River Roads Bulletin

Posted on 03/18/2007 by Toby Weiss

River Roads Shopping Center (remains)
Jennings, MO
If you’ve been patiently waiting for a chance to nab one of those aqua bow ties off the former Stix, Baer & Fuller store, better hurry.

It’s taken well over a year for them to get to it, but now less than a quarter of this section remains, and the bow ties, hexagons and triangles litter the pit of the demolition site.
Above is what I was able to take with me, and the gathering of just these 2 pieces was accompanied by a constant hissing of “shit, shit, shit, shit, SHIT!”
Why?

Because having come from a birthday dinner, I was in no way dressed for spelunking into a pit of construction debris. I had on the completely wrong shoes for climbing over fencing and hopping over large chunks of building guts. I was freaking out as I took photos and saw hundreds of pieces of that sophisticated, geometric marvel of wall scattered below. So the wrong shoes be damned, down I went.

One has to park rather far away from the demo site, and when carrying armfuls of heavy ceramic tile, the walk is noticeably long (especially in the middle of July, trust me). And there’s only me, and I’m hopelessly inappropriately dressed. So, I could only salvage the two pieces shown above.
But this is the kind of stuff I had to walk away from! Look, a section still intact enough to get the full picture of how they puzzle-pieced the facade together. It’s sublime! And take a look at that hexagon piece. Dozens of them are lying – intact – all over the ground, looking like MCM birdbaths. I was losing my mind at how much stuff survived the fall, and how little I could save. That piece shown above? Way too heavy for me to carry that far by myself in heels….shit, shit, shit, shit, SHIT!!!!

So, if you want some shopping souvenirs, please hurry, because as the demolition work week continues, more and more of it goes into a trash dumpster.

Overland, MO Mid-Century Modern

Posted on 02/15/2007 by Toby Weiss

Lately, Overland is notorious as the township with the deluded, egoistic mayor who refuses to relinquish the burning castle. Aside from City Hall ineptitudes that have inspired so many of its citizens to blog, Overland is a nice town; completely suburban, yet old enough to have been formed to urban standards. There is a formal downtown nucleus that spreads out into little tract homes, and at Christmas the main drags are festooned with the exact same lighted decorations decade after decade. Overland retains so much of its original fabric that it often feels like touring a museum of post-World War 2 Baby Boom suburban expansion. Yet the place is alive, feisty and curious in a low-key manner, which keeps it off the hipsters and aggressive developers radars.

These photos are a fair sampling of the commercial buildings along Lackland Road, right in the immediate vicinity of Skeeter’s Frozen Custard. Generally, they were all built between the end of World War 2 and 1955.

This particular building has changed hands many times (it was an upholstery shop for the longest time), with each new owner never feeling the need to radically alter its appearance. And I’ve noticed that about this entire stretch of road: the commercial buildings don’t stay vacant for very long and they seldom get radically remodeled. Some may say that a lack of apparent progress is the sign of a stagnant city, but I see Overland’s constant, gentle ripples as a city finely balanced.

One of my favorite examples of Overland being satisfied with its resources is the above service station. Walking onto the parking lot is like swooshing back in time, with that time being kept by the very same clock that’s graced the building since it went up in 1954.

The only major change the decades have wrought is the removal of the gas pumps. Other than that, it’s business as usual, utterly neat and tidy and friendly.

What year was this photo taken? The only thing that betrays 21st century is a package of blue M&Ms and Skittles in what is most likely the exact same vending machine the original owners plopped into that office 53 years ago.

Heading east on Lackland and crossing over Woodson Road (the city’s main drag), one can see the most curious of buildings. Some portion of the Knights of Columbus Hall was built in 1930, and dusty new additions have been plopped into the mix over the decades. The place is now massive, and appears dead to the world, but its ramshackle appearance always stays exactly the same (indicating regular upkeep), and its website shows a full roster of activities.

Just up the street, the YMCA sports the Deco Moderate look that was popular in new suburbs of the late 1940s. It gave new public buildings a sense of the modern urbanity but without all the drama. This style holds up well, as it never looks too dated (for those who require contemporary) or too radical (for those who like quaint). This YMCA building went up in 1948, is still in use, and still looks fabulous.

At the intersection of Lackland & Brown Road is this simple and handsome building, built in 1945. The curving corner, a ribbon of tiny windows and the dark brick pinstripes of the second floor give it a bit of a Steamliner Deco feel. There is always another business ready to take over any vacancies in this building, and it’s been this way since I first “met” the building in 1984. This intersection has businesses on 3 sides, but it’s a bit disconnected from the main commercial drags by houses. Meaning, it would have been a natural for this building – this intersection – to decay from natural suburban aging. But it hasn’t. What does Overland have going on that similar towns don’t?

Directly across the street is a building that always tickles me. I mentally refer to it as Googie Van Der Rohe because it looks like a Chicago Mies building accented with a Southern California roadside motel lobby. It was built in 1957 as a bank and remains so, and it looks like that!

The SoCal Googie looby was, obviously, the main entrance, meant to be accessed by foot, bus or car from the intersection. But in 1967 they moved the entrance to the opposite end of the building when they expanded that parking lot. The “new” entrance still has that afterthought look, and feels cramped because of the makeshift drive-through lanes crowding its scene.

I love that a bench was placed under the canopy, so that employees can lunch and smoke in Jetsons splendor, and that they have to walk quite a ways to get to it, as that door has a chain on it to make sure it stays shut.

So, the entrance is now useless as such, yet they’ve left it completely intact, with the “crazy man, crazy” light fixture hanging like it’s suspended in prehistoric amber. It’s such a queer thing to have so many different banks move in and out of this building, reconfiguring its guts and alley as banking needs change, yet they leave the essential Mod-ness of it alone. Is it a case of “out of sight, out of mind?” Or that no one bank is ever inside long enough to invest in remodeling the non-essential parts? Or does it cast some sort of 77 Sunset Strip spell over all inhabitants, rendering those who would vinyl side incapable of doing so?

By hanging a U-ey at Lackland & Brown, we drive back toward Woodson Road, hang a right and head straight into the thick of old fashioned Downtown Overland. And it really does seem to have gone out of its way to be old-fashioned from inception. County records show that most of this dense strip of buildings went up in the 10 years directly after WW2, so they built quickly during those last moments in time when pedestrian traffic still influenced how a commercial district was laid out.

The downtown strip has a few stalwart businesses, remainders from the old days. But, again, each time a storefront becomes available, it gets filled much quicker than these types of commercial districts usually do. And by quicker than usual, I mean that we can cruise the central commercial strips of, say, Normandy or Baden or Glasgow Village and see a chain of vacant storefronts. But not in Overland.

And they have never really had the room to renovate for expanded parking. Sure, they’ve taken down a building or 2 to squeeze in some blacktop spots, but overall, its street parking, and those spots are always filled and there’s always commerce taking place.

One of the liveliest spots in downtown is the diner, above. By keeping it tiny (572 square feet being a good definition of such) they were able to push the building up against the sidewalk and use the leftover space for parking, which was quickly becoming a bigger concern when the place was built in 1957.

Half of the building is decked out in Pseudo Deco, vaguely reminiscent of White Castles, while the other half is standard Corner Tavern Stone facade. That they were able to cram 2 distinct looks onto so little wall is most impressive.

