Pieday: Sugar cookie cherry at Ed's Custom Bakery.

I’ve talked with you before about Ed’s Custom Bakery, haven’t I? Oh, then I have been remiss. Lots of folks know about the pastries you can get from the popular Conway bakery. But did you know the folks there also make a mean cherry pie?

Grazing in the Green Ozark Hills.

Ratchford Farms’ buffalo and cattle are spring-fed, raised on clover and Bermuda grass and live low-stress lives outside of Marshall.

“C’mon, buffalo!” L.C. Ratchford hollered as he stepped out into the pasture behind his house. His cowboy boots thumped quietly in the dusty shorn grass as he wandered towards the back end of the rise. For a few moments, it was quiet.

“C’mon… buffalo!” he called again, and there was the sound of distant footfalls, heavy but hurried. And they came running, around 20 buffalo appearing over the rise in the hill, galumphing and huffing their way across the yard to the fence where we stood waiting with food pellets, “treats” they looked for as they snorted the ground, that they found in my outstretched hand with long, giraffe-like black pointed tongues.

“Get your hand on out there, it’s okay,” he prodded me, and I held my hand closer. The buffalo huffed into my hand and about inhaled one of the pellets, continuing to flick at my hand for another moment after the food was gone. I was surprised by how small its teeth were in that massive wooly horned head.

L.C. was beaming. “They’re so much harder to farm than cattle. Buffalo are still wild animals, not domesticated, no matter how they look. They’re very territorial.”

“They’re very friendly,” I commented, still a little overwhelmed by the beasts. I had been prepared for the sight of the buffalo but not the sound -- the reverberation of their heavy hooves on the winter-drawn turf, the clearly audible breathing all asserting the presence of these majestic animals right here, right now.

“We use only passive means on them. It cuts down on the stress in their lives,” L.C. was saying. “Cattle prods are not allowed through the gates. We have no problem whatsoever. We rotate pasture and give them treats.”

I reached for my pen to take some notes and realized my hand was covered in buffalo mucus. I started to wipe my hands on my jeans but L.C.’s sister Sheila clucked at me and offered a handful of paper towels. I took them gratefully but shrugged at the suggestion I was messing up my pants. I was working. It was expected. Besides, it’s not every day you get buffalo spit on you.

***

Ratchford Farms is about six miles northeast of Marshall. When you drive up it doesn’t look like much, just a small house and shed that may or not have a few buffalo in the yard.

L.C. introduced me to a good part of his family -- three of his four sisters, his mother and a niece -- before we headed out to investigate the farm. Along the way he shared a dialogue about the farm, the buffalo and other livestock and what he’s hoping to accomplish here.

He’s had this dream to run this farm all his life, but when he graduated from high school he left out and went to welding school, spending 24 years as a contract welder, saving and investing his money so he could eventually get back to Marshall and acquire the land he needed for his venture. His welding background has served him well. All of the fencing around the 400 acre homestead is his work, including steel fencing around the pastures where the buffalo roam and veritable miles of barbed wire strung tight between recycled highway sign posts. The 10 foot tall, 20 foot square corrals he’s built on the site are made from recycled oil field pipe; the retaining pen where he can work on the animals constructed from reclaimed I-beams and highway guard rail.

He also constructed the passages from one pasture to another. “On this farm there are eleven gates… they’re cattle guards but you don’t have to get out to open a gate. You can drive the entire farm without ever having to open a gate.”

It’s a beautiful expanse, patched together over the years with purchases of one tract of land at a time. The original homestead spanned a valley running a mile and three quarters long. There Otis and Marge Ratchford, L.C.’s parents, started farming in 1957. They planted strawberries, corn, green beans, whatever they needed. The couple and eventually their six children worked the land by hand. “I worked it just as much as he did,” said Marge, speaking of Otis and the old farm. “We had tomatoes, cane for molasses, we had to raise everything for our own food.” They had chickens, ate their own eggs, drank milk from their cows and baled their own hay. About all they couldn’t get was flour and fuel.

