The Golden Dream (2 page)

In the event, Ash Robinson was cleared by the civil-court jury. But the case was a popular topic of dinner-table conversation in River Oaks, where they say, “Don't we have the best old murders here? Don't we have the best old time? Aren't we
somethin'?
”

In addition to the splendid quality of local murders, River Oaks likes to boast of the splendid shopping. There is the sparkling new Galleria shopping center, for example, which contains, among other things, “the most beautiful branch of Neiman-Marcus.” Then there is Jamail's, which can only be described as a supermarket for the super-rich. Jamail's abounds in all sorts of costly delights, such as fresh fruits out of season and vegetables imported from all over the world, displayed and arranged as though for a Tiffany window. The live Maine lobsters may cost twelve dollars a pound, but Jamail's will have them. “You can buy
anything
at Jamail's,” they say, and an account at Jamail's is as important to River Oaks as a Neiman's charge plate. Jamail's will prepare exotic hors d'oeuvres and deliver them to your party. Jamail's will also prepare whole meals and cater parties from a menu of a hostess's choosing. A number of River Oaks families, too busy to be bothered with cooking and tired of coping with the kitchen-staff problem, simply give Jamail's carte blanche and have all their meals delivered to their homes on a daily basis.

Extravagances like having Jamail's do your cooking are brushed aside in River Oaks as mere practicalities—a simple way of solving life's little problems. In the same spirit, Mrs. Harvey Steinburger built a new house of “only” fourteen-thousand square feet because, she explained, “All the children are off and gone, and I needed a place for some of my pretty things.” Some of her pretty things included all the chandeliers from New York's old Astor Hotel, one of which hangs ninety-two feet from her living room ceiling. And in the same spirit, elderly residents of River Oaks keep suites of rooms at Methodist Hospital on a permanent basis, “Just in case we should ever need them.” It's merely practical.

Though, as in Phoenix, there is no downtown living in Houston, there have been attempts to spruce up older, run-down areas of the city outside River Oaks, and to make these once-fashionable neighborhoods fashionable again. Such efforts have met with a certain limited success. In the old Heights area of town, for example, there are many fine old Victorian mansions—with high-ceilinged rooms, bay windows, turrets and towers—built for an earlier generation of Houston rich. In recent years they had fallen into disrepair. Though no part of Houston is very “high,” the Heights houses had views of sorts, and several years ago, bright-eyed young designers and architects discovered that mansions in the Heights could be bought for a fraction of their original cost and, with a little money and imagination, stripped down and renovated to something approaching their original glory. Greenhouses and swimming pools were added and, all at once, the Heights became fashionable again. Or somewhat fashionable. The trouble was that as restoring old houses in the Heights became chic, the owners of old houses in the area became greedy. Real estate prices shot up to the point where decaying mansions are no longer much of a bargain. And so restoration projects in the Heights have come to a standstill, and the Heights remains partly a good address and partly not.

Older Houston families like to point out that though Houston's oil fortunes are spectacular, there was wealth in Houston long before the petroleum industry. Lumber was once big business here, and second to that came cotton. Old Houston pre-oil families included the Garrows, the Clevelands, the Neuhauses, Carters, Dicksons, Myerses, and Autrys (cowboy actor Gene Autry is kin of the Houston Autrys). Nearly all these families' in-town mansions are gone now. The sites of the old H. B. Rice house on Crawford Street and the James A. Baker house on Main Street are now parking lots, and the
Italianate palace the James Butes built on Milam Street has given way to the Tenneco Building tower. But at least one in-town street has managed to retain much of what was its original suburban charm, and that is Courtlandt Place.

Courtlandt Place was planned as a walled, gated, limited-access street for the wealthy, who, by the turn of the century, were moving away from downtown's Main Street and wanted something that at the time seemed very much like “country.” According to the rules drawn up by the founding fathers of the Courtlandt Improvement Company in 1906, the purpose of Courtlandt Place was to “create a district restricted to the erection of residences of good class and to surround such and the locality generally with conditions assuring as far as possible freedom from noise, dust, constant traffic and other annoyances incident to a populous city.” The founders of this idyllic enclave also decreed that “No business house or houses, sanitarium, hospital, saloon, place of public entertainment, livery stable, resort or dance hall or other place of business shall ever be erected on said lot, or any part thereof.” And they meant
ever
.

