Swimming pool made brief splash
A fireproof swimming pool burned to the ground in Little Rock 100 years ago this week.
A loss like that would be notable even today, when the city has pools to spare, counting all those squirrel catchers attached to private homes. In 1923, pools were rare in Arkansas, and for white people only. Sure, Coin Harvey had one indoors at his resort, Monte Ne; but it was for the swell folks.
Most Arkansans swam in creek holes, springs and in the dangerous rivers, even in the big little city of Little Rock, whose middle class residents traveled the country. They visited urbane locales with public pools, beaches and bathing women in then-daring woolen bloomers and matching bathing shoes. Journals and newspapers delivered eye-opening images of the latest craze for bare skin. But the commingling of underclad men and women in a common body of water still seemed unseemly, especially for less worldly Arkansans.
The YMCA had a pool, but only for its members. White City amusement park in Pulaski Heights opened its public pool in summer 1922; and there was the Joyland natatorium at 11th and Summit streets and … actually, I think that was it. Willow Beach swimming park opened in 1921 on an oxbow lake, but it had a sandy bottom pool with a diving platform. And the Boathouse Club didn’t build its concrete pond beside Main Street Bridge until 1925.
Joyland was the pool that burned in 1923.
This place was an engineering marvel when it opened in July 1914. Drive past the site near today’s Arkansas Children’s Hospital and all you’ll see are privet thickets, concrete pads, empty lots; if there’s still a well hole in there, I can’t see it in Google Maps. But here’s how the Arkansas Democrat described J.W. Lippincott’s ambitious enterprise that long ago June: “strictly modern and fireproof — finest of its kind … on a par with the justly famous natatorium of Boise, Idaho.”
Lippincott, the paper noted, had lived in Little Rock 25 years and ranked among its best known citizens, having managed the Crystal Theatre.
He spent $40,000 erecting the 150-by-140-foot Joyland building using steel, concrete and “slow combustion” material. The pool was 50 feet long and 25 feet wide.
Half its length was 4 feet deep; but, the Democrat reported, “at one end, 25 by 50 feet, will be another section where expert swimmers and divers may make merry in 10 feet of water.”
Lippincott could pump 150 gallons a minute from the 40-foot well he dug a short distance from his main building. “This pump will be operated by electricity, and the water when it reaches the top will have a temperature of about 40 degrees,” the paper reported. “This will be heated by natural gas to 80 to 85 degrees.
“By a direct system” — I think this means pipes — “it will be brought to the surface of the pool, and then, by a cunningly devised arrangement, will fall in three cascades over glass, beautifully lighted, into the natatorium proper.”
The building also housed a roller-skating rink and a dance pavillion. Eleven times around the rink equaled one mile.
There were 240 dressing rooms split between two “departments,” male and female, each department having “rest rooms” and attendants. Rest rooms were lounges that might or might not have included a water closet, a term that was all but unprintable. But there were three “shower baths” for ladies and the same for men.
Off the lobby was a refreshment room and a place to leave valuables and check coats, hats, cloaks.
The newspaper makes it seem quite the deal that the “entire” building — the whole thing — was “beautifully lighted by electricity,” and over the swimming pool were 5,750-watt nitrogen lamps, “brighter than day.”
There were several exits. There were front and back balconies.
The bandstand was directly above the main entrance and included “a magnificent” Tonawanda automatic orchestra valued at about $3,000. According to in2013dollars.com, $3,000 then could buy what $53,977.37 does today, so this was most assuredly a pricey piece a step above a simple player piano. This fancy device furnished music for dancing and also for the roller-skaters.
The price of admission — 25 cents — included a swimsuit and towel. This was a smart service when “bathing costumes” were specialty garments. Joyland loaned out men’s and women’s suits. The on-site sterilizing laundry could clean, dry and sterilize a suit in 15 minutes.
Most importantly, Lippincott had separate swim times for males and females, and free swimming lessons for everyone.
