Walls that cried
Editor, The Commercial:
The Pine Bluff Civic Center stands as a tribute to the ingenuity of the city's leaders of half a century ago, a unique structure unlike any other in this area of the state, possibly of the South. Deep inside, though, it conceals a dark secret.
The impetus for the center was simple enough. Municipal offices were previously scattered around an approximately six-block area downtown, near the Jefferson County Courthouse and on either side of Main Street.
That was a hindrance for any doing business with the city, having to go to one office for information, then walk three or four blocks to another office for a form, and another two or three blocks to a third. Woe be unto the poor soul who overlooked a detail in any one of them and had to backtrack or retrace the route.
Why not, more than one person thought, do it like we do at the Courthouse: Have all the main offices congregated at a central location, so a trip from one to another was just a matter of crossing the hall, instead of crossing the street, or several streets?
That idea took hold, and a search began for a possible location. I know not what areas were considered, but I do recall the general layout of the town. Main Street was lined with businesses on either side from Pullen Street nigh to Harding Avenue, and for a block or so behind those. Beyond those, the areas were primarily residential.
Hardin Drain cut an unsightly but necessary slash through town, with little development near it. An open section even crossed north of the track at Pine Bluff High School. West of that, it generally went underground.
The area selected for the future site of the new Civic Center followed a long stretch of Hardin Drain, which would be buried beneath it, as well as some of the surrounding residential area, approximately 10 acres total.
With a plan in place, and funding secured, the city set about acquiring the necessary land. The big ditch itself was no problem; the city already owned it, or controlled it. Most, if not all, of the houses were older wooden structures, the owners eager to sell to the city, or easily persuaded since it would be a big boost to that area.
Yet there was one elderly woman, whose name I do not recall (though it was no doubt recorded in some now-dusty journal), who steadfastly refused. She would not sell, had no interest in selling, and did not plan to ever leave her small holding. The city made offers, explained all the ways it would benefit the town as a whole, possibly even offered some under-the-table inducements. It even brought in a daughter, who assured her mother that she could come live with them in a home that was no doubt nicer than the one she occupied.
It was all to no avail. The woman was as stubborn as a mule; that was her home, and she would not leave it.
City officials eventually concocted a deceit, with the daughter's cooperation, and one morning a police car showed up at the woman's home. The officers explained that she was being arrested for obstructing government operations, then loaded her into the back seat. She was taken to the city jail and placed in a cell, where she spent most of the day no doubt wringing her hands and cursing the city leaders, perhaps invoking some of the old hoodoo as well.
Late that afternoon, the daughter showed up. The jailer said the city had decided not to press charges after all, and the woman was free to go.
So the daughter took her mother back to ... a vacant lot, one scraped clean of any structure. While the woman had sat in that cell, friends and kin had come in and boxed all her worldly possessions, packed up what little furniture she had, and removed it. Then the bulldozers moved in and razed the house.
The basics of that day were documented in the Pine Bluff Commercial, though parts of my account were also gleaned from word-on-the-street accounts, as best I can now recall them.
Soon construction began on what would resemble a Grecian temple rising from the Delta flatlands. Mounded earthen embankments assure the structure can withstand the wrath of Mother Nature, with colonnades connecting the three wings and a separate tower rising to warn if danger approaches.
Amidst the wings of governance was a shining reflecting pool, its silvery waters a peaceful, calming contrast to the sometimes hectic pace of City Hall. Indeed, Pine Bluff now had something to inspire pride, a unique symbol like no other, an Arkansas Acropolis.
All was not quite so perfect, though. Leaks on the lower floor bespoke of some fault above. After careful examination, it was determined that the builders had made an error (they, in turn, blamed the architect) and water from the reflecting pool was seeping downward, they said. Attempts were made to plug the leaks, but nothing seemed to work. Finally it was decided to drain that beautiful body of water.
A Sister Cities partnership with Iwai, Japan, eventually brought some greenery to the open courtyard, and a smaller pool with a fountain sprang up in the southeast corner. Not quite a fix, but still an effort to retain a semblance of what had been.
Water pretty much does what it wants, though, and it still wanted to make its way down, most noticeably along one wall of the downstairs library entry. A fairy tale mural had been added, since that wall was near the Children's Library, but Jack's beanstalk kept getting fed by Mother Nature's precipitation.
There's been talk of late about reverting to the old hither/yon system of municipal offices, after the library led the exodus and moved to a shiny new fiasco a few blocks away. The city has begun to refurbish the half-century-old facility, though, so maybe its days are not done yet.
Every now and then, my thoughts go back to that last holdout from the old neighborhood. As a young teen, I had no sympathy for the old lady. She'd been given ample opportunity to vacate the place on her own terms, but had chosen not to do so. Progress was coming, though, and she would not be allowed to stand in its way.
Half a century later, my view has changed. I realize that the house was more than just a home; it was the receptacle of her life story. There was a bed she'd shared with her man, later making room for a small body or two when thunder rolled. Pencil marks on a door frame chronicled each child's growth.
Maybe the wind whistled around an unchinked door, when winter came calling, but a pot-bellied stove would have held the chill at bay.
There would have been a cast-iron cook stove wafting the smell of poke salad and fresh fish through the room, with 'maters and peas fresh from the vines just outside. There would be biscuits in the morning and cornbread at night, the occasional cobbler a welcome delight.
There would have been an old rocking chair where she'd lulled more than one child to sleep, or fretted as she tried to calm the sickly one that wouldn't stop crying, and wailed when it did.
Memories of all of those things, and more, were enshrined within those four walls. All that was her was there.
I do not know just where that house stood, but maybe I do.
I recently revisited the bottom corridor I'd so often taken en route to the book repository upstairs. A two-foot-wide column of tile now runs floor to ceiling to bisect the fairy tale mural.
I guess the city finally found a way to hide that wall, the one stained by the tears of a woman wronged.
D.H. Ridgway
Pine Bluff