I remember, back in the day, after the strip clubs had mostly been closed and the action in the few remaining bars was dwindling, there were some nice benches placed on the wide walkways of downtown Fayetteville, NC. If one was so inclined, one could stretch out there on a nice spring day and just laze away in the warm sunshine. My buddy and I used to hang out there from time to time. There was a great little café down near the corner where you could get the best hot dog in town. Maybe it was the mustard … or the open mall that had been closed to traffic … or perhaps just the warm sun, but there was something special about hanging out down there.

One could always hear the drone of traffic at the end of the mall, circling around the historic Market House, named of course for the commerce that had once taken place there back in the 50s before the war. The BIG war. The war that featured Sherman and burned southern towns and grieving northern widows and battling brothers and a nation on edge. Not to forget the hope against hope that folks who knew they were only looked on as human chattel might finally find some small hint of liberation and a bit of space where they could dream … and breathe … and live.

They were nice benches along a mall that once heard the clop of horses and creaking of wagons headed to this particular southern bizarre. If you laid there long enough and looked at the Market House hard enough, pretty soon, you might even hear the cries of the auctioneers as they hawked the goods or the wailings of families that were torn apart in the process. And if you possessed just a touch of imagination, you could easily get swept away up in the drama of that not-so-long-ago past that continues to radiate all about us in the present.

I was always surprised by how many black folk would find their way to those benches, there within the echo of such historical horror. Particularly the Bud’s and Jim’s who might hit you up for a buck as they made their way toward the bench next door. Every now and again I would share a dog with them. I think they enjoyed the mustard too. And as we chatted, I would often wonder how many of them had connections to that Market House, connections that brought them to this street without much but the grimy clothes on their back and second-hand shoes purchased for a bit of change at the Urban Ministries building around the corner. It’s funny, there in the spring sunshine, how long some shadows can stretch.

But all of that was back in the day. It would actually be nice to have some coin operated benches now, ones with little spikes in them so you would have to leave if you stayed too long. Perhaps you would still have enough time for a dream or two. But the thing is, one day someone in a city vehicle came along and carted them all away. Apparently, as the city worked to “clean up” the downtown area, those grimy clothes and scruffy shoes didn’t fit in with the new business model. And with the benches gone … well, you know.

Every now and then my bride and I will make our way down to that mall. It’s open to vehicle traffic once again and where the benches once sat, now there are heavy iron pots full of dazzling flowers. While you can still find a pretty good hotdog there, now the typical fare is much more upscale. Funky clubs, artsy boutiques, and some really fine meals. And though you can’t sit beside the Market House and dream, you can sometimes find a table outside one of the granola-like cafes where you can get a sandwich with an amazingly cute name.

I don’t see Jim or Bud much anymore but I hear the local downtown churches have seen an upswing in membership. I’m glad for the churches, for I know some of those folks and truly do love them. After all, they were in serious decline. I suspect the business plan worked for them as well. I guess that is how it is with effective commerce.

Yet, here’s the thing – I don’t know for certain, but back before the big war, I doubt the folks in those churches said much about the Market House.

And we didn’t say much about the benches either.

Karen, my buddy and I became “Christians” there on those streets, under the bridges, and in the spaces where so many great folks live. Curtis H., who was at Urban Ministries, was our good friend and mentor. It was Curtis and the Buds and Jims who taught us about theology that connects the sanctuary and the streets. I know the barber shop but sadly have never visited. I’ll have to rectify that. I also know the jazz club near the corner. Great music but I suspect upstairs would get more than a bit old. I remember that you wrote for the Fayetteville paper. Always an interesting and rich take on the whatever of your subject. And with my brethren at Ft. Bragg as a significant readership, always respectful and gutsy and real. Thank you for your graciousness and hospitality.