Hometown Architecture

The real places, the places with a sense of self, are holding their own against a tide of malls and franchises—often deliberately, often by fortune.

America's architecture first grew out of the land. It grew out of the weather, the rivers, the trees, the stone, and those who came to settle. It grew out of a need for both utility and beauty. The classic homes and buildings which long have characterized America's hometowns were architectureal versions of the classic milk bottle: they look good, and they worked.

Necessity dictated steep roofs in Vermont to shed snow, flat roofs in Florida to collect rain. It meant wooden buildings where forests were plentiful, and clay bricks and stone where they were not. It dictated streetlamps, porches, benches, and other welcome items of utility. A need for beauty added a layer of detail, proportion, and pleasantry to Main Street.

Every building, every town or village, was unique — each defined by its builders, with its own architectural legacy, its own sense of place. Only one of these was Mayberry, and none of them were Disney World.

All this changed after World War II, with the advent of interstate highways, suburbia, and shopping centers. The same story played itself out in town after town, year after year: businesses closed or moved to the mall where parking was free and abundant. Discount chains drew business away from family owned stores on Main Street. One building after another grew vacant, replaced by box-like superstores on roads outside of town that looked the same from Portland, Ore. to Portland, Maine. This didn't happen overnight, mind you, and fortunately hasn't happened everywhere. Not yet.

Throughout much of America, the remains of our indigenous hometown buildings never fell to a wrecker's ball. Some towns were small enough, or located too inconveniently, for the mall-makers. Others saved the character of their Main Street through sheer will power and imagination, learning how to adapt and compete, for example, with free parking, pedestrian walks, and by re-investing in a downtown economy. Behind many an aluminum façade or oversized sign was a hidden building of great architectural beauty, and these are being restored, one by one, in communities across the country.

The real places, the places with a sense of self, are holding their own against a tide of malls and franchises—often deliberately, often by fortune.

Alna, Maine (pop. 600), escaped decay because it has no downtown. It's too small. What it has is The Alna Store, where a nice overhang protects patrons from rain and snow. This overhang wasn't there originally, but then neither was the store. It used to be in a part of town called Puddledock, down by the Sheepscot River, but when they moved it up on Roland Bragg's flatbed trailer 35 years ago the store wouldn't fit over the bridge, so they cut off part of the front.

It took historic Franklin, Tenn., (pop. 25,648) more than a century to recover from the economic devastation of the Civil War, but tough times actually helped save its downtown arcitecture. During boom years of the 20th Century, many cities and towns tore down the old and built anew. Prosperity and preservatoin aren't always good friends.

In 1978, Franklin began a determined effort to reverse the physical decay and economic decline of its historic downtown—using tax credits, volunteer labor, street festivals, parking improvements, and other strategies to save what is now one of the handsomest towns in America (cover photo), and a poplular tourist destination.

The work was so successful that in 1995, Franklin received one of five "Great American Main Street" awards in the first annual national competition co-sponsored by the National Trust for Historic Preservation.

The Ivory Bake Shoppe in downtown Fort Madison, Iowa, (pop. 11,618) is still being run by Susan Welch Saunders and Martha Wolfe—as it has been for years—no doubt because of their sinfully delicious blackberry scones and other offerings.

Fort Madison's other ally is a curious bedfellow in Washington, D.C.—The National Trust for Historic Preservation—which helps a growing number of towns preserve their vitality and architectural heritage through its Main Street program. More than 1,500 towns in the last 20 years—including Franklin, Tenn.—have looked to the trust's years of know-how in renovation, business loans, and niche marketing to help protect or restore a sense of place, of values, and community life in their towns.

The Main Street program relies on local initiative and funding for such restoration projects, but offers wide technical expertise—from publications and audiovisual materials to computer softwarecto help guide local efforts. The idea is to rehabilitate historic buildings, recruit new businesses, expand parking, and rekindle a sense of entrepreneurship and civic pride. Making, in effect, the center of hometown America a beautiful and fun place to be.

Another client town for the program was Port Gibson, Miss. (pop 1,800). The town was torn apart by racial strife in the 1960s, causing economic deterioration that didn't end when tensions eased. In 1990, the community joined the Main Street program with an ethnically diverse board of directors and a let's-get-to-work attitude. The program convinced Claiborne County to rehabilitate an 1830s Greek Revival building for use as the county library and stimulated 217 other building improvement projects. They launched an aggressive marketing campaign, helped businesses expand or open, and most importantly restored a new sense of community enthusiasm.

"At one time, walking down Market Street, one would see a downcase mouth and droopy shoulders," wrote long time resident Mary Taylor recently. "Now one sees smiles and straight shoulders. Main Street has brought a new spirit to Port Gibson."

And the spirit is elsewhere. One can't help but think it always will be.

Peter Fossel is executive editor of American Profile.

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