A Meeting of the Minds

Shadows of Elpidio Rocha and Greg Larson on a Sacramento sidewalk

Preface:

While researching the Kansas City architect, Edward Buehler Delk, I was told that an eighty-seven-year-old man named Elpidio Rocha, who once knew Delk, was living in Sacramento.  I contacted Elpidio and discovered that in 1953 he was a twenty-seven-year-old engineer/architect working for the Kansas City Parks Department when he met Delk (1885-1956).  At that time, Delk was a consultant for the Parks Department and was nearing the end of his architectural career.

This blog posting is a brief memoir of my visit with Elpidio Rocha, and is not intended as a full assessment or review of the careers of Rocha or Delk.  The goal is to share the experience of my time with Elpidio and my thoughts on how it affected me.

The visits occurred during February 14^th and 15^th, 2013, in the second floor atrium at The Inn Off Capitol Park, in Sacramento, California, near Elpidio’s apartment.  We also met on the evening of February 14^th, when I drove us to dinner in the area called Old Sacramento.

 

A Meeting of the Minds

non-fiction research and memoir

by Gregory E. Larson, AIA

I’m not a person who gets easily excited, but after making contact with Elpidio Rocha via phone and email, I was more than intrigued at the possibility of meeting him face-to-face.  The eighty-seven-year-old engineer/architect/artist’s mind was sharp.  He was full of energy and had much to tell about architecture, politics, Kansas City, and life in general.  Not only had he known Edward Buehler Delk, but they had long conversations and Elpidio was mentored by him. His recollections would add a big piece to the research puzzle that I had been crafting of Delk.  In February of 2013, during a trip to San Francisco, I scheduled a two-day visit with Elpidio in Sacramento.

 

At our first meeting, we ate lunch at a small deli just a block from my hotel.  Elpidio began the discussion on a variety of topics, and our minds traveled over decades, a journey through an intellectual landscape of design, politics and history.  Early on in the conversation I knew that our interests were similar, yet different, and our thoughts on architectural design were simple, yet complex.

After lunch, we took a leisurely walk in the warm winter sun, our shadows side by side as we made our way along the sidewalk to the hotel to continue the discussion.

Elpidio’s childhood stories reveal much about him, his culture, and how he established his passion for science and art.   He was born at 23^rd and Holly in the Mexican-American Barrio in Kansas City in 1925, where poor education, subservient jobs and ongoing discrimination were dished out to the community by those in the majority.

Elpidio’s parents believed in a good education, both from school and from quality time spent with the family.  He remembers meetings at home to discuss various topics, with different family members assigned to lead each gathering. 

He has memories of time spent with his father during trips around the city, especially the time they went to see the circus when it came to town.  They watched the elephants and men unload the train cars and erect the small village for the performers and staff.  His father could not afford tickets to see the big-top performance, so he informed Elpidio that the activities “back stage” were much more interesting.  Elpidio remembers the sights and smells of walking through the commissary tent, of watching the clowns practice with their colorful props, and of seeing the raised pedals in the car operated by a dwarf clown.

During elementary school, Elpidio’s parents transferred him from the school in the Barrio to Lowell School, which was located near Penn Valley Park, in the German-American community.   An open-air wing had been added to the school for children at risk of getting tuberculosis.  Elpidio’s aunt had died from the disease, and his parents believed the open-air school was a good prescription for him.  He remembers the windows in the classrooms being fully open during the winter, and students were given special meals, cold showers, and hooded clothes.  He thrived in the educational environment, but remembers the German-Americans yelling at him to “go back to Mexico” as he walked near the school.

His teacher, Miss Gladys Blunk, noticed Elpidio’s artistic talent and she was able to get him a scholarship for Sunday classes at the Nelson-Atkins Museum of Art, and later for classes at the Kansas City Art Institute.  Wilbur Niewald was one of his classmates at Lowell School.  Both he and Elpidio would become future instructors at the Kansas City Art Institute.

Elpidio saw the world from two perspectives: the Barrio view and the “cultural world” of the majority.  At the age of eight, he struggled with what he described as a “painful racist environment,” and he remembers several times when he sought out a darkened gallery at the Nelson-Atkins Museum of Art, sat on a bench, and confronted his emotions as he focused on a sculpture of the Shiva dancing on the monsters of ignorance


Shiva Nataraja
(Los Angeles County Museum of Art)

 

As his artistic talent grew, Elpidio’s father showed him the Country Club Plaza.  He pointed to the Spanish-style buildings and told Elpidio to “unlock these people from their cages,” referencing those who perpetuated the use of architectural symbols of the European design, symbols for those in a position of power.  In retrospect, it is ironic that when Elpidio began his professional career as an architect, he came to know and respect Edward Buehler Delk, who had created the Country Club Plaza master plan.



