Tag: Henderson TX

Sufficient disquiet

IMG_0436My bedroom window overlooks a cemetery. Half a century ago, when I was troubled by Monsters Under The Bed and other assorted nighttime horrors, that thought might have disturbed me. Now, I find the view pretty serene except for those early summer mornings when city workers roll out lawn mowers and weed eaters at first light.

General James Smith and family rest in pace in perhaps the most-seen and least-noticed cemetery in town. Surrounding streets hustle us daily to town and to Lowe’s and to Kroger, but the little park in the crook of one of Henderson’s truly monumental intersections is generally unheeded and forgotten, much, I’m afraid, like those who rest there.

That’s rather sad. Even a shallow surf of the www brings waves of info about General Smith. He cut something of a figure in early Texas. He was a veteran of both the War of 1812 and the Texas Revolution, the donor of land for the city of Henderson, and a Rusk County delegate to the Texas House. His Fellow Founders thought enough of him to name our neighboring county in his honor, and it’s possible that a design on his coat button inspired the Lone Star itself. That’s quite a resume.

Urban legend once held that grateful Hendersonites buried Smith standing up, facing the downtown square a mile away. As far as I know, snopes.com has never investigated, but I think I can debunk that rumor on my own. Up close, the tomb is only about chest high. If the general is upright, he was a short man indeed.  It’s a cool story, but discountable. That’s a good thing; poor ol Gen’l Smith deserves a comfortable repose after all that soldiering and representing and namesaking and logo designing and all.

So General Smith and I sleep snoring distance apart. His rest is horizontal (hopefully) and eternal; mine, not so much. I haven’t worried about Monsters Under The Bed in a very long time, but different thoughts sometimes bump my nights and disturb my slumber. The general’s world is not mine. I doubt he ever spent a night wondering if his online bank account would be hacked, or if his central air unit would hang on through one more summer, or if his students would survive the latest high-stakes, state-mandated standardized assessment. Surely those nineteenth century Texians had it easy. On the other hand, though, I can’t say that I’ve ever lost much sleep over uprooted and hostile Native Americans, or a marauding Santa Ana, or wondering whether or not I could make a midnight run to the privy without stepping on a rattlesnake. Sufficient unto each generation is the evil thereof, I guess.

Screen doors on grocery stores and the uncertainty of hmmm and hmmm

A Faithful Reader (verily, there are no more reassuring words to a beginning blogger than faithful reader. Thanks, George) asked if I remember a silver dollar that was embedded in the sidewalk in front of a grocery store on this block:
MainStreet
I remember. The other day I did a little slow, head-down walking and discovered a coinish circle near the door of B. J. Taylor & Co. coinI’m pretty sure that the silver dollar once nested there, but, like the grocery store that once occupied the building, the coin is gone.

I’m not surprised. Collectible coins can’t be expected to stay in one spot on a public sidewalk forever. Neither can grocery stores. The thought that leaves this Modern—though somewhat unenthusiastic—WalMart Shopper breathless is the suggestion that folk once procured the weekly provender from small stores in the middle of main street blocks. The notion of buying groceries from Mom-and-Pop on the square is almost as foreign to me as the idea of hiring a hack from the local livery stable.

But not quite. I can easily remember another downtown market—Mrs. Jack Moore’s store—around the corner on South Main. It was a cool store. Mrs. Moore presided over the cash register and occasionally slung slabs of beef behind the meat counter. I stopped there many times. Even now, when I stroll past the bank parking lot that absorbed her building, I get a mild craving for an ice cream sandwich from her freezer case.

Truth be told, my knowledge of downtown grocery stores should be much more complete. My great-grandfather owned one. I’m not sure where it was, but I have an unverified impression that it was in the same block as Citizens Bank. Armed with that uncertain fact, this photo intrigues me:
paradem 1

Could that be my great-grandfather’s store tucked between Citizens Bank and Reeds Department Store? Could that be my great-grandfather lounging in white in the doorway?

I wish I knew. I recall only one other thing about the store. My grandmother was fond of telling that “Papa’s Store” was the first modern grocery in Henderson because it had (or didn’t have–I can’t remember which)  screen doors. For the life of me, I can’t decide if screen doors on a grocery store represent technological progress or regress. I can argue the case both ways.

