Journal
George
Ehrlich
*
2 July 1976
I am not on the threshold of a
great adventure, nor do I have a special vantage point to
observe great events and notable people; consequently, I lack
the obvious excuses for keeping a journal. And since I
doubt that I shall achieve the stature where my musings will
someday merit study by others, I cannot fall back on that as
justification for so self-centered an exercise.
I note that I am now well into
my fifty-first (second to be accurate) year and I am reasonably
content with my lot, having been able to benefit from my
experiences over the years. I am also nearing the end of a
sabbatical leave which has allowed me time to turn inward and to
involve myself in sustained periods of quiet contemplation.
That this frame of mind has been intersected by the advent of
our bicentennial day has created a need to react in a more
substantial way to the event, if only to resolve in my own mind
whether I was witness to anything special. A journal seems
as good a way as any to challenge myself to think through thrice
some thoughts on that occasion—and
others that I shall record from time to time.
4 July 1976
Twenty-five years ago, plus a couple of months, I finished my
Master's Degree with a
thesis that dealt with American
international expositions and therefore the 1876 Centennial in
Philadelphia. As a microcosm of man's accomplishments it
celebrated the centennial in a fashion that was physical and
tangible, with objects and participatory events. In
contrast it seems as if the bicentennial has been a very
different sort of thing, the result of too much ineffective
planning that produced an incredible string of little things but
no real symbol. I suspect in short order the bicentennial
will be unremembered.
By 1976
we've become victims of short attention spans; the bicentennial
has been with us so long it has arrived as nothing special and
certainly not novel. The bicentennial has become in kind
and in fact a TV variety show to be witnessed passively by
almost all, and to be forgotten. There is no sense of time
or place that I can identity as the Philadelphia world's fair
has served. This is not necessarily a bad thing; it does
suggest that we are a changing people.
And
indeed this has been the quietest Fourth of July in memory.
Quiet but not silent. I endorse the fireworks ban and
trust that soon most memorial occasions will be more
contemplative than bombastic.
10 July
1976
On the
slippery quality of one's memory
While
wrestling with the text and gathering the illustrations for the
paper on
Developmental Factors in the History of Kansas City
(MO) Architecture, I was taken aback by the problems generated
by the segment since 1950, time in which I was direct witness
except for a few years. My own photographs and clippings
are largely post-1971, and so I had no ready reference to ease
the burden of trying to remember. And in point of fact I
have been hard pressed to pin down in time those memories I do
have. I know things happened, and I have a fair idea of
sequence, but not the specifics of when. There is a lesson
here that can be useful in teaching. I'd been impressed
with the Amiens experience (of 1966) when I saw the
transformation of a group of South African veterans of the 1916
Battle of the Somme after they had visited the battlefield and
remembered as personal experience that which had become
for them as others, written history. In turn, I have been
trying to get at the history of events which I remember but
without the structure of dates or other specifics. And I
guess that is one of the essentials of writing history; it is
the giving of structure and precision to various types of
remembrances regardless of their documentation, for these
"facts" can and do lose their temporal place and their accuracy.
History is more than that, but it must include the temporal
structure if history is to be more than storytelling—if
it is to be useful in helping us understand from where we've
come.
On the task
of writing history
The more
I ponder the problems generated by the task of writing the K.C.
Architecture paper (which really dates back to the Landmarks
Commission involvement starting early 1973), the more I've
become convinced that a period-by-period approach is the way to
do it. The subject is too large and cluttered for a
sweeping synthesis. Though we teach this way—by
periods—and I've written other things (e.g. the
dissertation) in
periods, I'd never given thought to it other than it provides a
convenient packaging. But there is the problem of how can
one see the past through the later accumulations. How can
one deal with the to-be-recovered past through the encumbrances
of the present? We are trying to see, as it were, the underpainting through the glazes and
scumbles of the top layers.
The period approach is a synthetic device that tries to take us
step by step through an evolutionary process. By taking
the primary time-block, and keeping it manageably small, one can
visualize the appearance of a city. One can pore over old
photos, maps, drawings and documents and eventually the
survivors of buildings can find in the mind's eye a period
environment.
Westport becomes the Santa Fe outfitting town
and the
Wornall House regains its farm. At some point
then, and though it tends to conceal the first, one has a basis
to go into another phase of development.
And I
think that is why my concept of a series of separate
period studies is the best way to get at the task of saying
something useful (rather than simply entertaining) about a
city's architectural history. It is much like the
multi-volume biography. Don't treat it as a continuum even
though it was in fact just that. It is a way to manage
time, to make it slow down or speed up without the distortions
of the same in a film. Maybe now I know why still pictures
(slides) have certain advantages over film or TV tape. The
latter is a temporal medium which imposes its own demands on the
historian. We need a different type of control of time in
order to do our work.
20 July
1976
At about
7:15 a.m. Kansas City time, a
space vehicle from the United
States landed on the surface of the planet Mars. That this
function was successful, 23,000,000 miles from Earth, is a
marvel. That photographs are being transmitted from the
surface of Mars to that of the Earth and almost immediately
visible on the television set in my home—as
I write this—is truly incredible. It is an amazing feat of
technical skill that covered eight years of effort by an
enormous number of people. Everyone is preoccupied with
the question of "life" on Mars and I detect (I think)
disappointment that there weren't little furry creatures staring
at the camera. But consider the organizational skill that
was involved in bringing off this complex effort. No doubt
the focus on a rather precisely defined goal is a factor, but
that alone cannot explain it all. Nor am I convinced that
scientists and technocrats have advantages in working as teams.
Really, someone should be telling us —after appropriate
study—the how and why such an organizational model that was at
work on the Mars project worked.
A
footnote. Seven years ago to the day, the first man
stepped onto the surface of the moon. We no longer run
moon flights and if we did I suspect they'd get two minutes on
the evening network news. But the Viking Lander of Mars
"clicking" its pictures and next week running some biology
experiments is an exciting thing. I know I've been captured
by the experience.
1 August
1976
With the
first day of August I am clearly on the last leg of my
sabbatical leave, and having to write a report I find myself
assessing my current professional situation. Have I
successfully recycled myself as I suggest I have (to 85%) during
the first seven months? In my report I speak of three
objectives the leave was to serve: regenerative; research; and
recycling.
Regeneration has occurred. By and large I feel as good as
I have in many a year. I may not be trim and fit in a
health-spa sense of the words, but I feel healthy, physically
and mentally. And there is professional corroboration for
these opinions.