The Country Club Plaza - Kansas City, Missouri

The professional career of Elpidio has been an interesting journey, and what is mentioned here just scratches the surface.  He not only “unlocked some cages,” but he also rattled a few during his career while sharing his design philosophy to wed art and science to create an organic, sustainable and democratic architecture for the public. 

After studying architecture, engineering and humanities at Kansas State University, he obtained an engineering degree in 1951 and began working at the Kansas City Engineering Department, while working at a structural engineer’s office at night and on weekends.  He accepted a job in the Kansas City Parks Department in 1953, where he met Delk.

Elpidio’s remembrances of Delk confirmed one of my conclusions, that Delk was a true gentleman . . . but our meeting also revealed something new to me.  Elpidio believes that in 1953, the sixty-eight-year-old Delk was tired of the Beaux Arts style of design, and may have been tired as a practicing professional.  Delk had a small office in the Parks Department, as a consultant.  Six months each year, Delk and his wife travelled to Europe.

          Elpidio took Delk’s marketing advice to heart and in the 1960s he began his own professional practice.  He also taught design at the Kansas City Art Institute.  One of his projects was to design a park on the 27^th and Madison site where Lowell School had been.  He privately dedicated the project to his mother and to the art teacher, Miss Blunk.  Unfortunately, the park was demolished when a freeway was extended towards downtown Kansas City, Missouri. 

          He was also influenced by the organic designs of Bruce Goff, and they became friends.

          In the late ’60s he became the lead designer on the Urban Renewal Agency – Center City Project for the downtown mall in Kansas City, Kansas.  It received mixed reviews depending upon the social, cultural, or artistic viewpoint of the reviewer.

          Elpidio then focused his career towards teaching and instructing, and he moved to the west coast, where he taught at several different institutions:

•          California Polytechnic State University – San Luis Obispo, California and Pomona, California
•            The Oakland School of Arts – Oakland, California
•          University of California - Davis, California
•            University of Southern California – Los Angeles, California
•            University of Oregon – Eugene, Oregon

          For a brief time in 1978, he took a break from his academic career to become the architect for the United Farm Workers and Cesar Chavez.

          On the second day of my interview with Elpidio, I showed him the historical slides of Delk and his career.  He shared with me that he did not agree with Delk’s Beaux Arts design style, but he respected him.  Delk was an honest man and shared with Elpidio his method for obtaining clients.  Delk told him, “Wash your hands before you meet with clients.  Wear the style of clothes they wear, drive the types of cars they drive, and eat at restaurants they frequent.”  It was valued advice that Elpidio used in his early career.

          We sat beside each other on a sofa in the hotel atrium, with the laptop computer in front of us.  I displayed the 1951 picture of Delk standing at Starlight Theatre, his last major design.  Elpidio looked at the picture and spoke in a soft, reverent tone, “Oh, Eddie, you were quite a guy.”  In that moment, it seemed as if sixty years were washed away, as if he wanted to pick up the conversation that had been silent for decades.



Edward Buehler Delk - Starlight Theatre - 1951
(archive photo courtesy of Starlight Theatre)

 

         I was overcome with emotion but held back the tears.  I realized that my journey to research Delk had introduced me to unexpected people and places.  My research back into history has taught me more about life and how I fit into it.  Delk was from the generation of Elpidio’s father.  Elpidio is from the generation of my father.  In our Sacramento meeting, Elpidio and I connected as professionals, as artists and gentlemen, sharing cross-generational and cross-cultural wisdom.  

          We said our “good-byes” and I drove out into the California sunshine, a better person for having met Elpidio Rocha.

Elpidio Rocha - Sacramento, California - February 2013

Sources:

·        Email correspondence between author and Elpidio Rocha from late 2012 and early 2013.

·        Meetings between author and Elpidio Rocha on February 14^th and 15^th, 2013, in Sacramento, California.

·        entrelíneas, vol. 2 no. 1-2, 1972, Penn Valley Community College, Kansas City, Missouri.