They’ve always had cattle. L.C.’s great grandfather served in the Civil War for the South. After the war he drove a herd of cattle from Georgia all the way to Searcy County and settled down. “We worked real hard on our herd, built it from Holsteins and Jerseys,” Marge told me.

“The family idea has always been to keep good cows and buy good bulls,” L.C. added. The family has worked more than 150 years to foster the traits they wanted -- lower birth-weight calves so that the cows can calve without assistance, good marbling to the meat, a good disposition and an optimum prime weight of 1000 to 1200 pounds.

About three years ago, L.C. started receiving interest from buyers for spring-fed cattle.

The bulls they buy today are Angus, to create an Angus-cross that are sturdy, mellow and disease free. The cattle and all the livestock on the farm go back to L.C.’s philosophy. “The whole idea of our farm is no stress - don’t hurt the animal. And we try to be green as possible.”

Being green means not using chemical pesticides, filler feed products or wasteful practices. L.C. manages to take care of all three problems with his approach to grass seeding and insect control.

“Clover and Bermuda seed goes into the feed. The clover, being a legume, takes nitrogen from the air and puts it back in the soil. The Bermuda is good feed. By feeding the seeds to the animals those seeds come through in the manure -- the best fertilizer in the world.”

L.C. has lime brought out onto the fields by an 18-wheeler load once a year. It’s spread out . Because the seed is in the feed and the cattle defecate everywhere, there’s no need to bring in a crew to seed the farm each year. Lime breaks down the organic matter and kills certain parasites. The way the feed and the lime are laid out there’s no risk of chemicals getting into the runoff water.

Ah, that water. “Spring-fed” isn’t just a catchy turn of phrase, it’s the basis for a new approach to chemical free, healthy livestock.

***

The rush for food pellets over, the buffalo slowly grazed and huffed a bit here, grouping and ungrouping across the space.

“We don’t use any steroids or hormones on the buffalo. See what’s happening over there?” L.C. asked, pointing at a smaller enclosure with a trough. There were bars that prevented the adults from entering. “The babies are able to get in there and eat this granola that’s just like what you and I eat,” he told me. He showed me a bin that contained the product, a mix of oats and corn and tiny ground food pellets. The adults are pasture-fed most of the year, and when the grass is gone they’re fed locally grown grass hay.

There’s another trough a bit further out from the house. In it are natural minerals -- sea salt, selenium and the like. “That preparation is out there for them to select the minerals they need. They choose what they need to take in.”

And of course there’s the water. In turns, the buffalo would head over to the side of the pen and drink from a large concrete trough full of clear water. “All the watering stations on the land are gravity-fed spring water… and this one has a water heater in it that keeps the water warm throughout the winter. By drinking warm water, they warm up from the inside. They don’t take in as many calories to stay warm, and they’re healthier for it.”

“More water also means they flush more toxins from their system,” L.C. continued. “It’s all about high quality water sources. You wouldn’t drink standing water, you’d drink the good stuff. They like the good stuff, too.”

Eleven live springs on the property make that possible, along with a great deal of piping to take the water to stations set up throughout the land. All the animals benefit from it -- the buffalo, the cattle, the emus and the llama too.

The buffalo herd housed here is nine to ten years old. Unlike cattle, buffalo bulls take six to seven years to reach maturity. Buffalo cows won’t have their first calves until they’re three but over the course of their lives (up to 35 years) they could calve 30 times.

But they are dangerous, which is why they can’t be raised like cattle. “Buffalo have no natural predators but man. They can kill a bear. They can kill a coyote or a dog. They are wild animals,” L.C. reiterated.

A couple of males took off after each other on one side of the field, two males fighting for a little dominance. Their skirmish included running and bumping against each other… and that was about it. They settled whatever it was they were arguing over and came back, huffing out in that way all these buffalo tended to do, like kids trying to see who could get the bigger plume of steam drop from their lips on a very cold day.

“Thing about buffalo is that they’re a long term venture,” L.C. continued. “They have long lives and they’re big and strong. You can’t just raise them like cattle.”

There are about 50 head of buffalo at Ratchford Farms. This is a breeding farm. Most of the animals here ensure that there will be a fine selection of buffalo to breed from in the future. Ratchford also uses meat from other farms he’s networked with, who follow the same practices of all-natural feed, spring water and low-stress for the animals.

