Category Archives: Blasius Across America

Malcolm Little, ‘X’-busboy

“I became a busboy at the Parker House in Boston.  I wore a starched white jacket out in the dining room, where the waiters would put the customers’ dirty plates on silver on big aluminum trays which I would take back to the kitchen’s dishwashers.”

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In the summer of 1940, fifteen year old Malcolm Little boarded a Greyhound bus in Lansing bound for Boston.  Born in Omaha, Malcolm had spent most of his life in foster homes in Mason, Michigan until his half sister Ella invited him to spend a summer with her.  This was Malcolm’s first trip out of the Midwest.  From the back of the bus, Malcolm watched “white man’s America rolling past for what felt like a month.” What would meet him in Boston would profoundly change the course of his life.

Malcolm had never been impressed with anyone like he was impressed with Ella.  Ella was “the first really proud black woman I had ever seen in my life,” an attitude unheard of in segregated Lansing.  Jet black and outspoken, Ella lived in Roxbury, a community Malcolm X would later describe as practically effervescing with black culture.  “I didn’t know the world contained as many Negroes as I saw thronging downtown Roxbury at night” Malcolm recounted in his 1965 autobiography.  “Neon lights, nightclubs, pool halls, bars, the cars they drove!  Restaurants made the streets smell rich, greasy, down-home black cooking!  Jukeboxes blared Erskine Hawkins, Duke Ellington, Cootie Williams, and dozens of others.  The biggest bands, like these, played at the Roseland State Ballroom on Massachusetts Avenue-one night for Negroes, the next night for whites.”  In central Michigan, Malcolm had only known life as a black person in white spaces, following the cultural framework that unofficially mirrored the Jim Crow laws of the South.  For the first time, in Roxbury, Malcolm was a black person in a completely black space.  Roxbury showed Malcolm Little an African American experience that was intelligent, creative, outwardly successful and unafraid, everything that his small community in Mason was not.

Returning to Mason at the end of the summer, Malcolm felt restless.  This change was palatable to his classmates as well as his foster parents.  Those that knew Malcolm continued to ask him what was wrong, but Malcolm was either unable to articulate how Roxbury made him feel, or afraid that being honest about his feelings would be damaging to the relationships in his life, especially with the small group of white people he had grown up with, and trusted.  Always a top student, a major tipping point occurred when Malcolm’s English teacher, Mr. Ostrowski, asked Malcolm, one of the top students in the school, if he was thinking about a career.  “Well, yes, sir, I’ve been thinking I’d like to be a lawyer.”

Mr. Ostrowski saw in Malcolm the kind of future white people saw for black people in 1940, the kind of future where race dictated expectations.  Malcolm needed to be realistic.  He suggested Malcolm plan on carpentry.  This was a poor appraisal of Malcolm’s future, and one that Malcolm Little was intent on proving wrong.

Malcolm expressed to Ella in a letter that he wanted to come to Boston and live with her.  Ella arranged for official custody, and Malcolm headed to Boston.

Once she enrolled him in a private boys school downtown, Ella encouraged Malcolm to postpone getting a job until he got a feel for his new home, so he observed the comings and goings of Roxbury, but soon branched out and began to explore the entire city of Boston.  Malcolm gawked at the historic buildings, with plaques and markers and statues for famous events and famous men.  Malcolm wrote at length to his family in Lansing about the cobblestone streets and the department stores.  In Boston Common, he was astonished to see a statue of a black man, Crispus Attucks, the first to fall in the Boston Massacre.

In the fall of 1941, Malcolm found himself a job at one of Boston’s most storied institutions, the Parker House.  Established in 1855, the Parker House Restaurant claimed to be the first to serve Boston Cream Pie, Parker House Rolls, and scrod, and was a famous haunt of local politicians and writers like Charles Dickens and Edith Wharton.  At the Parker House, Malcolm held the benchmark of low-paying restaurant jobs: the busboy.

