In 1972, the roads that meandered through the Missouri bootheel to my northeast Arkansas hometown of Paragould were narrow and desolate ... especially on a dark Christmas Eve night.
My wife Janet and I were living in Louisville, Ky., where I was a second-year seminary student. Expecting our first child, who would be born the following May, we were anticipating a Christmas visit with my parents and were obviously eager to reach our destination.
1972, remember.
Herbert Jones had recently opened the first Arkansas Toyota dealership here in Little Rock, but the Japanese brand had yet to become as ubiquitous on our roads as it is now. That means we were in the automotive minority as I steered our 1970 Toyota Corona Mark 2 toward the warmth of my parents' home and their fireplace hewn from authentic Arkansas stone.
We were driving through Kennett, Mo., now famous for being the hometown of Sheryl Crow, the well-known singer. The car began making a funny noise, and immediately I realized something was wrong. We came to a stop across the road from a house that was festively decorated for the season and was well-lit on the inside. Maybe the inhabitants would take pity on us.
Feeling a strange kinship with Mary and Joseph as they made their way from Nazareth to Bethlehem, we knocked on the door to see if we could get some help. We realized immediately that we had interrupted a family Christmas gathering. Nevertheless, we were greeted warmly, offered food, and allowed to use their phone to call my parents.
1972, remember.
There were charges involved in long-distance calls, but we were rebuffed when offering to pay the expense. It was the least they could do, we were told.
After I explained our plight to my dad, he drove the 30-something miles between the two towns. We moved our luggage and Christmas presents from our debilitated vehicle to his, and made our way to their home.
Surprisingly, my dad found a mechanic who towed our vehicle to Paragould and said he thought he could do the repair himself (it was a busted water pump), though the closest authorized Toyota dealer was in Memphis. Perhaps they would have the necessary part on hand. Sure enough, a couple of days later our Toyota was once again road-worthy.
On our return trip to Louisville, we stopped in Kennett at a pay phone ... 1972, remember. I found the listing for our gracious Christmas Eve hosts that included their address. Once back in our Louisville apartment, I wrote a note thanking the family for their hospitality and kindness. It was the least I could do.
Twenty-four years later, we moved to Little Rock when I assumed the pulpit of a church in Hillcrest. Interestingly, Herbert Jones, the original Arkansas Toyota dealer, was an active and very supportive member of the congregation. We became close friends, and over the years I bought four vehicles from him.
Before my retirement at the end of 2017, I officiated his and his wife's funerals. Since coming to the capital city, I have owned several Toyota vehicles which have proven to be very dependable, and I haven't had to replace a water pump in any of them. Currently, we have a hybrid model, the best vehicle we've ever owned.
It is 2023, after all.
Randy Hyde is a retired pastor living in Little Rock.