BURIED TREASURES
Mysterious time capsules -- returning from deep
sleep to evoke the 'now' for future generations

From the pages of the CA-Modern magazine
By Dave Weinstein

It's easy for Scott Kennedy to travel backwards in time. He just closes his eyes and returns to Palm Springs as it was 50 years ago, in the first flowering of modernism -- long before he had ever seen the city.

Kennedy, who has served on the Palm Springs Modern Committee, a group dedicated to preserving the desert's modern architecture, owns 250 postcards showing Palm Springs in its historic prime. He has brochures from the sleek resorts, menus from the favorite restaurants, even photos taken by vacationers using their Brownie cameras. "But there are holes," he admits. His image of the town, he says, is made up largely "of just blips -- a bank here, another building there."

If only he could find a time capsule planted in 1957 by some prescient local who'd gotten carried away with a Bolex 16-millimeter movie camera, hopped in his Ford Fairlane, and cruised slowly through Palm Springs, "down Palm Canyon Drive, all the way through downtown," he says. "Or maybe from one end of the Valley to the other -- from Indio to Palm Springs. "How nice that would be."

If Kennedy were putting together a time capsule today for people to discover in 2057, that is exactly what he would put in it. "Fifty years from now, it would be great to see what Palm Springs looks like today, from street level," he says. "This may become especially important since there is now such enormous pressure to redevelop downtown with taller projects and ones that could impact the town's majestic boulder-strewn hillsides."

Time capsules -- a quaint idea, many may think -- made it into the headlines earlier this year, when a 1957 Plymouth Belvedere was unearthed from the courtyard lawn in Tulsa, Oklahoma. Back in '57 the car was buried at the Tulsa County Courthouse to mark Oklahoma's 50th year of statehood.

Though the car -- with its signature fins and whitewall tires -- emerged "a mess," according to the hot-rodder who tried to start her up, the story got people thinking about time capsules. For one thing, a real time capsule that was buried alongside the car emerged with its contents -- everything from containers of gas and oil and a bottle of tranquilizers to bobby pins and an unpaid parking ticket -- absolutely intact.

Tremendous enthusiasm greeted the opening of the capsule and the unearthing of the car -- which is another reason to create a time capsule in the first place. What better way to get people thinking about the past or contemplating the future?

Alfred Higgins watched the Tulsa capsule getting buried on his black-and-white TV as a 13-year-old boy. "Back then," he says, "50 years seemed like it was 100 years away." Higgins showed up in person to watch it being exhumed. Much of the town turned out, he says. "The crowd was overwhelmingly excited at that capsule being opened because it was a piece of Oklahoma history." He found the experience emotionally affecting. Old movies and photos of Tulsa strongly evoked the past -- and made him sad "because it brought back a lot of memories of my people," he says. "They're all gone now but me."

Finding artifacts from the past -- whether in a time capsule or in less dramatic form -- can be valuable. Objects, news clippings, and photos can tell a story about a neighborhood, a house, a person -- and in that way, bring it alive.

Buildings are lost without their stories. What good does it do a house that George Washington slept in if no one knows he'd ever been there? But if we know who built a house, why it looks and functions the way it does, and who lived there, we can understand why it's special. The same goes for neighborhoods and cities. A time capsule can do more than tell a story. It can spur neighborhood and architectural preservation.

The modernist architect Felix Warburg, who has unearthed two time capsules from historic buildings (at San Francisco synagogues Ohabai Shalome and Beth Israel), emphasizes how important it is to know the story behind a building to justify its preservation. "It places it in a perspective that will remind people of its importance," he says.

Just ask Steve and Pam Wedel about the value of historic objects. Shortly after they bought their home near Sacramento, they found photos of the home's first owners, an African-American doctor and his family. Their house was a custom design by architect Carter Sparks, who is best known for his tract homes for Streng Bros. Homes.

By quizzing neighbors, the Wedels discovered that the original owners were the first black family who moved to the neighborhood, in 1959. The family was able to do so, the story went, only because Sparks used deception -- listing himself as the house's owner -- to help circumvent the area's covenants and restrictions, which banned blacks from the neighborhood.

Or ask Michael Sainato and Iris In't Hout, who discovered some old landscape plans squirreled away in their Eichler home in Marin. The plans were by landscape architect Robert Royston, and they proved to be more than memorabilia. Sainato and In't Hout hired a member of the still-extant firm to recreate a garden based on them.

