The Memphis That Never Was Weird plans and offbeat proposals that would have changed the face of our city-- but they never got off the drawing board. by Michael Finger heliport on Mud Island? A Teflon tent over the Mid-South Fairgrounds? A soaring obelisk along the Mississippi River? A "city of the future" in East Memphis? Just some of the wild dreams and wacky schemes that developers and promoters have unveiled over the years for Memphis. If we had followed their plans, Memphis in the 1990s would look far different than it does today. Not better, either. Just different. Ed Frank, curator of special collections at the University of Memphis, keeps a folder stuffed with odd newspaper clippings, architects' renderings, and photographs he encounters. "I always thought these ideas were quite interesting," he says, "and some of them, because of their lack of information, are really mysterious." One example: A worn, old black-and-white drawing shows a futuristic "space needle" and hotel complex on the South Bluffs -- precisely where the Flyer's offices are today. Along with a vast entertainment complex housing "restaurants, shops, dinner theatres, etc.," the plan includes one rather fish-out-of-water element. The old Tennessee Brewery, fighting for survival today, is shown standing in the midst of everything. But there's no other information on the plan, so we don't know who, why, or when they -- whoever "they" are -- proposed it. What follows, then, is a cluster of pipe dreams that turned into little but smoke. Not one of them, you'll notice, includes a stainless-steel pyramid. The Riverfront -- 1924 Version Memphians have never had much faith in themselves, and perhaps that's why we keep dragging in a procession of outsiders -- Pyramid promoter Sidney Shlenker, Memphis in May head Wes Brustad, Center City Commission president Ed Armentrout come to mind, among others -- to tell us just what to do with our city. But that's not a recent problem. In the early part of this century, city leaders were faced with a town that seemed to be growing every which way without a whole lot of thought for the future. After all, in the 1920s, the riverfront in the heart of downtown, just about where Confederate Park stands today, was actually used as a public dump. In 1920, then, the City Planning Commission asked Harland Bartholomew and Associates, a nationally recognized urban-planning firm based in St. Louis, to redesign Memphis. And they did, producing a detailed report that offered suggestions for building designs, street layouts, intersections, even public lighting. The firm paid special attention to the river, noting, "The chief criticism to be made of the riverfront from the standpoint of appearance is its disorder and general shabbiness. Today, the riverfront is not merely unattractive, but represents a flagrantly unprofitable use of the property." They had noticed that dump, we suppose. What the firm finally recommended was a graceful series of arches forming a promenade ("such as was intended by the early founders of the city") stretching for block after block along the riverbluffs. In the original renderings (a detail is shown on the opposite page), Ellis Auditorium, currently slated for destruction, stands proudly in the background. Alongside the river would be a vast plateau for acres of public parking and docking of steamboats, and a handsome stone bridge linking Mud Island to downtown. Mud Island in this, uh, vision has been magically transformed from a barren sandbar into a spacious public park, with a tree-lined wraparound pier, baseball diamonds, tennis courts, and what Harland Bartholomew and Associates described, rather vaguely for them, as "some formal treatment at its southern extremity," which seemed to include an equestrian statue and even a lighthouse. Although admitting, somewhat modestly, that this was "an ambitious plan," Bartholomew predicted: "No immediate steps are necessary. As private improvements are made and as public funds become available, the various improvements can be accomplished." Well, he didn't know Memphis. Riverside Drive, not even part of this grand plan, was built in the 1930s, which eliminated the downtown dump and smoothed out a good portion of the river bluffs. Beginning in the 1970s, Mud Island has been steadily improved, first with the park itself at the tip and later with the Harbor Town development. But the rest of it? Most of us would have to admit the riverfront today doesn't quite resemble the dream Harland Bartholomew and Associates envisioned for us. The Riverfront -- 1955 Version So Harland Bartholomew tried again in 1955. "The riverfront opposite the central business district offers a challenging opportunity to create an