We went over to check out another enclosure. Four animals share this acre -- three emu and a llama named Brown, who came up and ate from my hand. All of these animals were rescued and live a calm, quiet life on Ratchford’s farm. “I’d like to get a couple of ostriches, too,” he mentioned as Brown daintily nibbled feed out of my hand.


After an inspection of the pen area and a stop in a field of cows, we headed out towards the old homestead. It’s in a valley a couple of ridges over from the front house where L.C. lives. There, more stations for livestock with clear, clean running spring water. Along the west side of the valley ran a long low ridge with a steep dropoff. Next to it ran a creek and a long flat plain, separated from time to time by stands of walnut and cedar trees.

This is what they called the buffalo jump -- a cliff with a cave in it which might have once been where Native Americans ran off a few buffalo at a time to perish at the bottom. Being by a creek meant easy cleaning and a place to camp. Sheila recalls walking along there as a child. “I’d go back here and pick up arrowheads,” she told me.

We traveled up another steep hill to the back side of the property, where more highway-post and barbed wire fencing was tucked into high grass. “We keep this wild for wildlife like bobwhite quail, turkey and deer,” L.C. said. “We’re really selective about the trees we harvest -- we only take a few and we use a lot of the dead wood for firewood. There’s no clear-cutting here.” Up on top we came across a small pond. “It’s water for the cattle and the wildlife, and there are fish in there for the raccoons and such.” Little rings of water popped on the surface as we passed by.

We scared up a quartet of whitetail deer near the back corner. L.C. stepped out and hollered “Daisy! Come get your bottle!” and one of them stopped and hung back a bit, trying to decide if she wanted to turn back or head on. She hesitated for just a few moments before dashing back off with the fellow deer.

“We fed Daisy sugar water from a bottle,” Sheila told me. “Even when she was getting ready to have her fawn she came back for the bottle.”

“Never really bottle-weaned,” L.C. continued. “She would eat grain but she always wanted that sugar water.”

Heading back down the hill and up the next one, we came over a ridge where about half the cows were laying on their briskets, relaxing in the blowing mist. There were calves frolicking on the ridge -- and across the way on the next ridge, L.C. spotted another cow -- a white cow with liver colored spots. “I think she’s done had her baby,” Madge said.

“Can you see it?” L.C. asked.

We drove around to the other ridge -- and there just inside the edge of the woods stood this cow and her hours-old calf, white with black spots, with large ears and umbilical cord showing.

“Ugly!” L.C. joked. Everyone in the SUV commented about how cute the newborn was -- but as L.C. pointed out, only the purely black ones get the top dollar at market. This calf may be more than half Angus, but he won’t sell as one.

An old pig barn still stands from where L.C. used to swab it out after the pigs had sheltered there. The manure was used to fertilize strawberry fields. He’s hoping to reacquire pigs for this purpose. He has an acre planted in blueberries and all sorts of trees and bushes coming in -- nectarines, figs, muscadines, apples and pears. What produce that’s not used on the farm or by the family will go to local certified farmers markets.

The beef, buffalo and elk (which is raised on a farm in Missouri because of the rules about raising elk in or near the Buffalo National River) are distributed in three states -- Arkansas, Missouri and Oklahoma -- by Ratchford and a couple of others. It’s still a small operation with just three vans delivering fresh meat, sausages and jerky to around a thousand locations in the area, but he hopes one day it will grow.

***

So the question is, is there really any difference in flavor between beef raised commercially and Ratchford’s spring-fed beef? I didn’t have to wait for the opportunity to give it a try. When we arrived back at the main house L.C. took to the grill while the sisters pulled out salad, baked potatoes, rolls and dessert. I was ogling the strawberry shortcake, a recipe from Madge’s family that ran back to the Civil War, when he came through and delivered a steak to me.

The color was nicely brown with a good char on it from where the meat had sat on the grill. It had lovely reddish notes to it. I sliced in and found a nice pink throughout the meat, a perfect medium rare.

