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A SQUARE HAS
THREE SIDES
written and
contributed by David Merrill
From David's memories of Henrietta, Texas ca 1935
The big, blue sky presses
the small, sleepy town close to the
mesquite-covered, sagebrush-scented prairie of the North Central
Plains of
Texas. My home town, Henrietta, content with its inborn
indifference and
isolated location protecting it from the marauding do-gooders,
is proud of
its civic possessions -- a well kept cemetery and the city
Square.
As you plod along in the
dry, breathless, oppressive heat, the
distant, lonesome wail of a hobo-infested freight blends with
the
dung-scented air from Cowleys Correll, and you look ahead to the
tree-covered
Square. It's faced with stores sitting unbusied and
protected by their
covered sidewalks, the center of town, hub of listless activity,
repository
of trophies of endurance and site of a grand pile of bricks and
native stones
arranged to form a county court house, topped with a rusting
dome.
The South side of the
Square is for the dead, voiceless past. A
marker carries an inscription that the town was on a famous
cattle drive and
was laid out in 1850 by a half-breed who also laid an Indian
maiden and the
town was almost destroyed by avenging Comanche's. The town
is too small for
a statue of a general, so in a shaded corner there's a marble
slab recounting
a buck private. The home town boy marched off to war an
since 1864 has
rested in honored glory at Shiloh. Nearby a flag pole rises amid
the
stillness of thirsty pecan trees and as a drowsy breeze thumps
the drying
leaves, it gently holds high the Stars and Bars of a proud
people as it
waves over a tribute to a fallen son.
The North side is reserved
for the more immediate past. A dilapidated
field piece from another war sits next to a flag staff from
whose top the
Stars and Stripes give a silent salute over a marker with the
names of two
other boys both of whom have slept in Flanders since 1918.
The West side is occupied
by the present, and the sharp acrid odor of
abusive disinfectant drifts from the jail a block away to mix
with the
aromatic, almost poignant odor of green pecans. The sharp,
metallic clan of
hammer on anvil from the blacksmith shop across from the jail
disrupts the
overwhelming silence while blue jays splash in the bird bath;
the only symbol
of co-existence in town, a gift from the American Legion and the
Sons of the
Confederacy.
The East side remains for
the uncertain future. Some event of note
will demand attention and a field piece, another flagstaff, or
memorial will
rise to the occasion. There'll be a brief hustle for the
enshrinement,
animated activity for a gala evening, then a return to
stillness.
At the High School Mrs. Royer teaches in her geometry class that
a
square must have four sides, but the city ignores this demand.
It is content
with its own Square, even though it only has three sides.
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