My Redacted Life: Chapter 28

Early in my career as an urban planner, Jim Vines and I had an opportunity to work for the City of Hot Springs. Tom Ellsworth was mayor. His predecessors had eschewed the opportunity to seek help with urban development from HUD. Though it was late in the game, he called us in to help reverse that policy.

We worked on "the come,” which meant that we wouldn’t get paid unless we were able to generate a federally funded project for the city, one that included planning or engineering work. Oh, he did allow us the use of his family box at Oaklawn Park Race Track, on days we finished work early. The box wasn’t perfect. It was a few rows from the front and, maybe, 20 feet or so past the finish-line.

We withstood such imperfections and had a number of pleasant late afternoons there. The experiences only served to bolster my lifelong aversion to gambling. I was worse at it than I was at sports.

Anyway, we did well in our courting of HUD. We had made enough progress that two representatives from Washington, D.C. flew in to review some projects we had in mind.

Mayor Ellsworth prepared well. Always immaculate, he was more so that day, even carried a flower in the lapel of his tailored suit. At that time, City Hall had a large landscaped entryway with steps leading to the entrance to municipal offices. The Mayor’s office was on the left and large floor-to-ceiling windows offered a pleasant view of the entrance. All was set, including a nice coffee service the Mayor had brought from home.

The HUD representatives arrived and staff showed them in. A woman in, maybe, her early thirties and a man who looked a little older entered. They wore tailored business attire and an air of professionalism so typical of federal representatives in those days. Both looked as if they could have enjoyed successful careers in modeling. We all made introductions and sat for coffee.

The Mayor did the talking by prearrangement. He extolled the natural wonders of the city and stressed the investment the federal government had in them. He moved, again according to plan, to connect the vitality of municipal government to the success of the national park. He stressed how the city had always, even in ancient times, been a place of peace and harmony for diverse cultures. It carried the reputation as a welcoming place for all.

This seemed to interest the Washington duo. As a staffer served coffee, they began to ask questions that we, silently, viewed as “buying signals.”

The Mayor was “in his element” as they say. He offered a short, but vivid, history of the city and its marvelous treasures. All was going according to plan. The female of the duo straightened the edge of her skirt and leaned forward. The man wrote notes on a leather-covered pad. The Mayor had them in the palm of his hand.

Then it happened.

From outside, a body seemed to fly through the air and land, with his back to us, against the plate glass window. It stuck there, arms out, in sort of a “reversed crucifixion” pose.

The hitherto calm urban setting reverberated with a string of profanity that I hadn’t heard used with such fluency, description, and eloquence since I left the Navy. It erupted from the mouth of a large woman in a flowing dress who had suddenly appeared. She peeled the man from the window by an arm and flung him across the building’s entry plaza. She continued the string of profanity that, more than adequately, expressed her distaste for her victim.

This had taken maybe 15 seconds and Mayor Ellsworth had yet to move. By the time he did, a crowd had separated the woman from her hapless victim, but only after she had delivered a couple of hard blows to his chin, a move simplified by the fact that he was half her size.

As the police led the still-screaming woman away, the Mayor, ashen-faced now, attempted to regain his composure. The visitors stared. The man folded his notepad. Jim Vines and I saw the chances for a substantial piece of business being dragged away with the still-screaming woman.

It was to be true. Despite his being rumored as a possible candidate for Governor, and despite his election as President of the Arkansas Municipal League, we never again, Jim and I, saw the mayor in top form. He succumbed later to an early death from cancer. Too bad. He was one of the best.

He served well, his only defeat coming as the result of a case in divorce court going bad. Feelings over it had flowed from City Hall to erupt in plain view of very important visitors to the city. How does one plan for that?

A city staffer told us much later that the protagonists in the altercation reconciled and remarried. I never bothered to verify it, but it sounded probable. That’s how things work out sometimes in our state, maybe in others as well.

