This letter ended the correspondence between Jack Finney and the staff of Knox College for another twelve years.
On December 13, 1978, the exchange began again with this very interesting letter, written to Jack Finney by Robert Kosin from the city of Galesburg's planning department:
The optimism in the ending of I Love Galesburg in the Springtime was misplaced. In the eighteen years since that short story appeared, Galesburg has lost its physical heritage to progress. A shopping mall on North Henderson has vacated much of Main Street. Squat apartments have been built among the homes on Broad, Kellogg, Cherry and Prairie Streets. Knox College has demolished Beecher Chapel, and intends to do the same with Whiting and Alumni Hall.
I am in Galesburg to record its historical and architectural heritage. In 1976 over 180 acres of the central city was placed on the National Register of Historic Places. Yet, demolition of the Schlitz Sample Room on South Prairie occurred this month for the expansion of the First Galesburg National Bank. I have enclosed copies of the articles on the building which appeared on the front page of the Register-Mail. Progress and preservation are not seen as complementary but have emerged as antagonists over the future of Galesburg.
I am writing all this for two reasons. As an outsider, I need your advice on how to sensitize the people of Galesburg to their heritage, and second I wonder if you can write to the people of Galesburg through the Register-Mail or possibly revisit Galesburg, about the current trend of events. I will not see Galesburg this spring since my project will end by March 12th to go on to another town, but your story captured the essences of Galesburg, that I hope we are not too late from losing forever.
Finney replied on December 28, 1978, with his longest letter:
There has been a good deal of success here on the West Coast in only the last half dozen years or so in propagandizing the people of a town about the beauty and historical interest of some of their old buildings. And in San Francisco the preservation of its old structures is very much in, these days. Old so-called "Victorian" houses which would have been hard to give away fifteen years ago — and which were often torn down by the square block — are now very valuable, because people buy them and restore them. This has become so much the thing to do in S.F. that there is actually a new business firm, making a good profit, in making the old house ornamentation — the 'gingerbread'—that distinguishes these houses.
The town of Petaluma, not too far from here, has a lot of nice old buildings, many of them in the downtown area. A dozen years ago the store fronts of these were invariably modernized, and some were torn down. But now the town has been educated to think these things are beautiful, and part of their heritage, etc., and the thing to do now is paint and emphasize their 19th-century ornamentation.
I'm sure you know all these things as well as I do, but I mention them to make the point that I don't think it's too hard to make a town conscious of the value of its old buildings. I think all that has to be done is to find no more than a handful of informed, dedicated people willing to form a committee to preserve Galesburg's heritage, or something on that order. A series of articles in the Register-Mail done by someone who knows the town's history can —with photographs —make the people who have walked past the old buildings hardly aware of them, suddenly become aware. Most people — I among them — need someone else to point out to us what is beautiful. I see it in a painting when someone more discerning spells it out for me. I think that can happen with old buildings. People stop seeing them as old-fashioned, out-moded buildings that ought to be replaced; and now see them as attractive. And when they learn something of their histories, they walk past the familiar old places with new feelings about them.
I don't think it's hard to accomplish this with a town, or that it takes very long. Articles in the R-M ... nice plaques mounted on old buildings with some interesting historical facts about them ... old photos of those buildings enlarged and displayed in the windows ... etc.
And when the general population, rather than just a handful of preservationists, are swung around, banks hesitate about tearing down old buildings, and begin to see the wisdom of retaining them by adapting them to modern usage.
All this is obvious to you, I know. But I mention it because I think it has been effective out here.
There is one other thing: I read an article, which I think I can find if you want to pursue this, about a business firm which is making a very good profit by advising towns on how to effectively use fine old buildings. What happens is something like this. The town officials need, or think they need, more space, or different kind of space, than the old courthouse provides. They want to tear it down, and build a new building. But it costs money to tear down the old building, and more money to build a new one. They call in this firm which sends in a small team of experts, including structural engineers, architects, and whatever. They consult very closely with the town officials; learn what they think they need in working space, and why they think they need it. They then study the old structure, and — if it is practical — they then demonstrate to the town officials that by certain remodelings they can get the floor space they now need ... or that by certain remodelings they can augment the usefulness of the present space and did not really need the additional space they thought they did, etc. This is done with floor plans, specifications, models, etc., and their success has been in genuinely persuading the people involved that they are right.
Sometimes they report that they can't recommend restructuring the old building; it won't work. So that their reputation has to do with a kind of hard-headed practicality; they don't say it will work unless it really will. The result, when they have successfully demonstrated the value of saving and remodeling, is that everybody is happy; the preservationists have what they wanted, the bureaucrats have what they want, the taxpayers saved money, and the firm makes its fee.
