The Maynard Gang

Recent developments in the Maynard Café and Maynard Pitch Parlor are of such vast cultural and intellectual significance that they beg for a wider audience. Realizing that there are few such enclaves of “good old boys” left, even in rural Arkansas, that meet on a regular basis, we feel an incumbent duty to perpetuate the word usages, sayings and antics of an unparalleled set of philosophers, if not to say sages.

We are made more compelling and significant by the fact that many of us knew each others grandparents. A remembered cultural and genealogical continuity of the scope of our group is rare indeed. When Charles Jarrett and I tell James Wesley Barnett stories, it makes us think of stories about Hite, his father. Hite stories make us think of Uncle Wesley stories, who was Hite’s father.

The first singular event involved an epicurean Ozarks experience. Leon Pearcy cracked the skull on a squirrel head and, as befits a bearded young stalwart of his standing, delicately ate the brains. Since there were two heads yet in abeyance, Leon offered to share. Most of the weaker brethren quickly demurred. The red bearded Viking look alike magnanimously offered to share with the Garys - Hart and Hagood. They paled to the point that resuscitation was contemplated.



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