Henville at the Pool Hall

 








Henville at the Pool Hall


    Let us go back to the days of old South Gate when we cruised Tweedy, shopped at Ashtons and bought our cigs at Sav-On drugstore. Once upon a time the politics of the city were dominated by real estate agents who prospered selling little houses on either side of the grand thoroughfare known as Tweedy boulevard. That stretch of markets and shops was the business center of this suburb of LA that began at the end of the 20's and hit full-stride after World War II. There were names you knew because they sold land in the Azalea City. Milo Dellman, Leland Weaver, Don Sawyer, and Joe Henville were among the thriving property agents when we were kids. They were the captains of commerce in a town surrounded by big factories whose owners probably never set foot in the Gate. However, realtors did and went to Rotary or joined the Elks or Eagles or Lions or Kiwanas. They sponsored teams in the SGJAA and drove chariots made of Detroit steel on that Tweedy mile. Even as the old Gate began to change some realtors held on, trying to reinvent themselves and the good life in the Southeast. Old Joe Henville, probably in his 60's had done well selling in the 1950's but now saw the old white town turning brown. Joe defied father time and had married a young woman of child bearing age when he was passing the speed limit in age. At a time when most of the old guard had moved away Grace and John Sheehy stayed on with stalwarts like the Sawyers, the Carrolls, the Knowltons and good old Joe Henville. Things were changing on the Tweedy Mile and some brave entrepreneur opened a pool hall that was a novel idea. The place seemed to catch on but the clientele was a little rough around the edges. Mostly it drew vatos wearing wife-beaters and neighborhood toughs that discouraged me or Greg from stopping in at this family social center. That and the fact we both sucked at the game of pool. However, one week night as we motored down Tweedy we peaked in the broad windows of the pool hall to see Joe Henville and his now 10 year old son standing awkwardly at the tables in the smoke-filled parlor ready for some recreation. Poor Joe was in the middle of the lyrics of a Dylan song, he just didn't know it yet.

Your sons and your daughtersAre beyond your commandYour old road is rapidly agin'Please get out of the new oneIf you can't lend your handFor the times they are a-changin'




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