“Dragging Main: Where Legends, Limeades, and Bad Decisions Were Born”

By Mark Morgan

Back in the 1980s, Waldron, Arkansas had one stoplight, Few places to eat, and about three things to do — and two of ‘em were illegal.

We didn’t have TikTok.

We had Tic Tacs — and if you chewed ‘em too loud in church, you got the look.

Our social life revolved around one grand tradition: Dragging Main.

If you never dragged Main, imagine NASCAR — except everyone’s going 25 miles an hour, nobody’s in a hurry, and every other lap involves a stop at Sonic for tater tots

You started at Piggly Wiggly, the official headquarters of bad ideas.

You’d park, lean on a car that wasn’t paid for, and say something profound like, “So… y’all wanna go to Sonic?”

Then you’d all pile into one vehicle because gas was 90 cents, and nobody wanted to spend 40 of it.

We’d cruise down Main, pass Buddy Gray’s store where the old guys sat out front solving world problems (loudly), and roll through the stoplight like it was Times Square.

The whole town was there. If your mom wanted to find you, she didn’t call — she just waited by the light.

Next stop: Sonic.

That was where the real action happened — flirting, french fries, and at least one poor soul spilling a cherry limeade on their lap.

If you were lucky, someone’s cousin with a halfway decent stereo would show up, and suddenly your whole night had a soundtrack.

Then there was Judy’s Drive-In, where the burgers were hot, the ice cream was half-melted, and every teenage romance lasted exactly three orders of fries.

Just past that was Chevy Hill — the great mysterious dark turnaround spot.

You couldn’t see the town from there. You couldn’t see anything from there.

It was so dark, half the time you didn’t even know who you were talking to till lightning flashed.

But somehow, it was the most popular piece of real estate in Waldron.

Let’s just say more people fell in love (or thought they did) on Chevy Hill than in the entire county fair.

And then — when the boredom hit full speed — someone always had the bright idea:

“Let’s go hit Tickle Belly Hill!”

Now, for the uninitiated, Tickle Belly Hill wasn’t much of a hill.

It was more of a bump with ambition.

But if you hit it at 60 miles per hour, your stomach floated up to meet your tonsils, and everyone in the truck screamed like you’d seen Jesus.

It was the closest we ever came to flight — or repentance.

Now, I won’t name names, but there was also a certain swimming pool out at the park that had a fence.

And let’s just say… that fence wasn’t always as secure as the city council thought it was.

There were folks who tested their “Olympic-level fence climbing” skills after dark — all in the name of small-town adventure and mild trespassing.

It wasn’t rebellion. It was small-town adventure with a splash of chlorine.

And if you wanted to end the night right, you drove out to Hon Bridge, where brave souls told ghost stories that got scarier every time someone’s flashlight flickered.

We’d scare each other half to death, then all pile back in the truck pretending we weren’t the ones who screamed first.

Looking back, dragging Main was ridiculous.

We went nowhere — slowly.

We wasted time, gas, and our parents’ patience.

But I wouldn’t trade a single lap for all the Wi-Fi in the world.

Because when you’re seventeen in a one-stoplight town, that little strip of road is the world.

And if you ever hear me laughing for no reason, just know — in my head, I’m still flying over Tickle Belly Hill with a truck full of friends, a cherry limeade in my hand, and not a care in sight.