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Bus Station, Parker House Restaurant

The Parker House, now run by Omni Hotels & Restaurants, looks, feels and smells like an institution that thrives on established wealth.  Its consistency makes a strong selling point to those accustomed to an old fashioned notion of luxury, and little has changed.  It is proudly past its prime.

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The Parker House is the type of place one might imagine being underdressed in, until you arrive and realize that money is money-even yours, and guests are happily getting along in flip-flops and Disney sweatshirts.  The same 1856 Boston Creme Pie recipe is still as venerated as it once was, yet now it’s woefully overshared on social media as a key component in the Boston experience.

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The crisp white shirts Malcolm X wore have been replaced with gold vests and ties, yet the notion that the busser is present but anonymous remains.  There is no temporary stewardship of the guest experience, or push for the upsell.  Bussers are encouraged to fade into the background, yet they are expected to maintain a complementary demeanor.  They are the only component of a restaurant that exists comfortably among the table linens and silver trays of the dining room, and the dish bins and sinks in the kitchen, the most vital connectors between the front of house and back of house.  They clean up after the servers and vacuum the crumbs from the carpet.  They lift heavy bus bins, take out the trash and are responsible for what is often a restaurant’s most thankless, labor-intensive work.   The colloquial job title is still woefully, pejoratively gendered, as the term ‘busboy’ is fundamentally belittling.  There is no question the work environment of a sixteen year old African American male, a self professed “hick” from Michigan just months before Pearl Harbor in a well to do downtown Boston restaurant was not one of respect or appreciation.  A black person in an expectedly subservient white space.

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Associate Entrance, Omni Parker House Hotel

Research has showed that little has changed.  In restaurants, the lighter your skin, the more likely you work in a front of house job such as a bartender or server.  Black and Latino workers are far more likely to hold busser, food runner or dishwasher positions.

Service industry professionals build a thick skin against the criticisms of both their guests and co-workers.  You learn to internalize anger, as being agreeable and non-confrontational are seen as not only positive attributes, but traits that will get you the biggest tip percentages and the best table sections.  You brush off disparaging comments and harassment, and learn to keep your head down.  While the Parker House wasn’t Malcolm X’s first service industry job or his last; he washed dishes at a restaurant in Mason and would go on to shine shoes at the Roseland Ballroom in Roxbury, it was undoubtedly a place where he saw the distinctions between social classes clearly.  Was he talked down to by white customers and white staff?  Did he see fellow black employees struggling to make ends meet at menial jobs?  While Malcolm X wrote little about his time at the Parker House or in the service industry, he borrowed generously from personal experiences throughout his life, allowing them to inform his ideologies at various stages.  Perhaps it was this job, the first outside of his hometown, where he further developed the sense of frustration and anger towards the status quo that would lead him to champion African American self-determination and later cast a wide net fighting against racism, Colonialism and white supremacy.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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The Mysterious Architecture of Fraternal Organizations

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Masonic Lodge #272, Camp Douglas, Wisconsin

Knights of Pythias, Benevolent and Protective Order of Elks, Knights of the Maccabees, the Fraternal Order of the Free and Accepted Masons.  These American fraternal organizations, many with unfamiliar and almost Medieval sounding names, had memberships in the millions at the beginning of the 20th century, and had a ubiquitous presence in the social life of people across the country.  In urban areas, they served as an anchor for neighborhoods, and in small American towns, they operated as community centers for families and business owners, as well as gathering places along Main Street, hosting fish frys, rummage sales and bingo nights.  Membership in a fraternal organization was the original social network.

