Dreams of a Better World

Sometimes we overthink solutions to urban problems, at least I believe so. I may be feeling that way because I just recently visited one of my favorite mayors in one of my favorite towns. I’m referring, of course to Mayor Furlough Thompson of the remarkable community of Pot Luck, Arkansas.

I reported fully on the visit for my monthly urban planning column. I won’t repeat the whole thing as that would spoil the surprise for the thousands of eager fans awaiting my next example of printed wisdom.

Would you believe the dozen or so Arkansans who still keep parakeets?

Anyway, Mayor Furlough enlightened me with several bits of administrative wisdom. Oh, you asked about his name. Let him explain.

“I was born in 1943,” he says, “while Daddy was over in Europe with the Big Red One.” He stops. “It’s an Infantry Division, son … the First Infantry Division … get that silly smirk off your face. Anyhow, I was born and Momma was still groggy when the Doc asked her what to call it and she thought he asked what caused it.”

“Furlough?”

“Ever since."

He calls himself the “best mayor in America.” That’s a hard claim to prove, but nobody has challenged him on it so far. He’s turned down offers for bypasses, roundabouts, and branding.

Of the first two, he says that they want traffic to come through Downtown kinda slow so the drivers and riders can check out the local businesses. "I think cities spend way too much money helping the automobile," he says. "We like to spend our money on people, not cars."

 About the latter? “We brand cattle around here, not our city.”

He explained further. “We had this feller come down from Little Rock wanting to sell us some slogan or such nonsense, something about ‘Small in size but great in dreams’ if you can believe that.”

“And?”

“I told him we was totally satisfied with what we have and we had just paid to have it painted on buildings on both ways coming into town.”

“The one I just saw? ‘Welcome to Potluck, but mind your own business?’”

“Yeah. Works fine for us. He stopped to send tobacco juice flying with the wind. “Branding,” he said, “have you ever heard such nonsense?”

“Well,” I said, “there was an actual article in our national planning magazine, the one for educated, sensible professionals. The article called for using feng shui to plan our cities. They actually printed it.”

“Fung what?” he says. “Son be careful, we have children in this town.” We changed the subject and he told me about a novel administrative technique he used to protect the health, safety, welfare, and morals of the citizens of Pot Luck.

“I’ve named it The Shaming Squad,” he told me.

 “The what?”

“The Shaming Squad. It’s a special group of women that helps me out.”

“What kind of special group?”

“You have to be a grandmother, auntie, retired school teacher, Sunday School teacher, librarian, or retiree from the health clinic to belong.”

“And they help you?”

“Oh hell, uh, heck yes.” He looked around, and said with a sheepish grin forming, “I’d better be careful myself. Don’t want them ladies on my case.”

“Are they effective?”

“Son,” he said, “Have you seen a boy wearing a baseball cap or a man wearing a cowboy hat while sitting down to eat in Pot Luck?”

“Uh, no.”

“Heard any tires squealing or seen vehicles exceeding the posted limits?”

"No."

“Seen anyone walking around with a stupid pistol strapped to their hip?”

“No.”

“Seen MAGA signs in anybody’s yard, implying our city is not already great?”

“No.”

“Seen any cheap metal buildings on Main Street? Seen any stores on Main Street with their front doors locked? Seen any tattoos that weren’t earned by military service, any droopy pants or backsass from our kids, any road rage, any overgrown yards, anyone falsely claiming to be a homeless veteran begging for money, any sort of rude behavior among our adults?”

“Not that I can think of.”

“Well thank the Shaming Squad.”

“Really?”

“Really. Without them we might have to have a full-time police department.”

I couldn’t help wondering if he might hire them out to service our White House. Oh, and I quit reading our national planning magazine after the feng shui article.

I'll stick with Mayor Furlough.

Strategic planning in Pot Luck

My Redacted Life ... having fun

I try not to, but I seem to learn things and associate things no matter where I go or what I do. Sometimes I think I drift toward empiricism, the theory that the origin of all knowledge is sense experience. In my case, it seems that all knowledge is connected by a fine thread, that only I and gifted others can see. For example, how many could, as I did, connect a bunch of kids shooting baskets at the gym with public administration?

It happened like this.

We walked at the gym this week on a track that circles above a basketball court that is usually filled with young kids. We enjoy watching them as we circle, and circle, and circle. They exhibit universal good behavior though their talent levels vary. That doesn’t seem to affect their enthusiasm levels one bit. It makes our walking and thinking more fun.

This particular day, I noticed one thing. The kids there on that day just weren’t very good. Naturally, I began passing judgement. Some benign coaching might improve them immensely. I would be just the person to do it.

See that little feller? His strength is quickness and dexterity. Is he using it? No.

That one over there needs to build his arm strength.