 

Notes on a San Francisco Morning



Small boats at Fisherman's Wharf

 

Notes on a San Francisco Morning

travel memoir

by Greg Larson

It’s 8:00 A.M. and the city is not yet fully awake.  I grab a paper and walk out of my hotel near Fisherman’s Wharf.  The moist air wraps around me while the sun attempts to burn off the small remnants of fog that cling to the hillsides. I stop at the Cannery shops and pop into a bakery for a butterfly pastry and a cappuccino.  Other than the noise from the cappuccino machine, all is quiet.

I like the early morning when the sidewalks are still empty of tourists, before the bustle begins.  The peaceful setting . . . the bakery, the sidewalk, and the table at the window . . . it looks like an Edward Hopper painting.  My mind clears quickly as I smell the cappuccino and sip through the foam in my cup.  I sit in the empty bakery, savoring every bite of the flaky pastry, and read the morning paper, which is much like any other big city news. One article reports of misuse of funds by public officials and another tells of graffiti artists painting over an existing graffiti mural.

Cable car begins an early morning run

Leaving the bakery, I hear the bell on a cable car making its early morning start up the hills.  The pier with historic ships beckons me, and I’m the first person of the day to buy a ticket to board the old vessels.  My ears strain through the quiet to hear the sounds of a soft, gentle morning.  A seal barks from a pier to the east.  The sea gulls cry from overhead as they fly out to the bay.  The water laps against the piers, then washes over the sand on the beach.

Historic three-mast freighter - Balclutha

          I breathe deeply, taking in the smell of the barnacles and the sea air, then begin to inspect a three-mast freighter.  I try to visualize the port of San Francisco in the late 19^th Century, a port much noisier than today.  At the end of the pier, a gull sits atop a post that is wrapped in coils of sun-bleached ropes, and warms itself in the sun. A patch of moss clings to a crack in the pavement edge.


Seagull warming in the sun

Sailboat glides past Alcatraz

 

          I find a bench on a giant old ferry boat and look out towards Alcatraz where the morning light warms the rocky perimeter of the former island prison.  Sailboats small and large begin to bob and glide through the bay.  My eye catches a giant freighter plying the water beneath the Golden Gate Bridge, bound for Oakland with stacks of containers full of merchandise from China and the orient.  A jumbo jet above, slowly gains altitude, destination unknown.

Freighter bound for Port of Oakland

A fire truck’s sirens and horns pierce the quiet morning and a busy day in San Francisco begins.


A busy day in San Francisco



Sicilian Wheels

 

Sicilian Donkey Cart

Sicilian Wheels

travel memoir

by Greg Larson

 

“What is this?” I asked as we strolled through the hotel grounds near Mt. Etna in Sicily. A large wooden cart with detailed carvings lay under a shade tree along the path.

 

“It looks like some type of donkey cart,” said Gretta, my wife.

 

I gasped at the carved detail, the painted panels, and the deteriorating condition of the weathered cart. “Whatever it is, I can’t believe it’s exposed to the weather.  This should be in a museum.  It’s so old, and the detail is unbelievable!” I exclaimed.

 

“Look at the carvings and hand-painted pictures,” said Gretta.

 

Intricate carvings and paintings

“Was this built for kings and queens?” I asked. “This looks like something you would see on Antiques Roadshow. I can’t imagine what it is worth. I pointed to the painted panels, “Look at the medieval battle scenes.”

 

The cart's resting place

 

Questions swelled inside of me.  What was the significance of the carved symbols and painted scenes? How many times had these wheels turned their circumference, making revolutions on the dusty Sicilian hillsides?  Why was the antique exposed to the harsh Sicilian climate? I touched the sun-bleached wooden frame which seemed like the relic bones of someone’s livelihood, and stared at the patina of the fading paint.

 

Gretta and I discovered the donkey cart while strolling along the paths through the green shady grounds of Villa Paradiso dell’Etna which is located at the base of Mt. Etna in northeast Sicily. A paradise it was to us, after spending several days in June of 2012 on a bike tour, experiencing the hot sun and the twisting, turning roads that rose and fell over the hills of eastern Sicily.  The three-acre walled estate was built as a resort in the late 1920s as a spot for tourists and artists to view Etna and experience the cool breezes at the base of the volcano.

 

Entry to Villa Paradiso dell'Etna

Front steps

The cart continued to reveal intricate details of carved spokes on the wheels, and multiple painted panels and carvings on the box and side panels.  Some strange metal ornamentation had been welded to the axle frame.  Although mostly hidden from view, the metal trinkets on curved tracery gave an artistic flourish to the undercarriage.



