By Monica Alonzo
By Stephen Lemons
By Jason P. Woodbury
By Dulce Paloma Baltazar Pedraza
By Ray Stern
By Pete Kotz
By Monica Alonzo
By New Times
Nevertheless, both sets of bars were removed.
Around 1:30 a.m. on Tuesday, August 13, Rosa Anderson called 911 to report that she was choking, according to records obtained from the county medical examiner. Paramedics rushed her to St. Joseph's Hospital, where she was pronounced dead at 2:19 a.m.
The following Sunday--as Anderson's family, including five children and six great-grandchildren, gathered at the Universal Memorial Center on East Washington Street to pay their respects--workers unbolted the security bars from her condo.
Pat Snyder says the timing of the bars' removal was not accidental. She calls it the final indignity--a tap dance on Anderson's grave by the members of the board.
Schaible says the work had been planned for weeks.
"None of us had any idea she had even gone to the hospital, let alone died," he says,.
His response seems dubious, considering that Windsor Place is a close-knit community where secrets never stay secret for very long, especially involving someone like Anderson, who had been the focus of so much controversy.
Today, from outward appearances, the only vestige of Rosa Anderson's short but tumultuous residency in condominium C102 at Windsor Place are the holes drilled into the blocks around the doors and windows.
Inside, her presence is still very real.
Her oldest son, Jovee Smallwood, has moved into the condo.
Aside from clutter ("I'm definitely not as tidy as she was," Smallwood admits), the apartment is still the way she left it. In one corner sits a collection of ceremonial masks and other artifacts she collected during her African travels. The bars she had installed over her windows--the ones removed by the board--lean against the wall.
On a coffee table, there's a stack of her mementos. Smallwood sifts through the pile. There are four passports, and copies of the degrees and honorariums Anderson received during her long academic career. There's also a copy of the slim volume she once wrote about her African travels.
"I still haven't figured out what to do with all this stuff," he says.
When asked whether he has felt snubbed by anyone at Windsor Place, Smallwood replies that, no, it really hasn't been a problem--so far.
"But I don't think they'd mess with me anyway, 'cause I'm a man," he says.
And what does he make of his mother's problems at Windsor Place?
"She never told any of us what was going on," he explains. "That wasn't her way--she didn't want us being all bothered by it."
But Angela Petit, Rosa Anderson's 22-year-old niece, says there were signs that all was not well with her aunt. Petit, a junior studying music at ASU, often kept her aunt company on weekends, helping her out with shopping and errands.
"Before she moved here, she was always just this really peaceful lady," Petit remembers. "But then it just sort of changed, like she was always worrying about something. . . . It just seemed like it all happened so fast, you know? And then when she died, it was like, 'What happened?'