A Bountiful Journey

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"Growing up in a family as large and as close as mine made it hard to realize there were many people who lived in loneliness and solitude. However, the realization of that sad truth also brought me close to a remarkable woman and sent me on a journey that I was to remember for the rest of my life."

Opening narration

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My mother introduced me to The Waltons before they had their own TV show. She saw them in a made–for–TV Christmas movie and saw many similarities between myself and the oldest child in the family, John–Boy.

Personally, I didn't see much similarity at first — other than the fact that John–Boy was a writer. He was quite a bit older than I was, and he had three brothers and three sisters. I only had one brother. John–Boy was a child in the Depression, which is when both of my parents were children.

But I suppose I began to feel differently on this night in 1973 when the second full season of The Waltons began.

The episode that began that season, "The Journey," was about a special friendship between John–Boy and an elderly neighbor, Maggie MacKenzie (Linda Watkins), who lived alone. As nearly as I could tell, John–Boy and Maggie weren't friends until John–Boy brought his grandmother over to check on Maggie, who had been having some health problems.

When they arrived, Maggie was trying to start her old car and having no luck. John–Boy thought it might be the spark plugs and said he would change them for her. She gave him money for the parts, but he refused to accept payment for his labor. What he didn't realize was that Maggie had in mind to drive to the coast to observe the 55th anniversary of her wedding.

There wasn't really any reason why he should have known that. Besides, John–Boy was distracted at the time by the upcoming school dance and his uncertainty over whether the girl he wanted to take would go with him. He was unaware of anything that was happening in anyone else's life.

But Maggie, knowing she might not get another chance, was determined to go to the sea coast for her anniversary. It had a special meaning for her.

"You may very well be the most stubborn, willful, cantankerous old woman I ever met in my life," Maggie's exasperated doctor told her when she told him of her plan after he had warned her about overexerting herself, "but if anything ever happened to you, I'd miss you very much."

When John–Boy repaired her car, Maggie shared the story of her wedding with him. When I watched a rerun of the episode many years later, their conversation, in Maggie's little living room, reminded me of afternoons I spent with an older woman who was a great friend of mine and an influence on me in my teen years in Arkansas.

I called her "Aunt Bess," but she wasn't really my aunt. That's what everyone in my hometown called her. Her husband was known as "Uncle Mac," and he was a preacher, a radio personality and an unsuccessful gubernatorial candidate. Uncle Mac died years before I met Aunt Bess, but after I met her, I started visiting her every Wednesday afternoon after school. We would sit and talk and drink tea (or Coke), maybe nibble on some cookies. I don't remember why I started doing that or how long I did, but it was a regular ritual through my high school years.

Aunt Bess never tricked me into doing anything for her. Whenever she had a request, I was eager to fulfill it if I could. Truth be told, she never asked me for much — except my friendship, and that was something I gave freely.

But in "The Journey," Maggie tricked John–Boy into coming back because she needed him to take her to the coastline for her anniversary.

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Maggie didn't have to be too tricky. The thing that I always found implausible about The Waltons was the fact that they were always willing to make a sacrifice for someone else. That's an admirable quality — but, let's face it, it's a quality that most humans don't have.

(I think that may have been what my mother liked the most about The Waltons, though. They epitomized the concept of self–sacrifice, and that was something on which my mother and others of her generation were raised. It didn't seem to be considered noble by my generation.)

In this episode, John–Boy was prepared to sacrifice his much–anticipated date to drive an old woman whom he hardly knew to the coast for her wedding anniversary. I don't know if I could have been that noble at that age. Guess it's a good thing I was never asked to be that noble.

But when the trip proved to be the overexertion Maggie's doctor had warned her about, John–Boy found it hard to forgive himself.

And the final scene in the episode taught the kind of lesson at which The Waltons excelled. It was the kind of schmaltzy cornpone that only The Waltons could get away with in those days (well, I suppose Little House on the Prairie could, too).

On her deathbed, Maggie thanked John–Boy for "the happiest time I've had in 30 years," and she gave him a valuable coin that had been given to her on her wedding day.

And, with that, she died. (Betcha saw that one coming, huh?)

