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| Hall
County Courthouse in Memphis, Texas
Photo by Wes Reeves |
I
know a place in my faraway memories where the Orange Crush is ice cold, and where
laughter and friendly small talk comes back to me in warm echoes.
This
place smells like ink and typewriter ribbons, cleaning solution and second-hand
cigarette smoke, and anywhere I encounter those smells mixed together, I am transported
through time to my grandmother’s office at the Hall County Courthouse. She is
alive again, and cutting up with Gip McMurry from across the hall. She is writing
in a huge ledger, and making whacking noises with an array of ink stampers with
gears and parts that clink together. Everything’s mechanical here, and no one
gets carpal tunnel syndrome from punching keyboards all day. |
| | "Photo
of grandmother (Lucile Wright) at her desk in the Hall County Treasurer's office
in Memphis in 1965. The old Royal typewriter is visible in the foreground. I couldn't
see the flyswatters, though." - Wes Reeves |
I am exploring,
looking for a lost passage. Fearful of going too far and losing my way back, I
am looking for familiar landmarks. The janitor’s closet with its naked light bulb
leads me back to the end of the hall, where I once again hear familiar voices,
bouncing in waves off hard-plastered walls that must have been painted over a
thousand times.
My exploration takes me out the door to stand underneath
those giant columns. I don’t make the connection between Memphis,
Texas and ancient Corinth, but the tops of those columns are really neat.
They don’t have anything like that in my hometown. And what a great idea to build
slides into the courthouse stairs. No one worries about liability if a kid tumbles
off the side. People don’t take people to court over scratches and bruises yet.
Back
inside, it’s getting hot. The windows are huge and hard to open, but my grandmother
has propped open a window with a sawed-off broomstick handle. Luckily she’s on
the northeast corner, where it’s cooler. Occasionally a fly or a wasp sneaks in,
but she has a collection of fly swatters at her disposal. She can kill flying
bugs faster and more effectively than anyone I’ve ever known, and seems to relish
it. Dumb bugs. They never learn.
She probably doesn’t get a lot accomplished
when I’m there, but I don’t think a thing about it. I’m a little kid, and the
world revolves around me. We take early lunches and sometimes a quick afternoon
nap before we come back. I’m not good at telling time, but I’m betting we’re leaving
for home early that day, too. The wonderland that is the courthouse gives way
to the resort of Nanny’s house, where we can eat TV dinners on little metal tables
that might pinch your finger when you’re putting them together. We can drink ice-cold
chocolate milk (I never get that at home) and read the same old books we always
read at Nanny’s house.
Next morning, it’s orange juice in bed and a cheerful
good morning before we trek back to the Hall County Courthouse. The big Royal
typewriter is waiting with a fresh piece of paper, ready to be pounded by six-year-old
fingers. ... next page |
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