What were erected, instead, were large homes of brick and granite. Architects from the East were imported, as was then the fashion—including the firm of Warren and Wetmore, who designed New York's Ritz-Carlton and Biltmore hotels, as well as 17 Courtlandt Place. Courtlandt Place houses were built with detailed interior paneling, dumbwaiters, wine and preserve cellars, vast kitchens with servants' callboards, hand-cut crystal doorknobs. And since the Eastern architects didn't know about the problem of Houston “gumbo”—the muddy ooze that runs off silty soil when it rains—most Courtlandt Place mansions were built with commodious, if occasionally damp, basements.

But as the suburbs grew, fashionable Houston began moving out to Memorial Drive and River Oaks. One by one, the old families moved away and by now most of the big houses have changed hands several times. An exception was the so-called Carter Complex, and three of four houses built for members of the Carter family are still family-owned. (Victor Carter III, a grandson of the original Courtlandt Place owner, Victor Carter II, recently renovated and moved into his grandfather's old home.) At the same time, Courtlandt Place managed to find favor with new arrivals from out of town (one Louisiana couple thought Courtlandt Place reminiscent of New Orleans's Vieux Carré), and so the stately flavor of the street was preserved.

In the early 1920s, residents of the newly developed subdivision of Montrose demanded easy access to downtown Houston, and the easiest access seemed to be straight through Courtlandt Place. Down came the brick wall that barred the way, and through came the traffic, carrying with it the cul-de-sac's air of privacy. Better transportation to and from the city was called for, and along came the Montrose trolley, which ran down Hawthorne, turned left on Taft, and clanged to a stop at the east gates of Courtlandt Place. Peace and quiet vanished. But still Courtlandt Place held on, refusing to succumb to the growing city around it. Nearby streets filled with businesses and business traffic, and yet Courtlandt Place—now a suburb within a city—remained undaunted. In the late 1950s and early 1960s, the neighboring streets filled with “hippies” and undesirables, but Courtlandt Place stood firm.

In the 1960s, the neighborhood was dealt its most severe blow. The Brazos ramp of the Southwest Freeway appeared on the drawing boards of those in charge of the Interstate Highway System, slashing through the old east gates of Courtlandt Place, where the crescent-shaped parklike entrance to the street had been. At the time, Courtlandt Place became sharply and bitterly divided between those who felt the neighborhood was doomed and wanted to sell, and those who preferred to stay on and fight regardless. Though the fight against the ramp was intense, the freeway, as all freeways do, inexorably came. And yet the little street, though aesthetically marred by the ramp at one end, almost miraculously remained unchanged otherwise.

Today Courtlandt Place is a proud and handsome strip of green lawns and old cottonwood trees in the middle of a bustling city. The Courtlandt Place residents are united again and, through their Courtlandt Association—to which every home owner belongs—determined that Courtlandt Place will remain as it is forever, a pocket of large, expensive private homes. “We are an example to other cities of what can be done to preserve fine old neighborhoods,” says one association member. Plans are afoot to have Courtlandt Place declared a historic preservation district, like Audubon Place in New Orleans and King William Street in San Antonio. And, as a gesture of neighborhood solidarity, Courtlandt Place tosses an annual Christmas party for all present and former residents.

Of course, out in the perfumed reaches of River Oaks, no one would think of living “down there.” Some River Oaks people have never heard of Courtlandt Place, and many are not sure exactly how
to get there. River Oaks isn't much concerned with the preservation of old places, being more concerned with preserving its private police force and its private garbage-collection service and its meals catered by Jamail's, with seeing to it that no apartment buildings invade the “right” side of San Felipe Boulevard, and with its favorite preoccupations—money and blood. There was all sorts of talk in River Oaks, for example, when a prominent society woman was knocked down by the bouncers at the Old Plantation, and then beaten up in the parking lot, allegedly for trying to bring her small dog into the bar. As they say in River Oaks, “Don't we have the most
wonderful
scandals here?”

