An army of city officials--representing code enforcement, streets, sanitation, fire, and neighborhood services--occupied the 7200 block of Eccles drive in Pleasant Grove as part of a five-day blitzkrieg designed to annihilate Parkhurst's mulch pile.
Armed with a fleet of dump trucks, Bobcats, and one gigantic backhoe, dozens of city workers spent eight hours a day tearing out and hauling off what neighbors estimated to be some 170 loads of wood chips, tree limbs, dirt, and other debris. The pile, the city says, amounted to an illegal dump that presented a fire hazard and potential flooding problems.
As the Dallas Observer reported earlier this year, ("Funny Girl," January 22), the pile also spawned a particularly nasty, homophobic-driven feud between Parkhurst and her gay neighbors that neither code inspectors nor Dallas police officers have been able to resolve for nearly a year.
Not surprisingly, the stubborn, combative Parkhurst did not stand idly by as the city made off with her mulch.
By midweek, Parkhurst finally lost her composure and allegedly threatened to blow off the head of a city employee, prompting her to be admitted as an outpatient to a Timberlawn Mental Health System hospital for the duration of the dig-out.
Some people, like Dallas City Council member Larry Duncan, who backed the operation, praise the city for finally taking action to resolve the public nuisance. But others, including a neighbor whose property the city was supposedly protecting by removing the mulch, say city officials overstepped their authority: The mulch is gone, but so is most of Parkhurst's one-acre yard.
What was once a pile of debris on a hill is now a V-shaped ravine that contains loose dirt and the exposed roots of dying trees, which neighbors say poses more of a run-off threat than the pile did at its most bloated.
If the city can do this to Charlotte Parkhurst, whose stubbornness is largely to blame for the civic battle, some neighbors say they can only wonder whom the next target will be.
"It's like the Gestapo. They just came out there with revenge, that's what it looks like," says Shirley Turnipseed, who lives directly below Parkhurst. "That thing [the ravine] is like a canyon out there. It's shocking. Nobody's yard should have a pit in it like that."
Three days into the operation, Duane Parkhurst stands in his front yard and gawks at the activity surrounding him. Hours earlier, a city ambulance carried Charlotte Parkhurst off to Timberlawn. In her place, Duane holds down the fort, making sure that the five security cameras he has hidden in his yard are rolling.
On one side of the house, a backhoe stands precariously at the edge of the mulch pile, finally back in operation after it accidentally slid down the hill and nearly toppled on its side.
The machine's long crane lowers its head into the mulch, bites out a load, and swivels back around to the rear of a dump truck--one of dozens of city vehicles that are crawling along Eccles Drive.
On the opposite side of the house, a pair of Bobcats ramble over the Parkhurst property, extracting smaller loads of mulch that surround an above-ground swimming pool. Three emus watch the action lazily from inside a large outdoor pen that occupies the back corner of the Parkhurst lot.
Clusters of city employees stand about the house, watching the action with blank expressions remarkably similar to those of the emus. Other employees roam the street with walkie-talkies in their hands, cell phones to their ears, and beepers on their hips.
One of the men is Gary Middleton, a city employee who was supposedly overseeing the operation and who was the target of Charlotte Parkhurst's earlier threat. But Middleton, like the other city employees present, declines to discuss the threat or the details of the operation.
"I'm not authorized to speak with the press," says Middleton, who directs all questions to code enforcement boss Ramiro Lopez.
Lopez ordered his employees not to discuss the matter with reporters. Later, he refused to respond to repeated requests for comment.
The city began the operation on April 27, after it obtained a search warrant from a city magistrate who authorized the city to seize the mulch pile because it constituted illegally dumped solid waste. Last February, the city had ordered Parkhurst to cease her landscaping project and to remove her mulch pile. Parkhurst ignored the orders.
"This isn't funny anymore," Duane Parkhurst says, shouting over the sound of engines groaning and beeping. "They're like Gestapos. It's just like it's 1939."
Parkhurst's neighbor, James, tucks his thumb in the shoulder strap of his overalls and offers his explanation of the situation.