Metal trinkets near the axle

 

We asked our tour guide about the cart, and he explained they were used by everyday merchants for transporting goods throughout Sicily.  They have become an enduring symbol of the region, a slice of history about the hard-scrabble lives of the Sicilians.  The decaying cart is akin to the rusted model-T pick-up trucks which rest beneath elm trees in rural America.  Some of the carts have been saved in museums or used only in pageants or parades, but thousands have been left as outdoor relics to remind the Sicilians of their pride of ownership and their ability to overcome daily hardships. 

Antique details exposed to the weather

 

Cart-making and painting has quickly become a lost art, but when carts were the mode of transportation, the cart-makers flourished.  Carts of varying quality were available for centuries to carry the goods of Sicilian society, such as grain, wine, lumber, and fish.  A cart owner’s social status was quickly determined by a glance at the detail on their cart, just as we look at the differences in American cars today.  Cadillac or Chevy?  Ford or Chrysler? 

 

Today, only a handful of people continue the trade of cart making and cart painting.  In the book, Seeking Sicily, one of the last cart painters, Franco Bertolino, bemoans the fact that when he quits painting as his grandfather taught him, the art will be lost.  He said that some fine-art graduates have begun to do some cart painting, but the style and colors are not the same as those created by the old tradesmen.  



Details of a lost art

 

I'm back at home, sipping American coffee and reviewing the photographs of the cart.  I see a poignant symbol on the grounds of Villa Paradiso, where countless Sicilian wedding receptions have taken place.  It is a reminder of the island’s history to the new couples, a symbol which shows the strength and pride of the Sicilians as they went about their daily lives.

 

A man, a donkey, and a cart . . . all that was needed to conduct business on the Mediterranean Isle. 

 

 

An Unlikely Partner

memoir

by Greg Larson

 

          It all started with a parting comment on an email I received from my friend George:  “You and Gretta should go English dancing with Bridget and me.  It is great exercise and lots of fun.  We really enjoy it.”  It sounded interesting, but I didn’t reply, and I said nothing to Gretta. 

          Then one evening, while eating pizza with George and Bridget at their house, Bridget brought up the subject again.  “I think the two of you are well-suited for English Dancing.  Gretta, you have dancing skills from your figure skating, and Greg, your architectural mind will allow you to quickly understand and memorize the patterns of the dances.  You are both in good shape, so it should be fun and easy for you.”

Gretta’s face lit up, and she talked with all the excitement of opening a Christmas present.  “Oh, that really sounds like a lot of fun!” she exclaimed.  Once she had spoken, I knew my options were limited.  

I pictured Gretta watching her DVD copy of Pride and Prejudice, especially the parlor dance scenes in the old country estates, with the harpsichord and violins playing while the gussied-up women flit about, sharing bits of gossip.  She’s a sap for all of that English culture stuff, and can answer any English trivia question, no matter how difficult.  She even has all of the Kings and Queens memorized in order of their reigns.

Whenever she fixes her tea and nestles on the couch to watch those English movies, I run to my man cave and turn up the Led Zeppelin.  Otherwise, I would just get her all upset with my sarcastic comments about the movie.

I hadn’t responded at Gretta’s excitement about trying out the English dancing.  My mind raced with lots of concerns and questions while everyone looked at me, anticipating my unanimous vote to go dancing.  I smiled back, and kept eating my slice of pizza. 

The idea of old-style English dancing seemed rather frightful to me. Was this going to cost a lot of money?  Would we be required to take dance lessons?  I remembered a friend of Gretta’s told us that he had taken up ballroom dancing, and the lessons were expensive.  The instructors waltzed away with a bunch of his money.

Would I have to grow sideburns and wear ruffled shirts with tight collars?  I scratched my neck.  I pictured uncomfortable outfits . . . you know, really hot and stuffy.

George and Bridget assured us the dances were very casual affairs.  No one was required to wear fancy clothes, and there was a 30 minute training session before the dance for the newbies who needed some instruction.

“Okay, I’m game.  Let’s go for it.” I responded with gusto, but deep inside I thought I had committed to something that was beyond my ability.  We marked our calendars for the next English Dance, which was to be held on a Sunday at the senior center in downtown Lawrence, Kansas.  In the back of my mind, I had an uneasy feeling.

