswork to figure the feller is out of a job.