My Sunday Feeling

I was saddened to learn of the passing of Arkansas writer Charles Portis.  I, of course, had read "True Grit" and watched both of the movie adaptations of it.  But I also knew Charlie a little bit.  

It was back in the eighties.  I had just returned to Little Rock and had begun my illustrious and distinguished career with the government.  My friends and I used to hang out in bars in those days.  This was primarily because there was absolutely nothing to do in Little Rock back then.  There was no River Market.  No Argenta.  No Chenal Valley.  Hell, there probably wasn't an I-630 back then.  It was not unusual to see Bill Clinton jogging by himself downtown.  Or to see Hillary walking alongside little Chelsea on her trike.  

It was a different time.

Charlie and I lived in the same apartment complex.  And we both hung out at a steak joint where the Sonic on Cantrell is now located.  It was maybe a half mile from where we lived.  I hung out there because my brother Bob tended the bar.  Charlie told me he hung out there because he knew he could always make it home.

It's not like we were close friends or anything.  He was a solitary sort although he resisted being referred to as a recluse.  Anyway, I respected his space and always let him initiate the conversation.  We tended to talk about the stuff guys talk about.  Namely sports and politics although we never talked about women.  Not that I can recall in any event.  He was interested in the law and we talked about that.  Or mainly, I talked and he listened.  And he was a deep and active listener.  I would imagine this trait helped inform his voice.

As did perhaps one of his earliest journalism gigs.  I read in one of the numerous excellent obituaries written about Charlie that back when he was at the University he was hired by the Northwest Arkansas Times to edit the dispatches that came in from the communities around Fayetteville.  I remember this type of homespun journalism well.

My grandfather Bivens subscribed to the Cleburne County Times (I think it was called).  There was always a section in every edition where folks would report the goings on in the towns around Heber.  They would typically begin with a Bible verse.  Births and deaths were noted.  Revival meetings were announced.  If a particular preacher gave an inspiring "message" it was duly recounted. And "visits" from out-of-town guests were always dutifully recorded on history's immortal scroll.  Or at least history as it obtained in Pearson, Quitman and Drasco.  

I made the Quitman report at least twice that I know of.  The first time was when I got accepted to law school.  The other time was when I passed the bar.  I can assume that Grandmother Bivens was the source for these reports.  I can't imagine Granpa having any use for such foolishness.  I also made the Heber Springs section, along with a female college classmate who grew up there,  when some sharp eyed correspondent saw us strolling down Main Street.  

They wouldn't print it if it wasn't true.

The obituary said that it was Charlie's job to turn these dispatches from the hinterlands into english.  This evidently was not a high priority for the Cleburne County Times.  Anyway, I have absolutely no evidence for this.  But I would like to think that somewhere in the process of defanging the language contained in these missives he found the voice of Rooster Cogburn or any of the other eccentrics and cranks that he brought to life in his writing.  

Grandpa read the Arkansas Gazette and the Arkansas Democrat.  They merged into the Arkansas Democrat-Gazette.  His Cleburne County paper is no more.  There is now the Heber Springs Sun-Times.  And as far as I can tell from my recent examination of the same, the rural dispatches from the amateur correspondents are no more.

It was a different time.

I had heard a couple of years ago that Charlie had slipped into dementia.  I had lost track of him after moving from the apartment into my first house.  The notion of that sharp quirky mind being lost in the fog grieved me not a little.  

I remember my last conversation with him.  He used to eat breakfast in the diner by the Federal Building.  One morning some 20 years ago he was coming out as I was heading to work.  We stopped and exchanged greetings.

"Mind if I ask you something?," he said. 

"Not all I all,"I replied.

" I just read where they are calling United States Magistrates United States Magistrate Judges  now.  Why did they change that?"

"I have no idea."

"OK. Thanks.  Good to see you."

And away he went.

It was a different time.