And the interior has barely changed in 50 years.
What kills me is that one can easily walk from Paul Bros. service station (4th picture from the top of this entry) to this diner in about 10 minutes and somehow remain in a Leave It To Beaver world, untouched by the uglier aspects of modern time. And we’re not talking some retro homage; it’s the entire genuine article, unfussy and unconcerned that the diner reeks of decades worth of grease. It’s probably those ancient grease odors that makes the biscuits and gravey (spelled, my lord, with an “ey”) so damn great.

The Hacienda Mexican restaurant has long been a popular staple in the downtown strip, but it hasn’t always been this pink. It used to have a more traditional Northwest County Adobe look. I feel they updated the color to Flamingo Pink to better coordinate with the establishment behind it…

…which has spruced up its Lyndon B. Johnson congressional motel look with some hot sea foam green trim. Built in 1965, they were billed as “garden apartments,” for all doors faced into a central courtyard, much like in Southern California.

Every good downtown needs a dollop of seediness, so this place has become rather transient, in the most romantic sense of the word. The set-up is actually quite nice, but I couldn’t get in any closer for better shots, as the working girls crossing the tiny parking lot were real uptight about someone taking pictures of their place so early on a Saturday morning. I respect free enterprise, so I respectfully moved on.

Leaving downtown proper, we head back up Woodson Road, a couple of blocks south of Page Avenue, to one of my favorite buried MCM treasures. Overland is rather hilly, and note how this gem (above) plays with the topography by tapering a rectangle into the hillside. I love the feel of the windows melting into the ground, and the shades of blue springing out of green grass and blacktop.

This place was built in 1958, and it’s a perfect model of that year’s modern aesthetic. Tiny tiles of aquatic blues, the concrete block sun screen that throws polka dots amid the shadows, simple planes low to the ground, cool geometry in service to manufacturing prowess. If this building could have been erected next to the Googie Van Der Rohe bank, the story of 1950s American Progress would have been perfectly told in microcosm.

U.S Band & Orchestra Supplies now manufactures and wholesales instruments, and the building serves them well enough that they don’t think about it’s condition. This building needs some help. A good start would be to trim the hedges and kill the weeds, some waterproofing and paint on the faded surfaces.

Each time I pass this faded beauty, I have to fight the overwhelming urge to have at the tile with a bucket of Spic & Span and a water hose. Just imagine how those tiles gleam when clean, how this building must have impressed when it first came to the neighborhood. And it could do that once again, but the immediate commercial strip in which this building sits is heading toward the kind of decay that invites future developers to go for Big Box infiltration. Should this ever be the case, the one building that just might save the above gem is…

WOOFIE’S! Serving what has been called “the hot dog of the gods,” the building went up in 1955 and is only a dozen square feet bigger than the diner shown above. But this building was dedicated to the car from its inception, so the inside can now concentrate on being a tiny “shrine to the all-beef frankfurter.” It’s clean and bright, and on a brilliant sunny day, Woofie’s contrasted with my blue tile geo gem next door is a sight to break my heart. It speaks to me of all that’s good about America’s mid-century aspirations, and makes me proud that such a unique town like Overland is here for you and me.

Skeleton: St. Louis Army Ammunition Plant

Posted on 11/25/2006 by Toby Weiss

Goodfellow Blvd. & Hwy. 70
City of St. Louis, MO
For several years there’s been talk of taking down the Munitions Plant, but the grounds are rumored to be so heavily infested with numerous chemical violations that remediation was an expensive and scary proposition. The City of St. Louis finally selected a developer in 2004, but still the hulking, iconic building sat motionless.

Motionless, until recently. Crews have come in and are methodically stripping the Transite panels off the monolithic shed with the gaping-jaw roof. Removed of its cladding, its bones showing to the world, it now looks like the carcass of the turkeys we carved on Thanksgiving Day.

This building has long been the hulking giant atop the hill, watching the ant-like cars crawl below on Highway 70. One need not be told what the building once was to intuitively understand that it was an important industrial building, devoid of frivolity, intent on humorless production of hardcore seriousness. But stripped of its gunmetal sheathing, the building is now curiously fragile and delicate… an elephant at the ice capades, a rhinoceros ballerina…

To anyone born after World War 2, this building Has Always Been. Its prominent placement at the city’s northern boundary, at the peak of a hill, with its Erector Set roof roaring like a dinosaur makes it impossible to overlook, hard to ignore. Being a government building – a factory dedicated to war accessories – gave it an austerity and mystery that demanded respect and distance. You had to have a pass to get in while it was open, and once it was shuttered you needed a love of danger to risk wallowing in deadly leftover weaponry chemicals to trespass the barbwire-topped chain link fence boundary.

For me, this was a building I always took for granted; it would always be there because we’re too afraid to take it down. So I was content to let others explore it. I was grateful that others took the time to document it.

But upon seeing its metal skeleton exposed to the world, I now wanted to be near it, and to document that the seemingly-impenetrable was, in fact, penetrated, vulnerable and vanishing.

So, through the hole in the fence I went, and the rumors are true: after about 20 minutes, my lips and fingertips were tingling and then numb; shortness of breath and cottonmouth followed close behind. It was the same reaction as from – years ago – traipsing around down inside the River Des Peres, mere days before they posted the yellow warning signs about chemical contamination = illness.

Finally being up close to the naked military manufacturing giant erased its imposing qualities. Instead, the human factor became the dominating theme. People are able to dismantle it piece by piece. Tiny little doors everywhere for people to pass through. Countless ladders and catwalks for people to climb. Hundreds of pendant lights and windows so people could see.

I was most enchanted with the pair of pedestrian entry gates on Goodfellow Blvd (above). It’s proof of a time – way back in the day – when St. Louis had so many public transportation options that more people entered the plant on foot than by car.

Each entry has a tiny little guard station, with a half door option, and an elaborate stair rail system for both safety and function.

It’s a tiny place for an always-on-duty guard to check your ID. Looking at it, I got images of steaming cups of coffee and a hearty “good morning!” to a line of familiar faces.

And the 3 rows dividing the stairs are capped with a special well for other guards to stand in and check IDs while remaining out of the flow of foot traffic. I love the concept of guards – back then – being slim enough to fit within the metal tube “cup holder.”

There is also a guard house at the driveway entry off Goodfellow. As the years went on, I picture the foot-traffic entrances seeing less and less activity, maybe having to let go of some of the guards, as most everyone was now coming to work via automobile. This became a busy spot, thus needing a much bigger cottage to house all those steaming cups of coffee…

Note the old fashioned “keep away” sign…

And, of course, the sternly worded warnings that backed up the feel of the architecture.
This particular area of town was once our city’s most powerful evidence of modern progress. Just down the street from here (at Natural Bridge and Union) stands the now-abandoned General Motors Plant, built of the finest post-WW2 industrial modernism stock. These 2 complexes, along with healthy handfuls of other industrial and executive buildings exemplified the promise of American know-how and manufacturing might. We had just made the world safe from evil, and at the dividing line between city & county, we looked toward a bright future of benevolent superiority.