My Redacted Life: Chapter 27 (Cont. _4)

Back at work, things were moving fast. Tom wasn’t too happy about the photos I took of the property west of Little Rock. I offered to take him out and show him how wooded it was and how devoid of vistas. He groused a bit and we moved on. I went back to work on the Hope project while the engineers were working on our first development project, a single-family subdivision not far from Little Rock.

Those who had seen the layout said it would be the best subdivision in the area. Gently curving streets offered a smooth circulation system. A well-landscaped entry way promised to add a level of sophistication not common around the two towns bordering the site. All looked promising.

I was beginning to see what a talented staff we had. Ron McConnell was a maser technician. He had learned his craft well at the highway department. Even the engineer spoke highly of him and he didn’t speak highly of too many folks.

The others in the office I’ve already mentioned. I was probably the weak link, just an old former sailor trying to get his “land-legs” going. I suppose the others feared some sort of flashback, so they pretty much left me alone. I bumbled along.

But I was meeting some fine people as I traveled the state. The elected officials I met were dedicated public servants with a reputation for honesty and diligence bested my no other profession I’ve ever encountered. Salaries for mayors and state officials were set at a pittance by the state. Mayors and others served more from a sense of noblesse oblige than necessity. It did stop decent and qualified people who lacked private resources from running for office. The thinking was, I guess, that if we paid well, we might elect scoundrels who just wanted to get into public office to enrich themselves, their friends, and their families.

I’ve met many fine and admirable mayors. One did not solely exhibit the most of those traits by any stretch, but did typify the high quality of individuals who have served our cities. His name was Tom Ellsworth and he served as Mayor of Hot Springs for a number of years. In Arkansas, it is a matter of great respect to carry the sobriquet of being “an old family.” He was “Old Hot Springs,” make no mistake about that. In addition, he was the epitome of a true Southern gentleman, always dressed to “the Nines,” and gentle in both nature and action. To show what an institution he was, I’ll point out that his family estate had a name: “Wildwood.” That’s “Old Arkansas” writ large.

His name I mention with reference, and because he was the victim of a bizarre incident involving visitors from Washington D.C., members of our firm, and a cast of local citizens. It deserves mention in a redacted version of my professional career.

More tomorrow.

The Ellsworth family home, circa 1884.

My Redacted Life: Chapter 27 (Cont._3)

As hard as I tried, I had only succeeded in confusing my new girlfriend Brenda about what I did for a living. Then I had an idea. A good one, I thought. I invited her to attend a planning commission meeting with me.

Tuesday was the day I was scheduled to attend a meeting at a city of 10,000 population where I served as planning consultant. They had a short agenda that night, only one slightly controversial item involving a re-zoning from residential use to quiet commercial. The town boasted a nice restaurant that served good steaks, for after the meeting. I never knew whether it was that fact or the opportunity to share my charming, witty company that convinced her.

Anyway, Tuesday came and we were on our way. The ride took a little over an hour. I used the time to enlighten her on what to expect. Back in the late 1800s, I explained, a movement began to make cities more livable and beautiful. Cities developed and adopted plans, then produced municipal laws to carry out those plans. Some of those laws involved zoning properties for selective uses.

Someone in our target city wanted to change the zoning of his property and had requested a hearing to plead his case.

She nodded and expressed an interest, but I noticed she carried a book with her.

We reached the meeting venue. She took a seat in the very back of the room and began reading. In this city, I sat at a table in front with the planning commissioners, which meant I faced her, albeit at a distance.

The meeting started well. They approved the minutes of the last meeting, dispensed with old business and moved to the new. The chairman announced that only one item awaited their consideration, and noted that several people had come to speak on it. First, the applicant explained why he wanted to change the zoning. When he had finished, the chairman called a public hearing to allow anyone in the audience to speak on the matter.

Three or four folks spoke. Some wanted information. One supported the request because the city needed more commercial areas. One felt it might be too close to a city park and the traffic could be a problem. I looked to the back. Brenda was reading away, oblivious to this demonstration of democracy in action.