Thanks to preserved photos and documents, the Wedel and Sainato-In't Hout houses retained their history. Contrast them with a once-famous house that lost its history -- and, as a result, may suffer the consequences.

Back in 1957, the same year Tulsa buried its Plymouth, the modernist architect Bev Thorne completed a steel-framed house in the Oakland Hills that was so strong, the Bethlehem Steel Co. boasted, that a helicopter could land on the roof. That's exactly what happened on opening day, while steel executives, city officials, and Thorne himself looked on.

The house received lavish press, and was open to the public for a month to raise money for charity. It's one of the most important houses by Thorne, one of the masters of steel, and one of the few Northern Californians who designed a Case Study house for 'Arts & Architecture' magazine's renowned program in the 1950s and '60s. But all this had been forgotten when the house came on the market last year. It was being sold as ripe for a major remodel or teardown. If only the house had come with a time capsule!

If you could design the perfect time capsule, one that would inform future generations about life at the start of the 21st century in your wonderful, mid-century home or neighborhood, what would you put in it?

"Gosh, it's kind of limitless, isn't it?" says Nickie McLaughlin, PS ModCom's vice president. "It's what your mind can think of!" Since McLaughlin focuses on preserving modern buildings in Palm Springs, it's not surprising that she should consider a time capsule as a tool for preservation. Stash in the time capsule any documents and photos that would help future owners maintain or restore a home. "Especially if you have the original blueprints." She says.

PS ModCom has never created a time capsule. But it might be a good idea, she says. She would fill it with serious, historic material about the Cahuilla Indians who first settled the valley, the pioneer developers, the mid-century architects. "Original tiles from the old hotels, photos of people who lived in the houses, who stayed at the hotels," could also go in, she says.

Some of these objects might come from Scott Kennedy's collection, which he has rescued over the years. He's got blue-and-white tiles from the façade of architect Bill Cody's Spa Hotel, a glass block and a light fixture from the old Biltmore Hotel, and a cast-aluminum city seal, probably from the old city jail designed by architect Albert Frey.

What shape is your time capsule in? Fifty years from today, what will surprise people about our lives? Shock them? Cause them to laugh? Educate them? How should you put together your time capsule? The choice is completely your own -- but consider: The capsule and contents should not deteriorate. This is about time travel, after all. Several companies sell indestructible, archival-grade time capsules. Some companies suggest that the oxygen in the capsule be replaced with an inert gas. Or you could try a refrigerator. Items should be personal. They should transcend time. They should amuse, puzzle, enlighten, and provoke. And they should not be 'typical.' Or should they? Think: What do we take for granted today that will startle people tomorrow? If you want to celebrate your home or neighborhood and help preserve them, include documents -- including visual and audio -- illustrating their uniqueness, history, and importance. Have you been a good steward of your house? Have you improved or remodeled it? Document it. Have you enjoyed living in your house? Prove it. And remember: Your home itself can be your time capsule.