Contrast what once was to how this same area is today, and take a look at the sign above, tacked onto lumber just inside the fence surrounding the Munitions Plant. What does that actually mean? Is it saying something that I just don’t understand? Or is it just more empty propaganda? Long ago, the government meant something, and now it’s a mockery, and I get the entire timeline right here, at the expired military complex…

I read that thing a number of times, trying to figure out what it was getting at, and then I looked around at the desolation. The litter is literally 4-inches thick along all curbs, the roads haven’t been repaved in long past a decade or so. Every building, business and home reinforces that this part of town is past the point of abandoned.

So, the city found a developer for this site, and this developer put up a sign. It’s a heavy vinyl banner, with plain red vinyl lettering saying there are plenty of opportunities on this site, give us a call. But one of the cords holding one of the ends up on the chain link broke long ago, and it’s folded over, thus unreadable. They have no other signs anywhere else on the property. Nor does the developer even mention this project on its website. Granted, the demolition of the building has only just begun, and guessing from my dizziness, the remediation has yet to happen, which could add another year or more till the land is ready.

I was glad to have finally met this building face to face, and to have absorbed the last remnants of what it was before it disappears completely. But I left with an uncomfortable sense of sadness because something once so omnipresent and powerful – a building and an area – has been reduced to neglected nothingness, its remains sprinkled with a fine powdered sugar of vague promises. And the wind now blows trash through the plant’s skeletal remains… As a show of respect, I hope the building comes down relatively quick, because it’s kind of embarrassing to see it in its underwear.

The St. Louis Post-Dispatch covered this story several days after me.

A Wellston Bank

Posted on 03/24/2006 by Toby Weiss

Kienlen Ave & Dr. Martin Luther King Dr.
Wellston, MO
Every few months I visit Wellston, just to keep track of what’s going on. There’s been a lot of activity in the area over the last few years, with a considerable amount of new home construction and a handful of new commercial buildings. While it’s heartening to see activity in the community, I worry about the conspicuous lack of rehab and preservation, and specifically, the fate of the former State Bank of Wellston.

Sited a mere 1.5 blocks northwest of the St. Louis City Limit, the State Bank of Wellston was a flashy focal point of Wellston’s welcome mat status in the post-WW2 suburban migration.

Erected in the late 1940s, the bank’s lighted advertising tower (above) was/is a notorious landmark. It looks like a cross between the old RKO Pictures Studio logo and a hipster alien spacecraft, which is also an apt description of the role Wellston played in the urban-to-suburban evolution of the St. Louis Metropolitan area.

The advertising tower touts Sky Bank, which is was until the early 1950s when a new granite facade lent the importance required of an upgrade to State Bank. The 1955 St. Louis Directory ad (above) reminds us that Easton Avenue was long the original name of Dr. Martin Luther King Dr. That moniker peters out less than a mile from this intersection, when it becomes St. Charles Rock Road.

When trying to recreate the 1955 directory shot, I couldn’t help but notice that liberties had been taken with the tower placement. But surprisingly, most everything else remains the same.

In the early 1960s, the bank expanded and embraced the supremacy of car culture by adding an aqua supreme drive-thru-banking addition. With the light fixtures that indicated open lanes long gone (above), I love that what remains looks like hubcaps. It’s both a sad and fitting commentary of what birthed and killed this now-abandoned drive-thru.

It is now a Regions Bank, and every time I photograph it, a security guard eventually comes out to kindly shoo me away. On this visit, the guard told me that the building had been sold in the late fall of 2005. Regions would build a new, larger structure across the street on Kienlen. I mused aloud to the security guard: While it’s nice that they decided to stay in this community, why do they need a bigger building when most banks are physically shrinking due to ATM- and on-line-banking? And who bought this building? And what will become of it? The security guard merely shrugged and made it clear I needed to stop taking pictures and just leave.

Mindful of all the new activity, Landmarks has made steps towards an historical survey of Wellston, in hopes of making its city hall and developers aware of Wellston’s varied historical fabric. My hope is that rather than concentrating on the earlier era of this municipality, all decades of its story will be represented, with this bank being a beautiful example of mid-century city-to-county aspirations.

Since it will no longer be a bank, it’s time to think about what else it could become: A bookstore or library (with drive-thru drop off book return!); a restaurant and bar (imagine the drive-thru area as the coolest outdoor dining area)? If Wellston were as sleepy as it once was, this soon-to-be-empty building could sit undisturbed for decades until a bright-minded person decided to bring it back to life. But Wellston’s on the move, and chances are this building will be demolished, because that’s what happens in St. Louis. Plus, people have yet to be alarmed about the cavalier destruction of our mid-century architectural heritage. This bank is a choice example of such.

RELATED To Wellston

Phillips 66, Part 1

Posted on 02/23/2006 by Toby Weiss

Chippewa & Macklind, South St. Louis, MO (in use)
For several years, I’ve been fascinated with the bat-wing buildings found during travels. I once mentioned “finding another one,” and my father filled me in that those were formerly Phillips 66 gas stations. It was easy to figure the era of the buildings; there is none more mid-century car-centric than those bat wings.

St. Charles Rock Road, St. John, MO (in use)
Having the Phillips 66 key did not help me track down any solid background information about the buildings. I was pretty much alone in my fascination for them, until my pal Darren Snow discovered my solitary hobby. He went through old St. Louis city and county directories from the early 1960s, and meticulously wrote down all Phillips 66 addresses. Much gas was used tracking down old gas stations.

Lucas & Hunt Road, Velda Village, MO (in use)
A few other like-minded folks were intrigued by my minor obsession, and began reporting back every time they found one. From East St. Louis to Hannibal, from Wisconsin to Indiana, the bat-wings were still out there. When not completely abandoned, they’re in use as some kind of car repair outfit. There’s no escaping the function of this very specific architecture.

North Lindbergh @ Hwy 70, St. Ann, MO (demolished)
I amassed a lot of photos of a lot of remaining 66 Canopies. If I had limitless free time, I’d dig them all up for this narrative. If someone wants to pay me to do something useful with those photos, I’d plow through years of negatives and files. But this being the real world, we’ll stick with a smattering of Bat Wings.

Old Halls Ferry Road, Moline Acres, MO (vacant)
I learned to accept not knowing much of anything about the wings, other than what could be observed from all the specimens found. But it did seem odd that such a widely circulated, corporate-sponsored architecture was so woefully overlooked. Via Internet, I could see someone’s restaurant menu collection, but nothing on Phillips 66’s mid-century look? How absurd.

But everything changed come spring 2005…

The Bat Wings landed on the cover of the Society for Commercial Archeology‘s magazine, with an 8-page article inside! The thrill of digesting writer Cliff Leppke’s detailed info on something that had long puzzled me was a dork’s delight… Gabba gabba we accept you, one of us, one of us!

To take financial advantage of the automobile revolution, Phillips 66 updated the look of their stations twice during the 1950s. Come 1960, they introduced “The New Look” of the “butterfly canopy,” a style they sold to station leaseholders as Harlequin. Designed by architect Clarence Reinhardt, “the canopy was a widely circulated symbol of architectural playfulness, (and) archival records indicate that Reinhardt was particularly inspired by early Los Angeles area drive-ins.”

The wings were designed to point into heavy traffic and convey to motorists a “distinctive look of action, busyness… a spacious, more appealing appearance.” The “propulsion age air flow design” featured an abundance of fluorescent lighting because now more drivers were out at night, plus this safety feature – along with the new vibrant colors – would appeal to women drivers. The populuxe Harlequin 66 became ubiquitous in and around the new suburban frontiers, those post-WW2 cities that rapidly developed just outside a traditional big city’s borders.

