Restoring Greatness

Anyone who wonders why Birmingham is called The Magic City has obviously never seen our skyline after dark, I mused as I stood on the roof of the club.

The Magic City's skyline wouldn't be the same without the distinctive presence of the Leer Tower.

I like nights like this, when the urban darkness appears friendly, the club is full, and many of the regulars are on hand.  On this occasion, for example, LK Whitney savored bourbon in the dining room while Sherri Ross consumed collard greens and Sarah Miller munched on an okra spear.  At a nearby table, newlyweds Spencer and Taylor Wyatt chatted with Randy and Karla Archer.

In the lounge, Scott Wilson, Deon Gordon, Billie Dupree, Andre Natta, and Christy Turnipseed sat conversing at the bar.  EJ Vernon and Adrian Thurstin silently sipped margaritas, miffed that Baxter had asked them to turn down the volume on their debate about the respective merits of the Texas Rangers and St. Louis Cardinals.

From the conservatory, the sound of Jennifer Warren’s violin accompanying pianist Carrie Hill on Camille Saint-SaënsLe Rouet d’Omphale drifted down the hall to the library, where Jennifer’s husband Tripp was settled into a comfortable chair reading Javier Lopez’ autobiography, Behind the PlateWade Smith chuckled as he turned through one of the library’s newest gems, a first edition of Guy Boothby’s Doctor Nikola.  Tucked away in a corner, Kat and Rachel giggled as they leafed through a large volume.  I didn’t want to know what the book was about or what they were laughing at.  Carrie sat opposite me, engrossed in a copy of Sense and Sensibility.

I looked up from The Sins of Séverac Bablon as a figure appeared beside my chair.

“This correspondence just arrived for you, sir.”

“Thank you, Emsworth,” I said, taking the tablet from his silver tray.  On the screen was an email from Matthew Sheets.

Credit for this striking image of the Thomas Jefferson goes to local artist and club regular Sarah Miller.

“A grassroots effort,” it said, “is underway to preserve and restore downtown Birmingham’s historic Thomas Jefferson Hotel (formerly Cabana Hotel, later Leer Tower).”  The Sheets-founded Thomas Jefferson Tower Inc. hopes to spearhead the effort “to restore greatness to the Birmingham landmark” by “working with community leaders to acquire the building, stop the deterioration, and take action toward a full restoration.”

Certainly a worthy endeavor, I thought.  The tower is a significant component of the Magic City’s skyline.

“It’s a beautiful building with an amazing heritage,” Sheets said in the email. “We can’t afford to let another Birmingham landmark crumble.”

He went on to describe the tower’s place in local history.  “Completed in 1929, the Thomas Jefferson stood as one of Birmingham’s most luxurious hotels. The building featured an ornate marble lobby, a large ballroom, and a rooftop mooring mast intended for use by airships. The hotel’s luxury status made it a prime spot for celebrities and distinguished guests, including Presidents Calvin Coolidge and Herbert Hoover, entertainers Jerry Lee Lewis and Ray Charles, and sports icons Pete Rose and Bear Bryant.”

Now well past its heyday, the Thomas Jefferson stands poised to return to its former greatness, Sheets believes.

Another view of the Thomas Jefferson, again through the talented eye of Sarah Miller.

“Located on the corner of 2nd Avenue North and 17th Street, the historic hotel sits in the heart of an area experiencing its own revitalization,” he said. “With the building’s proximity to Innovation Depot, Railroad Park, and the new baseball stadium, there is tremendous momentum only footsteps away.”

Yes, there is, I considered, but restoring a skyscraper that’s been in decline for years is a tremendous and costly undertaking.  As I read on, Sheets seemed more optimistic than overwhelmed.

“We’re seeing enormous support from the Birmingham community, which is a testament to the building’s appeal.  As we work to raise funds through grants and private investors, the support from the community is invaluable. We truly believe that together with the Birmingham community and its leaders, we can restore greatness to this historic landmark.”

Putting the communication aside, I strolled upstairs to the roof to take a look at The Leer Tower and the rest of a city that, more often than not, can’t quite seem to recognize its current measure of greatness or the untapped potential it contains.

Like the Leer Tower, the Lyric Theatre is another grand old Birmingham structure that deserves to be restored to greatness. Photo by Sarah A. Miller.