And the flavor? There was something pleasantly mellow about the beef, how it took a little smokiness from the cooking and notes of grapes and fruit from the homemade wine marinade L.C. had used. It was a very good steak.

Thing is, it’s the sausages, jerky and snack sticks Ratchford Farms is best known for. They’re well thought out treats, nicely seasoned according to their flavor (mild, spicy and teriyaki) and sell well for the traveler and sportsman. If you’ve spent anytime outdoors in Arkansas and have frequented bait shops, convenience stores or sporting good locations, you’ve probably seen these products.

We sat around for a little while after dining, sharing stories about family pets and people we knew in common in the area. The Ratchfords are a comfortable bunch, and it’s no wonder they were named the Searcy County Farm Family of the Year back in 2009. I found I wouldn’t have minded staying a bit longer, but I had a long trip back. I look forward to making their acquaintance again.

If you're interested in trying some of Ratchford Farms' meats, check with your local grocer. Argenta Market carries beef and buffalo in-store in North Little Rock, for instance. All sorts of places in the three state area (Arkansas, Oklahoma and Missouri) carry Ratchford Farms jerky, summer sausage and snack sticks. If you'd like to order direct from the farm, check out the Ratchford Farm website or call (870) 448-5159.

Burger joint of the week: Frostop.

• GRAV WELDON
• A BURGER FOR SHARING: Frostop's one pound Big Daddy burger

I’ve rambled on about my memories of Frostop and how great the root beer is. What I haven’t shared with you is the awesomeness of the Big Daddy Burger.

A quick recap for those who haven’t read my Tie Dye Travels piece on Frostop. When I was a kid there was a location over by UAMS with a big root beer barrel sign out front. The location moved across the river to North Little Rock and has been in one building after another. Today it’s in a strip mall next to a rug shop along JFK.

On the jump… the burger that makes Frostop worthy, and my daughter’s first reaction to root beer.

• GRAV WELDON

I made a special trip back to Frostop for this story. I’ve enjoyed their shakes, their gyros, their crab cake sandwiches and their Frito Chili Pie. They know me on sight when I go in, and one of these days I’ll actually remember to take in one of those free cheese stick coupons Joe Garah sends out to the folks on the restaurant’s mailing list. And I’ve even had the regular burger before.

But the Big Daddy… now, that’s a big burger. It’s a one-pounder. It’s on a big bun. And I was going to try it.

Hunter came along for the ride that day. Now, you have to understand — while I expose Hunter to all sorts of food,

• GRAV WELDON

I’ve kept careful rein on what she drinks. She doesn’t drink cola, sweetened tea or such yet. I’m trying to keep her from developing a strong sweet tooth early on, and for the most part she does fine. It’s not just sodas — she takes her waffles without syrup and drinks tea straight. I do let her grandparents spoil her a little, but at home that’s the usual plan.

I’ve kept her away from soda because of the corn syrup, the sweetness and the caffeine. But root beer has no caffeine… and Frostop makes their own, so I decided it was all right for her to try some.

I think the photos say it all. She finished off my mug (fortunately they bring you more at Frostop) and asked for more. She also a lot of the burger… which I should get to now.

• KAT ROBINSON

• GRAV WELDON

The Big Daddy Burger comes dressed on a big buttered eight inch seeded bun. Buttered bun? You’re darn tootin’. The meat is spiced generously with Greek seasoning, nice and savory. The burger patty is flat and juicy, griddle-fried and somehow smashed — they must have a very large spatula to turn that puppy. A generous amount of American cheese is applied to the meat and nicely melted. Pickles go under the patty which give it a certain signature flavor and tang. On top, there’s several tomato slices to cover the whole surface of the burger and a fluffy pile of shredded lettuce. I had them hold the mustard and onions but both usually come with the burger.

• KAT ROBINSON

This is a cut-it-in-half burger. It fed three people — me, my daughter and my photographer. Easily. We had leftover fries — which is something, since Frostop does fries right with the nice double-fry and great seasoning.

Now here’s where I let you in on the big secret. A regular burger deal with fries and a drink is $7.95. The Big Daddy Burger combo came out to $11.20. We also added cheese for 75 cents and upgraded to a larger order of fries for 50 cents… add in the extra root beer and our total tab with tax came to $14.76. It turned out to be cheaper to get one burger and share.