Research
activity has not been linear, but I have done a lot and I have
things to show for it. Papers have been written, given at
meetings, and accepted for meetings and publication. I've
peeled away some of the external layers and I [am] doing things
on a more significant scholarly and critical level than I have
for a long time. I am stockpiling more projects than I can
ever do. My real problem is to stay focused on one topic
long enough to be certain that I finish the project properly.
So far I've stayed on track fairly well.
As for
recycling, that has been the most difficult, the most important,
and I believe the most rewarding. I don't think I've
brainwashed myself, but I really feel I have gotten into
scholarship in the best sense of the word, and it has been a
long time coming (or delayed). I also feel the best I have
in a long time about my pending courses, whatever the competency
of students I will find. One thing helps is that I truly
believe that my research and teaching will be more meaningful to
the university than my management chores were. I'll
continue the last only on special assignment, as task-oriented
duties, but these will be a minor part of my overall
professional work.
It is
interesting to note that one can be a second echelon
art/architectural historian and still make significant
contributions to the store of knowledge. That is something
humanistic scholars have over scientists. I may not be
"big time," nor work at a first-rate university, but I know I am
doing important work with my research and teaching.
So all
in all, here at the start of August, I feel pretty good about
things on a professional and personal level. It is a real
blessing to be able to say this.
6 August
1976
Mila was
taken to the airport to join
her tour to Bavaria and Switzerland
on Wednesday (4th) and the following night the boys and I went
to see Kaufman and Hart's Once in a Lifetime as it opened
at the Missouri Repertory Theatre. There is a small
sidelight on contemporary morals, etc. to derive from that
experience, even though the play and performance were not
terribly noteworthy. Two of the scenes were set in a
Pullman Car. There was the porter—who
would have been Black in the original—being played by a Black
who did it as a comic Italian. My, how times have changed.
I can imagine the actor, who is good and plays the trainer Tick
in
The Great White Hope also at MRT, saying he wanted to
do a dialect and could. In any case it wasn't commented on
by anyone and I wonder how many caught on?
2 September
1976
Today is
my mother's eighty-first birthday. She seemed in good
spirits and hale when we called to wish her our best. Not
too long ago she sent Paul a rather lengthy account of her
meeting and marriage with my father and the immigration to
America. Paul has been collecting accounts re: both sides
of the family for a few years and
may someday pull them
together. In any case it was a curious thing to read
about those early years, for while I remember some things heard
now and then it was a curious experience to read about them.
(I fear I go in circles.) The point is that as a working
historian, even though it is art and architecture, I get into
the past through accounts and photos of a bygone period; now I
find myself as it were captured in an account reaching back
sixty years which I can read as I can other historically ordered
reminiscences.
We are
so involved in the now, and tomorrow we lose our perspective on
the path of our lives. This is something the older folk
can help us with if only we give them the chance and we learn to
listen and to read with some sensitivity.
2 October
1976
Last
night I "escorted"
Rheta Sosland to the dinner at which
Elliot
Richardson, Secretary of Commerce, was given the Thomas Hart
Benton award by the Kansas City Art Institute. I say
escorted with quotation marks because she, in fact, took me.
Mila was also invited but she represented us at a
Philharmonic
concert. The evening provided some curious experiences,
not the least of which was the most elaborate dinner I've ever
had—but
on that more later.
Somewhere, in the past year apparently, I've slipped over a
notch in the local structure. Perhap [sic] I should
say we except I can reflect only on my vision of this.
Earlier this year we were asked to a "coffee" to meet and
presumably support
John
Danforth's bid as a Republican candidate
for the Senate. And later, we were asked to a swimming
party that had some of the same crowd. (I did not swim.)
And last night I think I was largely surrounded by well-heeled
folk who are more likely to vote [for] Ford than Carter on
economic grounds and tradition than on issues.
Rheta
Sosland is, in my opinion—shared
by many—a great lady; but her perception of the world we live in
is hardly that of my students or of my past. I guess as I
have climbed my short ladder of success, and have grown older,
I've left much of my roots in the past. Granted my
"wealth" is all a result of my own labors and sacrifices, and I
was hardly rich by the standards of the Soslands or most of the
others last night, [but] I guess I can understand now a bit better
than before the way one's views change as one has some security
to indulge in activities beyond ordinary subsistence. In
the hard times of the 1930s, which I still remember vividly, an
affair such as last night and the conversations would have
sounded and would have been seen as decadent. And I'm sure
for many today in the city the whole thing would be no more than
the rich engaged in self-indulgence. We even had—so to
speak—liveried servants who made a great ceremony of the
multiple courses and the many knives, forks and spoons in
correct sequences.
In the
short run I was a part of it all, far removed from an era and
values that represent my early years. But in the long run
I wonder if ever I could be a part of that world? And
again, it is unlikely that I would ever be a permanent part,
especially since I've retreated from academic administration
which provides one entree into our $ociety [sic].
Family connections don't exist, I'll never have the funds to
bring people to me, and I'll not likely hold a post that would
make me the attraction that Chancellors are in this town.
Nevertheless, we are being asked—now
and again—to sit at the table in the big room and I think it is
for ourselves alone. The fact that I can carry it off with
some grace still astonishes me, and I guess that and [what] I hope
[is] our
continued earthbound humor has made the last year a more unusual
one than any in my memory.
The Menu
Smoked Sturgeon á la Maison
Sauce Gribiche
Beringer Chenin Blanc
Belgian Endive, Brie Francaise
Sauce Mutard
Sorbet aux Champagne
Medallions of Veal Lady Morgan
en Croûte
Zucchini Farcie
Belgian Carrots Glacé
Miniature Assorted Rolls
Butter
Frozen Orange Soufflé Norwegian
Cheese Fours
Café
Graacher Himmelreich Riesling Kabinett 1973
Ameretta Liquor
(all of
this was at the
Alameda Plaza Hotel)
Late
October 1976
On the
evening of 17 October 1976, Mila and I attended a party that
Maurice and Gloria Peress gave, mostly for the executive
committee of the Board of the Philharmonic. We were (along
with one or two others) the reason why it was mostly and
not only the Board. So there we were—interestingly
we knew a fair number of these folk, some from Nelson Gallery
affairs. And we socialized, sipped wine, nibbled munchies
(damned good) and behaved quite properly. I did and I
assume so did Mila.