The date arrived and I wondered if there were any valid excuses to back out.  No, I hadn’t come down with a sore throat.  The Chiefs would attempt to play football that Sunday, but I really couldn’t argue that I would miss something significant.  I looked at the forecast, and there was a possibility of freezing rain.  The highway conditions might be dangerous.  That was my only hope to cancel.  Alas, the temperature stayed above freezing, and only a light rain greeted us as we drove to Lawrence.

The woman instructor wearing a hands-free microphone invited all the neophytes out onto the dance floor to give us some basic instruction.  She turned, looked at me, and blurted out, “Turn me on!”

This was a whole new experience, but I didn’t think that “turn me on” was an accurate historical English phrase.  Then I realized she was requesting her musician/sound technician husband to turn on her microphone.  She then proceeded to give us a primer on English dancing.  It was suggested we switch partners after every dance, to allow the less-experienced dancers to be guided by the experts.  We learned of “proper” and “improper” places on the dance floor, and of “casting” and “leading” with couple number one and couple number two.

I’ve not participated in a choreographed dance since grade school, but this seemed like a genteel method of square dancing.  It was a more dignified approach to weaving through the group on the dance floor as opposed to a knee-slapping ye-haw version, yet it was invigorating and definitely kept the heart rate at a high level.  By the time the song ended, each couple had worked their way through the entire group.

The most shocking revelation that came from English dancing was the custom of direct eye contact between dance partners while going through the motions.  It is a form of flirtatious staring, a carryover habit from the Victorian era when the eyes spoke volumes, since touching was frowned upon.  It was a bit unnerving, but I got used to it, and by the end of the dance I was getting pretty good at looking directly at my partner’s eyes.  Sometimes when I held the hand of another dance partner, it happened to be Gretta, and we would smile and laugh as we looked at each other.

It was paramount to follow the caller’s instructions during the dance, so I gave my absolute concentration and focus.  I don’t remember hearing much of the music, but every now and then a musical phrase gave me a cue to complete the turn or crossover.  I was feeling pretty good about my progress until we danced in groups of six, near the end of the evening.  There were so many different calls and maneuvers that I got lost.  In most dances, if I missed a turn or a lead, someone would point or motion where to go.  But this dance was different.  Maybe my brain was getting tired.  I felt like a lost child in a big store, but I didn’t give up.  Finally, my partner pulled us out of the dance.  Oh, the shame.  Everyone else said it wasn’t a big deal, but I wished I could have kept dancing.

Gretta and I went with our friends to another English dance on a dark winter evening at an old church on Troost Avenue in Kansas City.  I could almost picture arriving at the side door in a coach driven by a driver wearing a top hat and holding the reins to the horses.  The quaint fellowship hall had large arched windows and a big wooden floor to dance on, and it was the perfect place for an English dance.  People brought snacks and hors d’oeuvres to devour when there was a break in the dancing. 

Each time we go to a dance, we relax a bit more and try to enjoy the ambience and the music.  One day while sitting at home on the sofa, Gretta mentioned to me that the date of the next dance just happened to fall on the day before her birthday.  She leaned closer to make sure I was listening and said, “I would really like to go to that dance.”

I thought of the invigorating dances in a warm room on a cold winter’s eve with happy people all around.  “It sounds like a lovely idea!”

We’ll join in the reverie and have a dickens of a time.

Christmas Eve and the TV Santa



SANTA IN THE SNOW

Christmas Eve and the TV Santa

memoir

by Greg Larson

             Mom stuck her head in the rec-room during the afternoon of Christmas Eve in the early ‘60s and announced, “You boys need to shut off that TV and put on your coats. We’re going to take your baby sister to see her godmother who is in an old folk’s home.  This will be our Christmas present to her.  When we get back, your dad should be home from the office party, and your brother will be home from his friend’s house.”

My younger brother, Timmy, and I looked at each other in panic.  We had just settled in with the couch pillows on the tile floor and had cozied up to the black and white television set.  The Looney Tune cartoons were on, and it would soon be time for our favorite afternoon show with Santa on KAKE-TV, channel ten.

“But Mom,” I replied, “It’s Christmas Eve.  We’ll miss the most important show of the year.  Santa Claus and KAKE-man are going to load the sleigh and they’ll be taking off at the end of the show to fly around the world.” 

