No, we didn't come to say goodbye. Don't be so morbid. It's just . . . been a while, you know? So we thought we'd peek in on you for a minute, bring you some tomatoes, be neighborly, be Arkansan.
Looks like they're still making you work, huh? Somehow we don't remember all the military vehicles. Is it your job now to keep them until the National Guard takes them out on weekends? Back when we were in uniform, that spot over there was the parking lot for the POVs. Which stands for Privately Owned Vehicles in Armyspeak.
Those in the know say the 39th Infantry will soon be leaving you, Mr. Ricks, and what will happen to you after that isn't as certain. As the 39th moves out to Camp Robinson, the National Guard won't need an armory in the middle of Little Rock any more. Not one next to an interstate. In a location full of stores.
You're what's known as Prime Real Estate. That's something, isn't it?
Yes, sir, we've heard that, too. Demolition. That's a possibility. But nothing is sure.
Time marches on, doesn't it, old friend? One day, time will march on without any of us troopers. Christopher Hitchens, whom we still miss, said of his terminal diagnosis and how off-guard it caught him, it's not as if somebody had told you the party would end. Instead, somebody has told you the party will go on, only you have to leave.
Even before Christopher Hitchens came along, somebody else said: To every thing there is a season . . . .
Okay, enough of that kind of talk. We didn't come here to depress you--or to be depressed ourselves. Not at all. All--well, almost all--of our memories of you are good ones. Cheerful ones. How could they be anything else of an armory located next to a ball field? Do you remember when Ray Winder Field stood right over there, and the privates and Spec-4s would sneak up to the top floors and watch the games through those windows?
Don't noise it about, but it's said an officer or two might have joined them to watch an occasional ball game from there, too. It was hard to see the plays at every base from so far away, but somebody always seemed to know how many Travs had crossed home plate that evening. If any had, the Travs not having much of a team that year. Happily, they're doing a lot better these days.
The zoo has been another good neighbor, though at times a noisy one. The monkeys might interrupt a junior officer addressing his company from time to time. Our guess, knowing some of those troopers, is that the monkeys probably had a better idea of what was going on.
You've seen a lot of promotions. A lot of decorations. A lot of hoo-rahs. A lot of crying as troops told their folks goodbye. And hello again, once back under your sheltering dome.
A ton of soldiers trained here. And some of the trainers and trainees were real characters. There was that major that . . . well, the less said about him the better. Then there was the little sergeant who had nothing but disdain for anybody resembling an officer cadet. And that soft-spoken first sergeant back in the 1980s who ran everything to perfection. (What was his name? It'll come back to us one of these days, when we're not thinking about it.) The man was a professional, wore glasses, treated the troops as though each one was the son of somebody somewhere, and--this is what set him apart more than anything--he always, always, always had that unlit cigar in his mouth. We never saw him smoke one, but we can't remember seeing him without one, either. (Maybe a letter writer will remember Top's real name, and remind us. Hold on, it'll come to us . . . someday.)
They say the last storms tore off some of your roofing, Mr. Ricks, and it looks as though you've had some water damage. The paint is cracking all around the place. The grass is getting high. And the troops are moving out, formation by formation, office by office, company by company . . . .
But don't you worry, sir. You've done your duty. Time and time again. And as long as some old soldiers are still at this party, and haven't been asked to leave, they'll remember you, don't you worry none about that. The way we've come here this summery day to do.
As we got into our POV to leave--probably for the last time--we did notice something that hasn't changed: The American flag was still waving high over Ricks Armory in Little Rock, Ark., USA. As long as there are armories like this one, and soldiers who train there, we have a feeling that flag will still wave. It's a grand old flag.
Editorial on 07/26/2014