Saying the Name: Southeast Arkansas

Those who explore unfamiliar small towns in Arkansas quickly discover this: names matter.

The name of the person in front of you, the building behind you, the street you're walking down, the store on the corner, even the proper pronunciation of a town’s name are all details that slowly reveal aspects of a community’s identity.

When planning a recent Southeast Arkansas trip, it made sense to speak to the local sheriff’s office and let them know a strange vehicle may be stopping randomly to take photographs of scenes that may seem unimportant. It’s also was a great opportunity to be corrected on a name.

Wabbaseka? Close.
Sherrill? Nailed it.
Humphrey? I’m not sure. Did they pronounce the ‘H’?

We’d find out soon enough. After spotting a promising old gas station while researching the area, we arrived in Humphrey to find a structure that was decently aged and weathered. The peeling white paint and classic scalloped metal awning added texture to the abandoned boxy shell. I was pleasantly surprised to see a fuel pump that was pulled straight from my 1980’s childhood, instead of the really old pumps that would’ve better matched the station’s age. What might have disappoint the typical nostalgia seeker was exactly what I wanted: interesting subjects with good detail and just the right amount of patina for a classic black and white frame.

Camera in hand, I wanted to get to work. My curious nature had other plans. Next to the station and garage stood an old quonset hut, the entry door standing open at the edge of the large steel half-cylinder shop building.

After a brief knock and peek through the door, I introduced myself to three gentlemen seated in what appeared to be the former office of a tire shop. The dusty chairs, partially occupied, surrounded the space heater providing a little extra warmth on the chilly spring morning. They looked at me with curiosity when I explained we were from Northeast Arkansas and in the area to take pictures of things we found interesting, but I wanted to make sure they were comfortable with our presence.

What followed was exactly what I look for in these trips: conversations with locals who are living their normal day-to-day life. From the ease and familiarity, it felt like a regular gathering of friends who have known each other for years. The jokes and jabs, peppered through the conversation, were a strange mix of funny, worn, and comforting. They continued as another man pulled up and joined the three. It was a warm-up for the day, whatever it held.

It was also a brief lesson: Humphrey is definitely “Umphrey.” No “h” needed.

Small talk with the unexpected stranger with a camera was reaching its natural conclusion, so I asked if they knew who owned the old gas station next door. One of the men nodded in the affirmative. Dressed in a blue plaid shirt and red cap, the large man with a face and hands familiar with work simply said “I do.”

Mr. Robinson

Though his frame and presence was intimidating, the voice that came forth was high pitched and quite difficult to understand. As he stood, I shook his heavy hand and gave him my full name. I strained to hear his response. Fairly certain his last name was Robinson, I gave respect as you do in the south and spoke to Mr. Robinson for the rest of the encounter.

In his distinct voice, he shared the stories of his elders owning the station, his work there from his youth until it was his time to run the store, and other cloudy details as he reminisced and brought his own history to mind. He watched us take photos of this place, anchored in his family’s identity, with curiosity and patience. When I noticed a sign that mentioned frog legs, I asked if that was something he sold when the store was still open. With a strong “NO! I don’t eat them things!”, Mr. Robinson drew the biggest laugh of the day with his clearest words.

In the last moments of our stop, I had to ask: “Can my friend take your picture? He’s using nice old film camera and we’d love to have a portrait to go with the place.” And in a moment of grace toward two guys who weren’t from Humphrey - who didn’t know his family, who’d never stepped into his store, who’d only shared one short conversation with him on a brisk April morning- he gave a confused “I guess,” stood where we asked him to until he heard the shutter, and went back to his regularly scheduled gathering.

In those brief moments, he no doubt remembered the names of those that came before him in this small town at this small station. Names that helped build the life he lived. And in sharing that experience, Mr. Robinson became a name etched in our memories of a little-known dot on an Arkansas map.