By Michael M. Bell | A traveler from the city, wending his Model T through the hills of Arkansas, learned some rural wisdom we would do well to recall in these plagued times. Or so tells a classic bit of American folklore, which goes something like this.
A city slicker—a man—heads out for a country drive one fine spring day, but gets lost among the many unmarked
roads of the Ozarks. After all, he had no cell phone or GPS mapping gadget built into the dashboard. (Yes, my sweet,
there was such a time, not all that long ago to some of us.) He comes to a fork in the road and has no idea which way to turn. So he is forced into an unmanly act: asking directions. He notices a farmer standing in a pasture, playing an old fiddle. The city slicker leans out of the car window and calls, “Hey farmer, which road do I take to get back to Little Rock?”