Symbolically, when John–Boy and his father came home, Grandpa and the rest of the clan were about to release into the wild a seagull they had been nursing back to health.

"Some people are drawn to oceans, and others to the shimmering sands of deserts," the narrator said as the camera followed the liberated seagull as it flew into a clear blue sky.

"Others feel only at home on land that flows beside a river. My people were drawn to mountains, and there on Walton's Mountain we were to share the fun and excitement of growing up together with the boundless love of our mother and father and a daily exploration of many of the wonders that lie in the human heart."

In other words, home is where the heart is. Wherever that might be.

Winning the West

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Narrator (Spencer Tracy): This land has a name today and is marked on maps. But the names and the marks and the maps all had to be won, won from nature and from primitive man.

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I don't remember if "How The West Was Won" was the first movie I ever saw at a movie theater.

It might have been. As I have mentioned in this blog before, I grew up in a small town in central Arkansas that had an old–fashioned single–screen movie theater downtown (and a drive–in on the outskirts of town). It wasn't unusual for it to take two or three years — or longer — for first–run movies to arrive in my town.

By that time, of course, they were no longer first–run movies. Many had probably already been shown on TV by the time they made it to my hometown theater.

I have vague memories of seeing "How The West Was Won" — which made its American debut on this date in 1963 (it premiered in the United Kingdom about four months earlier) — on the big screen.

In those days, the theater used to distribute cards that indicated which movies were showing on which days during whichever month it happened to be, accompanied by mini reproductions of the movie posters that were on display in the lobby and outside the theater. "How The West Was Won" had two dozen mug shots of the stars who were featured — and that caught my child's eye.

I was old enough, by the time I saw the movie, to read some, and I remember reading what I could of the card and pointing out the stars with whom I was familiar. My parents were both teachers, and my mother started teaching me the alphabet and how to read before I was in first grade.

I don't remember hearing the word "epic" before I saw "How The West Was Won," but that movie has always been my personal standard for what an epic should be — a big, sprawling movie so big it took three directors, two dozen Hollywood stars and thousands of extras to tell the story of Westward expansion in the 19th century.

And what a story it was.

Oh, sure, it was a sanitized version of American history, glossing over many of the more painful chapters, but it was still a good story. It was so sanitary that children could — and did — watch it without suffering any trauma. And, if the adults in the child's family didn't mind tap dancing around some sticky subjects.

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As many stars as "How the West Was Won" had, only one that I know of — Debbie Reynolds — was in it practically from start to finish.

Sometimes I think it should have been called "The Story of Lilith Prescott," but I guess that wouldn't have attracted viewers.

Also, I suppose it would have been hard to give that kind of billing to just about any actress — even one as popular as Reynolds — over stars like Jimmy Stewart, Henry Fonda or John Wayne, even though those three actors had relatively small roles when compared to Reynolds'.

(Another thing. It probably would have been hard to justify a $15 million budget in 1962 for a movie in which Reynolds was regarded as the major star. She was a popular star in her day, as I say, but she was never the kind of bankable star Stewart, Fonda and Wayne were.)

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Even though I was quite young when I saw it for the first time, I will always be glad I saw "How the West Was Won" on a big screen.

It was made for the wide screen. It was simply too big to be confined to a TV screen.

A Close Encounter

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When I was growing up in Arkansas, there was a domed movie theater in a shopping center in the nearby city of Little Rock that always seemed to have the latest hit movies.

It was in the era before the multiplex theaters with a dozen or more screens. In those days, most theaters only showed one movie at a time.

And if anyone had asked me where I would like to see any movie, that was the place I would have chosen.

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This theater had a very futuristic name to go with its futuristic look — Cinema 150. And it was such a great place to see a movie — it was designed so virtually no one's view of the screen could be obscured by a person sitting in front and with a state–of–the–art sound system that could make anything sound good.

I'm told the Cinema 150 went out of business many years ago. That both saddened and surprised me. We live in the age of, as I mentioned before, multiplex theaters, and Cinema 150 was not designed for that — so the fact that it went out of business didn't particularly surprise me because I never figured that a single–screen theater could survive in the modern environment.