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Tripoli Shrine Temple, Milwaukee, Wisconsin

The architecture of American fraternal organizations is one of classicism, mystery and allegory, with an occasional splash of Revivalism that brings a Mughal influence to Milwaukee and the rustic features of a Mayan temple to Aurora, Illinois.  The buildings themselves are covered in symbols and emblems, but many are meant to symbols themselves, a testament to the morality, timelessness, and brotherhood that membership in these organizations represented.  Their dedication to the intellectual development of members is obvious in their inspiration from high classical architecture, in the same way that houses of worship use the design language and iconography of antiquity to inspire the praise of a higher power.  Complex rituals and rites dictated the interior design of these buildings, and many are filled with ante-rooms and chambers for confidential communication.  In Masonic lodges, rooms had entrances for different degrees of membership, whether one was an apprentice or Master Mason, with spaces designated specifically for business, ritual or committee.

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Plan for an entered apprenticeship, from Duncan’s Ritual and Monitor of Freemasonry, 1866.

In communities where vernacular buildings were the norm, fraternal organization buildings were the true stunners.  Even some of the simplest temples, housed in common two-story buildings may feature decorative columns flanking the entrance, or a hand-painted annunciator lamp covered in depictions of squares and compasses, five-pointed stars or the letter “G”, representing the role that every act is governed by geometry as well as the “Great Architect of the Universe.”

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Annunciator Lamp, Masonic Temple, Pekin, Illinois

 

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Aurora Elks Lodge No. 705, Aurora, Illinois
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Louisville Scottish Rite Temple, Louisville, Illinois
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Knights of Pythias Grand Lodge 191, Jackson, Ohio

Many temples, shrines and lodges of fraternal organizations have experienced the same problems that have befallen houses of worship in the mid and late 20th century.  With membership declining and stewardship the responsibility of an aging population, large-scale temples, like the South Side Masonic Temple in Chicago’s Englewood neighborhood, no longer made sense for the Masons to continue to operate.  Constructed in 1921 and designed by Clarence Hatzfield, the South Side Masonic Temple was used as an auditorium and clubhouse through the 1950s until its ownership was transferred to the Department of Human Services.  The temple’s second life continued to serve the community until the 1980s, when the Department of Human Services relocated.  While redevelopment plans have been presented, the South Side Masonic Temple has slowly deteriorated over its thirty year period of uncertainty, leaving the physical fabric exposed to the elements and leading to numerous building code violations.  The South Side Masonic Temple was featured on Landmarks Illinois statewide endangered list in 2015 and Preservation Chicago’s “Chicago 7” most threatened buildings in 2004.

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South Side Masonic Temple, Chicago, Illinois

While the current state of the South Side Masonic Temple is a worse case scenario, the Logan Square Masonic Temple in Chicago’s Logan Square neighborhood has fared far better.  Constructed in 1923 and also designed by Clarence Hatzfield, the Logan Square Masonic Temple was sold and converted to a house of worship in the 1960s.  The Armitage Baptist Church purchased the building in 1982 and has remained there ever since.

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Former Logan Square Masonic Temple, Chicago, Illinois, (Armitage Baptist Church)

Large urban areas have a greater percentage of adaptively reused temples and shrines, while many fraternal organizations in rural areas and small towns are still running out of buildings constructed for their exclusive use.  The role that these organizations play within a cultural landscape is largely determined by the size of the population that it serves.

The exclusivity of these organizations has made a sweeping contribution to their decreasing impact.  Women are not permitted to join most Masonic lodges, and until the 1970s, the Fraternal Order of Eagles required all members to be Caucasian.  While the architectural character of the buildings that fraternal organizations built gives them a reason to be celebrated, their legacy of selectivity and discrimination decreases the emotional significance of these buildings as they were originally intended.  A second life as a residential development, event space or house of worship allows them to serve a greater percentage of people in a community, and in many cases makes them not only viable, but neutral.

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Former Knights Templar Hall, Chicago, Illinois, now operating as a mixed-use event space.

 

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Former Masonic Temple, East Lansing Michigan, converted to a residential development.

 

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The former Eagles Building, Milwaukee, Wisconsin, now a concert venue.

