River Valley Archives - Arkansas Strong https://arstrong.org/tag/river-valley/ Wed, 11 Dec 2024 14:40:20 +0000 en-US hourly 1 https://wordpress.org/?v=6.7.1 https://i0.wp.com/arstrong.org/wp-content/uploads/2020/05/cropped-ar-strong-icon.png?fit=32%2C32&ssl=1 River Valley Archives - Arkansas Strong https://arstrong.org/tag/river-valley/ 32 32 178261342 Franklin County’s righteous fight https://arstrong.org/franklin-county-strong/?utm_source=rss&utm_medium=rss&utm_campaign=franklin-county-strong Tue, 10 Dec 2024 16:30:52 +0000 https://arstrong.org/?p=3150 In the heart of the River Valley, the sun rises over the tight-knit community of Charleston, Arkansas. For generations, families like the Tedfords have worked this land, their lives intertwined...

The post Franklin County’s righteous fight appeared first on Arkansas Strong.

]]>
In the heart of the River Valley, the sun rises over the tight-knit community of Charleston, Arkansas. For generations, families like the Tedfords have worked this land, their lives intertwined with its rhythms in a shared understanding between people and place. Kids romp in creeks. Horses graze in pastures. Neighbors greet one another by first name.

Here, their way of life is more than geography. The Franklin County way is community, heritage, and a quiet resilience.

But now, this tranquil corner of the River Valley finds itself at the center of a political storm. Plans to build a 3,000-bed prison on an 815-acre site here have stirred something deep within the community: a determination to protect not just their land but their way of life. Residents who might ordinarily wave from across the way now stand shoulder to shoulder, united in a fight they never asked for but certainly cannot ignore.

Franklin County lies within the Arkansas River Valley. Photo by  Mike Keckhaver.

A Plan Shrouded in Secrecy

The state’s decision to purchase land for the prison blindsided the people of Charleston, a small town of about 2500 people. Announced on a local radio station in late October, residents were shocked to learn the deal had been in the works for months, with no input from the people who would live in its shadow. By the time the public learned of the prison build, nearly $3 million in state money had already been spent to purchase the land. The wheels of big government were in motion.

Residents quickly organized in response. At a contentious town hall meeting, locals voiced their concerns to state officials they had invited to join. Among them was Charleston resident Jonathan Tedford, whose home sits adjacent to the proposed site. “At the very least, we have a prison we have to look at every day,” Tedford said after a recent legislative hearing. He spoke of his grandfather’s legacy, of land passed down through generations now threatened by a specter of towering fences and razor wire.

Other residents of Charleston have echoed his frustration. “A formal public hearing should have been held before the state committed millions of dollars to a project in Franklin County,” said resident Rosemary Underwood during the packed town hall in the town’s high school gym. The lack of transparency stings for folks in Charleston— not just because of what was done but because of how it was done— without the respect of local consultation or the dignity of inclusion. The state’s maneuvering was not the Franklin County way.

A United Franklin County Front

In response, the community rallied and formed the Franklin County and River Valley Coalition, which actively organizes on Facebook and other social media platforms. These neighbors, once bound by simple proximity, are now united by relentless purpose. They’ve held meetings, launched fundraising campaigns, and presented their case to state lawmakers. They’ve raised questions about the prison’s cost—estimated to balloon far beyond initial projections—and its environmental and economic impact on their community.

“This is one of the most un-American things I have heard since I’ve been down here,” said Sen. Gary Stubblefield, who represents the town in the state senate. Like many residents, Stubblefield expressed frustration over being excluded from the process. “The people of Franklin County, including myself, were cut out from even knowing about something this large happening in our county.”

But it’s clear this fight is about more than money or logistics. It’s about preserving the sanctity of place. Residents worry about what the prison represents: a departure from the values that define them. Hard work, family, faith, and community— they’re the threads that weave together the fabric of Franklin County, and its people are determined to keep them from unraveling.

The Power of People

There’s poetry in the way this small town has come together, a reminder of what it means to belong to a place and to one another. “We’ve been denied a voice,” said coalition member Natalie Cadena during her presentation to the Senate Children and Youth Committee. Through their determination, the people of Franklin County are reclaiming that voice, speaking up not just for themselves but for the values they hold dear.

From quiet conversations in living rooms to impassioned speeches in town halls, Franklin County is demonstrating the power of unity. “If it can happen to us, it can happen anywhere,” reads one coalition message on social media. The people of Franklin County aren’t just fighting against a prison—they’re standing for transparency, accountability, and the right to shape their own future.

A Shared Dream

Though the prison outcome is uncertain, one thing is clear: the people of Franklin County have already won something significant. They’ve reminded Arkansans that even in the face of top-down decisions and bureaucratic indifference, a united community is a force to be reckoned with.

If you believe in the power of community and the right to have a voice in decisions that shape our lives, stand with the people of Franklin County. As the sun sets over Mill Creek Mountain, the shadows grow longer, but so too does the resolve of the people who call this place home. They are Arkansas Strong. Tough, resilient, and deeply rooted.