But I was still surprised because, frankly, I just never imagined Cinema 150 not being there.

And I was saddened because so many of the movies that I still love today were movies I saw for the first time at Cinema 150 — even if they weren't always recent releases (and many of them weren't).

Some of those movies are regarded as classics; others, I suppose, would fall under the heading of guilty pleasures. Most fall somewhere in between, I guess. But when I see them now, those films always bring back warm memories of afternoons and evenings spent with friends and family.

On this occasion, I have been thinking of the time I first saw "Close Encounters of the Third Kind," which premiered on this date in 1977.

I saw "Close Encounters" at Cinema 150 — the perfect place, I remember thinking at the time, to see a sci–fi flick like that — a few weeks after it premiered.

And I saw it with Karen, my girlfriend. At that time in my life, I judged whether a day was good by how much of it I spent with Karen.

That was — indisputably — a good day. In my mind at the time, nothin' could be finer.

We drove to Little Rock one Saturday evening — as we often did — and went to Cinema 150 to see the movie. When we emerged after the movie was over, we walked from the theater to my car, which was parked about midway through the parking lot.

On our way, there was a sudden clap of thunder. Karen and I looked at each other, and, wordlessly, we made a mad dash for the car, arriving and unlocking the doors only a few seconds too late to avoid getting drenched in the downpour.

We sat in my car for a few seconds, staring at each other, our mouths hanging open, and then we both began laughing simultaneously. And we hugged each other.

And then we drove home, talking all the way about the movie and our eerie trek from the theater to the car when it was over.

I don't remember now what we talked about. Points of the plot, I suppose. Maybe we spoke of lines of dialogue from the movie. Steven Spielberg's movies always have lines that I remember long after I've forgotten points from the movie.

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One of my favorites at the time (and still today) was when Richard Dreyfuss' long–suffering wife, Teri Garr, said to him, after being dragged from her bed at 4 in the morning to stand in the middle of nowhere waiting for whatever it was (and, at that point, only the audience really seemed to know what was going on) to return, "I remember when we used to come to places like this just to look at each other ... and snuggle."

At the time, I was a teenager in love, and I couldn't imagine being so obsessed with anything that it would distract my attention from my love interest — yet that was precisely the case with Dreyfuss when Garr made that remark. And I remember pondering that in the theater, temporarily losing track of the story.

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(Karen had her own distractions, particularly her weakness for "little ones," and there was none cuter in any of the movies we saw together than the young feller who played Melinda Dillon's son.

(He wasn't a distraction for much of the movie, though. The aliens abducted him early, and he wasn't seen again until near the end.)

Ah, yes, the end of the movie. Spielberg has this knack you may have noticed. Although he is revered in an almost godlike way by many, Spielberg does make a movie now and then that is mostly ordinary — but there is always a segment in his movies that is unique, something that elevates them and gives other movies of that genre something for which to shoot.

Few, if any, manage to hit that target, but that is Spielberg's role, I guess, to provide the target — even where one may not have existed before.

In "Close Encounters," that segment came at the end, when the aliens returned, and people who had been missing for decades emerged from their spaceship.

It was a breathtakingly fantastic sequence for which I can provide no insights that haven't already been offered repeatedly in the last 35 years.

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And, if you've seen it, you'll understand why the memory of that jog across a Little Rock parking lot in a cloudburst is still so vivid in my mind.

Some Gentle Musing on a September Saturday

I was having dinner with my father last night.

I was eating fried chicken, and, somehow, my father and I began to talk about some of the peculiar things that people in other cultures eat.

Of course, "peculiar" means different things to different people in different parts of the world. In America, we think nothing of eating beef or chicken or pork, but other cultures favor foods we would consider a bit too exotic.

Actually, I was eating a fried chicken sandwich. My father and I were dining at an eatery that has always specialized in hamburgers, but, in recent years, it has branched out into more exotic fare — like ostrich burgers and elk burgers and wild boar burgers.

That's a little too exotic for my more traditionalist father, who had a hamburger with onion rings. That's what he always has when we eat there. He even told me before we ordered that "I always tell myself I'm going to get something different, but I end up ordering the same thing."

