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Guest Column
SAGGING
SYMBOLS by
Dwight Young |
My
uncle ran a grocery store in our home town. It was on 6th Street, but the actual
address really didn't matter. When people asked where the store was, we just told
them it was on the courthouse square. That was enough. Everybody knew where the
courthouse was.
With its ungainly dome squatting atop walls of a singularly
unattractive dirt-colored brick, it definitely was not a beautiful building. But
its ugliness was irrelevant, like the looks of a beloved family member, because
the courthouse was more than mere bricks and mortar.
In the midst of the
vast, windswept West Texas landscape,
the courthouse was the architectural paperweight that kept the town from blowing
away. Built in 1910, just a few decades after the first settlements were established
in our part of the state, it offered tangible evidence that our town was here
to stay and that the residents were a civilized lot who knew what a public building
ought to look like. More than that, it was a symbol – however clumsy – of the
stability of democracy and the solemn grandeur of The Law.
Don't laugh.
Converting abstract ideals and values into tangible reality was once considered
a valid – even essential – function of architecture. Our courthouse was the product
of an age when buildings were designed to serve an important symbolic function,
and architects worked hard to make them “fitting.” Public buildings were intended
to embody the awesome majesty of government itself and to make you feel both insignificant
(a mere mortal in the presence of something mighty) and ennobled (a commoner doing
business in a setting worthy of royalty).
A grand symbol demanded a grand
setting, so many public buildings – especially courthouses – were sited in the
middle of town, in a landscaped square where the town's most important monuments
were installed. (On our own courthouse lawn, a windmill and a bandstand were joined
every year by a big red thermometer that charted the progress of the annual Community
Chest campaign.) Newspaper accounts described new public buildings with phrases
like “highly artistic,” “a noble specimen of fine architecture” and “a credit
to the town.” People took pride in them.
Whatever happened to that idea?
Today the notion that a public building should be edifying is as outmoded
as a bustle. Here's how I know: I went to a post office the other day and couldn't
find the front door.
It was in a medium-size Southern city – but not
downtown, where a post office should be. I parked in the vast asphalt lot, headed
inside to buy some stamps – and stopped in my tracks. The facade of the building,
probably built in the 1970s, was a featureless grid of glass and aluminum panels,
any of which could have been a door. But which one?
On closer inspection,
two of the panels proved to have tiny metal plates inscribed “Push.” I pushed,
and found myself in a bare-walled, low-ceilinged space that had all the charm
of a car-rental agency. I thought of my hometown post office, distinguished by
a handsome stone arcade and a lofty lobby with brass grillwork and a WPA
mural, and the real meaning of the tired phrase “they don't build them like
that any more” came flooding in.
I'm starting to sound like Andy Rooney,
so I'll close with a great courthouse story: |
| | Eastland
County Courthouse
"The Home of Old Rip"
Postcard
courtesy
rootsweb.com/~txgenweb// postcards/Index.html |
When the
old courthouse in Eastland, Tex., was torn down in 1926, officials were surprised
to find a horned toad sealed inside the cornerstone. They were even more surprised
when the animal, which presumably had been entombed for 30 years, revived. The
miraculous lizard was named “Old
Rip” and sent on tour – but not for long. Maybe three decades of stuffy solitude
had left him ill-equipped to handle all that fresh air, or maybe it was the stress
of show biz that did him in. Whatever the cause, six months after his resurrection
Old Rip died. Today, the specially-commissioned casket that holds his embalmed
remains is on display at the courthouse.
Anyone in Eastland can tell
you where to find it. Everybody knows where the courthouse is. |
Published
with Permission, Courtesy Dwight Young
This article originally appeared
in the Jan/Feb 1997 issue of Preservation magazine, published by the National
Trust for Historic Preservation.
They
Shoe Horses, Don't They?
January 12, 2005 Guest Column |
Recommended
Book
Road Trips Through History
by Dwight Young
A Collection
of Essays from Preservation Magazine. |
| | Recommended
Books |
| The
Courthouses of Texas: A Guide |
|
| Old
Friends: Great Texas Courthouses |
|
| The
Courthouse Square in Texas |
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