Highway 70 service road, Columbia, MO (vacant)
According to sociologists and Madison Avenue, America’s frenzied love affair with the automobile was more like a casual fling. “In 1968, Phillips began testing environmentally attuned ranch-style service stations. According to Phillips marketing engineer Cliff Sousa, ‘people’s attitudes about commercial architecture shifted.’ The gas station became a symbol not of progress but of what was wrong in American life.”

The arrival of the mobile home required taller canopies. The switch from full-service to self-service pumps required wider canopies to shelter consumers from the elements. “Phillips advised dealers to install mansard roofs on New Look stations, to repaint them with dark earthtone colors…” In less than a decade, the Phillips 66 look went from stiletto to earth shoe.

Once the 66 information damn burst, it became easier to find Bat Wing photos from across the nation. Roadside Architecture has a great page of Wings. The Kentucky Heritage Council put them in an Oblong Box category. What also emerges is a reverence for the double bat wing 66, and rightly so. Rock Hill, MO has just such an impressive creature, though the clock is ticking down to “time’s up.” That tale will be illustrated in Part 2.

RELATED: Phillips 66, Part 2

Northland Shopping Center Artifacts

Posted on 01/02/2006 by Toby Weiss

Let’s carry the story into 2006, by sharing what I saved from Northland Shopping Center.
Reminder: Should you want it, the entire story is here, and enlarge any photo by clicking on it.

Northland’s main sign (above, left) stood diagonal to the West Florissant and Lucas & Hunt intersection. For decades, it was the community’s bulletin board.
When its demolition date arrived, they obviously didn’t bother to dismantle it; they just crushed and whisked (most of) it away. Broken pieces of the big plastic letters were partially buried in the dirt. The “R” (above, right) was the only letter that remained recognizable. In my backyard, it certainly does look like a haggard “P,” yes.

The Northland Cinema (above, top) was built in 1967. I took the last pictures in Spring 2002, including the pool-side-fabulous lobby (above, bottom left). Darren Snow and I visited on July 2002, and the cinema had been thoroughly demolished, the last of its remains in a few large trash dumpsters nearby. To which D. pulled his pickup alongside so I could climb atop the roof and get into the trash dumpsters, desperate to get a recognizable souvenir. My only “save” was a single, baby blue ceramic tile (above, bottom right) that was once part of the ladies’ restroom sink backsplash. It’s only 1″ square, inconsequential at best, but simply holding it makes me feel way better than any new age crystals they sell.

On that same day, we waded through the forest of fallen light poles (above, left) that once surrounded the Cinema. The metal parking-place reminders that hung around each pole turned out to be rather huge. Darren was the toolbox-wielding hero (above, middle) who patiently cracked decades of rust and snagged us some parking reminders. “A13” is somewhat heavy and bulky (above, right), but that’s what makes it the perfect sunroom muddy-shoe-holder.

The former Baker’s Shoes storefront (above, top left) yielded a few treasures. The original door pulls (above, bottom left) were long-coveted, and once vandals broke a display window, I was able to get in and take the handles, which had been sitting on the vacant countertop (top red arrow in top left picture) for over 2 years. They are gorgeous.

During a summer 2005 visit, Rob Powers was dead-set on having the Baker’s store address (above, bottom middle). Rightly so, because it’s in that smart Lever House font. I dragged a 6 ft. ladder down from the (now easily accessible) Former Kresge. Darren’s magic toolbox had the right size screwdriver. Rob spent a good 15-minutes of cursing under his breath, and finally dislodged (above, bottom right) the Dirty 30. Since he was so diligent, he deserved to keep it.

I also had to take a brick from Baker’s (above, top right). Special Nerd Note about this photo: the Baker’s brick is sitting atop a limestone brick from the old Cross Keys Shopping Center. It was part of the former Kroger grocery store facade.

Baker’s Shoes eventually became Kingsbury Shoes (above, left) and the hanging promenade sign (above, top right) eventually became mine (above, bottom right) after the wrecking ball smashed this section into dust.

From the Former Famous-Barr (above, top left), I dragged off a stone brick (above, top right). A few days later, Brett Reagan (above, middle right) brought along his pickup truck to help me gather more FB stuff, like a chair (above, bottom right) that came from the FB Human Resources office. I figured out its provenance from there being so many of these desk chairs sitting nearby the Employment Office entrance. Plus, after 13.5 years as a Famous-Barr advertising employee, I was overly familiar with the furniture in the areas where folks filled out employment applications.

The FB door pulls (above, middle left) were something I always longed for, and I now had clear access to removing them, but we had no frickin’ tools! While we stood talking inside the building, we kicked at piles of debris and up popped a solo door pull! The sucker (above, bottom left) easily weighs 10 pounds, and is dashing in its modern simplicity.

More FB fixture finds include a fire alarm (above, left) and a tin placard that Michael Allen pulled from an AC unit (above, right) and was so kind as to let me keep.

I waited a couple of weeks for the sign revealed in the FB window (above, left) to become available. So, it’s large but it’s old foam core, so it shouldn’t have been a problem, right? Oh man, it was brittle, large and awkward (above, right) and was the hardest thing to load into Brett’s truck.

The begrudgingly optimistic sign (above, left) that sat inside the former candy store’s vacant display window was eventually scooped up by me as it fluttered by in a post-demolition wind.

The sign died in the above, left windows, and later I got a patch of the ceramic tile (above, right) that covered the display facade.

The exterior stairwells of the Northland Office Building (above, left) were wings of metal, concrete and Mondrian stained glass (above, top right). During demolition, the glass fell to become candy sprinkles on the sidewalk. I oh-so-carefully carried off some really sharp shards (above, bottom right), and they never fail to remind me of so many moments of sunlit abstract beauty in the stairwells.

The ground floor lobby of the Office Building (above, top left & right) was straightforward linear, with its only organic texture being the tile walls. One had to stand right against it to notice how jet-age loopy the rock pattern was. I later learned a deep appreciation for those rock walls only after I got a chunk of it (above, bottom left). Those are halved pebbles of polished granite embedded in a sand base. My little piece has heft and presence, and the “Made In Italy” stamped on the side (above, bottom right) reveals a high price tag, even back in the mid-50s. Which just highlights how Northland developers and architects never skimped on materials. The construction and the finishes were for important permanent buildings, so they figured the cost was worth it. So, cost pro-rated by 50 years, they probably got their money’s worth…

The former Kresges at Northland was my Xanadu, and while I got a few things, I never got the chance to thoroughly dig through the guts in search of authentic Kresge souvenirs. The wrecking ball and rain got to it before I got a final crack at. But I did get to tear off a piece (above, bottom right) of Kresge’s upper level facade (above, top). Those sheets of coral and red enameled metal were screwed on for eternity, and I even lost my best screwdriver in the fray, but I won the fight (above, bottom left) and took away a valid, solid chunk of S.S. Kresge & Co.

On another day, I was happy to just get an original thermostat cover (above, left & right).

But for me, the most-coveted item in the place was the original Coke-Cola clock (above, top left). Forever it hung on the back wall of the upper floor; when Conine said to meet her by the cash registers in 15 minutes, that clock kept me from losing solo toy browsing privileges. At some point, a cat lover permanently altered the clock face, but I still wanted it bad.

