There wasn’t much for me to do with the assignments due in
April, 1971, except help with final assembly. I actually spent time in planning
work while in the office. I continued to hitch rides to planning commission
meetings with the two bosses.
Once a month, we made the longest one, Tom Hodges and I. That
would be to Blytheville, Arkansas, only a few miles south of the Missouri
border and a mile or two west of the epicenter of where the next New Madrid earthquake
is predicted to occur.
Our trips were calm, though, and we generally returned a
little after midnight. I learned much about both planning as a career and Tom
as a person. I would always make it a point to be the first at work the next
day. I was young then, and hungry.
I was beginning to see some humor in the field. One had to
look hard, but it was there. One morning, Jim Vines and I called on the parks
director in Pine Bluff to discuss working on an updated park plan for the city.
His office was in a complex once used as a maintenance facility for the state
highway department. The office building was spacious and had rooms available for
public activities.
We entered and met the director, Vaughn Black, a gracious man with remarkable
red hair. I found out later that my cousin, Troy Harden, had nicknamed him “Booger
Red.” This was a compliment, for it referred to one of Pine Bluff’s most iconic
characters, flying-ace Edward “Booger Red” Vencill. He was honored as a hero
for helping save the county courthouse from washing away during the flooding of
1927.
Among his daring exploits was the claim that he had flown his
plane under the span of the “Free Bridge” (while it was lowered), some
expanding the exploit in later years to include having done it upside down.
That day, we found the director to be a bit flummoxed. A fit
and muscular man was leaving the building as we arrived and we found that he accounted
for half of a problem vexing our new acquaintance.
“He teaches ju-jitsu, the director said. Has fairly large
class that meets each Thursday. He wants to reserve our best meeting room for
that day.”
We nodded and said nothing. “There’s another fellow that teaches
karate,” the director continued. The two groups hate one another. The karate
teacher wants the room on Thursday evenings too. I don’t have any idea how to
solve the problem if neither will change to another night.
Jim and I looked at one another
“I know what you’re thinking,” the director said, “but I don’t
think the Mayor would approve of me putting the two in a room and letting them
work it out.”
“No” Jim said. “I don’t suppose he would.”
"Besides," he said, "That's not my biggest problem right now."
"Besides," he said, "That's not my biggest problem right now."
“Oh?” We both listened.
“My biggest problem involves a bunch of rich folks and a cantankerous
newspaper editor.”
“Oh” I leaned forward, not knowing that what came next would
later affect both my subsequent career and the rest of my life in a most
profound way.
It had to do with a muddy old bayou, reportedly the longest
in the world, seeping from Pine Bluff to Monroe, Louisiana and impressing few
people along the way. The section in question lay less than a mile from where I
grew up and was a nasty dormant body that that received more than its share of
human refuse and poisoned agricultural runoff. I can still recall the smell
from a hot summer’s evening.
To some folks, though, the Blue Danube was never so cloaked
in beauty as this simple stream bordering a simple town.