At the age of twelve, I was tired of pretending to believe in Santa.  He was nothing more than a big benevolent clown who enjoyed Coca-cola . . .but the Santa and KAKE-man show was tradition.  Besides, I didn’t want to see Timmy’s Christmas Eve get spoiled.  I couldn’t believe it.  This was like shutting off a World Series game to go to the grocery store.

Timmy whimpered but it did no good.  Mom was on a mission.  Nothing was going to stop her from parading us and our eight-month-old baby sister in front of her old friend.  She pulled our red parkas out of the closet and handed them to us in the living room while she tucked little Amy Jo into the baby carrier.

I looked at the white-flocked Douglas fir full of glass ornaments, and tried to visualize Christmas morning.  Dad always turned on the flood lights attached to the 8mm movie camera, and we had to wipe the sleep out of our eyes and squint to see what Santa brought us.  I pictured a fantasyland of electric trains and toy trucks.  This day came just once a year.  It had better be good.

Mom loaded us into the baby-blue Plymouth and began the drive to the other side of the city.  Other than an occasional Christmas tree lot and some decorations in a few store windows, it seemed just like another gray winter day . . . really gray. 

Our little sister’s godmother was someone Mom had met and admired in Mother’s Club.  In fact, Mom had named Amy Jo after the elderly Amy.  I had no clue what all those women did at the club meetings, but Mom went to it every month.  On those evenings, Dad made his famous grilled peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for us.  After we dined on the sandwiches, he made popcorn in the big skillet with a lid, and we all settled in to watch the cowboy shows on TV.

The gray streets of Wichita continued to slide past as Timmy and I sat in silence, looking out the car windows.  We didn’t care if some old woman was a righteous role model.  We wanted cartoons.  We wanted Santa Claus, the star of the show, and KAKE-man, his little puppet-sidekick.

It was getting dark outside as Mom pulled the car up to the curb and stopped in front of an old mansion that housed several elderly people.  Timmy and I begrudgingly followed Mom as she carried Amy Jo.  We trailed behind during the walk up to the house.  I could picture Casper the Friendly Ghost hiding in the bushes, or Vic Morrow from the show Combat setting up a command post inside the big house.  I braced myself for a boring eternity inside a place full of old people.

As we entered the mansion, a wave of heat came over us.  I began to sweat in my parka.  The place had a musty smell and was full of big furniture, dark carpets and thick varnished woodwork.  There were a few stained glass windows in the living room and hallways.  It seemed more like Halloween than Christmas Eve. 

Mom introduced us to the elderly Amy in a wide hallway with an old sofa and some side chairs.  We smiled while the gray-haired woman patted our heads with her bony hand encased in wrinkled skin and said, “You have such wonderful looking children.”  Then she sat down to converse in mom-talk and look at our little sister.

Timmy tugged at my coat sleeve and pointed to the corner of the hallway.  Just a few feet away stood a TV cabinet with rabbit ears on top.  We stared at the dark screen. 

He walked over to Mom and tapped her on the shoulder.  “Mom, can we watch TV?”

“Oh boys, not now,” she said as she turned and continued talking to her friend. 

He was persistent and tried again, “Mom, we want to watch KAKE-man.”

She caved in and sighed, “I suppose it’s okay if you keep the sound turned down.”

We hopped over to the set, clicked on the volume and turned the knob to channel ten.  The reception was snowy, so I grabbed the rabbit-ear antennae and moved them around.  Slowly, a fuzzy looking Santa came into view. He was loading the plywood sleigh with bags of packages.

“Ho, ho, ho, KAKE-man. Do you think we have enough toys for all the good little girls and boys this Christmas?  We’d better finish filling the sleigh so we won’t be late.  It takes a long time fly all the way from the North Pole to all the cities and towns around the world.  Ho, ho, ho!”

I had studied the North Pole in my grade school geography book.  It didn’t say anything about a Santa village with elves.  The omission of Santa in the book sealed his fate for me.  I knew it was a big fraud, but a lucrative one for sure, as long as we played the game along with our parents.

Even with the raspy sound coming from the speaker in the TV set, we sat mesmerized by the screen for the next few minutes.  Santa checked his list, and KAKE-man jumped around inside the sleigh.  The excitement was building.  This happened only once a year.

KAKE-man’s voice squeaked, “These packages are heavy, Santa, and it’s so-o c-c-cold up here.”  It was hard to tell the difference between the fake snow on the show and the fuzzy snow on the TV screen.

