The Most Perfect, Charming, Elegant, Graceful, Cozy, Genteel, Affluent 2.2 Square Miles in Texas
My thirty years in Highland Park.
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Town council meetings are rarely attended by anyone other than an occasional Boy Scout fulfilling requirements for a merit badge. The affable good-old-boyism of our town council, a trusteeship usually held by men who grew up here, is called into question only when tricky zoning issues and odd construction variances arise, turning neighbor against neighbor. Most of the time, we are grateful that someone is willing to preside over aging sewer lines and infrastructure repairs without bothering us. The story is told of Mrs. Rose Lloyd, the wealthy Highland Park widow who, on receiving a copy of the town budget in the mail, thought it was her tax bill and sent the city a check to pay it. Perhaps the story is a metaphor for the oblivion brought on by the civic pampering citizens receive here.
The mayor, Bill White, a handsome, genial man in his late sixties who grew up in the neighborhood (of course), says, "We have nine thousand citizens here, and many of 'em believe they're living in a five-star hotel. When anything goes wrong, they call the hotel manager. That's me." Inscribed on the town council chamber wall is this statement: "A haven for home and fireside—undisturbed by conflict of commercial or political interest. The function of government in HP is protection of the home. Citizens who cherish their homes will vigilantly preserve their heritage of self-government." I'm not sure what that means. I think perhaps it could be reduced to the sign that hangs on most hotel doors: "Do Not Disturb."
My husband can attest to the fact that no complaint is too small. He often comes home early to sit in the back yard and do more contemplative law work while smoking a cigar. He once complained to his good friend on the council that the town needed to do something about the roaring helicopters that veer from their traffic-reporting corridors on Central Expressway to interrupt his train of thought. Our councilman friend rushed right over to present my husband with a set of earplugs. When I jokingly mentioned the incident to our public safety director, Darrell Fant, he responded quite seriously, "You know, I worked on that problem for several weeks, and I'm sorry that I haven't been able to get the matter resolved."
Highland Park residents often call on the city for help. A variation on the old lightbulb joke comes to mind. "How many Highland Park residents does it take to replace a lightbulb? None. The police do it for us." Fant admits that residents call the police the minute anything goes wrong. "If the lights go out, they don't call TXU. They call us." The police get calls to cut off the water when a sprinkler system breaks. They locate fuse boxes, relight water heaters, and even respond to "birds in the chimney." Neighbors on my street spend fortunes hiring crews to create exquisite Christmas light displays that are turned on Thanksgiving evening and then call the police to complain that they can't get out of their driveway because of the traffic created by holiday gawkers. Fant also confirmed that the legendary story of the Highland Park widow who called 911 when the zipper stuck on her ball gown is not apocryphal.
"What do you do to keep from getting bored?" I asked Fant, who oversees a force of 54 men and women who serve as police, firefighters, and paramedics. He admits that he has a Disneyland dream job. Only applicants with college degrees are considered for these positions. Highland Park's police force has become a test laboratory for cutting-edge crime-fighting technology, such as Global Positioning System equipment (for 2.2 square miles!). The myth continues to circulate that HP residents never receive DWI's; they are cited as "DIC," "Drunk in Car." But Fant denies that residents are given any leeway when it comes to breaking the law. He regards as a matter of personal pride that the neighborhood no longer dismisses teen drunkenness as a "rite of passage."
The police force has occasionally been accused of racial profiling on traffic stops, but Fant says, "I know people think we do, but we don't. This neighborhood discriminates economically but not racially. We just know our people and their habits. We know who belongs here and who doesn't. For example, our residents do not jog in the alley at three in the morning." I wondered if I should warn him that I have been known to climb out the window of my attic office to sleep on the flat roof on a cool spring evening. Perhaps he already knows.
AFTER THIRTY YEARS OF LIVING in this peculiar neighborhood, it is home. My sons imprinted their names and small hands in the fresh cement behind our house on Normandy 24 years ago. I never take for granted the brilliant fall color or the spring display of pear blossoms, daffodils, azaleas, tulips, and wisteria, and the lush summer expanses of St. Augustine banked by impatiens and cool caladiums. Nor do I take for granted the longstanding comfortable friendships that grace my day.
The Bible Belt habit of churchgoing in this neighborhood continues unabated. Jesus and Saint Paul are regular invitees at fantasy dinner parties, according to the resident profiles in our weekly newspapers. The churches, however, are not in Highland Park. Highland Park Presbyterian is in University Park and Highland Park United Methodist straddles the border between the two towns. At the outset, developers of our suburb surmised that churches would contribute nothing to the tax rolls and create parking problems. We have the liquor stores.
We keep up appearances here. My own personal trainer, a chocolate Lab named Cisco, and I walk every day. The Lab and the golden retriever are the official pets of Highland Park. We have laws about pet poop, so my walks take me down alleys in search of a garbage can to dispose of Cisco's double-bagged contribution. Even the alleys are lovely. Our own alley is the only sunny spot for my husband's seldom-weeded summer garden, but on my forays to fancier blocks, I have found latticed compost bins and built-up garden boxes in the alley, spilling over with rosemary and mint or filled with plants relegated to the alley because, even though they are perennials, they do not die back as beautifully as they bloom. Antique roses in search of more sun than tree-shaded yards offer climb over the alley fences. Garbage cans are elevated in racks or in tiled enclosures and generally kept tightly lidded. The Bubble is not without varmints.
I once sat in a town council meeting where one of the neighborhood complaints was careless garbage collection that left litter and cans askew. Even before I walked these alleys redolent of roses, I knew that being a garbage man in Highland Park was not all bad. One resident raised her hand in the council meeting and confessed, "I've never had any problems with trash in my alley. I guess it's because whenever the weather is especially hot, they honk and I or the maid runs out there and gives the men a beer each."
All of this striving for perfection and niceness can sometimes be overwhelming. How can people who receive so many catalogs have such uncluttered houses? Why are kitchens so well equipped for cooking so free of the signs of use? How can these hordes of pre-dawn joggers keep their discipline season after season? I nod to neighbors walking their dogs and I expect them to say, "Be seeing you," as village residents responded in Patrick McGoohan's television cult classic The Prisoner. I get restless and escape to Austin, where spontaneity and stirring things up a bit are not anathema. After a few days of battling Austin traffic, however, I am relieved to head north again, happy to catch sight of the Dallas skyline and even happier to feel the stress of the highway fall away as I bump across the old Katy roadbed and tumble into the tranquillity of the Bubble. My 75-year-old house, with its messy attic office overlooking the street, is shaded by fifty-foot pecan trees. When I pull into my driveway, I am seduced again by the slogan that first attracted buyers to this suburb: "It's ten degrees cooler in Highland Park."
Last fall I had the privilege of introducing Ann Richards at the Texas Book Festival in the House chamber of the state capitol. I had been up late the night before, and my notes were a little blurry. Among many accolades I recounted was the governor's giving the keynote address, the famous silver-foot speech, at the Republican Convention. I caught my blooper immediately and bowed my head to the podium. Without missing a beat, Richards responded, "If Prudence thinks I gave the keynote address at the Republican Convention, I'd say she's been living in Highland Park too long."
Possibly.
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