When I was a young adult, back home from college, I had the
opportunity to spend quality time with my grandparents. Both engaging
and interested, they were gracious as always, encouraging my ambition
while sharing their own life stories.
It came about through our
conversations that I should record the rich history that was being
shared. In particular, my grandmother had a penchant for the past. And
so, for a series of afternoons, I sat with her at her kitchen table. I
carefully placed a tape recorder between us. She talked, and I listened.
Her side of the family all had lived in the Tuscaloosa area, and
for many years, on Greensboro Avenue. Unfortunately, most of the houses
on the avenue have since been destroyed. Nonetheless, my grandmother
frequently referred to the still standing Searcy House, the Jemison-Van
de Graaff and
Battle-Friedman homes, as well as the now-demolished Rosenau and Hester-deGraffenreid homes.
Documenting
our family history was significant, even if only for archival purposes.
And though my grandmother’s associations were authentic, steeped in
once living connections, mine felt removed. I was familiar with most of
the landmarks she referenced, yet only a few held resonance for me. I
understood their genealogical and historical impact, but the emotional
attachments just were not there, as much as she attempted to kindle
them.
Nearly 15 years have passed since our oral history project.
My grandmother is deceased, but our family members own copies of the
recordings. And now, I have a better understanding of how people develop
a personal affinity for a building, even if the structure seems
antiquated or irrelevant to others.
Of course, like many
Tuscaloosa natives, I share an appreciation for cultural landmarks like
the Bama Theatre. And I also have fond memories of getting into mischief
in a number of historic homes that my childhood friends once inhabited
in neighborhoods like Audubon Place, The Downs, Caplewood and Hillcrest
Drive.
There are a few historic structures, though, to which I am intrinsically intertwined. In 1987, my parents acquired the Jemison-Van
de Graaff Mansion’s Servants’ House and established their two small
businesses there. Built around 1860, it originally was used as a servant
quarters for Sen. Robert Jemison. Now, it is simply known as “The
Office” to me. I spent hours in my mother’s decorating business
upstairs; and I worked for my father’s marketing firm downstairs, where
he still operates today.
The Old Tuscaloosa County Jail near
Capitol Park also remains an important foundation for me. Originally a
hotel when Tuscaloosa was the state capital, the building was later
outfitted for a prison.
The Tuscaloosa City School System
purchased the landmark in 1980 for American Studies, a humanities
program for high school students. To those enrolled, this off-campus satellite was anything but a jail.
Rather,
it was a refuge from the doldrums of Central High School and a
transformative experience. Today, the structure sits vacant, but if
those walls could talk!
And I must mention the house I grew up in.
Constructed in 1941 by architect Don Buel Schuyler, an apprentice of
Frank Lloyd Wright who left a large footprint in Tuscaloosa, the home
has some unique features: a photography darkroom, an interior glass wall
and a three-story laundry chute. This pitched-roof dwelling is nestled
in the College Park cul-de-sac off University Boulevard threatened by
student blight. My parents still reside there, and I consider it to be
my true emotional home.
The current architectural face of
Tuscaloosa is being transformed at an alarming rate. Older buildings are
being razed to pave the way for new development. In a city that is
struggling with how to maintain its heritage while addressing tornado
reconstruction and the University of Alabama’s booming enrollment, we
certainly have been enduring some growing pains.
This struggle to
preserve and progress continues to beg the question of what to save.
The Tuscaloosa County Preservation Society restores and stewards
traditional landmarks. And the city of Tuscaloosa enforces protections
for many historic structures and invests in them, despite the valid
criticism that such initiatives are sometimes much too little and too
late. But if we truly want to preserve our heritage, the onus is really
on us, concerned citizens.
The Searcy House will be auctioned off to the highest bidders on July 17 by the Tuscaloosa County Board of Education.
Constructed
in 1904 by prominent businessman George Searcy, the mansion is one of
the few remaining on Greensboro Avenue. Suggestions have been made on
how to repurpose and restore it, but the new owners will have the final
say. Preservation organizations say they do not have the funds to
purchase it.
And I have not heard any news that suggests that the city of Tuscaloosa or the University of Alabama will, either.
The
word is that prospective buyers plan to destroy the house and convert
the property into a parking lot. Or perhaps a developer will purchase it
for more new construction. Adequate parking and new development are
necessary for those who reside, entertain and worship downtown, but
should this need result in the demolition of historic structures?
Many
of us have no emotional ties to the Searcy House. And I wonder if that
is what is truly necessary to ensure its survival. At least, in
channeling the bonds we have with our own respective dwellings, we can
understand how dilapidated empty vessels were once living organisms that
merit another chance. Some buildings are not worth saving. But others,
even with such torrid pasts as harboring slaves and prisoners, find a
new life that is relevant.
Is the Searcy House worth fighting
for? To me, its test will be to prove that we feel a certain connection
to it today. This feeling needs to run so deep that it inspires us to
approach responsible buyers immediately, as well as to place unrelenting
pressure on the ultimate highest bidders to facilitate its
preservation, an expensive and complex endeavor, especially if the home
is relocated.
Yes, it requires impetus on our part, but nothing
worth saving should be taken for granted. And if we had more
infrastructure in place to support preservation, like the proposed
Greater Downtown Plan and financially robust foundations, this home’s
fate would be less urgent.
Perhaps big money and special interests
will win again in the end, but that should not preclude us from
representing what we hold dear.
At the very least, may this
potential casualty remind us that we, not anyone else, are responsible
for ensuring our fate by doing the planning and work required.
Elizabeth A. Stanard, a Tuscaloosa native, is a small-business owner who resides in Northport.