Chapter 13
It was his suggestion, the story goes, that the space between the east and west sides of Broadway be ample enough to accommodate large canopy trees, fountains, open areas for play, and landscapable greenspace. The wisdom or fortuitousness of that decision had served the city well.
Early on, and largely at the instigation of the town planner who had been to Paris, the median became known as “the Promenade.”
Last syllable, “nod.”
And like the rest of the city, the Promenade experienced its share of economic ups and downs over the years.
When the city’s financial coffers were low, that fact was visible in the dereliction of plants and landmarks in the median.
When, on the other hand, the local treasury had been flush and the downtown was thriving, well-paid arborists and landscapers maintained order and comeliness up and down the thoroughfare.
A safe, clean, beautiful Promenade always proved good for business and public relations.
In Golden’s most recent renaissance, the one that preceded Theo’s arrival, the city had campaigned aggressively to undo the neglect of previous years.
Litter, untended vegetation, cracked sidewalks, malfunctioning fountains, neglected storefronts, and algae-covered pools became the target of thorough, well-funded reclamation.
The makeover brought new landscaping, street paving, fresh paint, tasteful signage, and a maintenance crew that worked daily to keep the area in good repair.
And the public, to the delight of local leaders and business owners, responded with wallets open wide.
Theo’s knowledge of Golden grew by the day.
Through walks and conversation, observation and inquiry, he learned the lore and landmarks of the city.
Historical markers told the stories of buildings, bridges, prominent citizens, and local industry.
And there were always people like Tony and Junior to fill in the gaps.
The city, as Mr. Ponder had promised, had a rich past.
Theo did read the book Tony gave him at their first meeting. It was there he learned about the oak trees in the Promenade, one in particular. Those trees were, and ever would be, haunting reminders of grim moments and dark stains in Golden’s history.
The oak nearest the Chalice, on the southeast side of the tree, had a scar on its trunk, eight feet above the ground, that bore the unmistakable shape of an eye.
Some of the older Black folk in the city called it “the Eye of God.”
It harkened back to a time, still alive in their ancient memories, when public executions took place in the median, and hangings — unspeakable injustices — were carried out on the strong limbs of those trees.
Crowds came shamelessly, in the broad light of day, to witness and even celebrate those lynchings.
One old soul, who had actually been alive to witness such barbarism, once offered her belief about the tree in an interview with the local evening news.
“God sees. The Eye o’ God sees. The Lawd God sees it all. He keepin’ sco’. That’s why the grass don’t grow up under dem trees.”
And they swear that, at times, the Eye of God weeps. Others say it’s just rainwater and tannin. But those old timers brook no dissent.
“No, chile, dem is the tears o’ God. Put some o’ dat on ya’ tongue. It’s all bitter. Bitter, hurtful tears. He cries some ever’day. Every day this world give Him reason, us too, to cry some mo’. The eyes of God in the Promenod. ‘Dey sees it all. But He gawn make it right one day.”
The Promenade, the Fedder, and a carefully selected spot beside the river: those three places became, in many ways, the center of Theo’s life in Golden. For the year he dwelled there, the Eye of God was always near.