And man, did Hunter eat her share.

I can gladly recommend a Frostop burger of any size. But if you don’t order a root beer you’re missing the full experience.

Frostop is located at 4131 John F. Kennedy Boulevard in North Little Rock. (501) 758-4535 or check out the Facebook fan page.

The Lifeboat.

P. Allen Smith’s Moss Mountain Farm is Noah’s Ark to Heritage Poultry Farmers

The estate is substantial -- a recently constructed plantation-style home atop Moss Mountain that looks like it’s been there a century or better; organic vegetable gardens carefully maintained; a rose garden as beautiful as one would expect in a romance novel and views of the Arkansas River that take your breath away. But the working farm is also home to a new effort to preserve poultry from our past.

P. Allen Smith has teamed up with the Heritage Poultry Conservancy to promote the return of heritage birds. These aren’t some dreamed up breed from a science lab; they’re actual breeds raised by our grandparents’ generation that have been overlooked for the convenience of commercial birds bred specifically for certain consumer-friendly products.

I met Danny Williamson with Good Shepherd Turkey Ranch back in October at Moss Mountain Farms. The Conservancy had brought out some of the birds housed on the land to show guests at a Farm to Table event. The chickens were large birds, very full-bodied and with some of the prettiest plumage I’ve seen. Some came up to my knee, tall strutting birds with an almost ancient raptor-like gleam in their eye.

Williamson’s been doing this a while. “I was raised on a farm where we grew our own chickens for both egg and meat consumption...it was a way of life for me. After high school I fell away from agriculture as I thought I was tired of the farm life, 15 years ago I met Frank Reese (from Good Shepherd Poultry Ranch) and started working with him on his farm and fell back in love with the farm and the birds. I know do it because I feel an obligation to carry on these genetics of poultry so they can be handed down to the next generation.”

But why work hard to bring back these old breeds and take the sort of care the Heritage Poultry Conservancy targets? “The terms ‘organic‘ and ‘free range‘ do not hold water anymore. Organic simply means that the bird was raised on organic feed and organic ground, it does not say anything about how the animal was treated or the fact that a commercial ‘organic’ chicken is unable to move around because of its obesity. Free range simply means the bird has access to the outdoors, it doesn't mean that it can or will go outdoors. Heritage Poultry is free ranged on pasture. These birds can run and chase bugs. They love to catch the wind and fly.”

Williamson says the birds do not receive hormones or antibiotics, and that they receive a special feed mix formulated just for them.

The birds can vary widely in size and shape. For instance, while the chickens we encountered at Moss Mountain Farm were far larger than the average commercial grade Cornish rock cross, birds such as the New Hampshire could be two thirds the size of the commercial bird. Heritage birds also tend to mature at a slower pace than birds meant for commercial consumption. Williamson says it’s a noticeable difference. “These birds will have a much richer, deeper fuller flavor. This comes from their ability to exercise and create muscle mass, and from being able to eat greens.”

But what does P. Allen Smith and Moss Mountain Farm have to do with the Conservancy? “We share a common bond, the love of these Heritage Poultry and the importance of preserving these genetics,” says Williamson. “As with any farm, being able to get genetics on other farms helps secure their future. If there were a disease outbreak or a weather catastrophe were to occur in an area, the more spread out the genetics are onto reliable farms the better chance you have to avoid in of these issues.”

So essentially the breeding stock kept at Moss Mountain Farm are the potential Adams and Eves of each breed kept there, should something go tragically wrong in the poultry world. Separated from stocks on other farms, these birds will be the go-to for genetic lines should something akin to a poultry epidemic happen.

It's Short, But It's Jam-Packed.

Wanna see strange, unique and unusual? Arkansawyers know to head to Hot Springs for those sorts of things. America’s oldest federally protected land, a National Park created for a downtown and the shortest street in the world are all part of the fabric of the city.