And then I
saw—or
so I thought—Sally Rand in the dim light of the "great hall" by
the piano. I made inquiry and sure enough it was she.
Sally had come alone with one of the Board people (whom I know
from the Historic Kansas City Foundation—Howard Haynes).
He insisted that I meet her and so we were introduced.
What to say? "Pleased to meetcha: I saw you perform about
1946 or 7 in Chicago." I may have gotten out the comment
more elegantly, but I remember [it] that way. She brightly
replied, "Oh yes, let me see, that was - - - the
Oriental
Theatre." Probably it was, but the "new Dean" of the
Conservatory,
Lindsey Merrill, came up and we got involved in
the fact that Sally was a student in 1914. And so on.
Eventually I retreated and continued my quiet social way.
Soon we
were called to take seats for
Tony Montanaro—a
truly great mime visiting the Peresses—who was to do about
twenty minutes. I promptly took a choice seat where I
could see all and see it well, and there was Sally coming to
join me on the couch. And there we were, the former Helen
Beck and once the notorious Sally Rand and now a very charming
and calculating professional—still performing at age 72—and me.
But soon we were lost in an exquisite demonstration of a
monumentally fine mime at work. Tony dedicated his work to
Sally—she graciously accepted (downright regally).
Afterwards she went up to speak to Tony; I tagged along since I
was already so close. And the three of us began to chat.
I could not resist; I had to comment on my profound appreciation
of the real professionals, and these were two whose
professionalism I was ready to defend. I had seen Sally
Rand capture and manipulate an audience at the "Strip the Folly"
auction, at which she was only to make a token appearance.
She did so much more—even a few minutes of decorously veiled fan
dancing (unexpected but spectacular for the occasion and
setting, in an old theatre which was in shambles just prior to
the start of restoration).
And though
it was a short visit with these two people, for a brief period I
was indeed in accord with two performers, so different and yet
so professionally demanding, about the virtues of striving for
and
appreciating excellence.
It was a
great moment and a memorable experience for me.
11 January
1977
We have
been in the midst of an extraordinary cold wave that has
affected an enormous section of the country, and is one of the
coldest, if not the coldest, I can recall in Kansas City.
It really began in the afternoon of Saturday [the 8th], where
the temperatures fell from a morning high of 15° F and was
bitterly cold all day Sunday and Monday. Officially,
yesterday's high was either 2 or 3° F. And, of course,
there has been snow, But despite the minor and major
inconveniences (e.g. the car won't start—and
it isn't the battery), the event that prompts this writing is
the unprecedented experience of Sunday evening. In the
midst of some froth on television, a bulletin broke in to
announce that the Gas Service Company was rapidly running out of
fuel, and with pressure dropping they were requesting everyone
to turn back their thermostats (presumably gas users) to 55°
F. This was modified later to "as low as you can possibly
bear it."
So it has
come to pass, that which everyone talked about but did little
[to prevent]. The capacity of the system is proven to be
finite—as
was obvious but not believed—and without the cooperation of
anonymous thousands, there could be a disaster. Mind, this
was after the interruptible users were already cut off. We
learned that sustained below-zero weather and reasonable
interior temperatures were incompatible.
There are,
of course, many technicalities. There is underground
storage to help even out excess demands on the primary delivery
system, and so forth, but
[?there/these] are technicalities.
It wasn't lack of money
to buy fuel, in contrast to the tales of being unable to buy
even a scuttle of coal in the Depression. It wasn't
irrational waste, as with highly inefficient automobiles, and
excessive speed, with gasoline. It wasn't as
self-indulgent as with the many electrical appliances.
While there is some waste, what was made clear was that we
should be more austere but that there is a finite limit to the
system which required mass cooperation if disaster was to be
avoided. And apparently people cooperated.
We are not
out of the problem, and it may be another day or even two before
we are. I wonder what might have occurred if gas pressure
had dropped sufficiently that pilot lights would have gone out?
With below-zero temperatures and snow, how many could have
gotten furnaces and hot water heaters started again? There
was a story of a small town in northwest Missouri that did run
out—they
drained the city wells, but that was 200 people, a manageable
disaster.
We've had a
very dry summer, near drought conditions, in many places.
Now we're in for a bad winter. Nature is no doubt blind to
the folly of human profligacy, but we are certainly being
tested. It isn't even manageable by spending more money.
The need is now to conserve and cooperate, and to readjust our
values. More is not better, bigger is not best, and the
need for water, shelter, warmth, and sustenance are [sic]
only going to increase while supplies may actually diminish.
I think we just had our first really solid warning of some
possibly grim times. No doubt we'll need a lot more before
we comprehend their meaning.
I wonder if
the new President,
Jimmy Carter, will speak to these issues in
his inaugural address?
14 June
1977
A gentle,
gentleman died on Sunday, June 12, 1977.
Joe Shipman has
left us and no longer will we be able to talk with him face to
face, or to share an idea, or to seek his counsel; but in a very
real sense he will always be near. How could one ever
forget him, or what he did? It seems important that I
record here a rather faint reflection of what Joe mean to me.
It is
necessary to say that while we were good friends, we really did
not mingle socially. Joe wasn't that much older than I
(seventeen years) but the difference was enough to put us into
different circles. But there were intersections, some of
which were profoundly important to me.
I met Joe
very soon after coming to KCU. That university in 1954 was
in reality a very small liberal arts college coupled with
several professional schools, only one of which was of any size—Dentistry.
In another academic era, certainly for KCU-UMKC, there was the
faculty dining room in
Haag Hall and there sundry of us would
retreat from the cafeteria line to eat and talk. And it
was there that I met Joe. He ate simply—I remember a bowl
of soup and a slice of cake as a regular selection. He
came for the conversations and frequently was its most
stimulating contributor. There I began an important
segment of my education. Still without my Ph.D., indeed
only started on it, I bemoaned the fact that the one real
research library collection in the city (Joe's library) was
outside of my province. What could an art historian find
in a science and technology library? Joe didn't know, but
he took me on a tour. It was only the
old Hall house then,
now gone. And so year by year I began to learn that
invaluable lesson of finding one's research problems within the
materials at hand—and what a treasure house it was. In
fact the library grew more rapidly than I had time to learn,
what with all the other responsibilities and pressures I had to
cope with. Well, between Linda Hall and the Nelson Gallery
I found my research topic and the materials and a dissertation
was written. How to get it typed? I confessed one
day to Joe, who knew of and supported my research, that I was
going to have to type my own dissertation, but I had no decent
place to work. It was summer, hot and humid, and I had a
manual typewriter. That gentle man set up a place for me
in the closed area of the then new library building, the only
air conditioned locale I had access to, and there I removed
myself to work some six hours a day during the summer of 1960.