Dennard’s Grocery (if that’s what it was called) was gone long before I was a gleam in anyone’s eye. It’s not too surprising that I can’t wax eloquent about the modernity (or lack thereof) of screen doors on grocery stores or about watching parades while lounging at a screen door (or not) in white. I could have known more, though, if I’d listened when I had the chance. My memory could have been full, flowing deep and wide like the fountain in the old Sunday School song. Instead, I can only sing the second verse, replacing certainty with hmmm and hmmm as I go. My lot is to peer through the glass darkly. I wish I had paid more attention to my grandmother.

On the trail of the Junior High ghost

HISD Administration Buildling
Random lights still burn in the old Junior High

When I was a kindergartener contemplating first grade, older kids used scare my buddies and me sockless by warning that Real School teachers were mean ol’ ladies who, if we talked or smiled or even breathed wrong, would whip us with an Electric Paddle. That was enough to strike fear and trembling in the heart of a six year old.

As an elementary school-er, dread of the jump to Junior High was more intense: They’ve got three floors and a block-long building. How will I manage to change classes in five minutes? Will they really make us take showers after PE? Does the principal have an electric paddle?

Even more ominous was the whispered rumor, “You know that school’s haunted, don’t you?” I remember the first time I heard the story of the Junior High ghost. The version passed along to me by a friend on my grandmother’s front porch went like this [cue ghostly voice]:

Before the school was built, there was an old lady who lived in a run-down house on that block. She loved to read. At night she would stay up late reading, and people passing would see a light in her window.

After she died they tore down her house and built the school. Now she roams the halls of the Junior High. Every night, she gets a book from the library, turns on a light in one of the rooms, and spends the night reading. If you pass by the school late at night, you’ll always see a light somewhere in the building. That’s the ghost reading.

I freely admit that the notion of a ghost who passes her night curled up with a good book instead of rattling chains and spinning her head is pretty tame (and perhaps a little lame), but it was true that random lights did burn all night in the Junior High. There was always a light somewhere in that building, and those days were long before high-stakes testing kept the midnight oil burning on the desks of data-disaggregating teachers.

Since a rainy October evening is a good time to contemplate the nether world (and since the ghostly beyond is more pleasant fodder for thought than either electric paddles or communal showers after PE), I decided to do a little research.  Just where might that ghost have lived while she was still corporeal? This is what I found:

A 1906 map of Henderson shows the location of a high school at the corner of North High and Van Sickle.  That would be the northwest corner of the current campus.  Judging from the building’s footprint, it is clearly not the Junior High/Admin Building we know and love today.  That’s not surprising, since the big red building was constructed in (I believe) at least two parts in the 20s and 30s.

1906 map 1

Source:  Dolph Briscoe Center for American History, University of Texas at Austin

Another map from the same year shows a slightly different angle. The high school is there, but it’s not labeled.  I flipped the snippet to make it fit on this page, so the directions are a little askew.  The view here is as if we were standing in front of the contemporary building, making ghost-warding novenas to the back of the Methodist Church (or to the back of Henderson Savings, for those who put their trust in Mammon) across the street.  East Main would be about a block to our left.

1906 map 2

Source:  Dolph Briscoe Center for American History, University of Texas at Austin

Unfortunately for Tracy-the-Ghost-Hunter, most of the school block was apparently vacant in 1906.  This is not what I wanted to find.  I wanted to see a map with a great big red X saying “This is a run-down house inhabited by an elderly woman who is famous for reading far, far into the night.”  No such luck.  Research can be frustrating.

So for now the trail of the Junior High ghost goes cold.  Without the hard evidence of X marking the spot over her earthly dwelling, we must assume that her spirit is still as urban-legendary as an electric paddle.  Although I’ve spent most of my life in various schoolhouses, I’ve never seen an electric paddle.  I’ve never seen a ghost, either, but I have often seen those lights gleaming late into the night in the deserted school on North High Street.

Faux noir

figureI slink along darkened city streets lit only by the soft glare from closed-down antiques-and-collectibles joints. The burg is shut down tighter than a miser’s wallet at an orphanage bake sale. The deserted sidewalks should be rain-slicked, but that’s too much to hope for in the Age of Drought. Around here, we take our weather as it comes.

I’m alone with my thoughts when I spy a shadowy figure near the corner ahead. “That ain’t no dame out for a Sunday stroll on a Thursday night on North Marshall Street,” I say to myself. “This could spell trouble.” I slow my step. The figure doesn’t move. I stop. No reaction.

I slide my hand to my pocket and grope for my trusty 5S. I fumble. Why do they insist on lighter and thinner every year? I find my piece and caress its home button with my trigger thumb. Is there an app for this?