Many times I tried to work up the nerve to walk inside as McCrory Furniture staff cleared out the store, and simply ask if I could have the clock. But if they knew it was important to me, they’d want to sell it for some absurd amount, I’d refuse and they’d keep the clock to spite me. That’s how revved up I was about snagging the clock – imaging fights with furniture storeowners.

I kept a vigilant eye, and finally Powers, Snow and I had unrestricted access and a ladder. Despite repeated attempts, we couldn’t budge the giant, heavy clock from the wall, and my heart was breaking. I was so close, the clock is right here in my hands and I can’t have it! Just cruel.

About a week later, Vince Mattina and I found the clock had been carefully removed from the wall, and sitting on the floor not too far from where it hung (above, middle left). It’s way too big to fit into my car, but what about just taking the clock face? The hands (above, middle right) had to be removed in order to free the face plate, and I failed miserably at it, almost snapping off the hands in anger. Vince was far less emotional about it, and methodically removed the hands (“Now, you have to save these, too. It’s the best part.”) without aid of tools. My hero, Vinceman, freed the clock hands and face, helped me cart out the bounty, and even took my picture (above, bottom) with the hard-won prize. It was a triumphant moment of relief and happiness, certainly the biggest mount in my trophy room (above, top right).

The stairwells at Northland (above, right) were always a visual and physical delight. On one visit, one of the canister lights (above, left) had fallen down onto the stairs. The scale of Northland was so large that all ornament on it seemed normal-sized when seen from the sidewalk. But when finally right up on a piece, it was overwhelmingly large. This canister light was monstrous. So huge that I had to pass on carting it off, and I regret not having made the effort. It would have made a unique and durable trash can.

And here’s the last piece of Northland I own (above). I have no idea exactly which store it came from; it peeked out from a pile of debris on the northern lower level, so I scooped it up. This one square foot ceramic glazed tile summarizes the Northland in my mind. That particular shade of blue is so mid-century modern, so cocktail lounge cool, so New Frontier. It’s the big brother to the little sister Northland Cinema tile. If all my Northland artifacts were in book form, this tile would be the cover.
A warm “thank you” to all the people who helped me cart off “chapters” of the Northland story.

Northland Demolition, Part 5

Posted on 12/20/2005 by Toby Weiss

September 24, 2005
The last visit was September 4th, 2005. The entire chronological saga is compiled here. Also, by clicking on them, all photos enlarge for better viewing.
After a 3 week absence, I was shocked to see the tower (above) still standing. But the demolition crew had moved their Porta Potties, so they were ready to get serious about crushing the southern upper level.

Circling around all sides of the tower (above left & right) was an odd sort of Maypole dance.

In preparation for the final crush, the Walgreen’s sign was uncovered (above, left), and capturing this Mondrian-esque sight (above, right) made me nostalgic for when Walgreen’s had a killer liquor department. It was one of my favorite places for last-minute Christmas stocking stuffers. But in the late 1990s, the Mormons reportedly bought the corporation, and they banned the booze.
7 doors north, all the glass was stripped from the former jewelry store, making it easy to take one last lap around the ravaged space (above, left). It also featured a hatchet edge (above, right) where I could stare straight down into the abyss that was once the Famous-Barr building and the entire north wing, upper & lower levels.

Staring up from the lower level, the same jewlery store can be seen on the far left of the above, left picture. One normally only sees neat sections on building blueprints, but from this view, it was a section plan come to life. It’s a fascinating reveal of how the upper & lower levels worked, and how the wide array of facade materials formed a large, modern mosaic. Down at the West Florissant entrance to the Office Building (above, right), I got one of the last shots of the upper & lower level play of the south wing. With the plexiglass walls gone, it becomes a pure, unobstructed view of the basic, geometric building blocks that was the ingenious premise of Northland.
The Rubble Mountain (above) was getting ever taller. Even though the concept of climbing the busted remains of Northland creeped me out, it was too unusual to let a self-timer photo opp pass.
No, I don’t usually spelunk demo sites in a dress. I’d come straight from work. And in my left hand are pieces of the stained glass from the Office Building (far right in the photo) exterior stairwells that were now available. A Scavenger Sidewalk Sale, of sorts.
Here’s a small collage of uncovered signage and tossed toilets. I finally got an unobstructed shot of the Staten Island Cleaners sign (above, top right). When the dry cleaners vacated, a chop suey joint took over the space. It looks as if when they installed their own sign, they simply knocked the Staten Island sign over onto the roof.

October 9th, 2005

2 weeks later, exactly half of the south wing has disappeared (above). And I zoom in on what the demo crew left behind when the closing bell sounded at Friday quitting time.

As sad as it is, there’s also beauty and grace within demolition scenes. Goethe said “architecture is frozen music,” but when its busted pieces are crashing and fluttering about, it thaws to become a sorrowful, minor key symphony. In the case of the Foxmoor storefront (above, left & right), it also felt like an action sequence that came to a halt when the film reel jammed.
Or a giant’s game of Pick-Up Stix (above). The light poles just barely missed falling into the pit. Also note the 4 round green planters near the top center of the photo.
As the crews have methodically dismantled and cleared each space before crushing it, they carefully move these planters out of the way, rather than obliterating them.
It’s so odd, for the crews have to physically move these planters from place to place. But it’s also comical, because the planters now resemble a Greek chorus traveling behind each new wound, pointing and contributing commentary. These planters have become bookmarks, or a perverse version of Where’s Waldo? as I crane to find them somewhere within each frame.

A close-up view (above) reveals about 5 layers of paint over the years, with the original layer being the light blue that dominated the Northland color scheme. Also, I always assumed the planters were made of concrete, but it’s actually a fiberglass & plastic mixture. This makes them relatively light-weight, and easy for the demolition crew to move about like checkers.
Hmmm…would I be able to move one from the site and into my backyard?
The Northland Office Building was wide open and prepped for the big crush…
…with machinery lined up to attack. So I figured I better get inside for some final detail shots before it was gone for good.
Even more stained glass was missing from the external stairwells (above, left), which left beautiful confetti on the sidewalk below.
Coming in through the south-facing main entrance, I’m surprised at how much of the original finishes remain. There’s the simplistic handles of the glass doors against the space-age shaped mosaic tile (above, left) , and the goblet-shaped metal canister lights (above, right) that were prevalent in many commercial spaces during the late 1950s.
Exit the building from the north-facing side (above, left) and head over for the last look at what remains of the south wing’s lower level (above, right).
I finally got to see what material had comprised the black rectangle (above, left), since they were now scattered on the ground. Each panel was metal covered in porcelain enamel (above, right), which surprised me. That material was recently out of favor for facades, with its heyday being the 1930s and ’40s. For the Northland architects to pick that material for use in a purely decorative manner was a nice touch.

Of course I tried to salvage one of the panels, but like everything at Northland, the pieces wind up being much, much larger than they seem from ground level. This single panel was about 3′ x 2′, and way too heavy for me to carry over a long distance. Since the site was completely closed off and torn up, I had to park at the stand-alone Blockbuster up near the Lucas & Hunt/West Florissant intersection and walk a bit to get to the demolition. While it never seemed like a long walk previously, carrying a 35-pound enamel panel would make it feel like a mile. So, I had to leave it behind. I still regret that, but then, where would I have put it?
Considering how fast the crew moves when they’re cleared for take off, I had a feeling this was my last moments with the tower (above). Actually, I was hoping it would be, because I was worn down by the anticipatory dread. But I was torn between wanting to capture parts of its demise, and just returning to see it completely cleared (like the grocery store) so I wouldn’t have to see such a grim sight.