Joe even gave me a key to the library (a different world then)
so I could work whenever I wished.
But that
wasn't all. Our relationship grew in other ways. One
one occasion, for a night class in 15th and 16th Century
Northern art, he allowed me to carry out a briefcase of
illustrated books from that period to show my class.
Incredible in retrospect. And then in 1969, for a
sabbatical that year, I sequestered myself with Joe's assistance
in the rare book room of Linda Hall Library to work on (I
thought) scientific illustration as an art form. Out of
that experience and Joe's teaching, I moved into the topic of
the use of artists by scientists. I recall the excitement
of when the monumental
Expedition de L'Égypte arrived,
and there together we looked at the plates.
The memory
of those days is clear. I, seated in a Chippendale chair,
reading, looking, making notes. And Joe, visible in his
office through the connecting door. Now and again he'd
come in and we'd chat about this and that, and he'd pull down
another book for me, or open a case.
Well, as
the years slipped by, the luncheon group ceased, the library and
the university grew and demanded more of all. Out
intersections were fewer and farther between, but the meaning
never changed. I have often said that I learned my art
history in the Nelson Gallery (though I learned methodology from
Frank Roos and
Arthur Bestor) and I learned how to maintain an
inquiring mind from Joe Shipman.
It is funny
that as I write this my principal research is in architectural
history and thus my attention is far removed from the interior
of Linda Hall, though I pass it nearly every day and watch its
physical expansion, the third since 1954. I dig into
Kansas City's architectural history, and that has my attention
and has done much for me professionally, but I am tied tight,
nevertheless, to the work waiting for me at Linda Hall.
Sooner or later, soon I think, I shall turn to a
project that
will reach back in its beginnings to a chance conversation with
Joe Shipman. To think that he won't be there to help me is
hard to accept. But whatever I do will be done because his
impact on me cannot be reduced.
We will
miss him sorely, for he was truly a great man. I will
never forget him, for he was in fact one of my teachers.
13
September 1977
How does
one begin? As I sit here with my
lap board I'm more
conscious of my fatigue than the enormity of the flash floods
that hit Kansas City last night. At 5505 Holmes the impact
was limited to about two feet of water in the basement and a
random assortment of leaks, mostly around the windows, for the
disaster was triggered by some twelve to sixteen inches of rain
in about twenty-four hours in two intense sieges about twelve
hours apart.
When I went
to work [sleep?] fairly early on the evening of the 11th it was just
starting to rain. Apparently it continued all night and
when I awoke at six a.m. on the 12th I checked the basement.
Within, the water was down, but there was evidence that we had
flooded to about two inches. The outside drain was of
course clogged, but it drained after being cleaned. With
that I went to the university. The rain kept on and off
but ended by midday. I returned home in the early
afternoon to rest and do some homework before going back to
teach a night class. I heard several stories about badly
flooded basements; my colleague
Gerry Fowle had had two and
a half feet in hers and [it] was slowly draining out.
Happily I had had my floor drains roto-rooted in June and this,
I'm sure, was one reason I survived so well—the
first time.
It was
while teaching my night class that the rains began again.
I left on foot about 8:20 p.m. and it was a gentle rain but with
much thunder and lightning. By the time I was within a
block of the house it was a downpour. I checked the
basement immediately and all seemed sound, and I got out of my
wet clothes; that was about 9:00 p.m. The rains increased
and the floor drain was no longer able to cope, for the spring
that comes in at the corner of the house was finally activated.
The spring functions only when the ground is saturated, and it
really does no damage to the foundation that I can detect.
However, the rapid backing up of the water at the floor drain
suggested that the sewers were full rather than an overactive
spring or a clogged drain. And indeed they were. The
intersection at
55th and Holmes, the lowest spot in the
immediate area, was flooded, and soon there were two stalled
cars there. Holmes was a raging white-water stream, and by
the storm drain at the corner it must have been about three feet
deep.
The rains
were furious and the water rose steadily in the basement.
I had marked the previous high water (before the final repairs
on the city sewer) and that had been about 9" at the door in
1970, and subsequent to the repairs only 2"—which
meant half the basement normally was dry whatever the deluge.
This time it rose to a point where there was a real concern.
Earlier I had unplugged appliances, and so when I saw the water
reach the first step on the basement stairs—a normally dry
area—I waded in and began moving some key things (photo
supplies) up and out of the way. But the rains continued
and I realized as the water crept ever higher that if the drain
became clogged, or even sluggish due to debris, more water
cascading
down the drive and via the spring could do us in.
And when I realized the water had covered the second step, I
began the task of transporting photo equipment and supplies up
to the first floor. By now the water was up to my knees in
the shallower areas. After securing the photo stuff (about
11:00 p.m. or later) I began the vigil—watching the intersection
and the basement. The rains finally lessened and slowly
the intersection cleared. And ever so slowly the basement
began to drain. By 12:30 a.m. it had receded about ten
inches and the raging river in front of the house was gone and
the stalled cars were removed. A final check at 1:00 a.m.
suggested we had survived tolerably well. Others had not,
for Steve Gosnell, a colleague just a few houses south, had
nearly five feet when I had no more than ten inches, and I had
then gone double that. It measured nearly 20" by the door
when all was over.
We knew via
spot announcements on TV that things were bad elsewhere.
We had at least power and were reasonably dry. On Monday
morning I had taken
Matthew to school and I could see that there
had been spot flooding on
Ward Parkway west of the Plaza—there
was driftwood on the parkway, and
Brush Creek was bank-full.
Now with the ground already saturated with inches of rain, what
would more than two hours of pounding torrential rain bring?
Disaster,
true disaster.
In the
morning I woke at six and crept down to check the basement.
