Downtown living

Most of the historical photos on this site show the rise of a handsome small city, with commercial buildings, stores, churches, and warehouses.

But single-family houses and apartments proliferated in and near the original townsite even as monuments such as the Heard Building and Luhrs Tower rose. People were living downtown before it became desirable again in recent years. Above are the Dennis and Jacobs Mansions on Monroe between Second and Third Streets along "Millionaires Row," built in the 1890s. They were demolished in the 1950s for surface parking lots.

Rosson House, restored in Heritage Square, was designed by architect George Franklin Barber — he sold his designs by mail order. It was completed in 1895 at 139 N. Sixth Street. The Stevens-Haustgen Bungalow is nearby, also restored.

Most of the residences downtown were more modest. For example, the 1935 City Directory shows homes for Mrs. Della Jeanette at 129 S. Third Avenue, Mr. Samuel Lopez at 133 S., and Mr. Nestor Chavez at 333 S. Third Ave. Some were businesses where the owners lived on an upper floor. But others were simple, single-story houses gradually giving way to the expanding Warehouse District. The same is true along south Second Street, including parts of Chinatown, connected by Madison and Jackson streets, Gold and Paris alleys.

Beyond downtown proper and going west toward the Capitol, the blocks were filled with Victorians, bungalows, and territorial-era apartment buildings (with sleeping porches). Sadly, most of these were demolished in the 1980s and 1990s (the Evans House at 1100 W. Washington still stands, dwarfed by dreary tilt-up offices. And as the city grew, housing expanded in all directions, including the Evans Churchill addition and swanky Kenilworth district north of the original townsite.

Discrimination and deed covenants generally kept Hispanic and African-American residences south of Van Buren, and especially south of the Southern Pacific Railroad tracks. For example, Grant Park (between Central and Seventh Avenue, the tracks and Buckeye Road was an early African-American area. Calle Neuve was an early barrio, located around Ninth and Jackson streets.

Home ownership by minorities was high until the Depression. But a look through City Directories shows that that color line was far more blurred downtown. People lived in close proximity. It was only a few blocks from Millionaires Row to Chinatown, barrios, or black neighborhoods.

This was a walkable city. Groceries, drug stores, department stores, specialty shops, schools, movie theaters, churches, restaurants, and bars were reachable on foot — on via the city's streetcar system. Although swamp coolers were not abundant until the late 1940s, all these streets were graced with shade trees and palms; the business district provided relief from the sun with awnings.

Some of these downtown houses endured until the 1990s. Most notorious was the case of Beatrice Villareal, an 87-year-old woman who had lived in the same 1,000-square-foot home all her life. But she was being forced out to build the Major League Baseball stadium. It was a cause célèbre, but the stadium was built.

Downtown living gallery (click for a larger image):

The Evans House, one of the few survivors of the residential variety that once ran west of downtown to the Capitol, connected by streetcars.

This bungalow is at 606 N. Fourth Ave. in this 1914 view. It's still there.

A 1928 view of a brick house at 225 N. Fifth Street. Owner Virgil Hazel died a year later (McCulloch Bros. Collection/ASU Archives).

Margaret McCulloch sits in front of her shady home at 312 E. Fillmore. It's the late 1920s. The location is now sun-blasted apartment-dorms with concrete, gravel, and skeleton trees. (McCulloch Bros. Collection/ASU Archives).

Second Street and Pierce in 1945, looking west toward the Hotel Westward Ho (McCulloch Bros. Collection/ASU Archives).

The Anderson House at 505 N. Seventh Street. It became part of the Phoenix Union High School campus and house Phoenix College in its early years. Montgomery Stadium is in the background.

The Gerado's Building at 421 S. Third Street, with commercial space on the first floor and living quarters on the second. Built in 1928, it was still standing in 2019.

Here's Second Street looking southwest from Roosevelt, a few blocks beyond downtown proper. Its few survivors helped provide seed for Roosevelt Row.

Pierce and Second streets in 1946 (McCulloch Bros. Collection/ASU Archives). This is now condos and apartments near the ASU downtown campus with concrete and gravel.

Residential block at 11th and Pierce Streets in 1946 (McCulloch Bros. Collection/ASU Archives). This is the Garfield neighborhood and most of these houses and trees are now gone.

Viewed from the Westward Ho in the late 1920s, First Avenue is lined with houses and apartments. Only a few survive.

In 1938, the Grosso family poses on the porch of its home at 230 E. Monroe. This is the block that holds the Herberger Theater Center today. Three months later, Charles Grosso would be killed in an airplane crash (McCulloch Bros./ASU Archives).

North of Van Buren in the 1940s shows a dense neighborhood of single-family houses and apartments, with a shade canopy.

West of downtown in the 1940s shows the Sweatnan Mansion at 18th Avenue and Adams Street.

The Rosson House in 1940. It's one of the few Victorians to have been saved and restored.

The Jacobs Mansion on Monroe Street ("Millionaire's Row") in 1964. It would soon be demolished.

Melinda's Alley in the 1890s, near First Street and Monroe with mostly adobe buildings, most of them residences. Phoenicians abandoned adobe for Victorians and bungalows to give the town an "American" look.

The Columbus Adeline Grey Mansion at Seventh Street and Mohave in the 1890s.

The Alexander House at 139 W. Adams in 1928. 

It's 1985 and the Smurthwaite House is still standing on the northwest corner of Seventh Street and Fillmore (Marsha Roach photo).

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My book, A Brief History of Phoenix, is available to buy or order at your local independent bookstore, or from Amazon.

Read more Phoenix history in Rogue's Phoenix 101 archive.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Comments

[Cal Lash]

My native amigas y amigos enjoyed this.

[Cal Lash]

Sad news: the Tucson Rialto project died.
Bad News: White collar crime at ASU?
Good news: Summer comes to the Desert.

[soleri]

It's astonishing to think that a dusty little city with a four-digit population could build such beautiful things. Today, it's a vast megalopolis and the last thing anyone thinks about doing is something timeless and enduring. This isn't confined to Phoenix obviously. Everywhere in the world buildings are less an expression of an aching need for the heartfelt so much as a desire to anesthetize ourselves with physical comfort . What a miserable aspiration.

Nothing lasts forever except the dust. Notre Dame in Paris nearly burned down and will, eventually, suffer the fate of its creators. We can't and shouldn't save everything but there should be just enough soulfulness to create new wonders that will continue to enchant long after we're gone. We have an innate need for beauty and the price we pay for its absence is measured in violence and alienation.

Last night I went to hear the Portland Baroque Orchestra, perhaps the greatest cultural gem this gamma city has to offer. The concert took place in an old Baptist church downtown so lovely it could make me take up Bible thumping. Eventually a massive earthquake will reduce it to rubble and new architects will replace all that with something iconic, say a pile of shipping containers haphazardly arranged over a concrete pedestal. The public will be perplexed, which is proof of one bad thing or another. I can say this now because I no longer pretend to be hip. I really don't care if something is rigorously contextualized with eye-arching irony. I just want to be surprised with a joy I can't begin to explain.