February 5, 2008
I’m not sure of the year — it must have been late the 1960s — but I’m sure of the day of the week: it was Wednesday, a very fortunate day of the week for a disaster when you are the publisher of a weekly newspaper. Pine Bluff was burning. Our shop at the time was on Walnut Street between Fourth and Fifth avenues. It was during the summer because I was at the shop, where I always was when there was no school. I was about 10 years old. I remember somewhere in my consciousness that I had been hearing about this fire already for several hours and that Daddy and some of the other employees of the paper were “covering” it. Suddenly, Daddy burst in the shop and told Momma to close up and come see — and she was obliged to take me with her. We walked the six or seven blocks to Main Street. I remember hearing sirens and whistles and just general commotion even before we came upon the scene. It was horrific — building after building along Main Street and some even along the edges on Fourth Avenue were engulfed. Even as we watched, men ran out of Cohen’s Jewelers with boxes of goods they were trying to save — though we heard later that some boxes disappeared permanently. There were not enough fire trucks or fire men to stop the flames, and the wind would pick up sparks and carry them over a building or two where they would start another blaze. It was surreal, a movie — it felt like we were the city residents of Gettysburg who rode out in their carriages to see the battle as amusement, only to be met with horror. I could see Daddy running amongst the chaos, shooting pictures, disappearing in the smoke, and then reappearing further down the block. A huge, collective gasp arose from us spectators as a two-story wall of bricks came crashing down into the street. Daddy was right there, and Mom screamed at him. He arose from the other side of the rubble, grinning and holding up the camera and pointing at it to let us know he’d gotten the picture. I asked Mom what would happen if the flames could not be stopped, would it burn all the way to California (and I could envision my Aunt Mildred’s house in peril). At that moment, she took my hand and we went back to the shop, got into the car, and drove home — the only time I had ever known her to have left the shop before the paper was printed. I don’t remember Daddy coming home that night, but our paper the next morning was filled with pictures of the fire.
Richmond Narratives 