Historic Preservation: My Thoughts

I've been thinking a lot about the past recently.  Not just my personal past, but the past in general.  About time, history and a sense of place.  I've wanted to become more involved in historic preservation at the local level, but time constraints have kept me from doing much in this area.  Instead I've focused on national organizations--particularly the National Trust For Historic Preservation.  This is a great organization and I am happy to donate what I can to it.

Here in Fort Worth (the city in which I live) preservation was not actually a cool thing until recently.  And even now, historic structures can be razed without much consequence.  Back when all things "modern" stood for progress, whole sections of this city were destroyed to make way for nondescript buildings or parking lots or garages.  Thankfully, those days are now relegated to collective regret.  Back in the 1970s, Fort Worth lost some signature structures in the downtown core--most notably The Medical Arts Building.  It seems a little strange for someone who moved here in the 1980s to be talking mournfully about buildings that were lost in the 1970s, particularly when I didn't grow up here.  But with Fort Worth as my adopted home, I have developed a fondness for this city and an appreciation that perhaps many natives are blind to.  Mind you, I don't necessarily believe that living in a particular city or town makes a person insensitive to the necessity of historic preservation, but I can say with some degree of certainty that a different perspective is often helpful when addressing the aesthetics of a place in which one has not lived an entire life.  If I pass a particular building every day for 30 years on my way to work, it would certainly strike me if that building were to disappear, but I might actually welcome something new and shiny in its place just to break from the monotony.  I might even welcome a blank space rather than a filled space.  Regardless, I would definitely have a different perspective than someone who has a fresh view of the scene.

Many folks don't really concern themselves with historic preservation because they feel a type of disconnect from history.  Perhaps they don't appreciate history as some of us do or feel that there are more pressing concerns or matters that need to be attended to--not only in their daily lives but also in the larger political sphere.  I would really like to suggest that we are all vitally connected to our history, whether we grew up in a certain area or not.  I enjoy perusing photographs of historic Fort Worth and often feel that there are not enough available to get an accurate picture of what this city was once like.  One thing that I do know is that with each building we allow to fall, an inferior structure or no structure will usually take its place.  Craftsmanship that was commonplace at the turn of last century no longer exists.  When we lose these buildings, part of us is lost forever.  Locally, one only needs a drive down Hemphill or East Lancaster Avenues to imagine (from what few remaining structures exist) a different time...a time when people didn't even know what a "payday loan" or "cash advance" was.  There wasn't a convenience store on every corner, but there may have been a "corner store" in just about every neighborhood.  I know it sounds a little unrealistic or even romantic, and I'm keenly aware that the "good old days" were definitely not always that.  But there was a sense of community.  And much of that sense of community existed because we took pride in our architecture.

I applaud all of the efforts of our local historic preservationists.  But clearly, we have a long way to go.

(undated postcard of Medical Arts Building, Fort Worth, TX.  Wyatt C. Hedrick, architect.  Demolished 1973)

Newspaper Headlines

Yesterday, I brought some copies of newspapers from Kennedy's assassination to class so that my students could see some of the headlines and stories from this horrible event nearly fifty years ago.  The pages are yellowed and fragile...even preserved in the shrink-wrap and cardboard.  I wasn't yet on this earth.  Not yet a sparkle in my father's eye as they say, but it wouldn't be long as I was probably conceived sometime in March of 1964.  Of course, I was certainly not expected--but what could they do?  We were Catholic.  No birth control.  Definitely no abortion.  My parents generation remembers the assassination very clearly, as do my older siblings.  Kennedy was the first Catholic president of the United States.  I have only pictures and history to remind me of this.

All of my students were born when Bill Clinton was president.  They haven't known the assassination of a U.S. President in their lifetimes--and really, neither have I.  We've lived through the horror of 9/11, with my students being very young when that occurred.  I was 37 at the time.  I sometimes wonder if the impact of the Kennedy assassination was as heavy as that.  Judging from the newspaper headlines, I am guessing it was.  As I have observed some of the students looking at the newspapers from that time, I am struck by a couple things.  First, they aren't really that impressed.  In fact, newspapers are really a foreign thing to them.  The other day, I asked how many of them ever read a newspaper and only one responded to the question.  "I don't but my grammy does.  She old."  I've lamented the passing of the printed word in a previous blog so I won't go into that again here, but I will say this.  Back in 2001, when the September 11 events happened, I had a subscription to the Fort Worth Star-Telegram. At that time the newspapers still had some relevance.  It was the only time in my life that I can recall an "extra" edition of a newspaper being printed.  I saved those papers from that day of course.

As these historical events recede in my personal rearview mirror, I'm reminded of how short this life really is.  I am grateful for an appreciation of history.  I am hopeful that I can impart even a little of that to my students.

Mourning The Printed Word

I love books.  I love newspapers.  I love magazines.

I like to feel a book in my hands.  I like the smell of new books.  I sometimes like the smell of old books.  I like being able to turn pages, use a highlighter or underline stuff (in my own books, of course) and I like how books look arranged on bookshelves.