And he did.

Normally, I have a hamburger and fries when we eat there, but last night I changed it up a bit and had the chicken sandwich. As I was eating it, I overheard a conversation near our table. Apparently, someone was eating one of the exotic burgers and was trying to persuade his small child to try it. The child was resisting.

"Come on," the father urged.

The child protested that it sounded "yucky."

"It tastes just like chicken," his father said.

I've heard parents use that tactic many times in my life — the one in which they compare the flavor of an unfamiliar food to a familiar one. And I started thinking.

I attended a small liberal arts college in Arkansas during my freshman year, and there was a spring tradition at this college to hold a "goat roast" on private property out in the country.

Mostly, it was an excuse to have a big keg party (the school was situated in a dry county) with live music, but there was food — and, true to the name, an honest–to–God goat was roasted. You didn't have to eat any of it. There were other foods there, too.

The goat was carved up and served between two slices of bread to those who dared to try it — and, being young and stupid (and a bit tipsy on beer), I dared to try it.

I don't remember now if anyone compared the flavor of roasted goat to another food. For that matter, I don't remember if it had any flavor to speak of.

So I can't honestly say that I would tell anyone that it tastes like chicken — or anything else.

But I have wondered over the years if, in places where it is customary to eat the foods that we find exotic, parents try to persuade their children to try chicken because "it tastes just like dog (or rattlesnake or whatever)?"

The Trouble With Angels

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When I was growing up in Conway, Ark., the merchants in town sponsored free weekly movies for the children in town every summer.

There was only one theater in Conway in those days, and the movies that were shown were usually a few years old. They were new to me, of course, and probably to most of the kids I knew.

Because there was almost always a lag between the times when many of the free movies I saw were released and the time I actually saw them, I'm not really sure when I saw them for the first time.

Such is the case with a movie that made its debut on this day in 1966 — "The Trouble With Angels" starring Hayley Mills and Rosalind Russell.

My best guess is that I must have seen it about three or four years after it came out. I don't really know.

But I do know that I liked it when I saw it. Maybe that is because I actually got to watch it.

Sure, it was pretty silly, even predictable. In hindsight, that was the best kind of movie for the audience that saw it. I went to many of the free movies in my hometown when I was growing up, and the silly movies were the ones that always seemed to hold that audience's attention.

Other movies had somewhat limited audiences within the more general audiences in the theater. It was at the free movies, for instance, that I saw "Planet of the Apes" for the first time, and I was intrigued, but I wasn't able to watch all of it because the members of the audience engaged in a "food fight."

Long before John Belushi and the cast of "Animal House" brought the concept to the screen, the kids of my generation were doing it in the seats and aisles of the darkened theater.

(I remember the kids got so rambunctious that the theater manager stopped the movie and came out on the stage — yes, there was an actual stage in the theater — and threatened to pull the plug on the movie if we didn't settle down.)

"Planet of the Apes" was just a little too high over most of the heads in the theater that day. I had to watch it on another occasion — and in an entirely different setting — to experience the whole film.

But "The Trouble With Angels" seemed to totally absorb everyone sitting in the theater the summer afternoon it was shown.

Yes, it was silly and predictable. And, since the action took place on the campus of a girls' school, it probably had more appeal for the girls in the audience than the boys. (That would change in the years ahead. This audience would have been mostly 8– and 9–year–olds — and I know, from having been an 8– and then 9–year–old boy, that no boy in that age group considers girls angelic in any way.)

Nevertheless, my memory is that everyone sat in rapt silence as the story played out on the screen.

If you watch the movie today, you might recognize some of the cast members by face if not by name.

Apart from the adolescent girls who played the students at the school, the adults who played the instructors were all seasoned pros. Some are known for the roles the played on TV, others for their contribution in other films, and they were all above the material they were given. But they handled it admirably.

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There are no lines from the movie that have remained with me all these years ... well, except for one.

It was Hayley Mills' catchphrase in the film: "I've got the most scathingly brilliant idea!"

When she said that, you knew that something really outrageous (at least within the context of the film) was about to happen — and, usually, it did.