I’ve got to get 10,000 steps done before midnight. Strider007 and WindWalker3695 and not_john_t and the rest of the gang on my FitBit friends list are expecting it. I can’t disappoint. Hecky-darn. I especially can’t let them best me on the 7-day step total.

I nudge forward. The loner on the corner doesn’t budge. I feel my heart beating in my chest. Now this is cardio. I’m about to give way and make a hard-boiled U-turn when lights from a passing jalopy catch the face of Shadow Man. He’s just one of those scarecrow-hay-bale-pumpkin jobbies set up around town to celebrate the end of the Long Summer in Texas. Whew.

I walk on.

Surviving

Old Post Office, Henderson, Texas
Old Post Office, Henderson, Texas

I always wait until the very end of the designated month to renew my vehicle registration. “Always wait until the end of the month,” my grandfather said, “in case you total your car during the month.” I follow his advice. That means my annual trek to the former post office building is usually rushed and occasionally a little late.

When I enter, I always glance up to left and right, hoping that the old WPA murals that once hugged the ceiling have magically reappeared. I see the whitewash. I sigh. I return to my truck for my forgotten proof of insurance, mumbling something slightly unedifying under my breath. I write my check for dozens of dollars and get the little plastic sticker in return. I sigh.

No matter how hurried, I always exit that building with care. The steps to the sidewalk are steep and treacherous. I know. I’ve been skittish of them for years. I hold fast to the rail, remembering the unplanned roll I took from top to bottom when I was a lad.

I don’t know what caused me to stumble.  I suspect it was running or jumping or doing something I shouldn’t have been doing. I was bruised and bloody when I hit bottom, but I survived. Nothing broke. My only broken bone (yet; knocking firmly on my wood-composition desktop) came a few years later as a result of my Absolute Last–I vowed a vow–attempt to climb a tree.

Family lore was once chock-full of stories of my mishaps. There was the time I wiggled out of the highchair at Wyatt’s Cafeteria in Longview (no memory), and the time I dove headfirst-diaper-and-all into one of those old-fashioned deep bathtubs (no memory) and the time I busted my lip by falling against a glass display case at Fedway in, yet again, Longview (vague memory, but just what did now-defunct Longview establishments have against me?). I never hear those stories any more. The grown-ups who used to embarrass me by hashing and rehashing the stories of my childhood indiscretions–the list is much more extensive than I’ve confessed here–are no longer around to tell the tales. What would I give to blush one more time?

If nothing else, evidence indicates that my head is indeed hard. Or maybe a little cracked. Or perhaps both at the same time.

And speaking of something new…

fountainA few nights ago, I was bucketing along the block that runs from the old Citizens Bank building to the TXU building (or maybe it’s Luminant now; I mostly remember it as a dress shop often window-shopped by my grandmother). I was jamming to my latest download from audible.com, a longish novel about the wartime Church of England, when I heard the tinkle of water. There’s precious little reason for tinkling in novels about the C of E in wartime, so I glanced around. Then I saw it. The fountain on the square. I was taken aback.

Now, I’ve covered that block on foot at least a couple of times a week for several months. I’ve driven past the spot regularly (although, admittedly, when driving I’m more worried about remembering to move into the recently-added left turn lane for South Main–something I still forget sometimes). I’ve never noticed that fountain. Or, maybe I’ve seen it and the thought “Hey, there’s a new fountain on the square” hasn’t registered. How long has that thing been there? I probably need to renew my subscription to the Henderson Daily News.

It’s a nice traditional-sort of fountain. It looks good and tinkles well enough to make itself known over dense English novel narration. I wonder how much I see every day without really noticing? How many things/people/situations flit under my radar without second glance or first thought? I definitely need to pay more attention.

Rounding the square

I’ve been walking a good bit lately. I like to walk. It’s good exercise (so they say), and, when I’m not panting and sweating, it can be relaxing. It’s cheap entertainment—although I usually jazz it up with a couple of semi-pricey high-tech devices—and it’s handy. Some days, depending on my level of laziness, I find that I can pound the streets without changing clothes or shoes. It’s a come-as-you-are activity.

Foremost, I like the pace (snail-ish in my case). I like slowing down and looking. I especially like slowing down and looking and remembering. That’s the nub of this blog: looking and remembering. And sometimes discovering.

My preferred route leads toward downtown Henderson. There are good sidewalks between my house and the middle of town. I’ve known them forever, but I’m learning that there’s always something new as I round the square.