It was a nice chilly day in January and Jim Vines and I headed
north, almost as far north as you could go and still be in Arkansas. The city
of Harrison was located in the north-northwest part of the state a few miles
below the Missouri line. I felt kindly toward the city as my family had taken
our first vacation there as soon as my brother was old enough to travel.
It was a tricky, twisted, mountainous drive up, but Jim
handled the curves skillfully and we arrived without incident. I had almost
forgotten how beautiful the northern part of our state is. Geologists say it boasts
one of the oldest mountain ranges in the world, once home to huge peaks that wore
away in geologic time. Marine fossils still abound from when ancient seas still
covered parts of the area.
I was surprised when we drove into town to see the old log
cabin motel where we had stayed those many years ago. I wondered if the rooms still
had the “pay to play” radios where you could deposit a quarter for 30 minutes or
so of music. Didn’t take much to fascinate kids and irritate parents back in the
day.
I didn't know it at the time, but the town square contained a monument honoring the victims of the Mountain Meadows Massacre in which some 140 members of the Baker-Fancher wagon train were massacred in southern Utah in 1857. The wagon train had formed just outside Harrison before heading west.
That day, we found a quiet town that had covered from a
major flood a few years earlier. That had convinced the town elders that some
planning was due. The town now had a plan and supporting regulations. They paid
Jim $300 per month to attend planning commission meetings and make recommendations.
That sounded like an easy way make money to me.
What followed was the first planning commission meeting I ever
attended. There was some good-natured conversation and minor business that came
before the commission, so far nothing complicated.
The mayor owned a local music store. That made him a nice
man in my book. The city attorney and I had attended college together and we
pretended to remember one another. He had married one of the hottest women ever
to attend the U of A. I’d had a secret crush on her and still resented him a
bit, but he was a nice fellow. Still is.
When the scheduled business was over, Jim asked if anyone
had questions. One of the commissioners held up a group of papers, shook them,
and said, “I want to know where they are?”
Everyone looked at him. Jim answered, “Excuse me?”
“These preliminary figures from the 1970 census you handed out
last time you came. I want to know where they are.”
“The figures?”
“No, the blacks.”
“The what?”
He brandished the papers again, “It says here that our “population
is one percent black and I want t know where they are.”
Silence roared into the room like clouds covering a mountain top.
“One percent?” Jim fidgeted.
“That’s what it says. If that’s true, there are 70 or so
living here and I want to know where they are.”
“That’s bound to be a mistake,” someone said.
“Yeah,” someone else said.
“A mistake for sure,” a third said.
“I’m sure it’s an error. I’ll check on it and get back with
you,” Jim said and we got the hell out of there.
It was a quiet ride back, and Jim told me a lot about his
life and about the world of planning. I could tell he was a little on the thoughtful
side. From where did that one percent come?
He solved the mystery next day, reported back, and eased any
tensions that might be brewing. Turns out that 1970 was the first year that
computers had played a major role in establishing census data. In some places, the
computers were only programmed to go as low as one percent. So sometimes areas
had people reported as living in a place whether they were there or not.
I never heard of any major uprisings or house-to-house searches
because of it, but it provided me great lesson as I launched off into my new
career. In the words of a Charlie Chaplin character, “Numbers sanctify.” They
can also terrify.
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| Monument to the victims of the Mountain Meadow Massacre. A person destined to become a major part of my life had relatives among the victims. |
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