If you compare it to similar movies, made before or since, "The Trouble With Angels" was a fairly routine film.

But I think, in the loving directorial hands of Ida Lupino, what the story did (it was based, as I understand it, on the memoirs of a former Catholic high school student) was make the audience care genuinely about everyone in it.

And that's quite an achievement.

Attaboy, Luther!

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I'm not sure how old I was when I first saw "The Ghost and Mr. Chicken."

I'm quite sure I didn't see it at the movie theater in my hometown. My parents liked Don Knotts, always enjoyed watching him on The Andy Griffith Show, but, for some reason, they didn't want me to spend money to see his movies at the movie theater — even if all my friends were going to see them.

As a result, I don't think I saw him in a movie at a movie theater until I was old enough to drive to the theater myself.

When I look back on my youth, I get the distinct impression that my social development may not have been everything it should have been. You see, my hometown (I've written about it here before) was rather small. It wasn't necessarily small by Arkansas standards — but, by the standards of other states, yes, Conway was small.

I didn't even grow up within the city limits. I grew up on a manmade lake, Lake Beaverfork, that was a few miles outside the city limits. In those days, there weren't many houses out there — I've been told there is a lot of development there now — and even fewer families with children my age.

Consequently, my circle of close friends, the ones I played with after school and during the summers, consisted of the kids who lived on that lake. Some were my age; most were not. My interactions with the kids in town were confined to the hours we were in school together. We seldom saw each other away from school.

And there weren't many places for young people to socialize in those days outside of school. As I have mentioned here before, my hometown has grown quite a bit since I was a child there, and I'm sure there are many more options for kids in Conway today.

There was no shopping mall in my hometown when I was young — just a strip mall that had an arcade, where a kid could go and spend several dollars in an evening playing the pinball machines and listening to popular tunes on the jukebox. Life's lessons in that environment consisted mainly of periodically going out into the tall grass next to the arcade and, under cover of darkness, sharing alcohol or the occasional joint with one's buddies.

There was the bowling alley/skating rink on the other side of town, which was where kids went to socialize on Friday and Saturday nights when they were in those awkward early adolescent years — and, occasionally, when I was still under the legal driving age, I managed to persuade my parents to take me there for an evening of trying to impress the opposite sex with my (mostly imagined) prowess at bowling and my ability to inhale cigarette smoke.

In those days, weekend evenings spent at the bowling alley/skating rink still qualified as rites of passage for just about everyone who grew up in my hometown. That is the kind of thing that is probably regarded as quaint by young people who live there today since, as I have said, I am sure they have many more options today.

Be that as it may, the bowling alley/skating rink played a major role in my formative years. And, so, too, did Don Knotts — in spite of my parents' efforts.

Why does "The Ghost and Mr. Chicken" stand out in my memory? I'm not really sure. It came out in 1966 — and, in those days, my hometown was served by a single movie theater (not counting the drive–in on the outskirts of town that had a reputation, when I was in my teens, for showing R–rated B movies that tended to serve as the backdrop for young couples who were a lot more interested in each other than what was on the screen).

I was in first grade in 1966. It would be many years before I saw a movie at the drive–in.

Anyway, I know I didn't see that movie at the town theater, which had a reputation of its own. It wasn't at all unusual in those days for popular movies — and even the not–so–popular ones — to take a year or more to find their way to Conway.

There were other, more lucrative markets in Arkansas in those days — the state capitol, Little Rock, wasn't far away and first–run movies usually came there long before they came to Conway.

When I was growing up, if one wanted to see a movie while it was still the subject of dinner conversation everywhere else, you had to see it in Little Rock. By the time it got to Conway, it was certain to be yesterday's news — or, more accurately, last year's news.

I remember seeing "The Ghost and Mr. Chicken" when I was spending the night at the home of one of my buddies. This friend, Larry, always appeared to be somewhat worldly to me, and it seemed I was always seeing comedies that made impressions on me when I was at his house.

It was at Larry's house, for example, that I first saw "The Fortune Cookie" — and, while everyone seems to think of other films when they think of Walter Matthau, I think of "The Fortune Cookie."

It brings back pleasant memories of childhood.