If you were to visit a Barnes & Noble today...right now...you would probably laugh at the prediction I'm about to pose: Books are on their way out and will not be printed in less than fifty years.  Those books that remain will be relics of a time past.  I welcome the progress wrought by technology but I think I'd miss my books more than anything.  I think magazines are on their way out even sooner than books and I think that we may see our last printed newspapers in five years or less. 

I guess there are other things to mourn with the onset of technological advances...most of them with an attitude of "good riddance," but I will always have a soft spot in my heart for books.

I remember my geeky childhood, sitting in the reference room at the Johnsonburg Public Library (then located in a wonderful early Twentieth Century building known as the Johnsonburg Community Building) on rainy days enjoying the simple pleasures of just getting something down off the shelf for the heck of it, and reading for sheer pleasure.  The pictures, vast amounts of information, world travel...they were all at my fingertips.  I could never have imagined the incredible resource we have today in the form of the internet, but that was how my mind wandered as a child.  Books were my friends.

I love my computer.  I'm glad I can use it for so many things.  But I still can't seem--even with the Nook and Kindle--to bring myself to even say the words.  It just doesn't sound right.  "It's a nice cold, wet day.  I think I'm going to go cuddle up in the corner with my Nook."  I think I'll still prefer "It's a good day to go cuddle up in the corner with a few books."

I Can See Clearly Now

My mom and I have a special connection. 

I don't think it's because I'm her baby (I am the youngest of five children) or that there is anything more special about me than any of my siblings, but I think we have an understanding of each other now that was never there in my teenage years.

My tumultuous teenage years--particularly the years between 13-16--were years of strain and yes, sometimes even hatred, for my mother.  Of course, looking back now, I realize that it was never really "hate" in the strictest sense, but a hatred for who she was and what she did, or didn't do.  I was seemingly always in conflict with her.  Mom was not very affectionate with me during that time.  And I can't say that I blame her.

I could go into details here about the things that widened the chasm between us or tell you many individual stories about the different events as I remember them, but that's not the purpose of this essay.  I've spent enough time in therapy and with my private journals which can be examined at a later date.

What I'd like to do is to write about what my relationship with my mother is like now.

We don't see eye-to-eye on many things.  And I'm sure that is the case with many mother/son, mother/daughter relationships.  But we seem to have a respect for one another that was never present in my life as I was growing up.  I don't always understand where she is coming from but I can see her point of view so much more clearly now.  I can also see how her worldview was shaped as she came through the experience of an entirely different generation.  I can see that her religious indoctrination played a huge part in who she became and I can see how her small town values were shaped as well.  Life was very different where and when my mother grew up.  I have grown to respect that and to respect and love her as well.

Letter From Dad II

Getting ready to move and sorting for a garage sale has its benefits...as I have found yet another letter from my father. Granted, these letters were rare but they are so meaningful to me now. I'm sure they are more meaningful than they ever have been.

April 22, 1987

Dear Tom:

When I was a little boy I dreamed of being many things and as I grew a little older my focus centered on airplanes. Someday I told myself as I watched every airplane that ever flew over our house, that someday I will be up there looking down on this majestic planet. How, when or where was only a dream and far from reality for at that time it was an occupation of a small minority. I was the oldest of five children and as you know my father died when I was eight years old. My mother raised us and was able to keep us together but times were tough and we were living on a widows pension. It was a far cry from what welfare receives today. A great treat in those days was ten cents from my grandmother to go to a Saturday matinee movie, usually a cowboy and indian thriller with a number of short subjects such as a Flash Gordon Serial. That made you come back next week to see how they got out of an impossible situation. I grew up just as you did with eight years in a Catholic grade school and under the circumstances I was able to finish High School. In order to do this I had to work in a garage everyday after school and later on every Saturday and Sunday. The other kids were able to go out for sports but couldnot take time off after school for practice. I was an alterboy and hated it many times when I had to get up and serve mass at six every morning in a church that never seemed to be heated. Yet, as I look back it was a good part of growing up. We lived over a mile from the High School and I had to walk to school every day and come home for lunch at noon and return. When I was a sophmore, I was able to save enough money to buy the bike of my dreams. It had a gear shift and cost $21.00. That was a lot of money but I took good care of it because it was mine.

I guess I was a normal boy. High School subjects were not my best shot so I was an average grade student. Flunked some subjects got hell. Made some of them up. Took the eaziest ones. Discovered girls. Even took dancing lessons but still stood in the stag lines with all the other matcho types. Working in the garage I was able to get my drivers license when I was sixteen and once in awhile had access to a car. Never had much money but made do with what you had. In my Junior year I did get interested in a few of the tougher subjects such as chemistry and algebra and got by with the skin of my teeth.

Then something happened that was to turn my life around. It was a Sunday afternoon and I was working at the Service Station and we had a car in the show window. I turned the car radio on and was listening to some music when the program was interrupted to announce the bombing of Pearl Harbor and we were at war. It was December 7, 1941.

