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He's found the middle ground in many cities

Phil Deaton, Crystal River city manager, said last year he'd serve a limited time.

By ANDREW SKERRITT
Published May 30, 2006

Phil Deaton will tell you in his dry, matter-of-fact way that being a city manager isn't what he does. It's who he is.

The Crystal River city manager will also tell you that even now, on the verge of retirement after more than 40 years in municipal government, he walks into City Hall expecting to learn something new every day. He loves this stuff.

And if you have enough time, the 70-year-old in short sleeves and wire-rimmed glasses will tell you about some of the places he has plied his craft - Petersburg, Va.; Ripon and Janesville, Wis.; Red Wing, Minn.; and Olathe, Kan. Some he left voluntarily; others not. After retiring to Florida, he served briefly as interim city manager in New Port Richey.

One recent afternoon, he told me about his first job as a city manager in a small Southern town, where he found himself in the middle of a bitter standoff between blacks and whites, the NAACP and the Ku Klux Klan.

In any career, no one wants to peak too early. But the Ohio native says ending that Jim Crow-era dispute peacefully was his shining moment.

Times have changed a lot since then, but what he learned in Ayden, N.C., all those years ago undoubtedly came in handy in Crystal River, a place known for its civic and political discord and for discarding city managers in a hurry.

"When there's a dispute, the city manager belongs in the middle, not on either side," he said. "Being in the middle is part of the job."

He learned that important lesson soon after he, his wife, Bev, and their four children (they later adopted two more) showed up in Ayden, an eastern North Carolina town of tobacco farmers and a pickle packaging plant.

Deaton's first big event as city manager was a ribbon-cutting for the brand-new supermarket in town. The mayor was too "liberal" to suit the owners.

Back then, being too liberal in the South meant white folks who accommodated the demands of colored folks.

A week after the ribbon-cutting, Deaton found himself in the middle of a standoff.

Trouble started after the supermarket opened and some black folks applied for jobs as cashiers and meat cutters. The only supermarket job available for blacks was to carry out groceries. Store owners balked at hiring black cashiers, worried about a white backlash that could ruin business.

Some local blacks responded by inviting the NAACP to organize a boycott. Black protesters and the klan faced off in the store parking lot.

The standoff dragged on for two months, fostering deep divisions within the town: blacks vs. whites, blacks vs. blacks - some black folks resented the outside agitators stirring up trouble.

In the end, it took six hours of negotiations in City Hall on a Saturday to end the stalemate. Deaton, a local white clergyman and the store owner were locked behind closed doors. There were no black folks in the room.

To satisfy demands, the owner agreed to hire several black employees and train them to work as cashiers and meat cutters. But they had to agree to sweep, stock shelves and do other menial chores as needed around the store.

As part of the deal, black ministers couldn't go before their congregations on Sunday morning and declare victory. In the zero sum game of Jim Crow politics, blacks won only when whites lost and vice versa. Racial peace was sealed with silence.

Deaton would go on to a successful career in public service, even in Crystal River where city managers are usually on the endangered species list. He had some special skills and will be missed.

--Andrew Skerritt can be reached at 813 909-4602 or toll-free at 1-800-333-7505, ext. 4602. His e-mail address is askerritt@sptimes.com

[Last modified May 30, 2006, 01:09:11]