I was made from cement shipped by railroad and water from the Trinity River towards the end of the 19th century as the great age of horse-drawn transportation came to a close.
I was part of the 2,186 acres known as Camp Bowie.
Hundreds of hands touched me while men tied up Horses, Wagons and Carriages in those early years.
Some apprehensive, some confidant, some bewildered about their fate after leaving the Camp and heading off to fight a war .
By 1919, the Soldiers had moved and contractors began marking plats for what they called neighborhoods.
Those survey men tied their horses to me while they carefully marked out property lines for homes to be built in what would become the Hi Mount District.
I witnessed early Model A’s and Model T’s making it down a muddy and later brick laid Camp Bowie Boulevard in all types of weather, rain, snow ice and of course heat.
As construction began on a house near me on what was called Owasso and Tulsa Way the contractors tied their horse drawn wagons to me.
I watched over the next five years as the area around me transformed from desert prairie and scrub brush to what dozens would call home.
The brick houses with their shiny polished wood floors, crisp roof lines and the flower beds full of Iris, Ivy, and Magnolia trees all drew happy new families to the area.
Some of those families used me to tie up their horses, but by the early 30’s I was seeing more automobiles go by on Camp Bowie and fewer horses.
The neighborhood children began to use me as a base for a hide and seek game, or as a meeting place for dozens of super-secret clubs where jacks were played beneath my base and baseball cards were traded.
Over the years, atop me, my metal hook once bright and shiny turned dull and brown from the rain, snow and ice I endured, however, I was made to last and my concrete body only showed a few chips.
Some of the children who played around me, said their goodbyes to each other as they shipped off to fight another war, some to never return.
As the neighborhood grew older, I saw few if any horses around me, but many more automobiles with their chrome bumpers and fins.
And the music changed over the years from guitars and harmonicas, to orchestra to what they call rock and roll.
A few of those who once played beneath me in those carefree days, were now raising their own kids and walked by me in colorful strollers while the older kids zoomed by in metal pedal cars and bicycles.
I had not been used in years but everyone knew who I was. “Want to go to a movie? Meet you at the Hitching Post.’
As time went on, the cars changed to bigger engines and became more sporty, eventually to what they called ‘luxury’and larger than the carriages which once were lined in front of me.
As the families grew older and moved and passed on, the houses became home to new people, cheery, full of hope and appreciative of such a wonderful neighborhood.
With the years passing more quickly now I became obsolete to many.
Some who walked by me daily had no idea what I was or the history I witnessed.
One man walked by me every day for ten years and would put his hands on me almost trying to touch those who had passed those many, many years before.
As I stood tall and strong , yet a bit weathered last week, a man in a hard hat approached me speaking a foreign language.
Why is he swinging a sledge hammer at me?
Why is he chipping away at me, why, what have I done except stand and witness time go by.
As he smashed my once perfect triangular concrete body into tiny chunks of concrete and threw it into a pile, I wondered my crime.
When the dump truck backed in to haul what was left of me away, the man who walked by everyday approached the crew and asked why.
A supervisor for the now sprawling city never admitted to a mistake and said he was ‘limited in the actions he could take against the contractor’ over my destruction.
That Official gleefully said ‘we’ll build another one’ to the man who tried to help me.
The Man called his Councilman, the Mayor, the Neighborhood Association and the State seeking answers.
No one seemed to care.
After all, to them at least, I was only a Hitching Post.
by lattig-derik
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