Just as the “citizen input” seem finished. A lonely figure behind the rest of the audience stood and walked forward. It was a woman maybe in her mid-forties with longish hair more in the style of a college girl than a woman her age. She wore a soft cover over a white blouse and a tailored skirt. A pearl necklace dangled from her neck, matching her earrings. She spoke softly, giving her name and address.

“I’ve been instructed to speak on this matter,” she said, pausing for effect. “You don’t know me, but I have this one unique insight.” She paused for effect. Everyone in the room leaned forward. Brenda looked up from her book.

“I’ve been gifted,” the woman said, “with the ability to see and talk with the angels.”

A thunderous silence reverberated through the room.

“I visited the angels today,” she said, piercing the silence with her soft voice. “They are concerned about the children, their ‘precious lambs’ as they call them. They asked me, the angels did, to come here tonight on their behalf and ask you to turn this request down … for the children, the precious lambs. It’s never wrong, by the way, to listen to the angels.” She paused again. “Try,” she said. “Maybe you can hear them now.”

There was no way I was going to look at Brenda directly. I appeared to study my report, praying, as only a fully depraved person can, that nobody would ask me a question. I did raise my head just enough to glimpse Brenda. She was bending over with her head a few inches from her book as if the secret of life had just appeared there.

Thank heavens, perhaps the angels themselves, but the woman had finished and was gliding back to her seat as if her feet never touched the floor. I can’t, for the life, of me, remember what the decision was, but I expect the angels prevailed.

As we left the meeting, I shared with Brenda what I would have done had she exhibited even the slightest sign of amusement.

She just laughed.

I've led an interesting life.

My Redacted Life: Chapter 27 (Cont._2)

Our visit with the parents went well. They were the kind of people I had known all my life, only lacking some of the prejudices that so stain the South. We discussed those on the way back and both felt that perhaps things were improving racially. On the other hand, perhaps then, in 1972, the old hatreds were simply disappearing underground, waiting to re-surface into a more welcoming environment someday. Who knew? We didn’t.

Back at my apartment, she found an old hat that Gary Toler had solemnly presented to me after a night of drunken singing. I was straightening a closet and had laid the hat on the bed. He claimed it belonged to a Texas grandfather of his who had been a genuine cowboy. I had intended to return it to him, but, as you will see, that never happened.

It turned out that Brenda had an uncommon fondness for all things Texan. Her own grandfather had been born there before his family moved east. Her grandmother had married and moved to San Antonio when she was 15, living there until widowed, returning to Arkansas to marry Brenda’s grandfather and start a new family.

Anyway, she put on the cowboy hat and it became hers in that instant. I wondered, as she admired herself in the mirror, if it meant we were “going steady.” I hoped so. A man couldn’t keep company with a cuter person than the one I saw modeling that ancient hat, whether it had belonged to a real cowboy or not.

We went to the patio to enjoy the last of the daylight. Putting on the hat must have performed magic. It unloosened a flood of memories and thoughts that left me spellbound and stricken. Sitting across from me, her hair cascading from beneath the time-stained felt, she smoked, sipped a beer, and talked.

She told me about how her grandmother’s first husband had died of tuberculosis shortly after their child was born. The young widow, still in her teens, had boarded the train in San Antonio with her infant child and made the long trip back to Arkansas alone. The husband, whose family lived back East somewhere, lay in an unvisited and lonely grave outside a small Texas town, unknown, as the immortal tribute goes, “except to God.”

“His family did construction projects for the railroad,” she said. They sent him to Texas thinking the dry climate might be good for TB. It didn’t work.”

She reached and tipped the brim of the hat up an inch and looked at me with a solemn intent that almost caused chills. “Someday,” she said, “I’m going out there and find that grave. He deserves a visitor.”