2

The Casual Life

Every new house in the gilded suburb of Scottsdale, Arizona, is built with a “family room.” Family rooms are almost as popular in Scottsdale as high school basketball—and flagpoles. Scottsdale, which bills itself as “The West's Most Western Town” (the slogan is emblazoned on the town's official stationery), may have more flagpoles per home than any suburb in the country. Scottsdale is proud of its flagpoles, and of the flag, because Scottsdale considers itself a particularly patriotic city. Its motto might well be “America's Most American Town.” This is, after all, Barry Goldwater country, where America comes first.

Patriotism, here, is serious business. No wonder everyone was shocked when, at a recent American Legion meeting, veterans of World War II were asked to stand up, and a German-born member of the Scottsdale City Council rose proudly to his feet. He had fought in World War II, all right—but on the other side. No wonder there was further shock when he couldn't seem to understand why everyone was shocked.

One of Scottsdale's current heroines is Miss Lori Cox, now a freshman studying pre-law at nearby Arizona State University. Miss Cox, posed in front of an American flag, has been labeled in Scottsdale “The
real
Miss America.” It all started when Lori Cox was a little girl growing up in this Phoenix suburb in the early sixties, and saw, on a local telecast, a group of student demonstrators set fire to an American flag. “Mommy, Mommy,” she reportedly cried
out. “Please make them stop it!” Then, in 1971, the Scottsdale school board banned the recital of the pledge of allegiance in the classrooms of Scottsdale's public schools. Lori was even more upset. She went to her principal, Robert Hendricks, and protested. “But he refused, saying it would create a disciplinary problem.”

In 1974, Senator Barry Goldwater came to speak to the pupils of Coronado High School, where Lori was a sophomore, and the students were instructed, on this occasion, to stand and recite the pledge. The students did, but there was a lot of grumbling about it, and, says Lori, “The hypocrisy of the situation bothered me.” So she carried her crusade a step further. She went to the Scottsdale school board, confronted the Superintendent of Secondary Education, and requested that the pledge be reinstated. He replied that “The pledge of allegiance on a daily basis would prove to be a traumatic experience for some students,” a judgment no one quite understood.

But Lori Cox was not to be deterred by officialdom. The following week she and a group of friends stationed themselves outside various Scottsdale supermarkets and collected some three thousand signatures in favor of restoring the pledge to Scottsdale schoolrooms. In November, 1974, she carried her petition to the school board, which voted four to one (with one member abstaining) in favor of bringing the pledge back. But her victory was short-lived. For the next five months there were all sorts of disruptive incidents. Flags were ripped down from front-yard flagpoles, and flagpole ropes were cut. One day at school, during the singing of the national anthem, a student marched down the hall carrying a Communist flag. Although only a minority of the students were actually involved in the protests, a majority voted that the pledge to the flag was “meaningless.” “Many of the kids said they were too tired to stand in the morning,” Lori says. “It seemed as though nobody really wanted the pledge back.” She received unpleasant phone calls and threatening letters. “My name was on all the bathroom walls,” she says. “I missed all the parties and lost friends. But the thing that hurt me most was their disrespect for the flag.”

As a result of all the dissension, five months after it had voted to reinstate the pledge the school board reversed itself and voted to ban the pledge again and to substitute, instead, a “once-a-week patriotic observance.”

Lori was crushed but not defeated. “This is the only country in the world where a fifteen-year-old girl could approach the legislature,” she says, which is precisely what she did. After another futile
round with the Board of Education, she took her case to the Senate Education Committee of the Arizona State Legislature in Phoenix, asking the committee to pass a bill that would give students the daily opportunity to recite the pledge of allegiance to the flag in all Arizona public schools. There was, she says, much opposition, but in the end the bill was passed and signed into law by Governor Raul Castro on June 13, 1975. “The bill doesn't force anyone to make the pledge,” Lori says, “but it does permit someone to make it if he wants to.”