Henry Abrams Takes a Stand
Henry Abrams was a seemingly simple; yet, in reality, a delightfully-complex human being. He possessed a marvelous capacity for successfully uniting diametrically opposed, and apparently irreconcilable, traits of character. On the one hand, he seemed to lead the most mundane of public lives. On the other hand, he led what to him was a very exciting private life. He was someone everyone liked. He was uniformly respected by those who knew him--all, that is, save one: himself.
Henry had grown up in the country. He had lived on a farm and had learned the virtue of hard work at an early age. When he graduated from high school, he did not go on to college. In part, it was because his parents didn't have enough money to help send him. But, in part, it was because he suspected that he would not find college particularly rewarding. Based upon what his friends said about their collegiate experiences, Henry felt that college would result in intense personal frustration instead of personal enrichment. Accordingly, he went to work in a factory on an assembly line.
He had worked in the factory for more than thirty years and, contrary to most people he worked with, he had actually enjoyed it. Oh sure, it had been physically demanding, but that was something he had always liked. And, whereas others complained incessantly about the tedium of the work, Henry found that to be one of the great benefits of his job. Because the work was not demanding intellectually, he was able to think concertedly about the things which interested him.
Although Henry hadn't attended college, he was very much concerned about affairs of the mind and with the careful cultivation of his own intellect. An avid reader, he read during work breaks while others just talked, played cards, or napped. And, as soon as he got home in the evening, he would shower, eat a hasty supper, and read far into the night. His interests were far-ranging. He was fascinated by anthropology and astronomy. He was extremely interested in the systematic study of politics and economics, and he had a seemingly insatiable appetite for literature--especially historical novels. During his lifetime Henry had read himself into one of the best educations possible. But, while he was wonderfully knowledgeable in a multitude of areas, he never inflicted his erudition upon others. On the contrary, he rarely engaged in dialogues on political or religious matters, and, as far as other people knew, he was just another "illiterate factory worker" who "didn't know enough to engage in anything except beastial scutwork."
Yet the men and women with whom Henry worked all came to greatly admire him. In a world of insensitivity, Henry Abrams seemed really to care about other people. He was always trying to help others in any way he could: trying to buoy their spirits when they were down, offering suggestions for how to make their work easier or more enjoyable.
Because of his highly-refined interpersonal skills, Henry had been recommended for foreman, a position he subsequently refused because he felt that it would estrange him from the people with whom he worked and for whom he had developed considerable personal affection.
The outpouring of sentiment at his retirement party had really astonished Henry, but it shouldn't have; for he had always gone out of his way to try to enrich the lives of others and, in so doing, he had created a reservoir of good will in all who knew him.
Henry had looked forward to retirement feeling that, at last, he would have enough time to indulge his passion for ideas. However, it hadn't worked out as he had hoped. Instead of finding continued excitement in life, he became increasingly frustrated as his opportunities for interacing meaningfully with other people became fewer and fewer.
Rather than going into his study after breakfast, as was his habit; this morning Henry decided to take a walk to see if he could find ways for dealing with the growing sense of disillusionment which threatened to engulf him.
He ambled through the stone gates leading to a majestic antebellum mansion which was scheduled for demolition in the near future. Walking slowly through the tree-lined grounds, Henry began a critical self-examination.
"Here you are," he said softly to himself, "having reached the retirement you wanted and now you're miserable! What's wrong with you anyway?" He paused to examine what remained of a cloistered lily pond, and then continued his agonizing self-appraisal. "The problem is you're not involved with the world. You live your own life, but you no longer are in a position to significantly influence the lives of others. You,..." he swallowed hard, "you don't matter! When you worked, you did matter to some of the people...to Rick, to George,...and Lisa. But now"... he stopped, finding it too painful to go on. Seldom given to profanity, he suddenly blurted aloud: "damn it, you've got to find something to get involved with; something that can make a difference in people's lives. You've always stayed away from involvement and look where it has gotten you! For once in your life, Henry Abrams, take a stand on something and stick to your guns. Dare to make a difference. You need to do it for your own sake as well as for others!"
Feeling a bit faint, Henry sat down on a convenient shaded bench to try to figure out what he might do to overcome his feeling of utter uselessness.
His active mind ranged over a number of options; all of which he quickly discarded. Reaching the verge of despair, he decided to stop thinking about it for a few minutes. Instead, he focused his attention upon his immediate surroundings, as if merely seeking a welcome diversion.
He marvelled at how quiet it was where he sat. Busy Elmwood Boulevard lay just beyond the gates, but the din of traffic was scarcely audible. It was as though the stately oaks were reaching out to capture the sound in order to keep it from trespassing upon his ears. Never much for being outdoors, Henry silently kicked himself for not spending more of his time learning about and enjoying the natural realm.