I managed to relight the hot water heater, I flushed the toilets
(which I had put on "hold" so to speak) and turned on the radio
for news. Things were bad, but the worst for us in the
central city was the
Country Club Plaza. While details
were scanty, the report stated there had been
extensive damage
to shops, and cars were reported swept down Brush Creek. I
then turned to hosing down the basement, a task of nearly an
hour, which included moving junk out to the back area in a very
light drizzle. By 9:00 a.m. I felt I'd done a tolerable
job of cleaning and noted that the drain worked well. My roto-rooter job had been, I'm sure, the key to holding down the
damage.
Then it was
off to school to meet classes that I knew would be severely
reduced in size due to the fact that power was off in many areas
of the city, and many streets were still flooded. At noon,
still in a light rain, I walked down to
Volker and Rockhill and
saw evidence of the enormous flood that had swept out of the
banks of Brush Creek. Debris in the trees indicated a
crest of about six feet above the bridge, and there
against the abutments were cars stacked helter-skelter.
The handrails of the pedestrian bridge were swept away. A
large gully was cut into the bank nearby, and across the
Theis
Mall stones from the walls were scattered like pebbles on a
beach. Automobiles were scattered here and there, some
badly damaged by the force of the water that slammed them
against trees or light poles. An
apartment parking lot on
Oak near Volker looked like a box of a child's toy cars, with
automobiles turned every which way and variously dented.
On Oak Street, pieces of pavement were scattered.
But the
damage here was modest compared to the Plaza. I had
neither the energy (which only five hours of fitful rest and
much work) nor the courage to see the Plaza. Also, wisdom
argued that one should stay as far removed as possible from an
area that was being cordoned off to permit salvage operations.
The growing reports were grim.
Halls wrecked, as were
other shops along Ward Parkway and perhaps farther up. On
Nichols, across from Halls, there was about five feet of water.
But more than the height of the water it was the rapid rise and
crashing force that threw automobiles into display windows.
As I write
this, about 9:00 p.m. on the 13th, the report is that there are
now nineteen known dead in the metropolitan area, and no reports
on injuries though there must be some—one
being one of my students who was nearly swept away (I know not
all of the details). Estimates of the damage vary, but it
is clear that this flood struck many and in a wide area.
People within a half block of each other suffered little and
much. The effect on the streets, sewers and utilities is
only guessed at. Personal losses or damages are probably
not covered by insurance due to the flood exemption usual in
home owner's policies.
How will
the story end? It will be a long time coming. I've
begun a clipping file. What it will tell will be the
external facts; the personal tragedies will be largely that,
despite their collective impact. And for many untouched,
it will be as remote as the
Ruskin Heights tornado of 1957, or
the Chicago Fire. But the city, in many places and many
ways, will be different because of the flood, maybe for a long,
long time.
12 May
1979
Yesterday
afternoon I saw my first bound copy of Kansas City, Missouri:
An Architectural History, 1826-1976. The author is me!
What are my
feelings at this time?
Well, there
is no sense of elation, nor of pride. Yet the book is
handsome, and I feel well done by all involved in its
production. I guess it is the inevitable problem of having
lived for so long with the project that one cannot relate to the
fact that it is over.
The book is
published by the
Historic Kansas City Foundation, and sales
(after costs are paid) will be for the benefit of the
Foundation. I shall receive a suitable number of copies
for my private distribution, and to the extent that the book is
well received, I shall of course benefit.
The book
was not cheap to produce, and at $19.95 (in the hard cover) it
will take some time to cover the cost of producing the 3,000
copies that HKCF ordered. My photographic costs (198
illustrations, counting the frontispiece) [were] covered by two
grants from the Research Administration of UMKC. Grants
from seven local foundations were received by HKCF to help meet
production costs (that included hiring an editor and so forth).
Someday, perhaps, I'll discover the full extent of that aspect
of the project.
Everyone
seems more elated about this project than do I. This is
certainly the case with the Lowell Press of K.C. that did the
design and printing. In fact, they printed up at least
another 1,000 copies at their cost, and these are to be
put in soft covers and sell at $12.95. I gather their
release will come after the hardbound sells out. And the
people at Lowell seem optimistic that it will sell well. I
hope we can move at least 1,000 copies before the end of the
year. To this end I'll be doing my bit to advertise the
book. That includes an exhibit of the photos at the UMKC
art gallery, and an autograph party at the
Bennett Schneider
bookstore (both in early June). Also in early June is
Night in Old Possum Trot, and then there is the long-awaited
meeting of the
American Institute of Architects in K.C.
immediately thereafter.
Well, it
should be an exciting six months.
15 May 1979
They are telling people that
they should not go on automobile driving trips this coming
Memorial Day holiday. The combination of reduced supplies
of gasoline and an increased demand for it has created a
situation where there is no guarantee of having adequate
supplies of fuel as measured by demand. Demand, of course,
is not need, but after years of cheap energy and encouragement
to use it wastefully, the crisis is real enough. As usual,
there is talk of conspiracy (Americans's explanation for all
such "unexplainable" situations) by the oil companies, outrage
against government over-regulation, under-regulation, inaction
(take your choice), and Americans's need to face reality, etc.
As usual, things will have to
get bad (perceived or real) before it will sink in that there
is, in fact, a giant turning of the way of life Americans have
enjoyed since the late 1940s. The politicians will have to
do unpopular things. There will have to be accommodations
made to those unfortunates caught in circumstances not of their
own making. Gasoline will have to get so expensive that
alternatives to foolish auto use will be palatable. And
the alternatives will have to be provided. Congress seems
more unfocused than a faculty meeting run by a milquetoast.
The President says the right things but does little to persuade
anyone.
And there am I. Driver of
smaller car, resident of the "inner city," walker to work, one
who could survive on one-third of the average
Missourian's monthly past usage, also caught in the kind of a
gasoline crisis caused by others less prescient.
I wonder
what comes next.
1 January 1980
It is morning, still a bit
gray, but the day promises to be pleasant, a decided contrast to
a year ago when a
massive snowfall launched the coldest winter
on record, with much snow. But the promise of a pleasant
day is flavored by the decade-end recountings in the press and
TV of what might be called a truly turbulent century [decade?].
Consider what we face on this day independent of the decade's
events:
In the city, the firemen are
once again behaving in a simplistic fashion by creating what is
called a "job action." I call it a strike, though
technically it is not quite that. The city administration
has drawn numerous lines, retreated a few times, but now seems
adamant. I have to side with City Hall. A union,
particularly one as primitive in its beliefs as this one, cannot
be in charge of a city service. But that issue is only one
at hand to temper the day.