They succeed because they provide a practical out for everybody. But we have preservationists here who don't seem to think. There is a fine old-fashioned, and very lovely old department store in San Francisco called The City of Paris. It went out of business because it couldn't compete; part of the loveliness everyone likes is pure empty space. From ground floor to ceiling is empty space, the floors above them being open to provide the space. So that it's lovely as you enter, you look up five stories past all the railing-protected floors to a wonderful stained-glass dome. And every Christmas they brought in an enormous Christmas tree that rose up to that dome five stories; it took a couple dozen men working all night to trim it, with special oversize ornaments. And everyone went to see it each year; it was a part of Christmas.
Merchandising changed, and the store couldn't compete because of all that empty space. They closed. The store stood empty; a closed-up blight on the downtown area. Neiman-Marcus bought the site; they wanted to tear down the old building, and put up a new one that conformed to modern merchandising ideas. They were and are willing to retain a kind of smaller rotunda, and even inset the old stained-glass dome. But the building would have no windows in order to provide more merchandise space.
No question but that the old building was far more attractive. So the preservationists here have gone to court and endlessly delayed Neiman-Marcus by simply, and I think stubbornly, insisting that Neiman-Marcus must use the old building as is. Neiman-Marcus won't do that, of course — that's the building the old store closed down. So Neiman-Marcus keeps submitting revised plans, which the preservationists reject.
The preservationists can never win this one; no one will reopen the old store; they are demanding the impossible. Eventually Neiman-Marcus will either win, or they will give up. They will sell the property, and open up in some other place. Who will then buy the old City of Paris, and open it up just as is, as though 1910 were back? No one will, of course. And meanwhile the store stands empty, a kind of blight in the area, which is dangerous because the San Francisco downtown area is in trouble like so many other downtowns.
The reason for this rambling
is to make — again — an obvious point but I think a crucial one. I don't think it's enough to simply oppose tearing down a fine old building on nothing more than the ground that you prefer the old one. I think you must also demonstrate that keeping or remodeling the old structure makes sense for the owner, too. If there really is a way to preserve or partly preserve the old City of Paris, I think they ought to demonstrate this to Neiman-Marcus. But if there is not, no one can win. I like it better when everyone wins, because then the old structure really is saved. The stubborn alternative only delays the inevitable.
I've descended to preaching, I see; and of course you know all this long since, and a lot more. But it's the only reply I could think of to make. I do think that if the preservationists will be practical, they can often win. And if not entirely, at least partially. Etc. Etc. Etc.
I can't really offer to help you, even if it were in my power, which I doubt. I don't actually know very much about Galesburg's history, and what buildings ought to be saved, etc. It's a job for someone who lives there. I'm too far away, and do not expect ever again to even be in Galesburg. I hope very much that your efforts to help preserve the town will succeed; but I don't think I can really help.
As you see from the overlong nature of my reply, my sympathies are-very much with you. Thanks for writing, and good luck.
Finney would exchange three more letters with the people at Knox College in the early 1980s. The first, dated August 25, 1982, appears to be in reply to a letter from Douglas L. Wilson, an English professor there. While the professor's letter is not in the Knox College collection, Finney's response is:
Thank you very much for your nice note about my story, "I Love Galesburg," etc. It was written long ago, and it's very pleasant to know that someone has read it fairly recently. Not long ago I was in a discussion of sorts with friends, the subject of the moment being: What is your favorite city? And of course, Paris, Rome, Venice, etc., were prime candidates. I said Galesburg, however; my motive, of course, was simply to avoid the obvious answer, and to be mildly startling. But later I realized it had the merit of being true, besides. One of the shocks of my life was — some years ago now — to visit Galesburg and find the elms were gone, the streets naked between rows of giant stumps. Terrible. But my Galesburg was in the Twenties, visiting it every summer when I was a child, and it was a wonderful place. The elms shaded the streets, there were still horses and buggies, and medicine shows on Saturday night on the Square. And so on, and so on. I get out those memories every now and then, and run them through like old films.
It would be nice to know that my "papers," such as they are, were in Seymour Library. (Seymour? Was it called that when I was in college in the Thirties? Are you sure you're not Director of Seymour Hall?) My papers don't amount to much, and 1 really cannot imagine anyone studying them. He wouldn't learn much. Nevertheless, it would be pleasant, I expect, to know that there they sat, waiting for posterity. The only reason I don't offer to send them on is that, like many another writer, I am hanging onto them until Congress gets around to restoring the tax break we used to get for donating such papers. I'm sure that's an old story to you, but maybe they'll recognize in time that a lot of writers are doing the same, and allow a tax deduction. If so, and if Knox wanted them, I'd be happy to send them on, along with my Boy Scout merit badges, some snapshots of my kids, and color slides of our last vacation.