His eyes drifted to the stately mansion which appeared for all the world to have been painstakingly lifted from the pages of Gone With the Wind. The three-story brick building had beautifully-curved window frames carved lovingly from stone. Flowers were carefully hand cut in the top of each casement. Atop the house stood a jaunty lookout whose copper-pointed roof and rooster weather vane were only now beginning to tarnish noticeably. The main doorway to the mansion was framed by beautiful Doric pillars. The entire entryway seemed to beckon visitors to enter.
"Gee," Henry whispered to himself, "I wonder what its like inside. Bet it would be like taking a trip through history. I wonder if I should go in. There...there aren't any signs," he said a bit nervously. "Besides, what are they going to do; throw me in jail?...an old coot like me!" The thought of it made him chuckle aloud.
Henry stood up smartly and walked directly across the cobblestone driveway, up two stairs, through the welcoming pillars, across the brick veranda, and up to the stout white door with its heavy brass knocker still shining brightly.
"It'll probably be locked anyway," he mused, "but, if I don't try, I'll never know!"
Taking a deep breath, he grasped the brass handle, depressed the heavy latch with his thumb, and was more than a little surprised when it yielded easily. He pushed on the door and it swung open.
What he saw within dazzled Henry. Before him stood a gorgeous spiral stairway leading to the second floor and, above that, he could see a similar staircase connecting the second and third floors of the mansion. In each of the rooms to his immediate right and left were lovely marble fireplaces. The high ceilings and long graceful flowing curtains bespoke the elegance of a bygone era.
As if in a trance, Henry wandered from room to room. Each one seeming to hold its own store of treasures somehow more breathtaking than the one before.
At last his tour was almost over. Reluctantly he descended the spiral staircase to the first floor. He was about to exit when, in an elaborate oval mirror, he spotted an unexplored door leading out through the back of the house.
"No sense leaving any door unopened," he giggled to himself, and strode purposefully toward it.
Unlike the front door to the mansion, he met resistance as he tried to depress this latch. The door had no lock on it, but it seemed as though it had frozen shut. He pushed down as hard as he could with both hands and, reluctantly, the latch gave. It was difficult to pry the door open, but, at last, Henry was able to push it open sufficiently to slip through the doorway.
He found himself in the midst of a spacious greenhouse that ran the entire length of the house, and had two long wings stretching far to the south of the mansion. Between the two extensions of the greenhouse were the remnants of a large elliptical rose garden.
Everything about the estate had been enchanting, but, this, to Henry, was the coup de grace.
"My God," he exclaimed aloud, "what a priceless treasure this place is! It...it must be preserved," he stammered, his eyes filling uncontrollably with tears at the thought of the imminent destruction of the magnificent edifice and its beautiful grounds.
In the mansion Henry Abrams had found precisely the kind of cause he needed for his own personal well being.
"What a wonderful conservatory this would make! And what a splendid historical monument this place is! Wouldn't it be far better for our children to experience this building and its architecture in person than to just read about it in the pages of history books?"
Ignited with fervor, Henry headed for the Mayor's office to talk with His Honor, Mr. Efrom J. Higgins, Jr.
"Mr. Abrams, how do you do? I'm Efrom Higgins," said the stately, falcon-eyed man extending a huge hand toward Henry.
"Nice to meet you, Your Honor, I know you're a busy man, and I appreciate your taking a few moments to see me."
"Not at all," replied Mayor Higgins. "Please be seated and tell me what I can do for you."
"Well, Mr. Mayor, I have an idea about what I feel ought to be done on an important matter, and it seems to me that you are the only person who might be able to help."
"Tell me about it," the Mayor requested, settling back into his high-backed leather chair.
Forgetting his self-consciousness, Henry talked enthusiastically about his plan for a historical museum-conservatory for the town. As the Mayor listened attentively, stroking his moustache with the end of a pencil, Henry concluded: "not only would it preserve from destruction a beautiful relic of American history, it would help future generations of Americans better understand, and appreciate, those of us who preceded them."
"Hmmm," mused the Mayor thoughtfully after Henry had finished. "You know, that's not a bad idea. There certainly isn't anything like it around here, and it could be an important asset to the community. But, Mr. Abrams, how do you propose to raise the monies necessary to accomplish your worthwhile objective?"
The question took Henry's breath away, for he had not devoted any thought to that vital aspect of "his" project. Trying not to get flustered, Henry quickly put the ball back in the Mayor's court. "That's why I came to see you, Your Honor, I thought you might know of a way to get the City to do something to..."