October 16th, 2005
On this day, I turned 40, while Northland only made it a scootch past 50 years old. I hope there’s no symbolism involved here.
And I caught the last gasping remains of the once-mighty-pretty tower (above). While the crew completely cleared everything immediately around it, they left just this last bit standing, almost as if leaving me a birthday present. Thank you…. I think?
But the Office Building still stands in the background (above). Which made sense when I pondered it; the demo crew is very methodical. They won’t crush the Office Building until they’ve completely cleared the last bits of the mall, proper. Environmental Operations, Inc. have been fabulously meticulous throughout this long, hard process.
The Greek chorus (above, left) moves to the southwest, to sing a final farewell to the tower, while trekking directly north of them, I find a sign (above, right) patiently narrating what all this rubble once was.
Looking west at what was the stairwell to the lower level, the still-standing bank can be seen on the left side of the above, left photo.
Once there was a multitude of stainless steel columns, but now we have the Last Mohican (above, right). I tried my best to salvage any piece of the still-vibrant stainless steel, but the sections were either too long or too large to handle by myself, or were jutting out of piles that could have turned into a massively scary game of Jenga if I pulled incorrectly.
Since the bank will remain open for the duration of the demolition and new construction, I shot one of the drive-up ATM kiosks as a future reference point (above). Once everything is demolished, spatial relations change drastically, and it’s difficult to pin-point what was where. By picking something that will remain, it’s easier to find the phantom spot in the future, should I wish to engage in morbid memories. But so far, I just want this to be over with.
Save for the main one, all identifying signs (above, left) still ring the perimeter of the property. I’d love to get my hands one of those Exit signs, but again, they are really huge. I could get someone to help me cart it off, but then where would I put it? Turn it into a coffee table, maybe?

Above, right, standing in what was the lower level, and shooting through, and past, the iron framework. And it’s still a weird, creepy feeling to be standing on what was a solid building just days ago.
This was the southern lower level shipping and receiving garage, which lead to an entire city’s worth of neighborhoods underground. I never realized just how massive this place was until they dismantled it. The dry cleaners/chop suey joint was to the immediate left in the (above) photo, the stairwell to the right. In the last years, one could always smell urine when walking past this spot. Now it has a brief chance to air out…
Here’s the last of Northland’s 3 stairwells (above), which had been sealed off since at least 2002. And again, we see the plaster not so much falling off, but peeling off to hang like a curtain. It truly is an impressive sight. All that weight hung like that for another 2 weeks or so, which points out – yet again – how tightly and strongly this place was built. And which is why it’s taking so long to tear it down.
Which makes me think about the place that will replace Northland. In about 25-30 years from the date it opens, it will be crushed for some other new development, but at that time, demolition will only take about a month or so. Meaning, the advantage to building cheap, flimsy new buildings is the built-in demolition savings in the future. Very clever, that.
From the lower-level pit, I look up for one final goodbye to The Tower, and then had to split for some birthday merriment. But it felt good to spend a little time with a place that has meant so much to me over these 4 decades of life.

October 24th, 2005
At the very north-eastern of the Northland property (see star on map, above), there was an organic, pedestrian-made foot path that took you from the top of the hill down into Northland, just behind the cinema. Many of us walked to Northland back in the day (I know I walked to more than was ever driven to), and many still do; every time I’ve been at the site, easily 20% of the folks I encountered were on foot.
The new developers have acknowledged that path, and made it official by paving it (above, left). Nice touch, truly, because it shows they’ve acknowledged how people in the community have – and will – use the place. Then I get to the top of new sidewalk, and….

(Above, right). What the piss?! Some well intentioned but dunder-headed street department worker decided to cap off the metal guard rail! You can see how fresh it is, and how it violates the freshly laid concrete sidewalk! What were they thinking?!
Oh, they weren’t thinking, obviously.
Build an official pedestrian path, and then block it off…brilliant, just brilliant.

OK, the young can easily hop over it, but what about the old? And even as I photographed this jerk move, 3 little kids were riding their bikes across the Northland lot. They pedaled up the new sidewalk, and confronted the new roadblock. The 2 boys quickly got off their bikes, picked them up and over onto the outer sidewalk. Then they pedaled off, leaving behind the little girl, who couldn’t pick up her bike as easily.
Putting her bike on its side, she pushed it under the rail, then hopped over to pull it out the rest of the way. During the solid minute that she spent overcoming the obstacle, the boys had long-since disappeared, and she had to frantically pedal off to find them.
Either Sansone (the developer) needs to get over there and remove that end cap, or someone in the neighborhood needs to take a chainsaw to it. Either way, fix it!
Northland was a 65+ acre property, very hilly. My father tells of hunting rabbits on that forest-like property back in the 1940s. The original Northland architects worked with that landscape, creating a multi-level structure. The new development will obviously be one level, on flat ground. Looking north (above, left, and note the Greek Chorus in the distance), see that everything has been filled in. The demolition remains were packed down to form a foundation, and fresh dirt caps it off.

Looking west towards the Office Building (above, right) better shows the line of demarcation. I’m standing on the fresh ground near the border of debris. Construction-wise, earth moving is a budget killer. It’s often wiser – both financially and ecologically – to build with the land then to rearrange it (as in the original 1950s construction). But when “recycling” this property, they recycled parts of the building as their in-fill, and only had to pay for enough new dirt to ice over it. That’s a large budget relief. Plus, it’s also cheaper to build single-level dry wall & brick boxes. So, this does highlight why developers are constantly looking to scoop up previously built-up land for their new enterprises: huge savings.OK, I admit that I was slightly annoyed to see the Office Building still standing. It just prolongs my agony, drags all this out far too long. But the medicine ball had been moved into place (above), so they’d be gettin’ busy on the Office any day now.
Here’s a still-life (above) of newly-yanked Office debris. I call it “Mid-Century Electronica.”
Knowing the ball would be swinging, I went back inside the Office Building to find a souvenir. The lobby (above, left) always had the crazy sophisticate marble mosaic tile, and the chunk that fell off the corner (above, right) was laying there for me to cart off.

And as I gathered loot, a fellow scavenger walked in. Earlier in this visit, I’d noted a man (and his pick-up truck) moving about the large piles of building debris on (what remained of) the upper-level Actually, I’ve seen a lot of these types; they’re probably rooting for copper. Since no one has every truly guarded the site (I’ve stared right at Jennings’ cop cars as they drove past me, and just kept going), so why not retrieve anything of monetary value?

On this day, as I photographed from the pit and he surveyed trash piles above, we visually acknowledged one another, and kept going. Later, as I sifted through the dislodged junk inside the Office Building, I heard him walk in, talking on a cell phone. Again, we made eye contact and casually went about our business, which was an oddly comforting form of corpse communion.
And here’s what (finally) became the very final shot of the Northland Office Building.

