They Don’t Tear Things Down the Way They Used to

My grandpa loved the wrecking ball. He lived in Omaha, and I remember him walking downtown and being gone for what seemed like hours. Once, I asked Dad where he was, and Dad kind of laughed and said, “He’s watching them tear down the old post office.”

On at least one occasion, I trundled on downtown and stood with Grandpa while the demolition crew did its work. This has to be 30 to 35 years ago, but if memory serves, the razing went on over a period of weeks. In my mind’s eye, I see a giant construction pit and scads of onlookers at street level, standing behind fences and watching the destructive spectacle. Most probably stopped for a minute or two. Others, like Grandpa, apparently could plan their whole day around it.

For some reason, my dad thought Grandpa was nutty for spending so much time down there, but I didn’t. To the contrary, I remember being fascinated by the sight. Watching men in the cabs directing the steel ball against the concrete was a thing to behold for a young kid and, apparently, for lots of old ones too.

Recalling things now, it’s obvious Dad had a defective nostalgia gene. Presumably, he was too busy to stand around a construction site, but he wasn’t seeing the world through Grandpa’s eyes. On the day I joined Grandpa outside the fence, I remember nothing but silence. That’s news in our family, because Grandpa usually had no problem talking my ear (or anyone else’s) off.

What I recall, instead, is a long, solemn silence, as if he were witnessing something reverential.

The problem with being a kid is that you don’t always know the right questions to ask. I’m not going to suppose that Grandpa had spent many a memorable day in the old post office, but he clearly was mesmerized by its demolition.

These many years later, I can only guess as to why. The building had probably stood for decades and maybe Grandpa’s interest and silence reflected nothing more than just recalling the years gone by since the black stone monument first opened for business on that corner. It probably stood during the Depression, during the Second World War, maybe even World War I. It probably predated the birth of all four of his children.

The wrecking ball was a sign of progress. I wonder if Grandpa saw it that way.

Please, no phone calls about my sanity. I don’t often sit around and muse about Grandpa and long-gone post offices. I wouldn’t have thought of it at all if not for the story in the paper about the 35-year-old California Federal Bank building that was brought down Sunday in Anaheim by a series of detonations inside the bank. In a matter of seconds, the six-story bank was rubble.

We’ve all seen these implosions before on TV. They’re kind of old hat, but if so, why did an estimated 2,000 people show up before 7 a.m. Sunday to watch another one?

Weldon Green of Midway City was one of them. He had asked a friend if she wanted to “go watch a building blow up,” and her response, Green said, was, “That sounds like something to do on a Sunday morning before Mass.”

As for Green himself, he found the event shocking but not because of the decibel count of the implosion. “If you want to put spin on this,” he told me two days afterward, “I’ve been to a lot of things before, but at 6 in the morning, why was everyone so nice? It was not an unruly bunch. It amazed me. When I got there, it was just a nice crowd. For something like that, you might think that something would happen.”

What Green meant was that he’d attended other events that, on their face, are more civil than leveling a six-story building with explosives, but which were marred by outbursts from the crowd. But on this pleasant Sunday morning in which people came out to watch destruction, the mood was like that of a Sunday school picnic.

Another thought Green had was how easily the huge building was brought down.

I thought about that and tried to imagine whether my Grandpa would have enjoyed Sunday morning implosions. I’m forced to conclude he would not.

He was an early riser, but other than that, his pace was a little more like mine. He’d want to watch them tear down an aging building brick by brick, over days and weeks--and certainly not in less time than it takes for a rodeo cowboy to rope a calf.

For us nostalgia buffs, a little respect for the past, please.

That’s the thing with dynamite: It leaves very little time for reflection.

Dana Parsons’ column appears Wednesday, Friday and Sunday. Readers may reach Parsons by writing to him at The Times Orange County Edition, 1375 Sunflower Ave., Costa Mesa, CA 92626, or by calling (714) 966-7821.