"Just a moment, Mr. Abrams," the Mayor cut in. "The one thing the people of this town have been demanding of me is that I find ways to reduce government expenditures, not increase them!"
"Yes, but any initial outlay by the City could be offset by a fee charged to see this living museum and conservatory. Who knows, it might eventually become a national Historic Landmark attracting people from hundreds of miles away. Needless to say, that would be a real boon to local business."
"That may all be true," Mayor Higgins conceded, "but you've got to sell the idea of those up-front costs to the people now, and I can tell you from first-hand experience that certainly won't be easy! The public mood is one which,..." the Mayor's voice trailed off morosely. "But, good luck, Mr. Abrams. If I can help in any way, I'll do what I can,...for it is a good idea," the Mayor said; in effect signaling an end to their impromptu meeting.
"May I say that you support my efforts?" Henry queried, rising to leave.
"You may," Mayor Higgins answered, secretly doubting that anything would ever come of Henry Abrams' gran dessein.
"I wish you well," the Mayor called after Henry.
"Thank you, Your Honor," Henry replied, closing the heavy wooden door to the Mayor's office behind him.
Henry descended the steps of the City Hall and started shuffling disconsolately down First Avenue. As he walked along, he thought back over what the Mayor had said. "I suppose," he mused to himself, "the Mayor's right. Unless there is widespread public support for the project, the City won't feel obliged to allocate monies for the conservatory-museum, even though the Mayor and the members of the Council might support it privately. But how is it possible for me to reach the public, to make them aware of what might be done to?...WAIT A MINUTE," Henry exclaimed. "The newspaper, that's the instrument for helping me with my project!"
The Post Gazette had been in the Kendall family for as long as anyone could remember. Its most recent owner-editor, Shawn Kendall, was widely known, if not always highly respected, by the townspeople. Henry sought him out to see whether he would have interest in a feature story about the old mansion and Henry's plan for its preservation and restoration.
Shawn was a diminutive man with ferret-like little eyes which were never still. They seemed always to be probing for some weakness to be exploited. Henry took a prompt dislike to the man, but endeavored not to let that show as the two men talked together briefly.
"Frankly, Mr. Abrams, I don't think that what you've told me is particularly newsworthy. Not exactly apt to attract the attention of our readers," the newspaperman said in a somewhat chiding fashion. "If you'd like to buy space in the paper, we would, of course, be glad to arrange that."
"All right," Henry replied, struggling valiantly to suppress the rising indignation he felt toward Shawn Kendall.
"Very good," the Editor said, brusquely leading Henry to talk with his head ad salesman.
Henry was aghast at the cost of space in the Post Gazette, but he had started something and he was determined to see it through...even at considerable personal expense.
After his meeting with the people at the newspaper, Henry hurried home to begin composing his "Open Letter to the Townspeople." All through the night he worked; writing, rewriting, polishing his plea for the preservation of the old mansion and its conversion into a living historic monument. He finished just as the first pink rays of dawn began to accent the eastern sky. Tiredly he lay down for a few hours, satisfied that he had done his very best--hopeful that perhaps it would be good enough.
The following afternoon his letter did appear in the paper and Henry was pleasantly surprised when his telephone began ringing with people offering him encouragement and asking what they could do to help "the cause." In each instance Henry asked them to contact members of the City Council to encourage them to support and assist with the venture. It was not long before the town's elected officials had heard of Henry Abrams and his ideas for the old Ballard estate.
And then, to Henry's dismay, he learned that demolition of the mansion was to begin the very next day! Realizing that time more than anything was now the enemy, he frantically began searching for some gambit that would hold up the proceedings sufficiently to let public opinion crystalize behind his plan. He contemplated seeking an injunction to halt the destruction, but Henry was painfully aware that the judicial process would move far too slowly to be of any assistance to him. He thought about contacting the developers who had bought the property and were planning a strip mall for the site, but he knew that they were interested only in corporate profits, not civic betterment. Finally, in desperation, he hit upon a scheme he hoped might work. It was a long shot to be sure, but Henry just had to do something! Henry Abrams' personal integrity was, after all those years of non-commitment, now clearly on the line and, for him, there was no turning back.
At eight o'clock the next morning a fleet of giant trucks began rumbling down Elmwood Boulevard toward the Ballard estate. As they started to make their turn into the property, the truck drivers were amazed to discover that the gates to the estate were chained shut and that a slender elderly man, himself shackled to the impressive wrought-iron gates, stood staring defiantly at them.
"What the hell are you doing?" the crew supervisor roared at Henry. "You're committing a crime!"