The petroleum-energy crisis is
that of both excessive demands on supplies and irrational fiscal
behavior lumped under the heading of "inflation." Gasoline
is, as they say,
a dollar a gallon. Actually, it is a bit
higher and I suspect it will go higher yet, even if a glut
temporarily appears on the horizon. The oil companies and
the oil producing nations have become a textbook study of market
misbehavior.
Inflation in general is bad; in
certain areas it is pure greed. The evidence is that of a
hoarding instinct converted into wage and price figures.
I've heard more nonsense about the economy from every sort of
person than I ever could have expected. While there is
evidence of restraint forced by necessity on many at the lower
economic levels, those of wealth or in the federal government
seem totally incapable of doing what needs to be done. If
the truth is being told, there is a propensity to disbelieve it.
An ounce of gold has passed the
$500 mark. What earthly good is it for an oil baron to buy
gold? He already has more money than he can spend; so he
bids up the price of gold to give his money some value, and the
gold is totally useless sitting in a vault—as
would-be dollar bills.
The
Muslim revolution, principally active in
Iran, has created the
ridiculous situation of trying to govern a non-homogenous nation
on the principles of the Koran—while
using the westernized device of Television [sic] to
create a media event related to the seizure of the U.S. Embassy
and the holding of perhaps fifty hostages by militant "students"
wanting the return of the deposed Shah. American response
has been mixed and fairly temperate, but includes the production
of Khomeini Tissue, toilet paper imprinted with the face
of the religious fanatic who is the ostensible leader of Iran.
And
Russia, apparently, has invaded
Afghanistan to ensure a
sympathetic government (?) [sic] there. And
Cambodia is on the edge of non-existence following an act of
behavior patterns that defy my comprehension.
There is
more, but the list is quite long enough. Yet all is not
bleak and grim. I am not in despair and I even see signs
of improvement in areas that previously were not too well off,
such as historic preservation, or in a more rational and
productive behavior by university faculty and students.
In 1979
my book on Kansas City's architectural history was published.
It has sold very well locally and has received kind comments.
It should become better known and distributed in the coming years
to my professional advantage and the Historic Kansas City
Foundation's benefit. I am now a member of their Board of
Directors, I've been named to the Landmarks Commission, and
apparently I am going to be elected to the Board of Directors of
the Society of Architectural Historians.
Helicon Nine, the journal of women's arts and letters of
which Mila is an Associate Editor, has produced two issues, and
the reception has been excellent. Mila is also now
teaching (part-time) in the Department of Theatre and is
professionally
much happier.
Paul is
gainfully employed at the UMKC Bookstore and is clearly now his
own man, fully independent and making his own way. Matthew
has completed his first semester at UMC and is well-adjusted to
that routine and seems to be capable of handling himself.
No worries there.
My
mother, now 84, seems well as can be expected and apparently
dauntless.
Mila's mother has adjusted, reluctantly but
well, to senior citizen's status.
My days
are full, I am doing what I enjoy best, I seem to be making
some sort of professional mark that may have some lasting
quality. My health is really quite good since I take my
medication and behave myself, and I really look forward to doing
more of what I am paid to do. So despite the ominous
symptoms of national and international stress, I look forward to
1980.
14 July 1980
This has
become "the summer of 1980," much as there was the
summer of
1954 and the one of 1936. Drought in Kansas became
official, and according to the K.C. Star tonight, Jackson
County has had 93 possible heat-related deaths since the first
of the month. It has been twelve or more days of 100° (F)
weather (who thought to count?), and the weather service sees no
let up, certainly not for the next five days.
The
pattern is insidious. Now we have reached
lows of 80°, and
they occur around 6 to 7 a.m., perhaps holding till 8 in an area
with a lot of trees. The temperature builds slowly to
about the mid-80s between 11 and noon. Then throughout the
afternoon the temperature moves into the 100-plus range with the
highest figure reached around 4 p.m. and then it holds until the
sun sets. Then the slow, slow slide down. The sky is
mostly clear, winds mostly from the southwest—the
local sirocco. Downtown gets the brunt of it, going to
108°
or 109° on many a day. Water is becoming a problem in many
communities, even KCMO has had to ask for restraint.
Electric power loads are perilously high, but that is due to air
conditioning.
What
would it be like without the many air conditioned retreats most,
but not all, of us can use? UMKC is almost totally
air-conditioned now, and of course we have our window units here
at home. The latter we can usually keep off in the
morning, but by noon they are necessary, along with some fans to
help reach corners and byways. So we manage to cope
tolerably well, are able to work in some comfort, and to sleep
with a sense of having rested when we awake. Our
excursions out are limited and mostly in the morning.
But
there are those jobs, those places, and those homes that receive
the full effect of the heat, which debilitates one as it
continues day after day. For those who are tied to that
arena, there is a serious emergency. And it isn't one of
those one reads about. It is all around us, and with a
power failure or a larger water crisis, we will all be in it.
Not a pleasant thought to hold at 7:15 p.m. with the temperature
under the east awning an even 100°.
20 July 1981
The Hyatt Regency Hotel
disaster. What can one say more than two days after the
tragedy? The death toll is now 113, with said
possibilities of it increasing since some of the injured are in
critical condition. The overt cause of it all was the
collapse of two of the three skywalks across the Hyatt's
four-story lobby during the most crowded time, the Friday
evening tea-dance. The cause for the failure is the
subject of multiple, extensive searches and investigations.
I know none of the
victims (as
far as I can tell)—a
curious sense of relief in that—but in a way I do, for two
people deeply affected by all of this I do know. They are
the two principal architects,
Herb Duncan and
Bob Berkebile.
The picture of the two of them shown in the K.C. Times
this morning, as they try to cope with all that now has hit
them, is just as heartwrenching to me as the views on television
and in the newspapers of the physically assaulted victims.
Knowing them, I know they would not have done anything knowingly
improper. And I suspect they nevertheless feel culpable.
Indeed, perhaps no one did anything wrong, except not to
anticipate one additional stress factor that none of the design
books or programs said was necessary. It may be like the
dike that no one built the extra foot higher, because it never
before ever flooded anywhere was that high.
My
immediate reaction was the "marching men on a bridge"
explanation. We were told that people on the skywalks were
keeping rhythm to the music, some were even dancing. An
early report quoted a survivor that the walkways began to sway.
Well, my expertise is nil in the matter, the investigative
engineers have the task to provide answers.