Watch out son, don’t try all that fancy dribbling. Keep it simple.

Hey you, pay attention.

Then they all went a little crazy and started shooting from beyond what I think they call the “three-point” line. Most couldn’t even reach the basket. It led to a frenzy of wild shooting and much laughing.

This all led me think about my profession, how city governments don’t build on their strengths and concentrate too much on unrealistic population goals and not enough on building their people.

These kids weren’t going to get better. Lots of cities were going to languish. All for the same reason.

Maybe a lack of oxygen cleared some of my brain passages. Maybe not being transfixed to the Internet gave me a moment of clarity. Whatever it was, a thought came flashing, pure and pristine, from the depths of my darkness, like a blazing display of bravura from a Beethoven symphony. I had a thought. Everything would be okay. All was fine.

These kids were having fun. That was the important thing. They were enjoying freedom from adults coaching them, parents yelling at them, parents yelling at other parents, whistles blowing, and crowds booing.

They would get better. Some would become very good. Right now, they were discovering the joy of playing for fun. I’m sure that is a wonderful feeling, playing for fun whether you ever get to be a professional or not, playing for fun because it makes you smile.

I decided that I would go home and pick the guitar for a while. I wouldn’t ever get good at it, but it would make me smile and I wouldn’t be thinking ill of anyone while I did it.

I decided that I would stress to municipal officials next week that if practicing governance didn’t make them smile, they weren’t doing it right.

A Blessing After a Tough Day

I received a late-evening blessing yesterday after a tough month. Ironically, I also received some of the best thoughts on urban planning I’ve heard in ages, all from a self-made millionaire.

It happened this way.

After experiencing the lingering death of two family members, and two funerals within a week, I was deflated and exhausted, ready for a “Maker’s and Three Cubes,” and some meaningless TV. Then I received a call from a close relative in my hometown where the second funeral had occurred only hours before.

I groaned, but answered. I didn’t want to talk to anyone, but maybe he was needing a friendly voice. So, we talked. For a brief background, let’s just say that this individual rose from being homeless (no, not on the street but borrowing a spot on the floor of a friend’s college dormitory room) to working on his second, or third (I’m not sure) million, in two decades.

He made his first the hard way. He worked for it. An old man taught him to repair HVAC systems and he eventually started his own company. After years of hot August days in attics around town, he gained a reputation as being good at his craft, honest, and one who treats everyone he worked for, “the same.” That last descriptor is a positive one in my hometown.

See, my hometown is a bi-racial city. That means it deals with challenges that all-white communities don’t recognize, believing instead that their superior righteousness accounts for all their success. My hometown must deal with mistrust and prejudices that began shortly after companies in Europe started sending settlers to take over the New Land in the 1600s. It also must deal with the lingering effects of a people who, back in the day, no matter how righteous they were, and how hard they worked, were denied access to The Avenue of Success.

Now to this individual’s second million. He began investing, a few years back, in houses that had once served middle class white families. (If you are unfamiliar with that term, look it up in an economic history of the U.S.). These were sound houses that could be purchased at a discount in my hometown and rented for a positive, but not onerous, cash flow.

It has worked well for him and we drifted into a discussion about it. He explained the cash flow system and how he felt he was preserving a valuable housing stock in the city from ultimate deterioration.

“My concern,” I said, “would be getting reliable renters.” Friends know that my home town doesn’t share the same good reputation as “white-flight” or “sundown” cities. We mostly read about its problems.

Showing some impatience, he replied, “Let me tell you something. There is a strong population in this city of black families who work just like we do and want the same things we do: a good job, a decent place to live—to rent if they have to until they can afford to own—and are as reliable tenants as you can find. I have no problems. My renters want to work and to do well.”

“So why,” I said, “do we not hear accounts of this strong black middle class in the city? We just hear about the problems.”

“Beats me,” he said. “Ask your friends in the news business.”

I changed the subject. “Are there any new homes being built in the city?”

“A few,” he said. “There would be more if the city would clean up some junky spots and make land available in stable areas.” ("Junky spots." Urban planners don't use that term. Too bad.)

“And? Does it?”

“No, they want to plant trees on Main Street to solve our problems. And some college kids came down and solved things. Someone told them that if they would build a giant Ferris Wheel by the lake, folks would flock here to see it.”

Yes, I thought, there is a lingering belief among some in our state that urban planning is so simple college kids can do it. I changed the subject again. “And what effect will this proposed casino have on your middle-class population?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “Probably not a good one.”

“So you are saying things would work out better if the city concentrated on improving the basics of life?”

“The people I rent to deserve a path to continue improving their lives,” he said.

Probably, I thought. If they have that, the future of the city will take care of itself.

I thought about all those fancy-assed urban design consultants that Arkansas cities bring in from New York. Then I thought about what this man was telling me. (Disclosure: He’s my nephew and I’m proud of him).