"On the contrary," Henry retorted quietly, I'm here to prevent you from committing a crime!"
"Call the cops," the supervisor screeched, "I've got a job to do and this old fool ain't gonna stop me doin' it!"
It was not long until the police arrived. What the police officers found truly amazed them. Urgently they radioed the station for advice.
Within moments the entire town was aware of the small human drama unfolding on Elmwood Boulevard. Requests that citizens use "alternate routes" through town were uniformly disregarded as more and more of the townspeople began flocking to the Ballard property.
The Chief of Police in person rushed to the scene to try to gain control of a situation which was fast getting out of hand. His arrival was greeted with jeers rather than cheers, and it was apparent to him that he had to do something quickly to avert an ugly confrontation. His first directive was wisely to the drivers of the Grantland "Salvage" Company. The Chief instructed them to "clear the street," and return to their company headquarters to "await further notice."
After dispatching the trucks, the Police Chief, a portly, jovial-looking man in his mid-fifties, turned his attention to Henry.
"You know, you're breaking the law and that I have to arrest you, don't you?," Chief Cartright said quietly to Henry.
"Yes, sir, I do," Henry replied, without the slightest trace of malice evident in his voice.
"Very well then," the Chief responded, quite obviously taking no pleasure in the performance of his "responsibilities." He stepped toward Henry to take him into custody without noticing that he was chained to the gates. As soon as the Chief saw this, he emitted a muffled "oh, no," and strode angrily toward his patrol car to use the radio. "Yes, damn it, bolt cutters, and make it snappy," he was overheard yelling into the receiver.
"You have a right to remain silent," the Chief was saying as he cut through the last of the chains.
"I know," Henry said resolutely, "but I've been silent for too long already!"
"Whaa...the?..." the Chief mumbled under his breath, reaching for his handcuffs.
"That won't be necessary, Chief, I'll go willingly."
"Very well then," he responded taking Henry by the arm and walking briskly toward his squad car.
As Henry was led away, a spontaneous phenomenon occurred. People began gravitating to the spot where Henry Abrams had not only made his "last stand," but his only stand. Soon a solid phalanx of citizens stood shoulder to shoulder before the gates in wordless support of Henry's position.
Taking a quick appraisal of the situation, the Chief barked to his men: "all right, return to your accustomed posts and remain there unless instructed otherwise."
The cell was tiny, but Henry really didn't mind its cramped confines. Despite his physical discomfort, he was, at last, at peace with himself. He had taken a stand, and earned the most important thing in life: his own self respect.
Counsel was offered, but Henry refused. Bail was set, but Henry chose instead to remain behind bars. His case was pushed to trial in an obvious attempt to defuse the situation. On the day of his court appearance, Henry was led before the Municipal Court Judge, the Honorable Irving T. Eycoff.
Henry sat silently as the charges against him were read aloud in the packed courtroom. By now everyone in the town knew of Henry Abrams, and what he said and did really had become newsworthy!
"How do you plead?," the bald, bespectacled Judge inquired.
"Guilty, Your Honor."
"Is there any reason why you shouldn't be convicted for the crime for which you have been charged, Mr. Abrams?," the Judge asked, as if hoping for a way out of discharging his duty.
"I know of none, Your Honor."
"All right, then,...but before I decide the matter, I'd like to know exactly what prompted you to take such...well extra-ordinary action. You seem to me to be a man who is not normally disrespectful of the law."
"Had to do what I did, Your Honor. There was no other immediate recourse open to me at the time, and my conscience would not permit me to maintain silence in the face of what I felt was a great wrong about to be committed. Sometimes you have to do what you believe in, and be prepared to willingly accept the consequences of your actions. I am so prepared, Your Honor."
"I see," Judge Eycoff responded, pushing himself back in his chair and glancing at the ceiling of the courtroom as if seeking divine guidance.
For a long moment the courtroom was completely hushed; not a person stirred, not a paper rattled, not a fly buzzed.
With a whoosh the Judge exhaled his breath and leaned over the bench to address Henry.
"Mr. Abrams," he began tentatively, "I've been on the bench for more than thirty five years,...perhaps t-o-o long,...and, in that time,...I've tried literally thousands of cases. But never one like this!" He stopped, seemingly unsure of what he was going to say next. "I have always had the greatest respect for the law. It is one of the truly great achievements of mankind. It has been my life. Yet, like all human institutions, it has its limitations... It's imperfect,...like man himself. Perhaps its greatest failing is its inability to respond quickly to rapidly-changing social conditions. And, yet, it is not unresponsive, and there are avenues available to alter it--to make it more just, more humane, more compassionate. Because of that, it is, indeed, entitled to our faithful adherence." The Judge sighed heavily before continuing.