Mila and
I had gone to the opening at the Nelson Gallery, with
Venne and
Felicia Londré. We then returned to our house for a light
dinner and conversation. They went home at 10:30 p.m.
I turned on the television to catch M*A*S*H or whatever,
and was faced with a network news broadcast reporting a
disaster. Only I didn't know it was in Kansas City.
There was a visual that blinked on noting the coverage came from
KMBC. I looked, and observed to myself that that was
curious, those were local call letters for the channel I was
watching and why would Channel Nine do that; we all knew which
station we were watching. Indeed, I thought it was Las
Vegas or some other place. It never dawned on me at the
first that it was a local disaster. And then there was the
voiceover, or the reporter-commentator saying some words, ending
with "in Kansas City, Missouri." It was a while before the
full implications set in.
It was
hard to sleep Friday night. No direct[?] dreams, just
tossing and turning. Saturday morning the newspaper listed
48 dead. Soon there was a call from L.A. My mother
called to ascertain if we were all right. We reassured
her, but she said the dead were over 100, and she was so
concerned. My reaction was: there goes the media
exaggerating, or poor Mom got confused and had the injured list
transposed to deaths. But she had heard correctly, and the
report was correct. By then the toll had reached 111.
What do
people like us do? I have no relevant skills or strengths.
I cannot give blood, considering the medication I take.
One simply picks up and does what one would have anyway, except
one feels a little empty and forlorn; but "life goes on" as the
saying puts it. Nevertheless, there is a sense of anguish
when it is near to you.
We went
to the bank; we went to
Bob Jones Outlet to buy some shoes; and
we went to the
City Market. Only as we went down Grand
Avenue, by the police barricades and the crowds of curious
people, could an outsider sense that "something" had happened.
The people parked at a distance, walked up to the police line,
stared silently, and then eventually walked away. Really
one could see virtually nothing except boarded places where the
entrances had been ripped out to get heavy equipment into the
lobby to lift the broken skywalks. Indeed, a glance
driving down and a glance driving back was all that was required
to "see it all." And for me, that was quite enough.
We
attended a departmental dinner at Gerry Fowles's house Saturday
evening. A few of us talked about it, but what was there to say?
I attended a lecture at the Nelson Gallery earlier, and talked
with very few. One was
Bob Bloomgarten, an architect of
advanced years. We could only ponder the implications of
present-day cutting back on traditional overbuilding of
structure, as material and labor costs force more innovation in
design. But that may not even apply here. One gropes
for an explanation.,
Put one
day next to another, and you realize that for most of us, the
disaster could well have been in Las Vegas, for all of the
direct impact at hand. Soon it will be only a vaguely
remembered thing for virtually all but those there, like a flood
or an earthquake. "Yes," we will say, "I recall it
happened, but I'm not sure exactly where or when." But
somehow or other, I feel that this is a real trauma for the
city, far different but just as real as the personal tragedies
for individual people. The city can be resilient, but this
hurt it. It put—for
how long?—600 people out of work. It has permanently
scarred the lives and careers of some fine architects who are in
my estimation totally blameless. The profession itself is
damaged, in a way far worse than when the
Kemper Arena roof fell
in a storm. Hallmark and
Crown Center [are] hurt.
And one can add to the list, and add again.
They say
that time heals. Let us hope it does and quickly.
Postscript
I was in
the Hyatt Regency just once prior to the disaster. For
some time I had planned to go in and see what the public spaces
were like. And so, about a month ago I went with Mila.
We walked everywhere we could, and that included traversing all
three skywalks. As I write this I try to think of what
they were really like, and it is funny but I remember them only
as walkways—corridors—bridges—to
get from one place to another. From below, or at a
distance, the skywalks filled space. And there is a lot of
space in that lobby which separates the guest-room tower from
the convention-center block. It struck me as a "gimmick,"
a design solution of no great importance to traffic needs, but
that was because I was not a guest and [needed] no "shortcut" or
direct path to the pool or whatever.
But
there it was, an image of space modulation or a couple of people
walking from north to south, or the reverse. A balcony or
terrace they were not. How wrong I was.
*
APPENDIX
"The Storm"
[This
occupied a folder of its own in the files not (yet) donated to
the George Ehrlich Papers. In places it is an extremely
rough draft, written under stressful circumstances when George
had just turned 77 and had begun his gradual yet relentless
descent into dementia. However, it seems an appropriate
addendum to this Collection of Observations—not
least because it allows us to close on a more upbeat note than
the Hyatt Regency disaster.]
29 January
2002
Knowing
that there would be some sort of nasty storm coming our way, I
hustled that morning by auto to obtain an assortment of
foodstuffs and such to ensure having adequate supplies.
Our neighbors in
Crestwood, across the street from our row of
houses, had lost their electricity the night before, and the
continuation of their loss made us thankful that we at least
still had electricity. And despite the evolution of a
developing fall of sleet, which looked modest at first, [this]
permitted us a fairly comfortable afternoon and evening, though
inevitably we began to hear the growing sounds of the storm.
Still, we could watch the TV and read, and get ourselves settled
into
our respective beds. Sleep was interrupted by the
obvious sounds of tree branches breaking loose and crashing on
our roof and then sliding to the ground, or direct crashes onto
who knew what. Our electricity had failed by midnight, and
the blowing winds, the cracking of large branches and even parts
of trees, and the attendant noises were very worrisome indeed.
Since we could do nothing about it, we hunkered into our beds in
order to stay as warm as possible and hope for the best.
And so we slept as best we could and wait[ed] for the daylight,
assuming there would be enough light to see what we could and
plan for how to cope with Wednesday's events.
30 January
2002
When we had enough light to see
the damage and what else related to the storm, we saw a rather
messy scene, what with debris of broken tree limbs and sundry
damage to trees, some quite serious as to size and proximity
and scattered onto the street. sidewalks, terraces, driveways,
etc. And the "timber" kept falling, since the sleet and
rains had built a covering of ice on all sorts of things.
Fortunately, the car was tucked into its
garage, but figuring
out how, if needed, we could make our way outside of the house
[sic]. Moreover, the house was itself getting
noticeably colder, and so we bundled up as if preparing to go
out into the frosty world. By chance, we discovered the K.C. Star newspaper very close to our front door.
Given the iced grounds and walk, the throw of the paper to our
house must had absorbed the advantage of now being able to skid
literally on ice to reach us. Mila secured the paper.