November 9th, 2005
Almost 3 weeks later, the Office Building is now thoroughly gone (above).
The bank building finally becomes a stand-alone “out lot.” It’s odd that this building survives; it was the last bit to be tacked onto Northland, and then the Last Mohican. But money talks, and this place remains defiantly open.
From the upper-level (above, top), it’s shocking how much space the bank actually took up within the complex. But when viewed (above, bottom) from the northern-most end of the property (I’m standing on the train tracks for this shot), the bank just looks sad and misshapen when divorced of context.

And my physical work at Northland is basically finished. I’m relieved.
There’ll be 2 more posts about it: the memorabilia I carted off; friends old and new who joined me during this odyssey along with commentary and memories from those who loved the place just as much as me. Until that time…
Miniature Memorial To The Northland Office Building
As a kid, I mentally referred to the place as “The Marcus Welby, M.D. building,” and it always reminds me of Flipper.
To keep me occupied while in the waiting room, Conine bought me a Flipper coloring book, which was purchased at Kresges, on our way to her doctor appointment. I colored in about 3 or 4 pages before asking the receptionist if I could have the key to the restroom. I took the coloring book with me (why?!) , and didn’t realize I’d obviously left it in the bathroom until many hours later.The Gasaway Pharmacy had been on the 1st floor from the very beginning to the very end, and never once remodeled. Their goodbye note is above (click on photo to read a larger version), and note that it was composed on an old-fashioned typewriter.

Northland Demolition Part 4

Posted on 09/16/2005 by Toby Weiss

July 31, 2005
The last visit was July 26th.

And with the former Famous Barr building utterly gone and buried in a massive pit (above, right), the demolition crew got busy on the north arm of Northland.

(Above, left) In the foreground, we’re looking down into what remains of the Famous-Barr upper basement as we stand on the upper parking lot. And what are the tree roots growing into? I never comprehended the complexity of Northland’s multi-levels until it was dismantled, and I’m still impressed with the designers’ ingenuity.
(Above, right) The former Baker’s Shoes gets a good medicine ball whack before the crew went home for the weekend.

Demolition debris can’t help but be poetic in its descent. In person, the flow of the plaster and brick (above) was balletic.

It’s hard for me to watch them take this building down, but tearing it down also reveals the older layers I remember, and hidden layers that the public was never meant to see. The southern next door neighbor of the former Kresge’s was obviously an International Shoe at the time the place was built. This wooden construction plaque (above, right) had been buried behind the original drywall.
The former Kresge itself (above, right) revealed a few hidden treasures, and unwillingly gave up a few more pieces for me to cart off. Kresge’s is such a special and mythical place for me (and some others, too), that I will post a separate farewell entry to Northland’s Kresge’s in the near future.

As we head down to the lower level, a sign (above, left) still recalls what shops were there right around the time Famous Barr vacated in the very early 1990s.
And Northland was obviously shoe shopping mecca with Kinney (above, right) being one of two stores that permanently marked their footware territory in concrete. The clothing store Worth’s had done the same, and it’s always a thrill to find store logos embedded in entry ways. From small towns to large cities, it was assumed that a shop would always be in that location, so it was no problem to pay a little extra for some sidewalk branding art.

To aid in asbestos removal, the demolition crew blasted a hole into the west wall of the top floor of Kresge (above), and by doing so, they revealed the deep aqua blue tile of the original facade. Actually, all shades of light to medium blues, in concert with all that stainless steel, was the dominate color scheme of Northland. Hmm, wonder where my inbred love of a light blue and silver color combo comes from…?

Here was a sobering moment.
A rubble mountain had sprung up in the middle of the lower level parking lot (above). At peak, it’s easily 25 feet tall, possibly taller, since I’m lousy at judging height. It’s a rather long ascent, and once at the top it does provide fantastic photographic views. Then it hit me:
These are remains I’m standing on.
All the busted up concrete and plaster they pulled out of the Famous Barr pit made this temporary landmass. And suddenly I was creeped out and ashamed to be standing atop it.

Got a good perspective on how the upper and lower levels of Northland come together on the southernmost end (above, left) by standing in the outdoor utility stairwell of the Northland Office Building. The patchwork of blue glass that makes up the exterior walls of its stairwells (above, right) are pretty banged up, with some panes missing, but it’s still breathtakingly beautiful to my eyes.

August 13, 2005
I was going to Northland at least once a week to survey, spelunk and photograph, but it started to weigh heavily upon me. So I let some time slip by, to give myself a break from the emotional burden. But I needed to get back with camera and tools to try and salvage as much of the Kresge as was possible for one girl to cart off. I desperately wanted to find something that said Kresge on it, just to have proof that it really existed.
The moment I got off work on this particular Saturday, the sky erupted into a mad, blazing storm that eventually caused massive wind damage and flash flooding throughout most of the St. Louis area. But I drove on, hoping a storm this wicked would quickly blow over.

And I wondered if the grocery store would still be there. Pictures I’d taken of it on my last visit are above.

It’s still an incessant downpour when I barge through a “Do Not Enter” gate, only to find this empty void among the debris (above). The grocery store was history, vanished into mud. I had so wanted to rescue one of those obscenely bright glazed tiles, but those had probably been ground into dust about 4 days ago. Now it was part of the oozing paste in the hole that was once a grocery store.

And quickly looking to my right, I see that exactly half of Kresge was sliced off (above, left)!
Now, it’s pouring down rain. I have no rain gear and a digital camera that’s allergic to water. I’m stuck in the car until it stops raining. So, I drive around Jennings and Ferguson for about 30 minutes, wondering who’ll stop the rain?
It never stopped.
In the upper level Aldi’s parking lot, I forlornly stared off into the dreary distance at what was left of Kresge’s (above, right). I couldn’t get to the building and its remains, and even when it stopped raining, it would be a toxic muddy mess. I also contemplated the irony of how Northland was now offically 50 years old, making it eligible for Historic Registry…yeah, whatever.
Water dripped down my windshield and my face; I knew it was over for me and Kresge. This was not how I wanted to say goodbye, but that’s how it ended.
This is all becoming too much of a heartache.

August 21, 2005

I return a week later and immediately notice that the large and elaborate Northland sign that officially greeted everyone at the the Lucas & Hunt/West Florissant intersection had been – literally – smashed into the dirt (above). They hadn’t even bothered to cart away the plastic letters, so what remains of the “R” seen in the foreground is now in the trunk of my car.

The crew made a broad sweep across the upper parking lot, knocking down rows of light poles (above, left). It looked a bit like a razor had run across a beard, and left a fine layer of broken glass everywhere, like powdered sugar on a lemon bar.
The tower that accents the south arm of Northland (above, right) is still standing tall, but they have prepared the store fronts for the final blow by removing all glass and interior contents.

The detritus of demolition has featured many a poignant and/or odd sight (above, left).
And the “opening up” of the former Walgreens (above, right) once again reveals how airy that space had once appeared from the sidewalk. With a footband of blue green tile, topped by panels of smooth stone and bookended by flagstone columns, it was certainly the most sophisticated Walgreens store, materials-wise.

With heavy heart, I made the trek across the wreckage of the parking lot to where Kresge once stood. On the upper level, it’s northernmost wall still stood (above), reminding me of some ancient ruin as it stood among its fallen parts. I stood for a long while in these remains, but didn’t have the heart to poke around for treasure. I was a bit too numb.

So I walked around and down to the lower level. The space that was the Ambassador nightclub was formely a bowling alley, and since they were currently crushing it, long-buried bowling pins (above, left) were scattered among the asbestos-crusted construction shards.