Later on in the school year, they announced that the next year they would introduce a pre-flight program to those who could qualify and were interested in going into the Air Corp. This was my chance. My chance to begin to make a dream come true. I applied and was called to the superintendents office and told that because I had not taken the proper courses such as Plain Geometry that I would not be eligible. I ask if it would be possible to take a half a year of Plain and then step into Trigonometry. They must have felt that my desire to try was enough to make me qualify. So my senior year was cut out for me. It ment taking Physics and other subjects that in order to graduate I would have to pass them all. I never studied so hard in all my life but the dream could become a reality. Needless to say I did not graduate with honors but I did graduate. How I regretted I had not spent more of my time grasping for knowledge that was at my beg and call for three years previous.

My eighteenth birthday was March 26, 1943. I signed up for the draft. On April 15th, I received my greetings from the President of the United States requesting my presence for induction into the Armed Forces. At that time if you were eighteen after January 1st, you could ask for a differment to finish High School. This I did. I graduated on May 30th and on June 15th I received my second greetings but in the mean time, I had applied for Air Cadets. This required a written exam that was pretty tough but my decision to take the Pre-Flight course payed off. I passed and took my physical and left for the Air Corp on June 21st.

Air Cadets was the West Point of the Air Corp. It was a grueling year and a half but the dream was being fulfilled an in December of 1944 I received my wings and a commission as an officer at the ripe old age of nineteen. I ate flying, slept flying for two and onehalf years. During this time I was sending all my money home because I felt it was my duty to do the best I could to help out. This ment that I couldn't do what the other guys were able to do so my social life was not very exciting. The main thing was I was happy doing what I had always dreamed of doing.

The war came and went during this period and I was fortunate that I didn't have to see any combat. In December of 1945 I was transferred to Westover Field in Mass...Here we were given a choice of remaining in the Air Corp or going home. Being a hot shot pilot of twenty and really not knowing what civilian life was like and it being December and a Christmas at home, my choice was discharge. This is were the dream ends and a whole other chapter begins. Had I stayed, I would still be in the flying game or maybe dead. Then maybe I would not be setting here writting you this letter for you may not have been. Who knows what fate has in store for use when we are young. They say if our fore sight was as good as our hind sight we would all be better off. I have no regrets at what has taken place over the years. I met your mother we fell in love and have a loving caring family that I am very proud of. Who could ask for anything more.

This letter is not ment to make me out any kind of martyr or show myself off as egotistical person. You ask for some advise and I guess what I felt I could do is to let you know what some of the things that happened to me may help you in making what you will out of your life. I think what I am trying to point out is that you kids had it much better than what your mother and I had when we were your age. You are molding your own philosophy on life and as you grow older your ideas may change but if you have a dream go after it. The going may be tough and the time and effort may seem unsurmountable and the chance of failure is always there but as the song says, "Dream The Impossible Dream" and if you reach it everything you have done will be worth it.

Love,
Dad

I wanted to copy this word for word, so I didn't make any corrections to the grammar. But really, did it even need any? So much for my crying today. Time to move on.

Letter From Dad

The other day, I was going through a box of old letters and cards and came across this letter from my father. He was able to write profound words when he wanted to. It's postmark is March 28, 1986, and first class postage was a 22 cent stamp! However, the letter inside the envelope was dated March 27, 1986. This is why I love my father so very much:

March 27, 1986

Dear Tom:

I am setting here staring at the screen of this computer and wondering what words to put up on the screen that will make a sensible letter. You know a computer is quite a machine. It will do wonderful things but in order for it to work a human mind must make it do what it is told to do. This world would be a hell of a place if the human mind was to work like a computer and told what and when to do something. So God designed us so that each and everyone is different. This, I guess, is what makes the world go round. It causes war and peace, love and hate, ugly and beautiful from one extreme to the other but as humans we have to live with one side and the other and anything in between. Sometimes it is very hard for a person to accept this but life must go on and whether we like it or not the world will not stop to let us off. Until the time comes when we have cried our last tear and drew our last breath, then and only then will the worries of this life be over.

Yesterday I was sixty-one years old. I sit here and ask myself what have I learned in three score and one and would I have changed anything if it were possible to live it over. Yes, there are a lot of things that I would change but most are material things. I believe that the thing that stands out most in my mind is to understand love. Some people can express and transmit love and some can not. It is not that it is not there but the means of expressing it is lacking. As you get older these things seem to come into focus more and I guess you begin to see the end of your life and hope that it was all not in vain.

Well Tom, you have just read some of my thoughts on life in general. I hope some of it makes sense.

This brings me to the reason for writing this letter. You mentioned...

[the rest of this is too personal for me to share, but I will save this letter and it maybe someone will want to read it after I'm gone.]

As you can see, I have left all grammatical errors intact, and the content has been unedited. This was pretty powerful stuff. I realize my dad can't write a letter like this now, but I was so amazingly lucky that he was able to--and did--at one time.

Return

I have spent three weeks in Pennsylvania with my ailing father (Parkinson's Disease and dementia) and caregiver mother. I didn't have a chance to write this time--not even in my journal. The situation is very grim. I'm going to put my thoughts together and crank something out over the next few days. My hope is that it will be worthwhile reading for any who take the time to do so...