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celebrating the pioneers and citizens of southeast Missouri. The grandest project is Mississippi River Tales , the 24-panel, 18,000-square-foot graphic narrative on the flood wall. These panels include the Missouri Wall of Fame, forty-six portraits of the greatest sons and daughters, native and adopted, of the Show-Me State, as decided by a panel of Cape’s leading citizens. Some are obvious choices: Harry S. Truman, Mark Twain, and Stan “the Man” Musial, for example. Many are Missourians who, like Limbaugh, found fame in distant places—T. S. Eliot, Burt Bacharach, Redd Foxx, General John J. Pershing, Yogi Berra, Walter Cronkite, George Washington Carver, and Ginger Rogers. Dred Scott, America’s most famous runaway, was caught and dragged back to Missouri in chains. He is also one of the few members of the Wall of Fame actually buried in the state.
    There are also some surprises on the wall. I had no idea Tennessee Williams was from Missouri. I was struck by the absence of Bob Gibson, the greatest pitcher in Cardinals history, and of Chuck Berry, a son of St. Louis whose cultural contribution makes him at least the equal of Marlin Perkins, host of Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom , or Rose O’Neill, creator of the Kewpie Doll.
    The Cape jury may be guilty of lapses but not of hometown favoritism. There are just three locals on the wall: astronaut Linda Godwin, who grew up in nearby Jackson; Marie Watkins Oliver, who designed the state flag; and Rush Limbaugh. Although he visits his family in Cape regularly, he hasn’t seen the Wall of Fame. Perhaps he would be disconcerted to find himself, or even a depiction of himself, stuck in downtown Cape Girardeau in perpetuity.
    If David Limbaugh weren’t Rush’s little brother he might be on the Wall of Fame himself. Certainly he is the most famous current resident of Cape. He has written three best-selling polemical attacks on secular liberalism and produces a nationally syndicated column. Cape has finally got a satellite hook-up, which means that he has recently been able to appear on talk shows without schlepping all the way to St. Louis. And he has a day job as a senior partner in the family law firm.
    When Rusty announced that he was quitting college and setting out on a radio career, Big Rush called him in for one last talk. Leaving school, he said, would cost the boy his social standing, force him to settle for intellectually inferior friends, and price him out of the market for a decent bride. It went without saying that it would also deprive him of his birth-right, partnership in the Limbaugh law office. But Rusty wasn’t swayed by these dire predictions. His mind was made up, and for once he was prepared to stand up to his father.
    That left David. He went to SEMO for a year, transferred to the University of Missouri in Columbia, got a B.A. in political science, went to law school, and made law review. Then he came home. His grandfather was still titular head of the firm, and his uncle Steve and cousin Steve Jr.—both future federal judges—were there, too. Big Rush, who suffered from diabetes and obesity, worked intermittently, and having David there gave him a boost. “My dad was really excited to have me back,” he says, “and he gave me a lot to do.”
    David Limbaugh was a devoted brother, but not even a saint could have completely escaped a feeling of resentment. Rusty was out in the world chasing a dream; David was stuck behind a desk. But there were compensations for suddenly becoming Number One Son. “I’ve never been jealous of Rush,” he told me, “probably because I was successful before he was. Does that make sense to you?”
    My visit to Cape Girardeau was not the highlight of David Limbaugh’s Christmas season. He had received permission from Rush to talk to me, but he couldn’t quite shake the idea that I was the enemy, an agent of the hated mainstream media. I was from New York. I had a beard and wire-rim glasses. I wore jeans. “The