 

 

 

Here Dwells No Sense of Guilt: Ideas on Reinterpreting Confederate Memorials

In 1877, New Orleanians recristened a traffic circle, known by locals as Place de Tivoli to honor Civil War Confederate General Robert E. Lee. In 1884, a 62 foot monument to Lee was constructed at the center of the circle, topped off with a double scaled statue of the general in bronze, arms crossed and facing north.

General Robert E. Lee Memorial, 2015.
General Robert E. Lee Memorial, 2015.

This monument was the result of a campaign by the Children of the Confederacy, one of many organizations of its type that had emerged out of the South nearing the turn of the 20th century. Confederate organizations, like the Robert E. Lee Monumental Association, the United Daughters of the Confederacy and the United Confederate Veterans were formed principally to create memorials to Confederate soldiers during the Civil War, but also to assist in preserving the cultural history of Dixie that Secession and Lee’s surrender had served to tarnish. They were also not so subtile in their push for segregation. These organizations commissioned statues and memorials, and held meetings and gatherings, and at their peek had thousands of members. Patriotism towards the Confederacy was the prevalent attitude in New Orleans and all over the South.  An 1884 editorial in the Daily Picayune echoes some of the sentiment of the time: “We cannot ignore the fact that the Secession has been stigmatized as treason and that the purest and bravest men in the South have been denounced as guilty of shameful crime.  By every appliance of literature and art, we must show to all coming ages that with us, at least, there dwells no sense of guilt.”

In 2015 it is guilt of a different kind that has compelled the call for the removal of monuments that memorialize Confederate culture in a public setting-within parks, squares and traffic circles. Civic and religious figures as well as politicians like New Orleans Mayor Mitch Landrieu have made bold suggestions on how to reinterpret this part of our heritage. Changes to the names of streets, schools, parishes and parks from Beauregard, Stephens, Forrest and Davis have been proposed in places like Houston and Little Rock, as far north as St. Louis, and as far west as California.  Governers in South Carolina and Alabama have removed the Confederate flag from their statehouses, with more states to surely follow.

This rapid reinterpretation of Confederate symbols is perhaps the most challenging and sensitive restructuring of how we as Americans see our past, and its a been a long time coming in former slave holding states and elsewhere. A memorial to Confederate soldiers in St. Louis became a canvas to express that “Black Lives Matter,” with the anonymous individuals being branded as vandals by some and activists by others. Support has come from some unexpected places, like South Carolina Republican Paul Thurmond, who has been a strong voice in acknowledging a misalignment with history. As the son of Strom Thurmond, America’s oldest running segregationist, Paul has called for both rolling back the Confederate flag and dismantling Confederate monuments.

These monuments are a significant part of our history, but their original message does not align with our national message. But how do we separate the stately Georgian columns of a historic plantation house, or the robust carving of a statue atop a towering obelisk with the negative acts that these parts of our built world embed? Can we find a way to commemorate the past, without celebrating its brutality?

The senseless killing of parishioners at Emanuel African Methodist Episcopal Church was a tragedy of almost unthinkable proportions.  Dylan Roof’s hate was fueled by the powerful words of the Council of Conservative Citizens and the League of the South. In a photo circulating the internet, Roof poses proudly behind a Confederate flag, and the power of the stars and bars as a symbol is undeniable and hard hitting. In a reported manifesto, Roof had this to say: “We are told to accept what is happening to us because of our ancestors wrong doing, but it is all based on historical lies, exaggerations an myths.”  In a lot of ways, Dylan is right.  Much about how we look in America’s rear-view mirror in terms of our history of oppression is based on exaggerations and myths.