“It’s time to go boys,” said Mom as she shut off the TV and said her “good-byes” to the old friend.

Timmy and I were horrified, but we held our emotions in check while still inside the mansion.  Once outside, my little brother began to sniffle and smear tears on his cheeks.

I grabbed his shoulder, “Hey, maybe he’s up there in the clouds somewhere.  You never know, you might see him if you look close enough.”  I knew there wasn’t any sleigh up there, but I had to give him some hope.  Besides, he might mistake a blinking light on a small plane for Rudolph. 

          Little Amy Jo cried and Timmy pouted on the way home.  I looked out into the darkness and noticed that most of the businesses had closed early and turned out the lights.

I thought of the evening ahead.  It was a night for singing Christmas Carols at the piano and reading the scripture of the real Christmas story from the Bible.  I sensed that spending time together that evening was really important to Mom.  She seemed happiest when we were doing things as a family.   When it was time for bed, we set out a glass of milk and some of the decorated sugar cookies on a plate for Santa.

The TV screen was dark that evening.

MERRY CHRISTMAS TO ALL . . . AND TO ALL A GOOD NIGHT!

 

Fairsted: Frederick Law Olmsted's Home in Brookline

Fairsted: Frederick Law Olmsted's Home in Brookline

travel memoir, historical non-fiction essay and photos

by Gregory E. Larson, AIA

               The October sunlight washed the maples in Brookline, Massachusetts, creating intense colors of orange and gold in the foliage as my wife, daughter and I walked along the sidewalks of the Boston suburb. Our weekend morning destination on the recent visit in Brookline was the National Historic Site of Fairsted.  It was the home and office of Frederick Law Olmsted, the famous landscape architect.  At the age of sixty-one in 1883, he moved his family there from New York. 

              Our walk to Fairsted began on Beacon Street, near my daughter’s apartment, where the transit lines come out from under the city of Boston, and the dense urban setting becomes a bit more relaxed, with spacious tree-lined avenues and bay-windowed buildings.  During the walk, the apartments gave way to large single-family residences with well-kept yards and flower beds.  It was hard to believe we were less than five miles from downtown Boston.  At an unassuming corner, we found the small National Park Service sign announcing the historic site.  The property was bordered with a pine fence, along with lush green bushes, maples, oaks and other trees.

               Olmsted was a self-educated man of many talents, a contemporary renaissance man.  He is best known as the father of landscape architecture and as the key designer for Central Park in New York City.  He was also a journalist and a writer, and he deeply loved America.  His passion was the outdoors, and he was compelled by a vision for the future of the country.  He truly believed that outdoor parks and green space soothed the soul and brought peace to hectic lives, and that these spaces needed to be available to all citizens.  In the mid-1800s, the European notion was that large gardens and parks were private tracts which were only available to wealthy landowners.  Large American cities were becoming congested, and Olmsted believed it was a critical time to begin incorporating parks and landscaped boulevards into city master plans on a regular basis.

               Brookline was on the edge of Boston when Olmsted decided to move there.  It was out on the edge of the city where subdivisions were beginning to carve roadways into the hillsides and former farm fields.  He was seeking a peaceful setting where he and his family could move from New York City.  His friend, the architect Henry Hobson Richardson, convinced him to find a home near Richardson’s Brookline residence.  Olmsted found a two-acre plot of land with an 1810 farmhouse and barn.  The property was owned by two elderly sisters.  It was their home for their entire lives and they did not want to sell.  In a short time, Olmsted struck a deal with them.  The basic agreement was for Olmsted to purchase the property for $13,200, as well as design and build a house at the rear of the site, allowing the sisters to live rent free for the remainder of their lives.

Entry drive and front door at Fairsted

               Our footsteps crunched on the gravel along the circular entry drive, and I touched the ends of a hanging bough of a massive hemlock.  The tree was centered on the circular island and shaded the entry to the house.  We met the park ranger who led us on the tour.  She explained when Olmsted redesigned the grounds of the property he created the new driveway and planted the hemlock when it was just six feet tall.

               Olmsted’s redesign of the grounds of Fairsted was similar to the process he employed on major parks.  He created distinct areas of interests, each for a purpose.  The “hollow” or wild dell was a sunken area carved out of the natural Roxbury puddingstone, creating a subdued retreat with an unkempt natural feeling, with vine-covered slopes and a grotto.