outstanding civic development," they reminded us. What they had in mind included the complete reconstruction of Mud Island, with a riverfront expressway, harbor, playing fields -- even a riverside stadium with parking for 5,000 cars. Of course, we eventually built a 5,000-seat amphitheatre on Mud Island (without a single parking space), and in recent years Mayor Willie Herenton has floated plans to turn the Wolf River Harbor into a lake. But even that multimillion-dollar project falls short of this scheme. "It is proposed to divert the [Wolf River] channel at a point near Poplar, and to fill the old channel, thus creating a very large area to be used for the purposes shown on the plan," explained Bartholomew. "The major street plan proposes an interstate route which would be located on Mud Island. With the proper connections to the downtown street system, this expressway would offer a new and impressive approach to the business district from the north and south." Sometimes they guessed wrong about just what people would need in the 1990s. "In addition to the enlargement of Jefferson Davis Park," the plan continued, "a helicopter landing field and terminal are provided directly to the west of the park. This would make a conveniently located facility for helicopter transportation which, while now in its infancy, is progressing very rapidly." Harland Bartholomew and Associates probably hated us. We just wouldn't listen, and ignored their best attempts to convert downtown into a city that the Jetsons would have loved. DeSoto Memorial Tower In 1960, downtown planners --local ones this time -- unveiled a dramatic new vision for the civic center, "a center for cultural life in Memphis, as well as a center of governmental activities." Besides the typical governmental structures -- city hall, police station, assorted 1960s-looking office buildings -- the plan also included the DeSoto Memorial Tower, which -- as far as we can tell from the renderings (below) -- seemed to be a mile-high obelisk on the river bluff at the foot of Washington. The plan also included two buildings that have proved troublesome to modern-day planners -- the old Ellis Auditorium, and the Lone Star concrete plant -- the latter without a trace of any "Welcome to Memphis" neon on top. "Pavilion" was a 1960s buzzword, and the plan also featured "two new concession pavilions and a restaurant pavilion," along with a "display pavilion with offices for the City Beautiful Commission." The whole thing would be located "in a corner formed by the Riverside Drive Expressway." Huh? A January 3, 1960, Commercial Appeal article proclaimed, "Building this center is one of the most ambitious projects ever undertaken in Memphis, and will require several years to complete." Longer than that, actually. Parts of the plan -- such as City Hall and the county office building -- eventually came to life, but the soaring DeSoto Memorial Tower never got off the ground. Too bad. Beale Street Tourist Plaza In February 1967, a group of local African-American investors -- A. Maceo Walker, A.W. Willis, Vasco Smith, Benjamin Hooks, and others -- revealed plans for a $5 million bank and hotel building that would occupy an entire block of downtown Memphis bounded by Main, Beale, Second, and McCall (the latter now called Peabody Place). The Memphis Press-Scimitar hailed the Beale Street Tourist Plaza as an "aggressive and forward step not only for the business community but for Negro citizenship," whatever that means. The 15-story structure would house a 200-room Holiday Inn hotel, with the ground floor occupied by Tri-State Bank. Developers pushed the plaza as a key element in a complete 175-acre renewal plan for Beale Street, which would someday include a "harbor beacon, marina, four-block enclosed shoppers mall, outdoor shopping plaza, new MLG&W building, and blue-light entertainment district." Walter Simmons, then-director of the Memphis Housing Authority, announced construction would begin in one year. Precisely one year later, Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. was assassinated in Memphis, casting a gloom over downtown development for years. Today, a parking lot occupies the proposed site of the Beale Street Tourist Plaza. Just across the street, though, is Peabody Place and a few blocks away is the Gibson Guitar Corporation's new plant. And Beale Street, even without a "harbor beacon," certainly looks better, and busier, than it did in 1967. The Chickasaw Gardens Apartments Not all the developers cast a critical look just at downtown. There were plenty of interesting schemes proposed for other parts of Memphis as well. Just two years after founding Holiday Inns, developer Kemmons Wilson tried a new venture -- an