But not everything has to be certifiably historic, McLaughlin adds. "You could have some of the kitschy stuff you would find on your coffee table from a certain era -- the glasses, the cups. I think it would have to be a very large capsule!" Robert Imber, a Palm Springs tour guide and preservationist, would include objects that evoke both 2007 and 1957 -- since Palm Springs today is all about celebrating the mid-century. "The clothing that people wore poolside back then that was so indicative of the era," he suggests. "Different kinds of hats and sunglasses, classic Palm Springs things. Also stuff from the dude ranches and the cowboy stuff. Palm Springs was a real cowboy town." And from today, he suggests, "an article of Trina Turk's clothing. I'd put in an Orbit Inn [the hotel] coaster. It's totally iconic, and it's today. Maybe a Shag painting, some modern-day artwork based on Palm Springs architecture. Like many Eichler owners of a purist bent, Paul Galli regards his Sunnyvale home as a time capsule in itself. His Eichler is almost entirely original. The first thing Galli would put into his time capsule, he says, would be photos, plans, and lists of material to "show people exactly how to outfit an Eichler." He would include photos of an Eichler that has been preserved and, for contrast, one that has been wrecked by poor remodeling. "And I'd put in photos by Ernie Braun, the classics," he says of the photographer whose images did so much to popularize Eichler homes. "They really show not only what the architecture looks like, but what it feels like." Pat Sandlin, the homeowners' association president at River City Commons, a Streng Bros. neighborhood in Sacramento, would include in her time capsule a photo of her beloved atrium, complete with its greenery and carp pond. But really, she'd put her entire neighborhood in a time capsule, if that's what it took to preserve it. "People want to get rid of old neighborhoods," she says, "and move into something new." Baxter Culver, an original owner of a pristine house in Evergreen Commons, a modern neighborhood in Sacramento developed by the Streng Bros., also sees time capsules as a repository for preservationists of the future. A useful neighborhood time capsule would show photos of the area as it was being developed, "so someone could take that and say, 'Oh, that's what it was like when it was new.'" He would include any "governing documents," such as design guidelines. If Evergreen Commons wants to bury such a capsule, Culver would be the guy to go to. He and his wife Linda have preserved photos of their home when the slab was just being poured, early photos of the neighborhood, and their original green-inked contract with the Strengs. John Badenhop, who grew up in the Eichler neighborhood of Charleston Meadows in Palo Alto, would make old photos the centerpiece of his community time capsule. At a neighborhood reunion a few years back, he says, "One of the absolute joys of it were the pictures the people brought, pictures that showed the way our neighborhood developed from the ground up, right from the countryside it was before." But Badenhop might include more than glossies. Digital media make it possible to include far more in a modern time capsule than our ancestors could ever squeeze in. "Today, think of how much information could be put in a time capsule," he says. "The concept is amazing." A time capsule should preserve more than a home or a neighborhood's early history, says Jerry Escobar, who lives in an Eichler in San Jose. It should also capture life as it is lived. He recently returned home to find some neighbors and their children passing time outside. "Next thing," he says, "we're all in the driveway having an impromptu party." What better content than a photo of that for his time capsule? "This is a group of our friends," he says. "This is what life is like in 2007." He'd also do a few top-fives: "Favorite things we like to do, our favorite gadgets, favorite TV shows. I'd throw an ipod in right now. A laptop would be nice, but it's too expensive." He'd put in a photo of a laptop instead. "If you're into beer, or cocktails, put in your favorite beer," he says. "Put in a martini glass. Throw in your favorite bottle of wine."

A time capsule should preserve more than a home or a neighborhood's early history, says Jerry Escobar, who lives in an Eichler in San Jose. It should also capture life as it is lived. He recently returned home to find some neighbors and their children passing time outside. "Next thing," he says, "we're all in the driveway having an impromptu party." What better content than a photo of that for his time capsule? "This is a group of our friends," he says. "This is what life is like in 2007." He'd also do a few top-fives: "Favorite things we like to do, our favorite gadgets, favorite TV shows. I'd throw an ipod in right now. A laptop would be nice, but it's too expensive." He'd put in a photo of a laptop instead. "If you're into beer, or cocktails, put in your favorite beer," he says. "Put in a martini glass. Throw in your favorite bottle of wine."

Time capsules can get downright serious -- painfully so. Back in 1939 for the New York World's Fair, Westinghouse filled a corrosion-resistant copper alloy capsule with hundreds of items, ranging from an alarm clock and alphabet blocks to a stylish ladies hat and hundreds of publications on microfilm.

Wayne Donaldson, when an architecture student at Cal Poly San Luis Obispo, was far less ambitious when he and a group of fellow students in the '60s started filling refrigerators with stuff and burying them in the hills. "They're almost like coffins in a way," he says of refrigerators. "They really work very well and keep bugs out."

Inside their capsules, Donaldson and his crew buried "lava lamps, Melamine dishes, photos of everything. A lot of plastic stuff. Plastic was just coming of age. The latest records. Things that were really well-designed and well-made, and kitschy stuff. Whatever was new for the year." The former students plan to dig up the half-dozen or so capsules themselves -- when they hit 80.

Donaldson, the state of California's historic preservation officer, is also the owner of a Futuro, a plastic, saucer-shaped home from the '60s that he's installed in the San Jacinto Mountains, near Palm Springs.

Over the years, he has discovered the occasional time capsule when restoring an old building. In a Santa Barbara adobe he found a capsule with newspapers from 1906, buttons, coins, a comb, marbles, and badges from an Odd Fellows lodge. "They didn't tell a story. They tell you what was around," he says. "But the reason people leave certain things is a mystery to me. That's the fun thing about it."

What should people who cherish their modern homes preserve in their own time capsules? "I think they should put their story in there," he says. "Since this is a rebirth, ask the question 'why?' What's so important about living in an Eichler? Tell their story. I think that would be kind of fun."

Photos: John Eng, Larry Merkle, Ernie Braun; and courtesy Tulsa Historical Society, Scott Kennedy collection
Splash illustration: courtesy JoT House, Inc. - Yeh+Jerrard architects