Bucktowners must travel widely varying distances to attend Homecoming every year. A few still live in nearby communities such as Avant or Mountain Pine, while others come from as far away as Arizona and Florida. When my mother and I attend, we start preparing the night before by packing our lunch. We cook chicken to eat cold, and I usually make a lemon pie and sweet tea in a cooler. We also take: paper plates, paper towels, plastic cups, sunscreen, bug repellant, folding lawn chairs, plastic flowers for the graves, and a pretty bed sheet to spread on our end of the table. We make sure the car has a full tank of gas and that the paper funeral home fans are in the trunk.

Early the next morning we get up and try to leave home by 7:30. We drive an hour from Little Rock to Hot Springs, where we usually pick up my Great Aunt Inez Pitts and sometimes a cousin or two. Then we drive another hour and a half on two-lane blacktop (some of which is a recent addition) into the rolling, tree covered hills of the Ouachita National Forest. Sometimes we stop and pull over so I can get a terrapin off the highway before it gets crushed.

When we arrive at Buckville, many familiar faces are already there. We park the car under the trees between the picnic area and cemetery, and we lay out our spread. Sometimes we do this under the pavilion with the Pitts and Meredith relatives (my Aunt Inez prefers this spot), but usually we set up with the Brown family on the older concrete tables under the trees (my grandmother always chose to sit here, being a Brown herself). We look around and notice who is here and who has yet to come; we greet cousins and friends and wonder if the others are running late.

Next we cross the gravel driveway, already hot and dusty (or wet and muddy if we are unlucky), to the church house, where we sign the register and get a nametag. My mother always puts her maiden name on hers so people will know whom we belong to. If my Great Uncle Grady has made it, he is usually under the tree in front of the church, talking to some of the other older men; they all wear mesh ball caps at a jaunty angle and short sleeved shirts that fasten with snaps. I always like to say hello to him, because he reminds me of my granddad, and because he kids me about turning into a Yankee since I’ve gone off up north.

We usually go down to the graves before the meeting if we have gotten there in time. Beforehand we cover ourselves with sunscreen and Deep Woods OFF!, because that is the only thing that keeps the chiggers away (I usually end up with a bite or two despite this precaution, often acquired while moving the terrapin and before OFF! application). We take our plastic flowers and walk down the path, trying to avoid the grass and its biting inhabitants, to the end of the cemetery by the lake. Here we pause at the graves of grandparents, great grandparents, uncles, aunts, and cousins in the Brown and Trammel family plots. We stick our flowers down into the red dirt and white rocks piled over the graves. We recite the names and kin relationships as both a reminder to ourselves and a memorial to those before us. We talk to cousin Emogene, who calls us “honey” and loved my grandmother very much. By now it is time for the meeting, which starts promptly around 10:30 or 11.

The meeting takes place in the church house. It is a simple one-room building with primitive, straight backed, hard seated wooden pews. The window shutters are open to catch any wayward breeze that might blow in off the lake, and many of us are working fans in one hand (this is why we made sure they were in the trunk before we left home). Debra Slater Garner, president of the Buckville Association, calls the meeting to order and asks one of the older trustees to say a prayer. Wendy Richter, the secretary and historian, reads the minutes of last year’s meeting. Melanie Warman, the treasurer, gives a financial reporting of donations received, interest earned, and checking account balance. Other trustees and association members report on repairs that have been made to the structure, and repairs that are still needed. A survey is taken to determine the oldest and youngest persons in attendance (last year they were both in the Hatmaker family), and who traveled the farthest distance to be with us today. And finally, Ms. Garner reads the Roll Call, the list of Bucktowners who have passed away in the last year. Others in the crowd add names to the list when someone has been left off. We are ever more aware of those who are no longer with us, of our shrinking gathering.

If the Hawkings Family have come, they play and sing gospel music, and we sing along if we know the words (many of us do). Then a blessing is given, and Ms. Garner rings the dinner bell; it is time for food.

Because our meal is communal, we wander among the tables, looking for our favorite dishes. My Great Aunt Inez Brown is known for bringing spaghetti casserole, while her son Larry can usually be found carving a big Petit Jean ham. His wife Pete always fixes banana pudding, while my Aunt Inez Pitts has the creamed corn, deviled eggs, and half moon fruit pies that I have been thinking about on the drive over. We eat and eat, then sit and talk, and pick around at the leftovers for another morsel or two. The Hawkings Family may sing for us some more, but we are often content to listen from our lawn chairs in the shade while we laugh at our cousins and enjoy the stories of our elders. 

People start to pack up their spreads and head home around two in the afternoon. Decisions have to be made about whether or not to leave the plastic flowers on the graves and whether or not to visit the port-a-potties provided by the Corps of Engineers (this venture involves additional chiggers). Can we make it back to town? Yes, yes we can. So we pack up the trunk of the car just so, and love everyone’s neck one more time. As my mother points the car up the hill, I glance out the back and have to wonder, “Who will we be missing next year?”