Meanwhile, your note was a pleasure, and I appreciate it. When you renovate the library, please restore it to precisely as it was in 1934, and the ghost in the corner will be me.
Finney must have kept up with the magazine for college alumni, because one of its articles seems to have led to his next letter, dated May 25, 1983, and addressed to E. Samuel Moon at Knox College:
I enjoyed reading the interview with you and Robin Metz, published in a recent Knox Alumnus. And liked what you both said; I think Knox is lucky in having both your classes.
I'm writing because you said, "I believe (the Knox writing program) started with Proctor Sherwin...." I'm sure you're right, but I'd like to suggest that any history, however informal or brief, of writing classes at Knox should include Albert Britt. I'm sure you know he was president of the college in the Thirties; but he also taught at least one (was it two?) writing courses. And they, or it, were fine; he knew about writing and how to teach it. Knew a lot about a lot, in fact.
Britt continued to write when he was in his nineties. Published a couple of books in his nineties, and they are first rate. No concessions to age by the author; good tight stringent stuff; and no concessions required of the reader. He was something special, Albert Britt; I suspect the college may not fully appreciate him. A lot of college people, and some idiot townspeople, certainly didn't at the time. I hope you'll include him when you write the definitive history of writing as taught at Knox.
No reply needed, incidentally; just wanted to make sure Knox remembers A.B.
Knox did remember Albert Britt, as Sam Moon replied in his June 10, 1983 letter to Finney:
I enjoyed your letter about Albert Britt very much. We have not forgotten him, I assure you, and it is my impression too that he was "something special."
You are right; he taught The Short Story from 1926 until he left the college in 1936, Advanced Writing from 1927 to 1936, and a course called Voluntary Writing from 1929 to 1933.
I looked up your record and find that you took Advanced Writing as a junior and The Short Story as a senior. You also took a course called Narration, taught, I believe, by Mr. Beauchamp, in your senior year.
You might like to see the catalogue descriptions of Mr. Britt's courses:
The Short Story: A study of the short story with practice in the preparation of synopses and discussion of suggested story plots.
Advanced Writing: Practical work in different forms of professional writing; news stories, feature articles, editorials, reviews.
Voluntary Writing: The class meets on call to discuss whatever they may have written during the previous week. The instructor takes no responsibility other than that of leading the discussion.
This last course sounds like a marvelous experiment in freedom; it reminds me of a course I taught in the sixties, thinking it was quite new!
Thanks again, very much, for your letter. I'm turning it over to the Archives.
And with that, the collection of letters to and from Jack Finney held in the Knox College Archives comes to an end. What began in 1959 with a letter from Finney to the president of the college, asking for help verifying details of his story, "I Love Galesburg in the Springtime," developed over the course of almost twenty-four years into a more expansive discussion of writing, memory, and the way that the passage of time was affecting a small Midwestern town.
Internal evidence in the letters themselves suggests that Finney only visited Galesburg once, in early December 1959, and that that visit represented the one and only time he would return to his college town after having been graduated from Knox College in 1934.
Yet the town of Galesburg never seems to have lost its hold on the author. It pops up from time to time in his fiction, and the fact that he wrote the story "I Love Galesburg in the Springtime" and later titled his second collection of short stories after it suggests that the town was a strong influence on his thought and writing. In one of his last letters to the college, on August 25, 1982, he admits having come to the realization that Galesburg is his favorite city on Earth, and had been ever since he visited it regularly as a child.
All of the letters to Galesburg bear the same address for Jack Finney, in Mill Valley, California, and just before he died he told a reporter that he had lived in that house for about 40 years (Ickes 36). His readers grew familiar with the southern California setting of many of his talcs, and the San Francisco area was one that he often explored in his fiction. But it was the small, college town of Galesburg, Illinois, that would remain closest to him, and it is likely that this town — which changed along with the rest of the small towns in
America, so drastically — was one of the key influences on his body of work.
SEVENTEEN
Jack Finney on Stage
In his lifetime, Jack Finney wrote two plays. The first was a one-act play published in 1956 and entitled Telephone Roulette. According to Play Index, it was a romantic comedy in which a "telephone date with unknown young man is too much for Gloria but not for her roommate" (Fidell 103). The play featured roles for a man and two women and had one interior set. It ran only twenty-two pages. According to Gary K. Wolfe, it was an adaptation of a Finney story called "Take a Number," and the play was published by the Dramatic Publishing Company in Chicago (253). Research has revealed nothing further about this play or the short story upon which it was said to be based.
Stealing Through Time: On the Writings of Jack Finney Page 17