Mom grew up in a small rural town in Arkansas called Smackover. It's a very quaint place that I hated when I was younger, but I seem to be appreciating it more and more as I understand how unique the town actually is. In the early 1920's, oil was discovered there. And by 1925, the Smackover oil field was producing more oil than any other field in the world. One major railway served the town, and during a one month period, 28,380 tank cars full of crude oil were shipped to various refineries across the nation from this one town. All the while, around 13 million barrels of oil still sat in storage ponds across the county. Over a period of four months, Smackover's population swelled from less than a thousand to over 25,000 people. A small farm and timber community in swampy southern Arkansas turned into a seething mass of conglomerate humanity almost overnight, where diamonds and fur coats rubbed elbows with oil-soaked khakis.

Mom grew up in this town in the 50's. And its where my grandparents still reside, along with one thousand or so other people. Every year, the town puts on a festival called "Oil Town" to celebrate it's heritage, and masses of people who somehow or another have Smackover ties come to kick back and enjoy the festivities.

Via the Smackover journal, which we receive by mail from a safe distance of 100 miles, I read about all the stuff that would be going on at 2001's festival. An arm wrestling contest, a goat-roast cookoff, a turtle race, and a huge tug-of-war provided enough excuse to go see my grandparents with plans to take photographs of the carnage.