The Hollow

                We followed the ranger down the rough stone steps into the Hollow, brushing against the leaves of the rhododendrons, the cotoneaster boughs and yew shrubs.  She told us that Olmsted’s planting strategy was to use various shades of green with only a limited use of color from flowers.

               Charles Sargent, an arborist and friend of Olmsted’s, lived just across the street from Fairsted. Olmsted collaborated with Sargent, the director of Harvard’s arboretum. Together they designed the layout for the 265-acre Arnold Arboretum, and convinced Harvard and the City of Boston to incorporate it into the Boston park system, making it the world’s first public arboretum.

As Olmsted revised the landscape at Fairsted, Sargent provided him with a living gift: a cucumber magnolia tree, with yellow blossoms in the spring which bear red/pinkish fruit that look similar to cucumbers.  Olmsted planted it on the east edge of the property, near the rock garden path.

               The park ranger made a point of showing us the cucumber magnolia tree, the largest magnolia I’d ever seen.  She held a bud from the end of a branch and showed it to me.  I inspected the tiny symmetrical bud which had a fine sculpted quality.  The tree had survived 130 years of New England weather, and it stands today on the edge of the grounds like a stately king in fine clothing.

               Olmsted continued to improve the property at Fairsted.  He relocated the barn and removed a dying orchard, thus creating a large, open expanse of ground on the south side of the house.  He kept a lone elm, which became the focal point of the pastoral setting.

South Lawn at Fairsted

               The park ranger led us to the south lawn, and explained the elm became diseased and had to be cut down in 2011.  Experts hope to create a cultivar from remnant cuttings and plant a new elm in its place sometime in the future.

               With multiple commissions for Boston park projects, along with project collaboration with H.H. Richardson, Olmsted’s design practice thrived.  He expanded his business, and included his surviving sons, Frederick, Jr., and John, as part owners, and he hired well-educated apprentices.  He built additions to the house, and created a room called the conservatory, which became his favorite place to rest and contemplate as he turned more of the business responsibilities to his sons.

The Conservatory and view of the south lawn

               Once inside the house, I was drawn to the conservatory room. It seemed as if a peaceful spell had been cast upon me.  I stepped onto the brick floor and touched the stone aggregate coatings on the walls. The view through the large windows conveyed the south lawn and the various shades of green trees at the edge of the property.  The room seemed a part of the landscape, but it was also a part of the house.  I understood why Olmsted enjoyed his time there.  The ranger shared that Olmsted attempted to grow vines on the interior walls.

               The landscape projects continued to pour into the firm, and it prompted Olmsted and his sons to create additions to the rambling Fairsted structure.  Frederick Law Olmsted retired from the firm in 1895, and died in 1903.  His sons continued to manage a thriving practice, adding functional spaces to the office, including drafting rooms, photo filing, drawing storage, and blueprint developing equipment.

Drafting room

               The open drafting room, with ribbed-wood panels and open trusses was inviting.  I walked up to a large drafting table set on sawhorses, and touched the edge of the  table top, full of thumbtack holes from decades of pinning down large drawings.  I pictured the draftsmen with visors and aprons, tracing long curved roadways onto huge drawings of future parks.  I could almost smell their pipe smoke and envisioned it wafting up into the rafters.

               Olmsted’s landscape design practice created a legacy of thousands of projects throughout 44 states, the District of Columbia, and Canada.  The most notable projects were Central Park (New York City), U.S. Capitol Grounds redesign (Washington, D.C.), Columbian Exposition fairgrounds (1893 Chicago World’s Fair), Stanford University Campus (Palo Alto, California), Biltmore Estate (Asheville, North Carolina), and the string of parks in Boston called the Emerald Necklace.  Olmsted was also instrumental in convincing the federal government to create a national park system.

               When we left Fairsted, I felt as if I had stepped out of a time machine from the late nineteenth century, and had returned to the present. We walked across Brookline, back to Beacon Street to a park with a garden and a bench near my daughter’s apartment.  This pastoral setting was a prime example of Frederick Law Olmsted’s vision . . . a vision of peaceful parks within the dense cities of America, with spaces for all of us to enjoy.

References:     

Martin, Justin. Genius of Place – The Life of Frederick Law Olmsted. Philadelphia, PA: Da Capo Press – A member of the Perseus Book Group, 2011.

Brochures:

Fairsted. National Park Service, U.S. Department of the Interior

Frederick Law Olmsted. National Park Service, U.S. Department of the Interior