apartment complex at Poplar and Tillman. The 1954 project would include three eight-story apartment buildings and a commercial building fronting on Poplar. The problem with this six-acre complex lay just across the street, with the residents of a certain established and rather exclusive neighborhood. "Chickasaw Gardens is a subdivision of which the entire city can be proud, and it depends upon the zoning laws to protect it," argued the head of the homeowners' association. A fellow named K.P. Marshall, identified in the newspapers as a "Memphis real estate man," said such a complex should instead be in a "twilight area" near downtown. "There is not a city in the South with a more beautiful development than Chickasaw Gardens, and cliff-dwellers are not needed." Even Mayor Henry Loeb jumped into the fray. According to newspaper stories, he "spoke as a Chickasaw Gardens homeowner, and declared that although he owned commercial property at Tillman and Poplar, he was opposed to the Wilson project." Well, that clinched it. The newspaper announced that the project ended "in a Korean War type of cease fire with the City Board of Adjustment taking the matter under advisement." Which meant that nothing ever happened with it. In the late 1960s, the J.B. Hunter chain opened a department store there, which eventually became AutoZone headquarters. Today, of course, the entire site is being developed for the new Central Library, which probably wouldn't have happened if the apartments had gone up. Mid-South Fairgrounds Dome, or "Memphis Maximus" In 1977, subscribers to the Press-Scimitar learned of a bizarre plan to build a plastic bubble over the entire Mid-South Fairgrounds. The canopy, built of "a space-age fabric," would be the largest such structure in the world, proclaimed developer O.T. Marshall, who dubbed the whole thing "Memphis Maximus." It would cover all the existing fair buildings except the Zippin Pippin roller coaster with a series of Teflon-coated fiberglass panels stretched tightly over a web of steel cables, all of which "would weatherproof sports and entertainment events." There was more. Newspapers reported that "a suspended, moving walkway would reach from a proposed hotel in the northwest corner of the Fairgrounds to the [Liberty Bowl] stadium. Persons using the walkway could look down on the complex." Those brave enough to do so, that is. First of all, that walkway would be 200 feet off the ground, "almost as tall as the First Tennessee Bank building downtown." And second, developers who bragged that this huge tent could withstand "hurricane-like winds" got the wind knocked out of them when it was pointed out that Memphis rarely, if ever, endured hurricanes, but anything built here might need to withstand something even stronger. "Of course, a tornado would tear it up," Marshall admitted. Needless to say, the project encountered what newspapers called "a go-slow attitude expressed by city mayor Wyeth Chandler and county officials." Memphis Maximus was never built, nor was the daring walkway or the hotel at the corner of the park. Country Club Estates The May 1, 1953, edition of the Press-Scimitar told readers about a "development of the future --not just another housing project, but a design for living." Country Club Estates, you see, would be a $22 million, 542-acre suburb laid out in East Memphis along White Station between Park and Quince. Modeled after a futuristic community built some years earlier in Radford, New Jersey, the new subdivision would cluster small houses (described as "contemporary architecture of the Nth degree") around a network of more than 100 cul-de-sacs. Pedestrian "feeder" walkways would tunnel beneath the main roads, allowing residents to walk to the community's own school, 77-acre park, lake, swimming pool, church, and baseball fields. Developer J.A. Montgomery claimed Country Club Estates would "serve present-day requirements of good living in a more practical and pleasant way than does the conventional pattern of subdivision planning." It would serve as a showcase, he hoped, for other neighborhoods throughout the city. Well, that never happened. Country Club Estates never broke ground. The local planning commission objected to the small houses on tiny lots -- a concept that worked quite well in later years at places like Harbor Town -- and fretted that "this type of home will be slums in a few years." Memphis eventually built Sea Isle Elementary School in the proposed park area, and other developers over the years planted neat rows of houses along the streets, but the neighborhood today bears no resemblance to the original plan. (A version of this article originally appeared in the November 1993 issue of Memphis magazine.)