Like the nearby Lyric Theatre, the Thomas Jefferson has seen Birmingham’s best and worst moments and stands as a symbol not only of a bygone era but of a new one that could soon begin.

Just as I’d decided that it would be a good idea to invite Matthew Sheets to the club, I heard a discreet cough behind me.

“Pardon me, sir,” Emsworth said, “but would you be good enough to return to the library?”

“Is something wrong?”

“It’s Mr. Smith, sir.  He became quite upset not long after a small group of ladies adjourned to the library after dinner.”

“Why?”

“I can’t say with definitiveness, sir.  What I can say is that Mr. Smith turned over his chair and began leaping about the room and speaking rather loudly about having been…I believe the term he used is ‘rossed,’ sir, although I have no idea what that means.”

“Oh, great.  All right, Emsworth.  Let’s go see if we can calm him down.  I hope he hasn’t damaged that first edition he was reading.”

I like nights like this.

 

 

Once upon a midnight dreary

With a storm raging outside and a good conversationalist in the opposite wingback, I had no desire to leave my comfortable chair in the library on a recent evening.

The eccentric and glamourous Laura Griffin

The eccentric and glamorous Laura Griffin

Laura Griffin had sought refuge in the club shortly after the storm started brewing and was now draining a glass of the cosmopolitan it contained.  A Birmingham-area blogger and authority on beauty and glamour, she also has an affinity for historical mysteries, which somehow became the substance of our discussion.

It was a fitting night for such a chat, and having considered the problem of the Highgate Vampire and the even more singular business of the hidden room at Glamis Castle, the topic drifted to a more domestic puzzle.

“You’ve heard by now, I suppose, that the mystery of the Poe Toaster has been laid to rest unsolved, right?”

“No, I hadn’t,” Laura said.  “That would be the man who leaves flowers at Edgar Allan Poe’s grave, right?”

“Every year on his birthday, right.”

The mysterious author

It’s an intriguing tradition that’s gone on for three-quarters of a century.  Each Jan. 19 since sometime in the 1940s, an unidentified man dressed in black with a white scarf and wide-brimmed hat has placed three roses and a half-empty bottle of cognac at the author’s grave in Baltimore.

Except for the past three years.  The mysterious mourner who has come to be known as the Poe Toaster hasn’t shown since 2009, prompting the Poe Society of Baltimore to officially call an end to the tradition.

“That’s a shame,” Laura said.  “It was such a touching tribute, but, considering it’s Poe, maybe there’s something fitting about it remaining a mystery.”

“He is the father of the modern mystery story,” I agreed, “and even if he’d written nothing more than The Murders in the Rue Morgue, The Purloined Letter, and The Mystery of Marie Roget, that’s no small legacy.”

A server appeared with another cosmopolitan for Laura.  “Do you need another?” she asked, indicating my glass of rum and Dr Pepper.

“No, thanks, Sarah, I’m fine.”

“Okay,” she said, taking in both of us with a wide smile.  “I’ll check on you later.”

“She’s new here, isn’t she?” Laura asked as the raven-tressed server vanished.

I nodded.  “Sarah Miller.  She’s in marketing for a local company and is an exceptionally talented artist.  She thought it might be fun to work here on the side.  This is her third night, but if Baxter has his way, she’ll be gone by the weekend.”

“Why?”

The classy and artistic Sarah A. Miller

“Well, let’s see.  Her first night here, she bumped into Currie, causing him to drop a plate of beef stroganoff into Scott Wilson’s lap. Two nights ago, she wiped out a tray of martini glasses on the bar with a sweeping gesture while giving Sherri Ross directions to the ladies’ room.  Then last night, she accidentally knocked a bottle of 27-year-old Glenfarclas out of Baxter’s hand.  He threw his back out diving to catch it.”

“Oh, no.  Poor Sarah.”

“Baxter might choose a different adjective at the moment.  And since I gave her a recommendation when he hired her, he’s no happier with me.  But back to Poe.  Do you remember the first time you read him?”

“I memorized Annabel Lee in sixth grade, not for a school assignment, but because the structure of the poem is so beautiful.  For me, it was like learning the words to a song.  I simply had to know it.  Although I knew who Poe was from pop culture references, that was probably his first actual work I read.  Mr. Poe, pouring out his grieving and tortured declarations of love despite death, was already immensely appealing to me even at age 12.  When did you first read him?”