I had no doubt she would, as she looked at me in that bizarre hat. Lord, what a woman. Outside, the sun set, bidding farewell to a marvelous day and leaving red skies of delight as a final blessing. The world turned mellow as she talked about Texas and other things. I decided then and there to attempt an escalation of our budding relationship. Did I dare? Why not? Success awaits the bold.                                 

“How would you like,” I said, “to go with me to a planning commission meeting this week?

Heck you would have
fallen for her, too.

My Redacted Life: Chapter 27

Sunday came and we prepared to make a formal visit to the parents. I had met them, if you remember, in a cow pasture, as good a beginning as any, I suppose. Now it was time to have a “face to face.” Hazel, Brenda’s mother, already believed she was older than I, so I needed to act mature. Check box number one.

She, Hazel, also was reared in what her husband called, “the hill country,” which meant North Lonoke County, where if one looked hard, one might find gently rolling land as opposed to the glass-pane-flat cotton, soybean, and rice fields in the southern extremities. Therefore, no “hillbilly” jokes. Check box number two.

Also, both of Hazel’s brothers had served in the United States Navy. Be sure to mention I was a shipmate. Check box number three.

Speaking of military service, Julius, Brenda’s dad had seen substantial action in Europe during World War Two as a rifleman in the 79^th Infantry Division. Be prepared for some war stories. Check box number four.

Be advised, her dad’s favorite, and only, hobby was hard, back-breaking physical work, so emphasize my steady employment. Check box number five.

Don’t kick the obnoxious toy poodle “Frenchy,” no matter how annoying he became. I think that completed the checklist.

We arrived on time to find Hazel finishing preparing the table for the meal she had started earlier, before church. One of her best friends, Edna, had followed them home from church. She sat at the kitchen table and held a female poodle with a red bow on its head. Frenchy had fled in fear and was hiding under a couch. That spared us from his antics. I shook hands with Julius and he directed me to sit.

Right way, I noticed a peculiarity in the way Hazel prepared meals. She performed one task at a time, not attempting to combine movements or save motion. Progress was slow. Setting the table required a separate trip across the kitchen for each utensil placed.

Meanwhile, Julius was telling me that he didn’t know much about the Navy. He had a brother who had served in it, and he had, of course, sailed to war on an ocean liner that had been converted to a troop ship. He didn’t think much of the trip, especially after the ship docked and some “little fellers from India or somewhere,” who were supposed to care for them, pilfered their food allocations and then offered to sell them candy bars for a dollar apiece.

We passed the time pleasantly. I didn’t say much. Didn’t have to. We were only halfway across France with the 79^th when Edna excused herself and left. She was a nice lady and had told us about how, as a teenage bride, she had commandeered her much-older husband’s car and took it for a spin, with unfortunate results.

I’ve spent worse Sunday afternoons. An hour or so after Edna left, Hazel finished setting the table and we enjoyed a nice meal. Julius kept us entertained. I learned that the spring plowing had gone well. Farmers needed a rain. Farmers always needed a rain except for when they didn’t need a rain. A cousin had borrowed an implement and hadn’t brought it back. Another family member had borrowed an implement and brought it back damaged. He’d be damned if he kept loaning his tools. I found out later that he had made that promise every week for at least 20 years.

Afterwards, we walked around the homeplace. It would astound one to see the house and farm structures built by this solitary man on this lonely spot of farmland. There were implements everywhere, mostly used and aged. The place was neat and cared for, a picture of rural farm life in America. At that point in time, there was little thought that there might come a day when one hard working man could no longer support a family through such efforts.

“Brenda used to help me,” he was saying. “She liked it, I think. Even when she was little, and I would come in for dinner, she would hang onto my legs and beg me to take her with me when I went back to the field. She never gave me one minute’s trouble.”

Memories differ, I suppose. I distinctly remembered her claiming that he told her, more than once, that she had taken “ten years off his life.”

I guessed the truth lay somewhere in between, buried deep beneath the row crops on, as Faulkner had put it, “that little postage stamp of native soil.” 

Will America see their likes again?

