Opinion

Part 7: Calves in the Butcher Shop. Killing Clayton is a limited weekly column about a corrupt election, the assassination of possible Clay County namesake John Clayton, and the shadow it cast on Arkansas history.

Part 6: How Conway County Goes. Killing Clayton is a limited weekly column about a corrupt election, the assassination of possible Clay County namesake John Clayton, and the shadow it cast on Arkansas history.

Part 3: A Corrupt Election. Killing Clayton is a limited weekly column about a corrupt election, the assassination of possible Clay County namesake John Clayton, and the shadow it cast on Arkansas history.

Arkansas’ Regional Account Executive for CherryRoad Media Arkansas Crossroads Editor in Chief

Sometimes when we least expect it, there are moments when we long to stroll down memory lane. With the orchestrations for my high school reunion underway, an irresistible urge, perhaps even a necessity, has developed within me—an urge to revisit the abandoned, decrepit and forsaken grounds of my alma mater.

Last week, a winter storm rolled into Northeast Arkansas like it was trying out for a role in The Day After Tomorrow. It didn’t just bring a dusting of snow—it brought bone-chilling temperatures, wind gusts that could slap the common sense out of you and the kind of road conditions that make you question every life choice leading up to that moment. And, as per Arkansas tradition, the entire state collectively lost its mind.

Arkansas’ Regional Account Executive for CherryRoad Media Arkansas Crossroads Editor in Chief

I don’t care who is being sworn in—I absolutely love everything about the presidential inauguration.

We are dealing with frigid temperatures here in NEA, and while it can be uncomfortable and a pain to endure, we are fortunate.

As one of NEA’s loudest and proudest cheerleaders, I often write about special places here at home that make our communities extra special. I will talk about our downtowns, our historical significance and our people. However, I’m embarrassed to say I’ve never once written about a place here at home that draws thousands of visitors a year: Black River Technical College (BRTC).