Maybe, just maybe, I can learn more from him about urban planning that I could from some arrogant jerk from “Back East.”

Further, maybe, just maybe, we fall into the trap, in my profession, of listening to the wrong people.

It's simple really.
Why make it hard?

My Redacted Life: Chapter 30 (Cont._2)

Somewhere around the summer of 1972, I decided to take correspondence course in public administration from Berkeley. The company paid for it and I learned a few things. The last assignment was to interview some public official and write a report on the outcome.

I decided upon the city manager of Little Rock, the state’s largest city. At that time, John T. “Jack” Meriwether occupied the office. I got through to him on the phone, and he graciously granted me the interview.

Jack Meriwether had been the city manger of Texarkana previously and would subsequently devote his life to higher education, the newspaper business, and banking. The Meriwether name would become synonymous with public service in our state.

The interview went well. Toward the end, I asked what would always be a key question in interviews of public officials. “What would you say is the most challenging part of your job?”

I expected some timeworn answer directed at the difficulties in dealing with the disparate and conflicting demands of public policy, or the constant struggle with balancing the need for municipal services against a lack of resources.

Instead, he gave me a gem that would stick with me for my entire career. He said his most challenging task was dealing with the “uh-huh …oh" syndrome.

“Say what?”

He smiled at my confusion and explained. “When politicians are campaigning for election, they always run around pointing at things and saying “Uh-huh, uh-huh.”

I waited.

He leaned back in his chair and said, “Then when they are elected, and begin to see what the situation really is, they say, ‘Oh,’ and expect me to work it out.”

My instructor out in California thought that was a good story and gave me and “A” in the course.

Over the years, I’ve thought about that comment countless times. Some things never change, do they?

I chose my subject well.

Back from our first road trip, Jim gave the notes we made to the drafting crew and I wondered what waited next. This world of urban planning was interesting. I felt it would be even more so with a larger city. I didn’t have to wait long. Tom came in next day and wanted to know if I wanted to go to the City of Hope the next night. They were going to consider a proposed urban renewal program.

It sounded good to me. I had gone to work for a city planning firm in the final years of a long period of trying to repair urban decay through massive governmental intervention. One can decide for one’s self how successful it was. By the beginning of the 1970s, the effort had been expanded to countless government assistance programs, attempting to create what was then called “The Great Society.”

A person can demean the results, but in the current age of avarice and greed, that person would be cold-hearted indeed to demean the intentions. They came straight from The Sermon on the Mount, perhaps one of the most beautiful and inspiring works of literature in the western world. It has largely fallen out of favor in both the secular and religious worlds, unfortunately.

Anyway, off we went to Hope next afternoon, back down Interstate-30 past Malvern, then Arkadelphia, cities that were to become as familiar to me as my own home town. We passed where you turned off to go to the small community of Gurdon. One day, far into the future, I would meet a fascinating man from there, who had earned a PhD and spent a career teaching at Columbia University in New York City. He would later retire, move back to Gurdon, and become mayor. He once taught me to do a “Subway Fold” with the daily newspaper

 I’ve met some interesting people in my work.

A funny thing (funny now, not then) happened on the way there. I hadn’t been paid yet and had a dollar and twenty-five cents to my name. Just out of Benton, Tom says to me “We’re running late and had better stop and grab something to eat up ahead at that Stuckeys.”

Fine with me, until he said, “Dammit, I forgot my wallet. You have any money?”

"A little."

“Good. I just want a hot dog and something to drink. Got enough for that?”

“Sure.”

I checked the price of a hot dog and drink carefully. Just enough cash. I handed him my fortune. What did I want? "Oh nothing, I had a big lunch and I’m trying to lose some of the weight I put on when I quit smoking."

We started on, with him munching the hot dog and me looking out the window. A hot dog had never smelled so good in my life, nor has it since.

We arrived in Hope on time. City Hall was a fine old building. The meeting room took up part of the ground floor. Still does. Hope was a “city-manager” city. That meant they used a professional city manager and the governing body was a “board” instead of a council. I seem to remember that the city manager was named Garland Meadors or something like that. It’s funny how you remember things about your first time at something.

The Board members, mostly middle-aged, were all white and all male. This was despite the fact that half of the city's population was female, and the same percentage was what they called "Colored, or Negroes" back then, Change came slowly over the years. As for then, it hadn't even begun.

Back to the meeting. There was a fair crowd in attendance for a meeting with no controversial items on the agenda. That doesn’t happen much these days. They approved what Tom had come for and we headed back. I was sure glad that he was anxious to get home and didn’t mention stopping to eat again. So far. So good.

The old days. Today's new buildings
look like they are made from
plastic shipbuilding parts.