And so it was that one night when I was about 7 or 8, I was spending the night at Larry's and "The Ghost and Mr. Chicken" came on. Larry's parents had adopted him when he was little, and they had lavished affection on him. He was the only kid I knew who had a TV in his bedroom, and he had a 10–speed bike long before anyone else.

Anyway, on this occasion, I remember sitting in Larry's room watching his TV, munching on chips and laughing at Knotts' bug–eyed physical comedy in an hilarious house of horrors — and his exaggerated nervousness when delivering his speech (punctuated by the off–screen shouts of "Attaboy, Luther!").

All things considered, there probably were worse ways to spend a couple of hours.

I didn't know it at the time, but Knotts' co–star, Joan Staley, had been a Playboy centerfold about eight years before she made "The Ghost and Mr. Chicken." She had to make it wearing a dark wig because the film's producers thought she was too sexy as a blonde.

Well, I guess you can judge that for yourself. You can see "The Ghost and Mr. Chicken" on Turner Classic Movies tonight at 7 p.m. (Central).

Death of a Cultural Icon

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On this day in 1955, actor James Dean was killed in a head–on collision near Cholame, Calif.

Dean was 24 when he died. He made a few uncredited film appearances in the early 1950s, but he is remembered for the three films he made in the mid–1950s — "East of Eden," "Rebel Without a Cause" and "Giant." His performances spoke to angst–ridden teenagers of the time, and he is still remembered, more than half a century after his death, as a symbol of that awkward time of life.

While Dean was working on his final film, he was interviewed by actor Gig Young for an episode of "Warner Bros. Presents." After Dean's death, the segment was not aired, but you can see it in the attached clip. It has often been misidentified as a public service announcement.

Another interesting story involves actor Alec Guinness. As I understand it, Dean introduced himself to Guinness and showed him his new Porsche 550 Spyder. Guinness reportedly thought the car was "sinister" and told Dean, "If you get in that car, you will be found dead in it by this time next week."

The conversation occurred on Sept. 23, 1955, exactly one week before Dean's fatal crash.

This date always brings back unique memories for me because, when I was a teenager, director James Bridges came to my hometown of Conway, Ark., to make a movie about the impact Dean's death had on teens of the time. Bridges grew up in Paris, Ark., which wasn't exactly a stone's throw from my hometown, but it was fairly close, and, as I recall, he chose my hometown because it was a college town and he wanted to use the academic setting as a backdrop.

The movie was semi–autobiographical for Bridges, who was 19 when Dean died.

The original title of the movie was "9–30–55." When the finished product came to the screen, the title had been changed to "September 30, 1955."

Prior to filming, Bridges held auditions that drew literally hundreds of local wannabe actors, and he actually wound up casting a local girl who was often said to be a star in the making.

I don't think she ever made another movie, but there were some noteworthy folks in the cast. The most familiar was Richard Thomas, who was the star of the TV series "The Waltons" at the time.

Two other actors made their debuts in the film — Dennis Quaid (who may be best known for his work in "The Right Stuff") and Tom Hulce (who is probably best known for his appearances in "Animal House" and "Amadeus").

Kris Allen Wins

I don't think it is an overstatement to say that this is probably the biggest night in the history of my hometown.

I wasn't living in Conway, Ark. — in fact, I wasn't even living in Arkansas — on the night in 1992 when Arkansas Gov. Bill Clinton was elected president of the United States.

I did meet Clinton on a couple of occasions when I was living in Conway. Clinton made some appearances at his Faulkner County campaign headquarters during his gubernatorial races, and I still have a political button that Clinton himself gave me during one of his appearances. But he never lived in Conway, to my knowledge.

As big as that night in 1992 was for the state of Arkansas, tonight is bound to be even bigger for Conway.

Because Kris Allen won the "American Idol" competition. If you've been watching the show, you know that Allen lived, for a time, in Conway, which happens to be my hometown.

His victory was announced only a matter of minutes ago. It is already being considered an upset.

I can't tell you whether I think it was an upset or not. I haven't been watching the show, although I knew that a young man who lived in Conway was a finalist. And I've been reading articles about him on the Conway newspaper's website.