Enslavement in America began when America began, with the first slaves brought over in 1619. That’s a nearly 250 year history of bondage prior to abolition by the Thirteenth Amendment, in 1865. But the catch to freedom for African-Americans was a big one. Until 1964, Black people lived under the legalized oppression and institutional discrimination of Jim Crow laws in the south, and cultural oppression in places up north. Doing the math, the concept of a free America for everyone has only existed under the law for fifty years. Less than a lifetime ago, black people were told where they could live, where they could learn, where they could eat, and where they had to sit on the bus that took them there. Americans have created the myth within our culture that this is in our past, when we have left an obvious paper trail of this effect on the present. We are afraid to directly confront this history with the physical remains that represent a time where we were willing to accept that owning another human being was not only legal, but celebrated as a part of the culture. This has had a psychological impact on our thinking and behavior.

The Robert E. Lee Memorial, the Confederate flags hung in statehouses, the Antebellum tobacco plantations and the thousands of memorials throughout the country on public land that bare the names of Confederate societies are the physical remains that we have allowed to exist in an “as is” state for long enough. They are symbols of oppression, dressed with column capitals, urns and statues that we have allowed to linger under the vagaries of history, or impactful architecture. We have not reinterpreted the narratives of these objects to reflect who we are, or who we want to be. Would controlling the narrative of these physical remains have been a key in preventing the deaths of Trayvon Martin, Michael Brown, Eric Garner and Reverend Clementa C. Pinckney? Not directly, but they were not free, neither were the hundreds of minority arrestees in St. Louis County, or Americans across this country that have been affected by racism, in ways both large and small.

We are only a few generations removed from holding African-Americans in bondage, and a scant fifty years, and within recent past memory; of “Colored” and “White” drinking fountains. So what are we allowing these monuments to speak for us, when we should be telling them what to say?

Along with the calls to dismantle monuments, are numerous calls for retaining memorials. These need additional consideration, so let’s not pull Lee off his pedestal just yet.

The Sons of Confederate Veterans is actively advocating for the preservation of the history and legacy of the citizen-soldiers that animated the Southern Cause, and they are working hard to keep monuments of the Confederate dead intact and the Confederate flag flying out of respect for their ancestors. For organizations such as the SCV, these symbols represent family, honor, sacrifice, and they are quick to distance themselves from the idea that these symbols are oppressive. They cite their connections with memorials as a familial or personal one. But how can these monuments continue to honor the sacrifice of dead Confederate relatives and simultaneously reminding us of our 300 year history of oppression? What is the next step? If one thing is clear, the existing story is a reminder of our folly. It has to change.

The first step in asserting our authority over the “as is” narrative of Confederate monuments might be to crowdsource ideas directly from communities, and asking questions that would lead to developing specific solutions. Who interfaces with these monuments? Do they reflect the culture of the community they are in? In many cases, public memorials and monuments become such a ubiquitous part of the urban environment that community members might not have ever the learned the full story. In 1972, the Lee Monument was the sight of clashes between the Black Panther Party and the Klu Klux Clan, among them New Orleans Segregationist mayor Addison Thompson, yet this event isn’t a part of the discussion on why the monument is significant.

The message of objects within our built world changes as the world around us changes, and the cultural fabric of a community has the ability to bring about new interpretations of older sites. Cities are dynamic. We retrofit buildings as we need them, and we have learned to adaptively re-use almost any structure. Perhaps in retrofitting the Lee Monument for 2015, a successful plan would include additional information on the Black Panther’s fight for fair housing in New Orleans in the 1970s, along with the usual discussion of Robert E. Lee. The Lee Memorial has also been the site of other recent events. On November 30, 2014, people rallied in support of Mike Brown and the community of Ferguson, Missouri at the Lee Memorial, marching peacefully from Lee Circle to Congo Square. This alternative history as a place of protest could be shared via a public rededication or with the construction of additional markers beside the memorial. The University of Texas at Austin, faced with the repeated vandalization of their statues of Confederate leaders created a task force to review options, including adding an explanatory plaque to each monument, and moving monuments outright.

Like many Confederate monuments across the country, the Lee Monument is listed on the National Register of Historic Places. While physical integrity is a key factor in arguing for a historic resource’s significance, historians and preservationists will have to address this issue separately.

