Growing Up Southern: September 22, 2017

I jokingly called the group “The Quapaw Quarter Old-Time Running Club.” We mostly lived in Little Rock’s Quapaw Quarter area, you see. We were part of a crazy group of oddballs who poured our energies, money, and time into black holes known as historic homes. It was back in the 1980s, a simpler time in many ways.

The group of joggers, except for one, lived within a few blocks of one another. Joe White, a PhD at UALR lived in what is known as the “Upper Heights.” I think he was educated up North somewhere. I seem to remember that he taught something associated with literature. When I became interested in mythology, he briefed me on some Scandinavian motifs, such as “the forbidden door.” Nice guy. He and I jogged about the same speed, really a fast waddle, so we spent some time together, talking while the others ran ahead.

Scott Stafford is a Harvard educated lawyer and former law school professor. He also served as group historian. One of the faster runners, he could set a blistering pace while reciting a detailed history of the Battle of Majuba Hill without missing a beat.

Cleve May has a PhD from, I think, North Carolina. He was the only one actually born in Little Rock and the only one who could keep up with Scott.

Robert Johnston was a marvel of a man. From my hometown of Pine Bluff, Arkansas, he played football at Rice University and could have gone pro had he not received a Rhodes Scholarship to study in England. With a PhD from Columbia, he returned to Arkansas, headed the Political Science Department at UALR, became a state representative, and later ran the state’s Public Service Commission. Somewhere along the way he became an Army Ranger.

Then, there I stood amongst them. Enough said.

We had fun in those days. We’d often meet at the University and use one of its locker rooms to prepare for our runs. The students probably called us “old farts” but we sure felt young and invincible. Oh, the stories we could tell.

Robert died yesterday, reportedly while jogging the streets of Little Rock. I just found out about it. I had seen him a couple of times in the past year, but we hadn’t stayed close in years. I expect his obit will be expansive, as he accomplished a lot, and people thought highly of him.

As far as I know, the rest of the group is still alive. Another occasional member, John Woodruff, died several years ago after a long battle with cancer. He had been a beat reporter for the old Arkansas Gazette, and loved to tell of getting his “piece” ready by deadline and relaxing while the building began to shake from the startup of the presses. As H.L. Mencken said, it was a hell of a life.

They were all good lives in that group, and I’m glad to have been a part of it. Personal relationships form lasting memories, much more than cell phones ever could.

Cleve, Joe, Scott, Robert, and the author.