Illustration by Rich Hauck.
By all accounts, David Morrison is an optimistic guy.
His good nature was on full display recently as Historic Harrisburg Association marked its golden anniversary, having formed in 1973 to salvage and save the city’s Victorian-era built environment.
Before a large group assembled in HHA’s home, an 1893-era bank building in the heart of Midtown, a beaming Morrison kicked off a celebration of half-a-century of historic preservation.
“This is an unprecedented turnout,” he told over 100 people, describing the standing-room-only crowd as a “symptom of our success.”
And, indeed, he’s correct. HHA, along with a select group of activists, city officials and enlightened developers, has helped preserve large swaths of Harrisburg, including some of the city’s most historically significant structures. They deserve all the credit and kudos we can offer.
Unlike Morrison, though, I’m not really an optimistic guy. I’m not exactly a hard-bitten pessimist either, but no one would describe me as a ray of sunshine.
So, yes, I see what the preservationists see—a wonderfully restored Shipoke, rejuvenated Midtown and Uptown neighborhoods, seeds of hope in Allison Hill.
But I also can’t shield my eyes from how much has been lost. For all its impressive preservation, Harrisburg still suffers from a plague of empty lots, urban highways, dilapidated buildings and slumlords who just don’t give a damn.
Recently, a friend and his wife took a trip to spend the weekend in Lancaster. They returned with rave reviews for the Red Rose City: the dining, the shopping, the galleries, the crowds, the restored, walkable downtown.
When they told me of their little adventure down Route 283, they didn’t get the response they expected. Instead of curiosity, I gave them sass.
“Don’t talk to me about no freakin’ Lancaster!” I snapped.
I quickly told them that I was only joking—I also like Lancaster. But I explained that they were hardly the first people to sing the city’s praises to me.
They then asked the inevitable follow-up: Why is Lancaster so much more, um, vibrant than Harrisburg?
There’s a lot to unpack there, I responded. Lancaster has had less crippling floods, almost no population loss. Historically, it was less dependent on the doomed steel and railroad industries, and its civic leaders, investors and business class didn’t abandon the city when times got tough.
But, to me, Lancaster’s renaissance (the “Best Small City in America,” according to WalletHub) has been greatly aided by the fact that its Colonial and Victorian-era urban fabric remains largely in tact. This may have not seemed like an asset during the demo-crazed 1970s, but it is one today, as many people are drawn to historic downtowns and neighborhoods—like Lancaster’s—to dine, shop, socialize and settle in.
In contrast, Harrisburg is more like a big smile that’s lost a bunch of its teeth. For every Pancake Row (saved), there’s a Penn Harris Hotel (lost). For every Tracy Mansion (saved), there’s a Telegraph building and State Theatre (lost and lost). Downtown has become such a jumble of styles, periods, surface lots and parking garages that, looking at a postcard from a century ago, I can hardly tell it’s the same city.
Moreover, if I were a Lancaster city father, I would declare every Feb. 21 to be a municipal holiday. For on that day, in 1810, Gov. Simon Snyder signed legislation moving the state capital from Lancaster to Harrisburg.
Imagine, if you can, the heart of historic Lancaster ripped out to build a ring of half-empty office buildings, a huge park no one uses, a bunch of surface lots and garages and a dangerous, six-lane urban highway. That’s what happened in Harrisburg. One of its oldest, densest neighborhoods—29 acres worth—was flattened to expand the Capitol complex, and once-quaint Forster Street was turned into a six-block facsimile of the PA Turnpike.
People have told me that, without the state Capitol, Harrisburg would have nothing. I don’t buy that argument. Certainly, Harrisburg would have developed differently, but it’s impossible to know exactly how. My guess is—smaller, denser, retaining far more of its 19th-century fabric, like Lancaster or York or Carlisle, positioning it better as it emerged from its post-industrial funk.
But I don’t want to give in to too much pessimism. Yes, Harrisburg has lost a lot, but much has been saved, thanks to Historic Harrisburg and others who have dedicated themselves to historic preservation.
Since I’ve been in the city, some 15 years, numerous buildings that seemed headed for the wrecking ball have been restored and put back into use. Heck, I work in one, I get my coffee in another, and buy most of my groceries from a third. For all the damage done, Harrisburg still has a lot going for it and, in fact, hasn’t looked this good in many decades.
During the January gubernatorial inauguration, one out-of-town reporter remarked favorably on her visit to the city. She tweeted, “I was surprised by how charming Harrisburg is.”
Reading her comment, I smiled. I thought of all the work that has gone into saving Harrisburg—and all the work that still needs to be done.
Lawrance Binda is publisher/editor of TheBurg.
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