        

Sunday Break

Back tomorrow with an account of the first formal time spent with "The Parents."

My Redacted Life: Chapter 26 (Cont._3)

As hard as it was to tell that woman that she was right, Brenda had me walking by noon Saturday. The more I walked, the better my ankle felt until I could get around without my arm around her shoulder. I didn’t share that with her for a spell, but she finally figured it out on her own. She spun away from me, turned, cocked her head and smiled. “Miracle cure, if you ask me,” she said.

What could I do but agree? I leaned over and kissed her. “Thanks.”

“Want to do something special? She flexed her eyebrows up and down in a disarming and devilish fashion.”

My heart fluttered. “Like what?”

“Take me to Hot Springs.”

“Hot Springs?”

“Yeah. I wanted to go before school starts in the fall. This seems like a good day for it.”

“Okay,” I said. I was stuck a couple sentences back, but it didn’t seem like terrible idea.

“Let me go change. I’ll be right back.”

I showered quickly and put on some jeans and a t-shirt, not a nautical one, just a modest blue thing that spoke, I thought, of stability and masculinity. I was hardly limping by now.

She came back just as I was finished dressing. She wore loose white slacks, a form-fitting and revealing blue pull-over and sensible walking shoes. Her long hair sparkled as it hung down her back. “I’m ready,” she said. “And quit looking at me like that.”

I came to my senses and escorted her to the car. I added a slight limp for pity’s sake. Soon we were on University Avenue headed for I-30 and adventure. She settled in an told me about some stunts that she and Vernell, who was from the Hot Springs area, had pulled while attending college. Common courtesy and a natural life-wish prevents divulging details. Let’s just say they weren’t the placid students they sometimes wished to portray.

We passed the Arkansas Highway Department “castle” just before leaving the Little Rock city limits. It towered over the landscape, an isolated and independent part of state government. Its chief function was to build highways and freeways that would induce traffic congestion. It would become very good at it over time.

We came to the small settlement of Bryant, a community that had grown up around a sawmill and boasted a bank that had been robbed four times by the same man. Next was the blue-collar union town of Benton, center of the state’s aluminum industry. Beyond that, was the Saline River, on which, farther south, Civil War armies had fought a fierce battle at a place known as Jenkin’sFerry. A Union victory had saved the remnants of a large force that left Little Rock months earlier with conquest in mind and nothing but adversity in waiting. My great-grandfather’s unit participated in the battle, on the losing side.

We didn’t care about those things. We turned off the freeway and began the lovely drive that would take us to Hot Springs.

All cities in our state are unique. There are three that are more unique than normal: Eureka Springs, Helena (as it was known at the time—any city where Robert Johnson had played guitar is unique), and the “mostest” unique city in the state, Hot Springs. It is the only city in the country built around what would become a national park. In fact, the official name of the city is “Hot Springs National Park, Arkansas.”

Oddly the spot on which the city rests has always been a place of peace, a welcome site in what can be, at times, a troubled world. Ancient Native American tribes, often at war otherwise, would meet in harmony there, in the “Valley of the Vapors” to trade, often for Novaculite Rock, also called Arkansas Stone, a hard rock useful for fashioning knives and other instruments, including arrowheads.

During the mobster era, rival gangsters would visit the city under a truce of peace to avail themselves of the baths that utilized the natural hot springs that flowed from subterranean sources. Characters as disparate as Al Capone and Babe Ruth knew the city well.

We didn’t care. I had parked the Green Angel and we were walking along Central Avenue, the main, actually the only, through street in the downtown. It was built over a creek that ran through two hillsides. That provided the only option for transportation through the pass, but it also tempted Nature, periodically, to remind puny humans of its power to flood and destroy.

As we walked along, I felt people staring at me. After much observation, I realized they weren’t staring at me. As we walked along Magnolia-lined sidewalks, I felt proud. Let them stare at that sashaying beauty holding my hand.

I didn’t care. Was I a lucky man, or what?

Our special city.