That shortest street thing… well, it’s an interesting thing, that. It’s called Bridge Street. Used to actually be a bridge, no joke. How do you figure that? Well, the bridge went over the Hot Springs River that ran down betwixt East and West Mountain. As the city built up, that river became a bit of an inconvenience. Eventually it was all but paved over -- business built over the top of it and what have you. The bridge was paved over as a street back in 1870 and that was that.

How long is it? Ninety-eight feet -- and that’s measured each year on March the 17th. We’ll get to that in a moment.

Now, there are a couple of places on Earth that have claimed the rights to the shortest street since then -- Ebenezer Place in Wick, Caithness, Scotland is just six feet nine inches long -- which, to me, doesn’t make any sense since most cars aren’t that narrow, let along that short. Sounds suspect to me. But there’s no place on Earth that claims to have the shortest PARADE.

Specifically, the World’s Shortest St. Patrick’s Day Parade. Or more succinctly… this year, at least, the First Ever Eighth Annual World’s Shortest St. Patrick’s Day Parade. Sound nuts? Well, it is, but it’s a good kind of nuts.

Each year on St. Patrick’s Day, floats and parade acts and motorcyclists and celebrities line up about a mile back for the chance to parade along that one single span of Bridge Street. On Bridge Street it’s easily twenty people thick lined up from the edge of the route across the sidewalk. There’s a grandstand at the end of the street, and each year there’s a celebrity who’s the official grand marshall. This year it’s John Corbett -- I remember him as Chris in the Morning on Northern Exposure. Cool guy! When I went a couple of years ago it was John Ratzenberger -- you may remember him as Cliff on Cheers. It’s always someone cool.









Thing is, you don’t have to crowd in right ON Bridge Street. You can watch them lining up for the parade in the several blocks along Central Avenue beforehand… and you’ll usually see just about everything you’ll see on Bridge Street. Well, everything except perhaps the Famous Chicken.

I was allowed special privilege to get into the street and shoot the parade a couple of years ago. And let me tell you what… it was something else. I left the hubster on the east end of Bridge Street and waded out through the crowd into the street itself.

It was about a half hour before the official start of the parade and it was already packed, the streets filled with parade-goers in all sorts of varying shades of green. There were people of all ages there, lots of kids and plenty of folks just looking for a good time.

Away from the street on the balconies in the distance more people were gathered, having a cold one and perhaps a plate of nachos before the start of the big parade. As far as the eye could see, there was green, there were smiles and there were happy people. It was kinda fun.

Before the parade begins, the route is measured by a couple of carefully chosen experts who make sure the line is straight and there’s no budging. The route is 98 feet long, just like the street.

But every year it’s measured, just in case something has happened to Bridge Street in the interim. Well, you never know.

A trumpeter from Oaklawn came out and played the opening round, signaling the start of the parade. The color guard was presented, and the entire street shushed as the flag passed.

Moments later a fire truck cleared the route, and the first section of the parade started. Different important folks in green wigs and sweaters and the like came through in convertibles and such. The Girl Scouts came marching by, as did a group of folks from Diamond Bank -- small business of the year. Most of the groups that came by threw beads, candy or plastic coins into the crowds lining the streets. Custodians along the way made sure no one came past the barriers, wary for small children who might rush out in front of oncoming cars or floats. A few of them picked up beads and charms and such that hadn’t made it far enough to reach the crowd. I found myself doing the same in-between shots.

And then the big announcement as the Grand Marshall arrived in his convertible. Just past the start of the parade route, John Ratzenberger stepped out of the car and started making his way along the side of the road, shaking every hand that reached out toward him. He seemed determined to touch every proffered hand. He had a huge grin on his face and hollered his appreciation back to the crowd. The crowd went wild.

And then came the burgeoning parade, packed with silliness and pageantry and all the cool stuff you like to see in a parade.
There were the proud Poke Salad Annies in their bonnie attire; a proud parade of pooches supporting the local Humane Society;
green bedazzled trucks; the Famous Chicken (I thought he was called the San Diego Chicken, what do I know? There was a strange fellow launching ping pong balls into the crowd with a paddle from the back of a truck.

Behind him were three kids dressed up as the Irish Pickles, clad in green Crocs and green suits with green bags and baskets.