"You, Henry Abrams, have chosen to defy the law for what you believed was a greater good. Others have done so,...and, in a number of instances, have earned our enduring respect and admiration. All of which, obviously, makes my task the more difficult." The Judge leaned back in his chair, removed his wire-rim glasses, rubbed his eyes for a moment, and then carefully replaced his spectacles on his slender nose. Resuming, his voice seemed to gain confidence with each word he uttered. "The facts in the case are clear. You broke the law, and are, by your own admission 'guilty.' However, the reasons for the commission of your offense are, to me, compelling. I'm not sure," the Judge confided, with a twinkle in his eye, "that, under the same set of circumstances, I wouldn't have done the same thing!"
There was a moment of suppressed laughter in the courtroom, followed by a long pause.
"Henry Abrams, I have decided this...my final case...as follows:
You are guilty of the crime charged. You are hereby fined the sum of one-hundred dollars plus court costs. In addition, this Court orders you to present your plan for the Conservatory-Museum to a special session of the City Council to be convened and presided over by Mayor Efrom Higgins. Finally, you are to serve a sentence of thirty days working with City Park and Recreation Department developing a blueprint for the best use of the buildings and grounds of the Ballard estate. Is that clear, Mr. Abrams?," queried the Judge peering over the bench at Henry.
"It is, Your Honor,...and thank you," Henry added quietly.
"Very good,..." the Judge paused an instant and then added in a voice tinged with uncharacteristic emotion, "the fine is suspended. It is so ordered!" With that, the Judge slammed his gavel down a final time with such forcefulness that the mallet flew off the handle. But this fact went virtually unnoticed for, by then, people were rushing to Henry to shake his hand and to hug him for "their" triumph.
"I wonder, Mr. Abrams, if you'd be gracious enough to accord me an interview for the Post Gazette?," a young woman asked, easing her way through the crowd surrounding Henry.
"Huh?, surely, Ma'am," Henry replied, genuinely startled by his new-found notoriety.
"I'm Suzanne Paige," the young lady said, extending a hand to Henry.
As soon as they were alone, she directed a barrage of questions at Henry. Henry dutifully answered each question about his background, and about how he had come to champion the cause of the Conservatory-Museum.
"Why was it really that you decided to break the law, Mr. Abrams," she parried.
"Ms. Paige," Henry replied patiently, "it really was because I honestly couldn't come up with any other way to halt the destruction in the limited time available. Had I been able to think of some other expedient, I'm sure I would have opted for it. But I could think of none."
"You are aware I'm sure, Mr. Abrams, that there are others who have clearly articulated the philosophy of `civil disobedience;' that there is considerable historic precedent for what you have done."
"Oh, yes," Henry replied simply. "I've read the works of Thoreau, and Gandhi, and King,...but their 'disobedience' was more a way of life--they were promoting noble national and international social and political causes, I...I'm seeking something much less significant. I, frankly, don't think I should be thought of in the same breath as those great men. This is, to be very honest with you, the only stand I've ever taken on anything. And, the truth is, this whole thing is very unsettling. But don't misunderstand," Henry hastened to add, "I plan to see it through, for I feel strongly about what I'm doing. Think how nice it will be in the middle of Winter to walk into a building bathed in the scent of exotic flowers. How exciting it will be to sit before a glowing fire surrounded by history!"
"Yes, Mr. Abrams, it does sound nice," the young reporter said taking her leave from Henry. In the affairs of humankind, some things come to pass because their time is ripe. Other good ideas remain restless forces relentlessly seeking their fulfillment in more felicitous times. As it turned out, Henry's idea was to find fertile soil and was soon to blossom into a reality more beautiful than even Henry had dared to imagine.
Slowly Henry walked through the recently-retouched gates of the "Ballard Historical Museum." The Winter day was still, but very cold. Inside, however, it was nice and warm. A surprising number of people were enjoying the meticulously-preserved surroundings of a more gentile age. It was a very happy place.
Henry went into the Conservatory to drink in the lush abundance of that lovely green place. Once more he re-read the small bronze plaque above the doorway.
The Abrams Conservatory
Dedicated to Henry Abrams
Whose personal courage
And concern for posterity
Has made possible
This living monument!
Back outside, Henry slowly retraced his previous steps to the wooden park bench where it had all begun. He sat down to gaze again at the stately mansion turned museum before him. "Well, old man, you finally took a stand. Seems things turned out all right too!" Henry Abrams closed his eyes, and smiled deep within--experiencing that rare feeling of joy which belongs only to those who are not afraid to stand alone for what they devoutly believe is right.