While the Children of the Confederacy no longer exists, other social and historical organizations are active, and might be interested in acquiring whole monuments or portions of a monument to keep in their private collections. Providing organizations with the opportunity to keep these monuments close to home to could serve to break their power down to a personal scale and allow them to be displayed away from public view.

Mayor Landrieu has suggested that the Lee Monument may be better served in a museum. Curation of these monuments off site might provide them with the space and the context to allow for a more organic reinterpretation. A collection of monuments in this type of setting would be groundbreaking in terms of a collection, but would also be a place of reflection and learning. Imagine an open air museum full of salvaged Confederate monuments as a possible solution.

Some memorials might be candidates for a complete physical reinterpretation. The statue of Lee could be removed from its pedestal and reinstalled at the plinth of the monument, bringing the statue and the outdated ideas it represents to dialogue directly with people and objects at street level.

Monuments have dense layers of meaning, and by nature those layers serve history in a dynamic way. They are designed to be beautiful, aspirational and educational. They drive our imagination, allow us solemn reflection, and give us places to lament the past. It is time that we take authority over our choices and tell them how they can serve our future.

Blasius Across America: Water Towers of the Midwest

Water towers are everywhere. You can find them overlooking a small riverfront town, like Savanna, Illinois. You can find them at the World’s Largest Truckstop in Walcott, Iowa, and sandwiched between the fire station and the public works office in suburban Ohio. You can find them atop buildings in neighborhoods all over Chicago. They serve as navigational tools, often proudly announcing their location in contrasting colors and active fonts. Painted graphics like houses or trees serve as further clues to the characteristics of a community, as does the presence of graffiti. They can be painted to look like fruit, or shaped to look like a ketchup bottle.

They also hold water! If you’re unsure about how this happens, let the City of Bloomington, Minnesota’s Public Works Department explain.

While the spheroid towers make a big impression, my favorite has to be multi-column elevated towers. The more legs one has, the more it looks like its alien inhabitants have decided to stay awhile.
Here is a sampling of water tower types from communities throughout the Midwest:

Multi-Column Elevated, Wauwatosa, WI.  Built 1928.
Multi-column elevated, Wauwatosa, Wisconsin. Built 1928.
Multi-column elevated, Sabula, Iowa.  Built circa 1930.
Multi-column elevated, Sabula, Iowa. Built circa 1930.
Multi-column elevated, St. Paul, Indiana.  Built circa 1920.
Multi-column elevated, St. Paul, Indiana. Built circa 1920.
Fluted Column, Alsip, Illinois.  Built circa 1965.
Fluted column, Alsip, Illinois. Built circa 1965.
Standpipe, Lena, Illinois.  Built 1986.
Standpipe, Lena, Illinois. Built 1896.
Standpipe, Alton, Ohio.  Built circa 1950.
Standpipe, Albany, Ohio. Built circa 1950.
Rooftop tank, Chicago, Illinois.  Date unknown.
Rooftop tank, Chicago, Illinois. Date unknown.
Multi-column elevated, Des Plaines, Illinois.  Built 1957.
Multi-column elevated, Des Plaines, Illinois. Built 1957.
Spheroid, Hazel Crest, Illinois.  Built Circa 1975.
Spheroid, Hazel Crest, Illinois. Built circa 1975.
Multi-column elevated, Machesney Park, Illinois.  Built 1956.
Multi-column elevated, Machesney Park, Illinois. Built 1956.
Rooftop tank, Chicago, Illinois.  Date unknown.
Rooftop tank, Chicago, Illinois. Date unknown.
Standpipe, Gary Indiana.  Built circa 1910.
Standpipe, Gary Indiana. Built circa 1910.
Multi-column elevated, Clark's Hill, Indiana.  Built circa 1940.
Multi-column elevated, Clark’s Hill, Indiana. Built circa 1940.
Fluted column, Broadview, Illinois.  Built 1967.
Fluted column, Broadview, Illinois. Built 1967.
Multi Column Elevated, Homewood, Illinois.  Built circa 1950.
Multi-column elevated, Homewood, Illinois. Built circa 1950.