The ruckus coming up behind them was the proud Lyon College Pipe Band, an impressive site to behold. Nearly a dozen men and a woman were stepping lightly with pipes and drums to a delightful tune.




There was a group of folks from the MidAmerica Science Museum, a tissue paper rainbow float and motorcyclists galore. By this point I was walking back along where the parade was setting up… just to get ahead of the crowd. My thought was that I’d shoot everyone who was in the parade and then go back and shoot them at the viewing pavilion when they were getting their performances on. But what I discovered was even in this prep area for the parade itself, the folks in the parade were performing for the folks watching the parade -- and the folks watching were showing their appreciation.

But I did run back down the street a few times back to the parade route, to catch what was going on and to see how the Grand Master was enjoying himself. John Ratzenberger seemed pretty content up on the grandstand, surveying the action below.

Thing is, I can honestly say I ran an entire parade length several times over. I paced and jogged back and forth, running from one perch on Central Avenue to another on Malvern Avenue about a minute later… unheard of, even for me! Wow, I had gained athletic prowess! I was a superwoman!

All kidding aside, I’m glad I made the effort -- because I managed to catch the World’s Shortest Wedding at the World’s Shortest St. Patrick’s Day Parade, an impromptu marriage right in the middle of the parade! It was extraordinarily quick, as right should be, and the newly minted husband and wife hustled down the road with the rest of the wedding party..




There were bikes bedazzled with boas and bull-mooses, big Harleys and little Schwinns both. There were classic cars decked out in greenery, some with pretty girls sitting in the back. There was the “World’s Shortest Car” driven by “Dinky O’Smartie,” one of those tiny Smart Cars that at the time were still relatively new around these parts.

There was this one float… well, it just defies adequate description, but I’ll do my best. In the lead and apparently pulling the mess was a gentleman on what appeared to be either a modified garden tractor or superfied Runaround Scooters that had a toilet as a seat. He had a sign over his head that stated “Graduate of Leprechaun College.” He towed behind him a bathtub with a couple of young kids in it; a woman seated on a toilet; a portable camp toilet, a child’s potty and potted plant with an Irish flag in it. I have no idea what that ensemble was supposed to represent.

There was a delightful rainbow float made of balloons that included a gentleman with a scraggly green Mohawk. There were happy cheerleaders, gymnasts and majorettes who were quite happy to show off their talents.

There was the local chapter of the International Order of the Irish Elvi, be-speckled in sequins and sunglasses, proudly sharing their Elvi heritage. This group was large, a dozen or more ranging from gray-haired Elvi to child Elvi, mostly riding motorcycles.

They tossed Ding Dongs and Twinkies and Ho Hos to the happy crowds from a large cooler they dragged along with them. They also handed out special editions of the local newspaper and tossed beads. They were utterly awesome.

There was more -- a small float of a tractor from Jack’s Pancake House; a trailer full of women playing ukelekes and tambourines, all bedecked in green wigs and clothing; bikers decked out in Viking gear; toddlers in strollers with tiny green hats; little green painted dogs; a crowd in a Leprechaun’s castle with a Leprechaun queen; a large group of people on green bikes and carrying cut-outs of green bikes; a float I am assuming was sponsored by Chick-Fil-A promoting the idea of eating more chicken and a spring festival with an eating contest; women in pink and green boas; another pipe and drum corp (wait, I thought I already saw Lyon College, what?) and a huge group of people from the American Cancer Society.

The sunlight was being spent quickly, and I found I’d walked several blocks back into the prep area. There were still plenty of floats and groups walking and such to go -- an entire cadre of different folks on different decorated bikes (including one made up to look like a sailboat); another rainbow and pot o’gold float; a group from Hot Springs’ Ambassador Club; a giant cow wearing a green Mohawk; an ancient hillbilly rigged car; a group of men from a fraternal order seated on a trailer and a straggling bit at the end. All of them were waiting patiently for their turn on Bridge Street.

It took me a few minutes to walk back to the parade route and I lost my good light. But the crowd was still raisin’ cane and having a great time.

This year’s parade should be a good one. You should check it out. There’s a schedule on the website… I’d suggest getting there very, very early.