“At about the same age, oddly enough.”

Rodney White introduced me to Poe when I was a student in his seventh grade literature class.  The famous author looked down on us every day, the first in a line of posters that decorated almost the entire length of one wall in Mr. White’s classroom.

My old friend and former teacher Rodney White

An ascot at his neck, his eyes melancholy, and his hair slightly unkempt, Poe was with us as we read about the old man with the pale blue eye in The Tell-Tale Heart and listened to Mr. White read to us from Poe’s melodious poem about the black bird with a penchant for repeating itself.

Poe was a fascinating study.  A brilliant writer who was haunted by personal demons, misfortune, and ill health.  Orphaned before he was three, he was educated in England and at the University of Virginia and the U.S. Military Academy. While finding small success as a writer of poetry and short stories, he went through a series of jobs as an editor and critic for literary magazines.  His work was popular, but it didn’t make him rich.

When he was 27, he married his cousin (she was 14), but he was a widower 11 years later.  Two years after his wife’s death from an exhaustive illness, the 40-year-old Poe was found unconscious on a back street in Baltimore.  He died a few days after being admitted to Washington College Hospital, apparently the victim of alcoholism and his own bleak perception of life.

“That bleakness may be why I’ve often refrained from openly admiring Poe’s work,” I told Laura.  “There is some of it I definitely don’t like, but he was a gifted writer.”

“I know,” she said, taking a sip of her drink.  “Take The Pit and the Pendulum.  We never learn exactly what unspeakable horror lurks in the pit, do we? You’re left to your own devices and imagination, crafting your very own worst nightmare.  Alfred Hitchcock once said, ‘There is no terror in the bang, only the anticipation of it.’  I read this story and physically start to panic.  Is there anything more horrifying than the walls beginning to close in around you?  I re-read this tale, and while I admit to forgetting a few details, I’ll never forget how it made me feel.”

Still apparently feeling the effects of literary terror, Laura was startled by the reappearance of Sarah — which timely coincided with a thunderclap and flash of lighting at the window — with another cosmopolitan.  “Thank you, Sarah, but I’ve barely touched the one you brought me earlier.”

“No, this is for me,” Sarah said as she settled into a nearby plush bergere.  “I don’t work here any more, so I thought I’d join you.”

“What happened?” I asked.

“I spilled a beer all over a guy in the bar.”

“Oh, no,” Laura said commiseratively.

Sarah sipped her drink.  “Yeah.  It was quite a scene.  I mean, I don’t blame him for being upset, but he kept going on and on about how would he ever be able to replace so magnificent a garment.  It was just a t-shirt.”

“Did it say anything?” I asked.

“Have Okra, Will Travel.”

“That’d be Wade Smith.  Serves him right.  According to house rules, they’re not even supposed to let him in the door wearing that thing.”

“Anyway, my career as a cocktail waitress is over now.”

“But that leaves you free to help us talk about Edgar Allan Poe,” Laura said brightly.

“Well, I’m sure I’ve read some of his work, but I don’t claim to be a Poe fan.  My friend Tripp loves him, especially one of his stories called The Cask of…

Amontillado,” Laura supplied.  “That’s definitely my favorite, too.  The story is so chilling.  Poe is a master at getting inside the mind of a murderer.”

“Do you have a favorite Poe quotation?” I asked.

“’And neither the angels in heaven above/Nor the demons down under the sea/Can ever dissever my soul from the soul/Of the beautiful Annabel Lee’.”

“That’s beautiful,” Sarah said.

“Oh, it is.  You’ve got to read that poem.  What’s your favorite quote, Buddy?”

“The opening line of The Fall of the House of Usher:  ‘During the whole of a dull, dark, and soundless day in the autumn of the year, when the clouds hung ominously low in the heavens, I had been passing alone, on horseback through a singularly dreary tract of country, and at length found myself, as the shades of evening drew on, within view of the melancholy House of Usher.’”

There was another thunderclap and a slight pause before Sarah said, “That has to be one of the finest sentences ever written by a human being.”

“And it’s never sounded better than the first time Mr. White read it to us in class 30 years ago.”

Note:  No martini glasses or t-shirts were actually harmed during the writing of this post.