Hi, this is Dylan, and you have reached the Atlas Obscura Podcast line. I'm not home right now, but leave me a message about the places that you once loved and you lost. Tell me about the places you used to love to go to

but you can't visit anymore. I want to hear all about it after all about it. After the beep. Home is a place you go to feel welcomed.

Surrounded by familiar faces, smells of delicious food cooking,

sounds of laughter, and the warm embrace of people you've known your entire life.

All these things speak of home to me.

And when they are no longer there, you feel a tiny piece of you has died.

In a small town in Northeast Arkansas called

Walnut Ridge there was such a mecca. People from all over the country and

beyond would make their pilgrimage back after years of living away just to sit in

this temple of barbecue holiness. We would all wait in line

to be handed a little cardboard square with a number on it and the little squares

were made of old cigarette cartons. And we visit with our old friends while we waited. Old folks

sitting at tables gossiping and drinking their milkshakes. Little kids were perched on the

half-rock wall in front of the window, licking ice cream while drops fell onto their pants and

jumpers. Teenagers gathered at the picnic table in the parking lot,

talking and waving at other teens who would drive and honk and wave as they

circle town for entertainment. Then Jack would see you and

come from behind the counter to shake your hand or give you a hug. His grin was always

infectious. Velma would wave while mixing your favorite drink, CVPMD for me, that was Cherry Vanilla Pineapple Mountain Dew, and ask you how your family was doing or how you liked living in the big city.

The Polofreeze was a tradition, just like Friday night football and

Sunday morning church. The Pole of Fries was home, especially to me, and now it is gone.

I still keep a tiny jar of their famous homemade sauce in my freezer

...