Blasius Across America: The Reed Niland Corner in Colo, Iowa

Blaservations spent most of the past week driving through southeastern Iowa, traveling heavily on Interstate 80, looking for the Hartland’s best taquerias, and blasting the Marshall Tucker Band’s Greatest Hits. And looking at old buildings, of course.

Lincoln Highway, Colo, Iowa
Lincoln Highway, Colo, Iowa

In the nineteen-teens, Indiana entrepreneur (and perhaps the original “Car Guy”) Carl G. Fisher envisioned a highway that would carry Americans from Times Square to San Francisco. Fisher had made a fortune developing acetylene headlights, used on every make and model of automobile across brands for almost ten years, and would later go on to co-develop the Indianapolis Motor Speedway.

The wider use of the automobile brought the conditions of American roads to a contentious point, particularly in rural areas. While the Good Roads Movement had set the groundwork for private industry (bicycle manufacturers and enthusiasts’ groups) to invest in improving roads, the modern motorcar required a smooth, even traveling path or risk cracked axles or other damage to futuristic machinery. Using private funds from the likes of Woodrow Wilson, Thomas Edison and Teddy Roosevelt, Fisher seeded the first stretch of the “Lincoln Highway” in 1913 and developed the Lincoln Highway Association to promote it, headquartered in Detroit. The Lincoln Highway Association is still in existence, and now serves as a watchdog organization for the preservation of the highway’s historic character.

America’s first transcontinental highway for automobiles would eventually bumble through thirteen states east to west; New York, New Jersey, Pennsylvania, Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, Iowa, Nebraska, Colorado, Wyoming, Utah, Nevada, and California, helping develop nearly every community along the roadway. By the time the Federal Aid Road Act of 1916 was enacted and national roadway standards were established, roadways were marked and numbered. By the time state and national highways were designated in the 1920s, service stations and roadside respites had popped up everywhere along the Lincoln Highway, including the Reed Niland Corner in Colo, Iowa.

The Reed Niland Corner, Colo, Iowa
The Reed Niland Corner, Colo, Iowa

In the 1920s, travelers along the Lincoln Highway (or the Jefferson Highway, which bisects the Lincoln Highway in Colo, and travels roughly from Winnipeg to New Orleans) could gas up the Ford, grab an egg salad sandwich or stop for the night at a one stop Mom-and-Pop known as the Reed Niland Corner, after the owner of the service station, Charlie Reed, and the family that ran the restaurant and the motel, the Niland’s. The service station operated as such until 1967, and the restaurant and hotel closed in 1995. The site was sold to the City of Colo by a Niland family member and was restored and reopened in 2008.

Reed's Standard Service Station, built circa 1925
Reed’s Standard Service Station, built circa 1925
Niland's Cafe, built circa 1925
Niland’s Cafe, built circa 1925
The Colo Motel, built circa 1925
The Colo Motel, built circa 1925

The Reed Niland Corner, a grouping of simple wood framed structures located in rural Iowa, is an exceptional and rare example of a building typology that was literally everywhere prior to the development of the modern freeway system. Sites like this seem to further emphasize the shift between travel by automobile in the 1920s and 30s, where roadside culture was built upon stops that would serve as a place to relax and refuel, and today, where convenience and speed is king. Unfortunately, most of our built heritage capturing this time in America has been lost. Small privatized rural highways often became a part of a larger highway system, and historic roadways that ran parallel to super highways found a limited need for a two pump service station, or a roadside diner. These factors, along with the holistic re-use of the Reed Niland Corner’s cafe and motel as just that, a cafe and motel, make the site even more special, and worthy of listing on the National Register of Historic Places.