The city planning commission approved the plats and final
closings took place on four lots, only 40 more or so to go and we would be in
the pink. Interest was high. Building materials appeared on two of the lots. This
would be the finest small subdivision in south Arkansas.
Then in happened. An African-American family purchased the
fifth lot. The man worked for the local railroad line, a good job that assured his
ability to pay for the lot and finance a nice home. Somehow word of the purchase
got out, no doubt passed around by a local competitor.
Next day, four “For Sale” signs went up. Did I mention that
this was south Arkansas? Everything stopped. Realtors in the area quit accepting
phone calls or answering messages. The subdivision sat as deserted as a Jewish cemetery
in Nazi Germany. We sat as dumbstruck as a deserted lover. What happened?
We didn’t know. There was some talk of sabotage by local
developers. There were some snickers from those who knew secrets of land
development of which we were unaware. Some hinted at a plot by a local advocacy
group seeking to “universalize” human rights. What cheek.
The truth? I’ve always believed that it was an honest effort
by an honest man to provide a decent home in a decent location for his family
in a land, and at a time, that we didn’t tolerate such presumption.
Perhaps the man had survived the Battle of the Chosin Reservoir, and
felt that entitled him to respect.
Perhaps he had led an honest and productive life and felt that
earned him a place in society.
Perhaps he just felt that his god blessed all people
equally.
I never knew. The entire operation went into “top-secret mode”
at that point and little news filtered down. What I did know was that no
further action occurred in the subdivision until much later when the development
was sold to a group of local African-American business men for pennies on the
dollar. The financiers of the development absorbed the loss, and life moved on.
At home, I contended with my own struggles, albeit small
ones. I was learning. One thing was that heaven help the man who woke my young “trophy-wife”
up of a Saturday morning while she was enjoying her day off by sleeping late. Brenda
looked like the very picture of a modern precious angel as she enjoyed her leisure
moments. I knew though, from my brief experience, that her fractious sister
Brendhilda lurked ever so slightly beneath that angelic face. She was, no
doubt, ready to pounce upon the perpetrator of the slightest transgression.
One can imagine, therefore, my consternation when I slipped
out of bed one Saturday morning to go into work to address a deadline that beckoned
like a child needing a visit to the toilet. With a change of clothes in hand, I
quietly entered the small bathroom in our apartment to witness a sight I had never,
even the darkest days of my military service, encountered. There, hanging
across the shower rod was a still damp pair of pantyhose.
What was a man to do? I chose circumspection and prudence. I
needed to prepare for work, but feared unauthorized tampering. Seeking guidance
was out of the question. Following a Methodist rather than Baptist approach, I chose
sprinkling over full immersion and left the dangling garment in place to be
attended later by the adult of the family.
After leaving a note, off to work I went, as refreshed as
common sense allowed. On the way, I told myself that I was learning a lot about
the world that might come in handy in the future.
And it did.
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| "Lord help the mister, Who comes between me And my sister." - Irving Berlin |
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