On the square in Marshall, seat of Searcy County, Ark., men sit around in front of Buck Mays' store whittling down sticks of cedar. They do not whittle an object—a slingshot, say, or a whistle—so much as they just whittle away the stick. They make long, precise strokes, and the shavings curl before the blade like something delicate being wound. When the stick is reduced to an aromatic pile on the sidewalk, they go and get another.
Conversation turns on births, deaths, sicknesses, and the disease and the stubbornness in cattle. Nearly everybody in the county keeps cows, an arrangement that ties them up at first light and last but leaves the middle part of life open for discussion. And nearly everybody in the county is religious, religious in the sense that not only idle brains but idle hands as well are considered the devil's workshop.
Whittling.
In inclement weather, or just when they decide it is time to get up and move, the whittlers whittle elsewhere, particularly in the barbershop operated by Don and Jan Blackwell. The Blackwells do not mind, even though sometimes all their waiting chairs are filled, but no one asks for a haircut. A sign above the mirrors says, ALTHOUGH WE TAKE TURNS, FEEL FREE TO CHOOSE YOUR OWN BARBER.
This is to let the customers know that their feelings will not be hurt if someone shaggy elects to be shorn by Jan rather than Don, or the other way round. A regular haircut with nothing fancy is $3, and a "style cut" is $4. A style cut with a shampoo is $7. All children who get their hair cut are given a penny to deposit in the bubble-gum machine. To take to the barber chair in Marshall is to take to the stage before an audience of whittlers.
Jan was giving R.W. Thurman a flat top the other day, while Chester Hickle, his baldness concealed by a Harry Truman-style hat, carved on a stick. R.W. was explaining that he still lives in Paragould, 153 miles away, while his wife lives in Marshall, where she was born. Three years ago, after 24 years of marriage, R.W.'s wife decided to come back to where she was from. R.W. sees her frequently, but he cannot move himself to be by her side always. "I got things back there I just can't turn loose of," he says.
While R.W. was saying that, Chester Hickle was saying to no one in particular that one man out in the county "is a genius whittler. He whittled a wagon and a team of horses. He whittled a fiddler. He whittles elephants with ears afloppin'. He whittles mules with ears that work too." Still talking just to the air, Chester got up and said, "My arthritis. If I sit too long I have to get out and stir around a bit." On his way out the door, he passed a man who was just sticking his head in to say hello to Jan.
"What's going on out at Wood Springs this morning?" Jan asked.
"Not a thing," said the greeter, "but it might have picked up a little after I left."
Another man came in from the street and asked to use the toilet, and Don Blackwell said, "Yes sir. Help yourself." The radio was blaring a country refrain: "Let's go out in a blaze of glory." Three whittlers were sitting in a row, addressing their sticks.