Monday, November 22, 1999
Early-day Abilenians kicked up some dust
By Bill Whitaker
By the time public school students finished researching famous
and dearly departed Abilenians for the dedication of a state historical
marker recognizing our city cemetery, youths probably felt they
knew early-day city fathers personally.
But if they had any doubts, there were enough old-timers still
around to set them straight.
If you read our Page One account of the ceremony, you know
all the hard work students did under the direction of ALPS teachers
Janna Dowell and Kathy Aldridge. However, during the afternoon
dedication ceremony, many of Abilene’s older citizens were
also on hand, strolling about the grounds, quietly paying respect
to those they either knew personally or knew of.
Plenty of familiar names are scattered about the 54 acres making
up our combined city cemeteries. For instance, there’s the
grave of Mayor E.N. Kirby who, back during World War I, mounted
a campaign for a new lake and, as Kathy drolly informed everyone,
“now has a dried-up Kirby Lake named for him.”
And there was the grave of H.O. Wooten, who not only bankrolled
the high-rise Wooten Hotel in downtown Abilene — later The
Towers apartment building — but also financed the Paramount
Theater in 1930. Most remarkable of all, Wooten undertook these
projects “during the Depression and paid cash.”
Brother, can you spare $10?
Just before the dedication ceremony, retired Taylor County
Veterans Service Officer Jack Townsley had occasion to quietly
pay his respects at the grave of Dr. Jack M. Estes, a name distinguished
in Abilene’s medical past. Dr. Estes’ final resting
place is easily one of the most unusual, boasting a tall, imposing
monument capped with the caduceus staff.
“You know, Dr. Estes over there took my tonsils out on
the fifth floor of the Mims Building in 1930, when I was 5,”
Jack whispered to me. “And in 1940, his son, Jack Jr., took
my appendix out.”
Times have changed — and so has the distinctive Estes
monument, which today shows significant damage.
“He was an old, well-known doctor, and when he died, they
had some of his medical tools fastened right there to his marker,”
Jack mused. “But it looks like people have just pulled them
off for souvenirs over the years.”
What an angle!
If ALPS students were fascinated by just one monument, it was
that of Zeno Hemphill. Zeno ran afoul of various city laws, including
those involving gambling, and in 1884 — less than three years
after Abilene’s founding — got into a gunfight with
Joel Frank Collins and his younger brother Walter, a local lawman.
The fight went badly for everyone. When the smoke cleared,
both Zeno and Walter were dead or dying. As for Joel, he was hauled
off to receive medical attention, but doctors couldn’t save
him. He lingered two months, then passed from this dusty stretch
of red clay at age 32. Today the Collins graves are surrounded
by a rusty iron fence.
Every so often, someone puts flowers out.
As for Zeno, he was buried a few dozen yards southeast of the
Collins brothers’ resting place — and, in deference
to his shady character, he was buried crooked, so that he would
not face the rising sun. Although the marker itself is not crooked
— well, actually, it’s a tiny bit crooked on its base
— cemetery records indicate the grave itself was dug diagonally.
To add further insult, none of Zeno’s kin chose to be
buried next to him in adjoining cemetery plots. What’s more,
the top of his marker is missing.
“Someone,” Kathy told me, “knocked his top off.”
His block, too.
Got his shots?
Students did learn about Abilene’s most important early-day
founders, specifically Welsh-born railroad builder Morgan Jones,
buried not far from Dr. Estes, and Clabe Merchant, regarded by
some as “the father of Abilene.” Merchant is generally
credited with convincing the Texas & Pacific Railway to build
north of Buffalo Gap, thus giving birth to Abilene in 1881.
Which is why Merchant is not exactly revered, even to this
day, in nearby Buffalo Gap.
Although he’s generally viewed as an enigmatic figure
by local historians, Merchant apparently had a sense of humor.
Besides naming our town for another cattle town in Kansas —
thereby creating decades of confusion — he and fellow city
father James Parramore enjoyed playing practical jokes on each
other.
For instance, when Parramore was ailing, Merchant thought enough
to send his very best to his sick friend.
That’s right. He sent a veterinarian to tend to him.
Presumably, Parramore did not wind up in the cemetery as a
direct result.
Bill Whitaker can be reached at 676-6732 or whitakerb@abinews.com.
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