And as best as we could adapt to the situation, we winced when
yet another crash of tree branches, or large elements of a tree,
or an entire large tree toppling nearby, a most unpleasant sound
what with not knowing if there were serious injuries or major
damage to windows, roofs, or whatever. As the light
outdoor faded, it was time to prepare ourselves to see what
Thursday would bring.
31 January
2002
After having piled on much
clothing, blankets and whatever else might help to keep me
reasonably warm, I soon discovered that if I by chance shifted
left or right [it] automatically put me in contact with sheets that
were strikingly cold, but slowly my body heat shifted to "sort
of warm" enough to let me go back to sleep. But a trip to
the loo ensured an overall cold bed on my return.
Nevertheless, I did get some rest, and with evidence that
daylight was arriving, I rather swiftly managed to convert [my]
assorted clothing from sleep gear to walking about the house
gear. By 7 a.m., there was enough light to see through the
windows to reveal the rather large amount of tree branches that
had broken off, particularly from the pin oak, to the added
fragments of ice that were either still on branches or had
fallen free. Overall a mess, since the walks and driveway
were covered with ice and in some places the sidewalk was
blocked by debris. Even as we looked at the mess, our
neighbor Fritz Lee from across the street had come over to our
side of the street to begin moving [fallen] limbs and piling
them by the curb. He had a saw at hand. And
another [neighbor] with [a] shovel cleared off the ice pellets etc.
We had had our cold cereal breakfast, and thus being fueled so
to speak we got into boots and our heaviest outer garments (and
me getting a saw and shovel, with the latter also acting as a
sturdy cane) and we went out to do our best. And before we
knew it, some others from our immediate area came to help.
And so it went with a sense (of all of us I suspect) that we
felt even much better knowing that we were making things better,
but much still needed to be done. Inevitably I ran out of
steam and went back into the house. From the convenience
of the back porch, I could survey the yard in the rear, and saw
the maple tree, the magnolia and sundry shrubs heavily coated in
ice, which had caused extreme bending of branches, often to the
very ground due to the weight of the ice. Several branches
were broken, but nothing as severe as in the front [yard]. The
garage roof was partially covered by iced branches. As for
the various power lines, how they managed to remain in place
given the heavy icing seemed to defy nature. As for me, I
finally got myself to be again useful in some way, by getting
out my Pentax and [taking] a series of
photographs. And
after some cold food, for me it was soon off to bed, given the
darkening hours.
1 February
2002
Tired of eating cold food—and
the food was diminishing [rather] quickly despite our modest
portions—Mila and I started out to seek "hot food" at UMKC.
While the university as expected had done a decent job on
clearing walks, elsewhere on our walk we had to go into the
street, which had far less ice. But that was still
precarious in spots. Also, bits of ice kept falling (and
we hoping to be missed by the larger pieces of ice). When
we got to 52nd Street, we went up the stairs to the higher
ground where
Newcomb Hall is located. Took the elevator (UMKC
has its own power sources) and found
Dave Boutros and
Marilyn
Burlingame tending WHMC. Without shame (after all I was a
participant in the establishment of the "western Missouri WHMC")
I [asked] Dave if he had any hot coffee, since now more than two
days had passed with[out] it. He did have the things
[needed] to produce hot tea. And [we] finally had the long
sought comfort. After a visit about this and that, we
thanked them and continued to the Fine Arts Building, and
visited briefly with several people, and then on to the
University Center to see if they had hot food. YES!
And so we finally had some simple but most satisfying food (when
measured by the past couple of days). On our return trip
home, the weather being nice as the hours slipped by, more ice
was falling from intact branches, and since a lot of the ice was
still heavy and long, it was a rather precarious passage, [ice]
just missing us on one occasion. Lucky us! Yes by
hindsight, but now [we] wished we had helmets for both of us.
When we arrived safely at our house, we ran into
Ross Taggart,
who had been looking for work re: cutting up and stacking
branches, etc. that had fallen. He also would able to
cut the [tree? into?] log-size [segments] that had crashed on our lawn.
I said I wanted all remnants of the redbud cut down and removed
to the curb. He said he would do so tomorrow, but then to
our surprise he returned about three hours or so later, with two
"assistants" (one his wife, the other a young woman being
trained to be a regular assistant), and in about an hour or so,
with a [vivid?] heavy-duty chain saw, Ross went at it and the
assistants stacking it. All told $200, but well worth it
for both sides.
2 February 2002
We still
were without electric power, and so faced yet another day
dependent on daylight for doing most of our tasks. One of
which was an added attempt to clear the driveway of ice, which
was rather thick in some places. I had already cleared a
section next to the garage over the past couple of days, and at
the street end, the frequent welcome presence of the sun had
begun to clear [it] rather nicely, with the help of scrapers, etc.
Fortunately the weather was quite balmy, and things looked
reasonably ready for yet another "attack" on the driveway ice.
We also had some helpers, who also were working on the sidewalks
with considerable effect. After our various efforts to
improve our outside physical situation, and as the daylight was
slowly ebbing, Mila arranged a collection of candles and holders
to enable us to have a decent dinner set up. Earlier, we
also were informed by our neighbors that we could quite safely
light burners on the stove, using a match to ignite the gas and
thus the burner. Proving to do this quite easily, we could
now have hot water, etc. for food and drink preparation.
And I diligently concentrated on that. I set up a candle
next to the food preparation area to help me see what I needed
to do, since the light outside was darkening fast. So
while working at this I glanced at the stove, on which a kettle
was kept hot, and noticed a PF sign on the elevated back of the
stove. That puzzled me, and while pondering this, Mila
said, "Look at the light." What light? Huh?
Mila, who had noticed the fact that out heaters had come alive,
was attempted to make [clear?] the wonderful news that we also had
electricity. And so for dense George, she turned on the
kitchen light to the highest level, and finally I did indeed see
that we were fully operational, and could set aside the candles,
and return to normalcy, so to speak. Of course, our
furnace had to stay running for two full hours before we were up
to out usual temperatures.
And thus
endeth our blackout. (Alas, many others were, and would
still,
be seeking power.)
In
June 2025 my brother Matthew revisited our hometown of Kansas
City MO, where he reviewed some of our father's professional
papers at the University of Missouri-Kansas City Library.
"(That is, I’ve done the 'reviewing' at UMKC. It turns out
that the papers actually are stored in
