Orwellian name changing. It was
once a two-lane country road heading south out of Midland, but by the time I saw it first in 1971, it was becoming a mixture
of garden apartments and commercial garishness. Now, almost a quarter century later, there wasn’t even a hint of Pine Hollow
Road.
There is something uniquely ugly and depressing about commercial strips in the old South, great expanses of parking lots,
motels, fast-food places, discount stores, car dealers, and what passes for nightclubs hereabouts. The old South, as I remember
it, was perhaps not so prosperous, but it was picturesque with its tiny gas stations with the Coke cooler next to the fish-bait
cooler, the sagging pine houses, the country stores, and the baled cotton bursting from sheds along the railroad sidings.
These were the things that grew organically out of the soil, the lumber from the forests, the gravel roads from nearby quarries,
and the people themselves a product of their environment. These new things seem artificial, transplanted. Convenience stores
and shopping strips with mammoth plastic signs and no relationship to the land or the people, to history, or to local custom.
But, of course, the new South had embraced all of this, not quickly, as we had done up North, but embraced it nonetheless.
And in some strange way, the garish commercial strip was now more associated with the South than with anywhere else in the
country. The carpetbaggers have finally taken over.
Within fifteen minutes of leaving the post, we arrived at Victory Gardens and parked the Mustang near unit forty-five.
Victory Gardens was actually a pleasant sort of place, comprised of about fifty attached town houses around a central courtyard,
with landscaping and ample parking. There were no signs that said, “Officers Only,” but the place had that air about it, and
the rents probably approximated the offpost quarters’ allowance for lieutenants and captains. Money aside, there are unwritten
rules about where officers may live off post, and thus, Ann Campbell, daughter of a general and good soldier that she was,
had not gone to the funky side of town, nor had she opted for the anonymity of a newer high-rise building, which, in this
town, is somewhat synonymous with swinging singles. Yet, neither did she live in her parents’ huge, government-issue house
on post, which suggested that she had a life of her own, and I was about to discover something about that life.
Cynthia and I looked around. Though the Army workday starts early, there were still a few cars parked in front of the units.
Most of them had the blue post bumper stickers signifying an officer’s car, and some had the green bumper sticker of a civilian
post employee. But mostly, the place looked as deserted as a barracks after morning mess call.
I was still wearing the battle dress uniform I’d had on in the armory, and Cynthia was, as I said, in jeans and windbreaker.
As we approached the front door of unit forty-five along the row of red brick façades, I said to her, “Are you armed?”
She nodded.
“All right. You wait here. I’ll go in through the back. If I flush somebody out the front, you stop them right here.”
“Okay.”
I made my way around the row of units and came to the back. The rear yard was a common stretch of grass, but each unit had
a patio separated from the next by a wooden fence for privacy. On Ann Campbell’s patio was the standard barbecue grill and
lawn furniture, including a lounge chair on which lay suntan oil and a travel magazine.
There were sliding glass doors facing onto the patio, and I was able to see through the vertical blinds into the dining area
and part of the living room. There didn’t appear to be anyone home. Certainly, Ann Campbell was not home, and I couldn’t imagine
a general’s daughter having a live-in male lover, or even a female roommate, who would compromise her privacy. On the other
hand, you
once a two-lane country road heading south out of Midland, but by the time I saw it first in 1971, it was becoming a mixture
of garden apartments and commercial garishness. Now, almost a quarter century later, there wasn’t even a hint of Pine Hollow
Road.
There is something uniquely ugly and depressing about commercial strips in the old South, great expanses of parking lots,
motels, fast-food places, discount stores, car dealers, and what passes for nightclubs hereabouts. The old South, as I remember
it, was perhaps not so prosperous, but it was picturesque with its tiny gas stations with the Coke cooler next to the fish-bait
cooler, the sagging pine houses, the country stores, and the baled cotton bursting from sheds along the railroad sidings.
These were the things that grew organically out of the soil, the lumber from the forests, the gravel roads from nearby quarries,
and the people themselves a product of their environment. These new things seem artificial, transplanted. Convenience stores
and shopping strips with mammoth plastic signs and no relationship to the land or the people, to history, or to local custom.
But, of course, the new South had embraced all of this, not quickly, as we had done up North, but embraced it nonetheless.
And in some strange way, the garish commercial strip was now more associated with the South than with anywhere else in the
country. The carpetbaggers have finally taken over.
Within fifteen minutes of leaving the post, we arrived at Victory Gardens and parked the Mustang near unit forty-five.
Victory Gardens was actually a pleasant sort of place, comprised of about fifty attached town houses around a central courtyard,
with landscaping and ample parking. There were no signs that said, “Officers Only,” but the place had that air about it, and
the rents probably approximated the offpost quarters’ allowance for lieutenants and captains. Money aside, there are unwritten
rules about where officers may live off post, and thus, Ann Campbell, daughter of a general and good soldier that she was,
had not gone to the funky side of town, nor had she opted for the anonymity of a newer high-rise building, which, in this
town, is somewhat synonymous with swinging singles. Yet, neither did she live in her parents’ huge, government-issue house
on post, which suggested that she had a life of her own, and I was about to discover something about that life.
Cynthia and I looked around. Though the Army workday starts early, there were still a few cars parked in front of the units.
Most of them had the blue post bumper stickers signifying an officer’s car, and some had the green bumper sticker of a civilian
post employee. But mostly, the place looked as deserted as a barracks after morning mess call.
I was still wearing the battle dress uniform I’d had on in the armory, and Cynthia was, as I said, in jeans and windbreaker.
As we approached the front door of unit forty-five along the row of red brick façades, I said to her, “Are you armed?”
She nodded.
“All right. You wait here. I’ll go in through the back. If I flush somebody out the front, you stop them right here.”
“Okay.”
I made my way around the row of units and came to the back. The rear yard was a common stretch of grass, but each unit had
a patio separated from the next by a wooden fence for privacy. On Ann Campbell’s patio was the standard barbecue grill and
lawn furniture, including a lounge chair on which lay suntan oil and a travel magazine.
There were sliding glass doors facing onto the patio, and I was able to see through the vertical blinds into the dining area
and part of the living room. There didn’t appear to be anyone home. Certainly, Ann Campbell was not home, and I couldn’t imagine
a general’s daughter having a live-in male lover, or even a female roommate, who would compromise her privacy. On the other
hand, you
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