Earlier this month, thousands of people turned out for a rally for Allen in Conway. I'm sure there will be a huge welcome–home rally for him when he returns to Arkansas after his "American Idol" triumph.

Well, congratulations, Kris. I hope you enjoy your moment in the spotlight. I know Conway will.

By the way, have you heard the phrase "kick awesome?" Apparently, that is a phrase Allen came up with. I have no doubt some bright marketer in the Conway area will be selling bumper stickers and T–shirts with that phrase.

It might even show up on the "Home of Kris Allen" signs that I'm sure will be erected on the city limits — if they haven't been installed already.

Oh, To Be Home Tonight ...

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I grew up in Conway, Ark.

Does the name of the town sound familiar? If it does — and if you don't happen to be a product of the place — you've probably heard of Conway because that is where "American Idol" finalist Kris Allen lived while he was in college. Maybe he still lives there. I honestly don't know.

I lived in Conway for most of the first 20 years of my life. Allen, who is 23, hadn't even been born when I left Conway.

Truth is, we probably lived in entirely different places. Same name. Different places.

The Conway I lived in didn't even reach 20,000 in population. In fact, I think there were fewer than 10,000 people there when I enrolled in first grade. Most of the time that I lived there, there was one movie theater in town, the old–fashioned, single–screen type downtown with a big marquee out front. I have vivid memories of going there as a child. When our family went to the movie, we stopped at the drug store on the corner and bought candy bars to eat instead of paying the higher prices for snacks at the theater. My mother would then smuggle them into the theater in her purse and hand them out to my father, my brother and me when we got to our seats.

In the summers, the local merchants sponsored free movies for kids. Each week, the mothers in my neighborhood took turns driving the kids in to see the movie, and the mothers got a few free hours to do with as they pleased.

A two–screen theater opened when I was in junior high, and the old theater downtown went out of business. A Wal–Mart and a McDonald's also opened around that time. Folks thought Conway was really becoming cosmopolitan.

In 2006, Conway had more than 57,000 residents. That means it is probably around five times the size it was when I was in elementary school.

Conway has had its moments in the spotlight. When I was a kid, one of our neighbors was one of the top Democrats in the state. In fact, when I was in third grade, he ran for the Senate and his wife ran for governor. Neither won.

Before he won NBA championships with Michael Jordan, Scottie Pippen played college basketball at the University of Central Arkansas, which is located in Conway. When I was growing up, the school was known as State College of Arkansas, but many of the locals waged a successful campaign for it to be given university status.

I remember the current mayor as a fairly ordinary kid who was a year or two behind me in school. Speaking of which, the building where I attended high school (which seemed new and very state of the art at the time) is still being used, but the enrollment in grades 9–12 has grown so much that they now have grades 9 and 10 on one campus and grades 11 and 12 on another.

The mascot is still the Wampus Cat. You don't know what that is? Well, it's a six–legged cat with "four to run with the speed of light and two to fight with all its might."

Doesn't that sound positively "It's a Wonderful Life?"

Actually, it did seem like a pretty good place to grow up. At least, it seemed that way to me. I grew up outside the city limits on a manmade lake. Summers were wonderful there. We swam in the lake. We camped out. We went fishing.

It was like being Huck Finn with an air–conditioned home in which to sleep. And Conway was always hot and humid in the summer so you thanked whatever higher power made air conditioning possible.

There wasn't much traffic so we could ride our bikes in the middle of the road if we wanted to.

And, in the winter, a fresh snowfall would turn those rustic woods into a winter wonderland.

I'm sure a lot of things about Conway are different now.

And I don't know how much of his life has been spent there. Allen was born in nearby Jacksonville. I don't know if he attended Conway High at any point, but he didn't graduate from CHS. He's a worship leader in his church in Maumelle.

But I think Allen went to school at UCA, and the city has adopted him as its own. From what I've read on the website for the town's newspaper, they're having "watch parties" around Conway, and folks have been snapping up official Kris Allen T–shirts.

This week, he's in the finals of "American Idol." The winner will be revealed tomorrow night.

You can bet they'll be watching in Conway.