Forty years ago today, on a warm Saturday, The Crockett Hotel burned down.
I'm not sure if the cause was ever determined. Fortunately it happened during the day, so no one was hurt or killed.
A recent websearch turned up a historical marker placed at the site in 1980, and I'm glad to know it's there.
The town of Crockett, Texas lies about halfway between Dallas and Houston, and back then it had a population of about 8000.
Late in 1965, my parents were looking at land in east Texas. They bought a ranch where various family members (including me) lived off and on over the next 9 years. One of the realtors they consulted was Hollis Beall, whose office was connected by a doorway to the Crockett Hotel lobby. So I, an 11-year-old California kid, was in for a culture shock.
Crockett, Texas is about 1500 miles from southern California, but in 1965 their cultures were worlds apart.
Crockett's public schools weren't integrated until 1968; its public pool remained closed long after that, a victim of city fathers who couldn't reconcile integration requirements with the cultural taboo of blacks and whites sharing a pool.
Women didn't wear pants-suits to church, they wore dresses.
The locals didn't want alcohol sold in their county, but they drove to the adjacent county where alcohol could legally be sold, and brought back a case at a time. Or they gave the local moonshiner $5 in exchange for a gallon of moonshine. Everyone knew what was going on, but everyone pretended otherwise.
Walking into that hotel lobby was walking back into an unknown time and culture.
Next to the street sat a desk with a "Cornelius Insurance" sign hanging over it. Ray Cornelius was the rotund hotel manager, and also sold insurance at the desk.
The hotel had no elevator, just a wide carpeted staircase extending upward from the lobby.
It also had no air conditioning; both ends of each floor's hallway had a huge fan about 5 feet in diameter, which ran constantly during warm weather, moving inside air out and outside air in.
The mens' room at the base of the stairs contained several vending machines on the wall; condom machines were a staple in the South back then. One machine sold condoms, one sold packets of a creme designed to "delay male climax", and one sold sexually-oriented novelty coins.
The ladies' room was upstairs on the second floor; ladies weren't expected (or encouraged) to frequent the hotel lobby.
A small restaurant at the rear of the lobby served hushpuppies, catfish, chicken-fried steak, and other staples of deep-fried Texas cuisine. The milk cooler bore a large sticker reading "Land O' Pines Dairy, Lufkin, Texas"
A few tables and chairs in the middle of the floor and a few booths around the edges completed the scene.
I can't even remember if it had 3 stories or 5; I ventured up to the second and third floors once, but my parents and I never stayed there. We did eat there several times, and it was one of many landmarks in Crockett.
Until it was gone, and with it, an icon of the past, representing a way of life with its good and evil components.
The day of the fire, I was attending a friend's wedding. Events at that wedding reception slowly but profoundly changed the course of my life, and the lives of others around me.
Few if any of our decisions are inconsequential, although we seldom know their significance until later, if at all.
Whether we know it or not, whether we believe it or not, God leaves His fingerprints on the events of our lives, and mileposts along the road.
The loss of the Crockett Hotel was a milepost; it didn't cause the changes, but it marked the time when they began.
God always leaves room for unbelief; otherwise faith wouldn't really be faith.
I believe the coincidences weren't really coincidental.
And I'm comforted by the fingerprints.
I'm not sure if the cause was ever determined. Fortunately it happened during the day, so no one was hurt or killed.
A recent websearch turned up a historical marker placed at the site in 1980, and I'm glad to know it's there.
The town of Crockett, Texas lies about halfway between Dallas and Houston, and back then it had a population of about 8000.
Late in 1965, my parents were looking at land in east Texas. They bought a ranch where various family members (including me) lived off and on over the next 9 years. One of the realtors they consulted was Hollis Beall, whose office was connected by a doorway to the Crockett Hotel lobby. So I, an 11-year-old California kid, was in for a culture shock.
Crockett, Texas is about 1500 miles from southern California, but in 1965 their cultures were worlds apart.
Crockett's public schools weren't integrated until 1968; its public pool remained closed long after that, a victim of city fathers who couldn't reconcile integration requirements with the cultural taboo of blacks and whites sharing a pool.
Women didn't wear pants-suits to church, they wore dresses.
The locals didn't want alcohol sold in their county, but they drove to the adjacent county where alcohol could legally be sold, and brought back a case at a time. Or they gave the local moonshiner $5 in exchange for a gallon of moonshine. Everyone knew what was going on, but everyone pretended otherwise.
Walking into that hotel lobby was walking back into an unknown time and culture.
Next to the street sat a desk with a "Cornelius Insurance" sign hanging over it. Ray Cornelius was the rotund hotel manager, and also sold insurance at the desk.
The hotel had no elevator, just a wide carpeted staircase extending upward from the lobby.
It also had no air conditioning; both ends of each floor's hallway had a huge fan about 5 feet in diameter, which ran constantly during warm weather, moving inside air out and outside air in.
The mens' room at the base of the stairs contained several vending machines on the wall; condom machines were a staple in the South back then. One machine sold condoms, one sold packets of a creme designed to "delay male climax", and one sold sexually-oriented novelty coins.
The ladies' room was upstairs on the second floor; ladies weren't expected (or encouraged) to frequent the hotel lobby.
A small restaurant at the rear of the lobby served hushpuppies, catfish, chicken-fried steak, and other staples of deep-fried Texas cuisine. The milk cooler bore a large sticker reading "Land O' Pines Dairy, Lufkin, Texas"
A few tables and chairs in the middle of the floor and a few booths around the edges completed the scene.
I can't even remember if it had 3 stories or 5; I ventured up to the second and third floors once, but my parents and I never stayed there. We did eat there several times, and it was one of many landmarks in Crockett.
Until it was gone, and with it, an icon of the past, representing a way of life with its good and evil components.
The day of the fire, I was attending a friend's wedding. Events at that wedding reception slowly but profoundly changed the course of my life, and the lives of others around me.
Few if any of our decisions are inconsequential, although we seldom know their significance until later, if at all.
Whether we know it or not, whether we believe it or not, God leaves His fingerprints on the events of our lives, and mileposts along the road.
The loss of the Crockett Hotel was a milepost; it didn't cause the changes, but it marked the time when they began.
God always leaves room for unbelief; otherwise faith wouldn't really be faith.
I believe the coincidences weren't really coincidental.
And I'm comforted by the fingerprints.
