So I just got back from Walmart to return a notebook.  I was helped at the Customer Service counter by a middle-aged woman named Twyla.  I looked to my left to read the name tags of Willie (a hic who looked like he'd just graduated from high school), Verla and Betty.  Then it hit me:  I really am in Arkansas!  If walking into a Walmart that's crowded at 11am on a Friday and running into a Willie, a Verla, a Betty and a Twyla, is not the epitome of Arkansas culture, I don't know what is.  Maybe I'll go back and get everyone to sing a rousing chorus of "I'm My Own Grandpa."

 

P.S.  What's do a tornado and a divorce in Arkansas have in common?  Either way someone's bound to lose a trailer.