The lower level West arm in the middle of being beaten to the ground (above).

So far, this sections demise has been the most colorful, because these store fronts had retained more of it’s original store fronts, including the coral pink Vitrolite (above).

Here comes another sobering moment.
(Above, left) This area tucked under a “lattice work” stainless steel canopy once housed a popular music store, a cobbler and Worth’s clothing store. To the right of this picture (taken about a month previous) is the lower level Kresge display windows.
(Above, right) Standing in roughly the same position, the tree is still standing and…that’s about it. And here’s exactly where it became too much for me to bear…

As I stood ankle deep in the rubble (above) of what was my beloved Kresge, I literally lost it. I doubled over with stomache pain and cried and wailed with grief. And it surprised me.

I’ve been surverying and photographing Northland since March 2002. Away from the site, the sentimental angle takes over, but while “working the site,” my historical, architectural and photographic eye is in play. I seldom get too too emotional about it because I have documentation work to attend to. But at this very moment, my heart broke into a hundred pieces and tears literally dropped into the dust as I bent over trying to catch my breath. The eternal “goneness” of it all hit me too hard, and at the wrong time. I just lost the strength or the urge to continue on. I just wanted it to be over, because I was tired of smelling, seeing and shooting the corpse. I was numb from attending The Longest Wake.

Maybe ten minutes later, the emotional drama and physical drain subsided and I trudged on. I’d come too far in this self-appointed project to stop now.
And we find Lunch Among the Ruins (above, left), and the Rubble Mountain becoming just as wide as it is tall (above, right).

The lower level of the South arm is also prepped for crushing (above, left & right).
And I marvel yet again at the massing of space and place that is just one of the West Florissant entrances to Northland (below). It literally looks and feels like a section of any downtown city.

September 4, 2005

Oddly enough, the bank (above, left) is still open for business. Obviously, money talks. But how creepy is it for the folks working there?
When we invade the orange plastic fence boundary (above, right)…

…to check out the deconstruction details. There is now an unobstructed view from the upper level to the Northland Office Building on the lower level (above, left). And has been their consistent policy, the demolition company places their sign (above, right) on the section that will be crushed next. This tower is the last remaining sign post of the main shopping center. It’s obliteration will be another sore point for me. Not looking forward to it, while also wishing they’d just hurry up and put the horse down…

Where Famous Barr was (above) is now filled in with all its own remains. This area was 3 stories deep. It’s now maybe a half-story deep. And looking across north, it’s just flat ground. It’s depressing. But at least it’s over.

Southernmost lower level “sketch”, above.

The demolition crew was using Office Building as it’s cool zone during the intense heat wave of early August. But now they’ve begun stripping and throwing out the interior of the building, leaving a ring of trash along all sides of its perimeter (above, left). And they’ve begun peeling off the the metal sun screens that gives the building its distinctively modern look (above, right). Paint lines show these panels were once blue green, but I don’t remember that at all. Though the thought of this color in horizontal bands against the white building sounds appealing. Many people mistakenly assume that modern architecture means stark white, and from Le Corbu to Northland, that simply wasn’t the case. Color and texture played a large part in shaping the spaces.

(Above, left) Hauling in the dumpsters also means the medicine ball is coming. I’m positive this is my last moment with Office Building (and a solo entry on it will also be forthcoming). I’m in no hurry to get back to the site because it’s just too large of a brain and heart drain. Almost 3 weeks weeks will pass before I can get back, and this demolition crew is fast and effcient. Everything will be gone by the time I get back. I dread the moment, but I will return.rf

Darla Court

Posted on 08/16/2005 by Toby Weiss

Darla Court, Jennings, MO
As if Northland being demolished wasn’t hard enough, I found my childhood home behind Northland (on Meadowlark) now boarded up and condemned. A tangible piece of my personal past is being wiped off the map, and the timing of it borders on overkill.

The neighborhood itself is a classic hodgepodge, with homes ranging from the early 1900s to the late 1960s, and while half of the houses are as crisp as I remember them, the other half are abandoned and rotting.

We always traversed this neighborhood on foot, so I knew it intimately…or so I thought until I took a turn down a street I’d never been down before. This small area couldn’t be more tucked away and ignored, and thus has no compulsion towards suburban civility, feeling more like a bayou swamp settlement. In the midst of Midnight in the Garden of Good & Evil I discovered a portal into The Modern WayBack Machine.
By taking a curious right and heading down a steep hill, I rolled back in time to a Jet Set Duplex Park. A paisley-shaped street is ringed with pristine examples of optimistic car culture multi-family dwellings, all butterfly winged carports and picture windows.

There were a few variations on the theme (above), but all are low-slung duplexes lovingly tended to.

I was numb as I stood gawking in the middle of the court, feeling as if I’d stepped into a 1960s postcard. The intense heat of the day made my head woozy, so I assumed I was imagining this clean and precise oasis of residential modern in the midst of a forgotten swamp land. But it was true! On this island, martini shakers still rattled at hibachi BBQs while alligators and scorpions surely lurked in the overgrown lawns of the homes outside this bubble.

How did I miss this place all these years?
I asked my parents about it, and they, too, had no idea it existed because they didn’t even realize you could go east of Huiskamp Ave in that neighborhood. So I didn’t feel like such a dunce for overlooking it. Plus, it’s tucked into the valley of a large dead end.

St. Louis County property tax records show that my Mid-Century Model Train Neighborhood was built in 1968 as Glenview Court. Meaning, it was built while we lived in the area, but sailed under the radar.

Most every duplex still retains its original and unique metal medallion on the front facade (note tikki stone faces, above middle), and the owners sit in lawnchairs under their carports wondering why this chick is casing their court. I keep returning because it’s like the Demolition Gods threw me a bone, allowing a new chapter within the doomed pages of my architectural biography.

Northland Demolition Part 3

Posted on 07/26/2005 by Toby Weiss

Today’s visit to the Northland demolition site was about absence. Review this to see what was once anchoring the middle right portion of the above picture. There are now two loose ends with an enormous gaping hole between them.

On my last visit to the site, this building (above) was still standing. It was originally the post office. Note the cut-out on the left end of the building that was the loading dock, and how the enitre packge is very Neutra in line and execution.

Ignore the absurd cap that was put on its front (above) when it became a Family Dollar, and note the placement of simple geometry to indicate entry, lobby and main body. The area where the handicap parking sign stands now was once a decorative concrete block sunscreen. That was a very popular form of solar protection in the late ’50s/early ’60s, (and is still seen widely in Southern California), and protected the lobby from the harsh sun, at least until central air was installed.

Today, all that’s left of the building is….nothing. Just this shallow hole of dirt in the blacktop. 22 days ago, there was a building, and now there’s nary a tiny remnant. How in the hell did they demolish and clean up so fast? They’re still picking away at the carcass of the Famous-Barr building, while this one just vanished into thin air!

(Above) The last two original outlot buildings (Rapps/Schnucks to the left, Famous-Barr Automotive to the right) can obviously be dispensed of just as quickly as the post office. Considering how quickly they’re now moving, I need to visit the site once a week. But it’s getting harder to get onto the site, as they’ve blocked off all but 2 of the many entries. No matter how or when, something tells me this is the final photo of these buildings.

B.E.L.T.

Built Environment in Layman's Terms

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