And they remind us that no matter how steep the climb, there is power in standing together.

The post Franklin County’s righteous fight appeared first on Arkansas Strong.

]]>
3150
On What Drives Me https://arstrong.org/on-what-drives-me-children/?utm_source=rss&utm_medium=rss&utm_campaign=on-what-drives-me-children Thu, 09 Mar 2023 15:46:47 +0000 https://arstrong.org/?p=2476 I am often asked what drives me to fight so hard for public schools. The people who ask me this are usually introspective types who read books like Finding Your...

The post On What Drives Me appeared first on Arkansas Strong.

]]>

I am often asked what drives me to fight so hard for public schools. The people who ask me this are usually introspective types who read books like Finding Your Why by Simon Sinek, or perhaps Pastor Rick Warren’s Purpose Driven Life. I recommend both of those books as well as a fair amount of introspection. And I love people who ask me honest questions. But I am never asked that question by public school teachers; they already know. Because every public school teacher knows a James.

James grew up in an old clapboard house his father inherited from his father, on land they did not own but were allowed to farm. He was the oldest of 4 children. His mother was a homemaker and his father a driller for the gas company. His few clothes were patched and his hair was often greasy. He slept with his siblings in a cold, drafty room with a high ceiling under a pile of quilts.

For a child in poverty, James was pretty well-fed. His father grew a huge garden, and they raised their own beef and hogs. They gathered eggs from hardworking hens. James had a BB gun by the time he was 4 and hunted squirrels with his uncle. His mother fried them up just like chicken to eat with mashed potatoes and gravy.

James also scoured the Ozark Mountains for rabbits and quail that the family ate. He fished in the Arkansas River for their supper. A few years later he would hunt deer and learn to dress it himself.

On his first day of school, James wore a shirt his mother made him. She dropped him off at the Cecil schoolhouse, which had 2 classrooms. James was with grades 1 though 4, and the class next door had 5th-7th. Between the 2 classes there were 97 students. 97 for 2 teachers.

James cried all day. He didn’t know anyone. He didn’t even know how to tie his shoes. He did know the alphabet because his mother taught him.

James says his 1st grade teacher was nice, but it’s the teacher next door, Mrs. Lyla Crawford, who made a bigger difference in his life. I guess she had bus duty because when the last bell rang, Mrs. Crawford noticed how sad and scared he was while waiting for the bus. So she took his little hand in hers and walked onto that bus with him and sat down. She patted the seat for him to sit beside her. And as mile after country mile passed James snuggled up next to Mrs. Crawford. He even laughed a little bit while they talked. And when he got off the bus, James told his mother he loved school.


Our state government holds in its hands
the power to change the lives of children like James every day,
which in turn changes the lives of their families for generations.
It is a sacred privilege and responsibility.

James went on to County Line for high school, and then to Arkansas Tech, the only one in his family ever to go to college. After that he earned his master’s degree at the University of Arkansas. The world opened up to him and he became a history teacher, bus driver, junior high principal, then an assistant superintendent. I guess he really did love school because he gave 40 years of his life to educating children in public schools in Arkansas.

But that’s not all he did.

James is my dad. I am living proof of how public school — and specifically the teachers a child encounters there — can change the trajectory of a person’s life. And it is never just that one person. In our case, my dad’s education changed what my brother’s and my life would have been and is still changing the lives of his seven grandchildren.

Every public school teacher has taught a James. And I say public school teacher because public schools are the ones who serve the children in poverty all over this state. At the end of the day, James is why we fight for teacher raises to recruit and retain people fleeing our profession. He is why we fought the LEARNS Act. We know that vouchers won’t fix education because vouchers don’t fix poverty — they just exacerbate it. And when public schools are hurt, James gets hurt. James, and all of the children like him, as well as all of the other lives their lives touch for better or worse in the future. 

I fight for public schools because it is personal to me. Our state government holds in its hands the power to change the lives of children like James every day, which in turn changes the lives of their families for generations. It is a sacred privilege and responsibility. But instead of addressing the poverty that plagues our schools and communities, our lawmakers deliberately choose to leave children like James behind, for their own personal gain.

This is not okay.

We are the ones who stand between a corrupted government and our children. We are the Lyla Crawfords, the ones who see them and refuse to leave them behind. And we are not going away.

Elections are in 2024. And actions have consequences. Just like when we give out report cards and a student has failed to do what we asked—they fail the class. Arkansas Strong is keeping track of the legislators who ignore their teachers. They are failing our state.

There are 30,000 teachers in this state and every one of us has a sphere of influence. Families, students, and parents who support us; communities that depend on us to lead. If we stick together and vote, we can decide who represents us, ousting the ones who have failed Arkansas.

This is a long game. And we are in it to win it — for the sake of our kids, and for generations to come.

The post On What Drives Me appeared first on Arkansas Strong.

]]>
2476