Revival

A visit to wholesome Branson, Mo., restores the soul and washes away the lingering wickedness of Sin City.

By STEVE PERSALL
Published May 6, 2007

Once you settle in to Big Cedar Lodge, about 10 miles outside Branson, you might not budge for the rest of your trip. In addition to beautiful scenery, the lodge offers free and moderately priced activities.
	[Newscom]

BRANSON, Mo.

What happens in Las Vegas means nothing in Branson.

Vegas is the city that never sleeps. Branson is a town where folks bed down early and wake the same way, feeling healthier, wealthier and wiser for it.

Vegas is Sin City; Branson is a city apparently without sin.

Few tourists imagine pairing both places in one trip. That's what several people said when we left one and set out for the other. Heads in Branson shook more vigorously about where we came from, as if anything outside the Ozarks would offend God, country and John Wayne.

Nearly 28 years after crossing the great divide, the Duke still squints over Branson, on posters adorning souvenir shops and dinner theater walls. Most notably, he is on the facade of the Hollywood Wax Museum, stone-carved like Mount Rushmore next to Elvis, Chaplin and Marilyn, beckoning from Highway 76.

One of several mom-and-pop motels along that 4-mile amusement strip had a message on its marquee: "John Wayne always has his eyes on us." And looking back at the angle from the wax museum, darned if he doesn't.

* * *

Nobody in their right mind would travel from Las Vegas to Branson, which is exactly why we did it.

Over three previous Vegas nights, we had seen pop chanteuse Toni Braxton shimmying onstage like Tina Turner's little sister, an "erotic vampire adventure" called Bite which did, and Cirque du Soleil's twisted Beatles tribute, Love.

Twenty-four hours later, we were browsing museums dedicated to classic toys and each auto model that rolled off a 1957 assembly line, then strapping on a tasty feed bag at the Circle B Chuckwagon.

The bill for those wholesome Branson diversions was about the same as two tickets to Bite. More than saving money, the detour saved a bit of our souls.

Not that Vegas is a shortcut to hell, or that Branson is a church with city limits. However, the area's quaint comfort felt a step closer to heaven.

Branson isn't for everyone, and folks probably like it that way. Sure, it would be better for business if everyone in the world behaved as if they're from Merle Haggard's Muskogee. But that isn't the case, so sticking to a moral code, "no gambling or girlie shows, " as one resident said, keeps things peaceful.

Make that very peaceful. After 11 p.m., not much is lighted except traffic signals and motel signs. If you aren't where you're going by then, you aren't where you should be.

As a movie critic, I am accustomed to sniping about something, especially if something isn't daring or downright offensive. In short, a Vegas kind of guy.

But try standing among 400 or so Circle B diners pledging allegiance to a 13-star flag then saying grace before dinner. Hear them cheer between bites for Roy Rogers and the Lone Ranger getting the drop on villains in black-and-white movies, or sing along with a cowboy hymn.

Even a paid skeptic can be humbled by their sincerity, and surprised by one conclusion:

What happens in Branson comes home with you.

Steve Persall can be reached at (727) 893-8365 or persall@sptimes.com.

[Last modified May 4, 2007, 20:22:50]