LIFESAVERS
Another novelty was a room devoted to the Arkansas River District of the American Life Saving Society. Headquartered in New York, this volunteer organization was supported by its 1,000 members’ $1 annual dues and a Congressional appropriation.
The July 11, 1923, Democrat reported that the local branch had formed the year before with 25 members and headquarters at 406 Main St. Now it also had a headquarters at Joyland (two heads being better than one).
Members’ duty was to render first aid to the injured in any emergency, and they were able to use the city’s pulmotor. This was a time-controlled respirator that alternated positive and negative air pressure. The Merchants Lighting Co. bought the first pulmotor for Little Rock in 1913 and kept it in the store, available for use by city doctors.
Contained in a case measuring 30 by 20 by 6 inches, it was as easily carried as a suitcase. The Arkansas Gazette described it Feb. 20, 1913:
“All that is necessary to revive a victim is to attach the pulmotor to an electric current, start the machine and then place the large hood or bonnet over the nostrils and mouth. The little machine driven by the electric current generates through a transformer a high voltage electric current. The current is gapped, the terminals being two heavy wire screens, and the sparks from voltage of 14,000 jump the gap. A pump forces air through the spark gap and the hot sparks consume the nitrogen and hydrogen in the air and leave only the oxygen.
“The supply of pure oxygen is taken through the machine and pumped into the lungs of the victim. The pump works mechanically, first forcing the oxygen in, then drawing it out, thus creating an artificial respiration which can be regulated in speed to suit the opinion of those in attendance.”
Lifesavers were all male and expert swimmers. Fifteen were based at Joyland, including the officers. Their commander, Irving Gottlieb, had saved 32 lives in various states and he held 22 medals for bravery.
OFF SEASON
The pool taught free swimming lessons. It held swimming contests. When fall came, roller-skating and dance parties took over. In winter, a city basketball league formed around the court. Store-sponsored teams like the Draughon School of Business Stenos battled the Deaf Mutes (ugh, 1914!) and the Joyland Invincibles and Basketeers.
Society notes reflect eager interest in pool and skating parties, and sports editors covered swimming events at Joyland routinely. It was a popular place.
Paul R. Grabiel, Democrat editor, joked in his July 12 We See By the News column that “newspaper men and others who lament the fate which keeps them from the seashore during the hot months may console themselves with the knowledge that while sharks have killed two men bathers at Atlantic Coast resorts this summer, none thus far has been sighted in the Y.M.C.A. pool or at Joyland.”
The business survived a near brush with scandal in 1915 when the trial for the managers of a prostitution ring revealed their “girls” had picked up a few men at Joyland.
And then 17-year-old William Salley died at Joyland’s pool in summer 1916. A doctor declared he’d suffered “paralysis of the heart,” and the coroner saw no need for an inquest. But the family sued for $35,114 in damages. A jury couldn’t reached a verdict in March 1917, and a new trial was set; I haven’t found a report of the outcome in the archives.
But Lippincott stepped away from running Joyland.
NEW MANAGEMENT
In or around April 1917, Nick Schmitt became proprietor and manager. He had experience at roller rinks in Louisiana and Iowa, and his first advertisements include testimonials from two former employers and a mayor. He was an impresario, staging novelty events and advertising heavily.
He added a professional female swim instructor, Mrs. Frederick M. Houdlette. For the opening night of roller skating season in October, he brought in Riggle’s roller-skating bears. These unfortunate animals were a 180-pound black bear named Babe and two cubs, Snookums and Villa. With skates strapped to their paws, they were made to roll down a ramp and do crowd-pleasing motions in the rink.
As World War I commenced, the rink became recreation for soldiers. Joyland was one of the hot spots federal agents searched for “slackers” in August 1918, when every man was supposed to carry his draft registration card on his body at all times.
Schmitt’s ads insisted upon the family friendly atmosphere, sanitation and safety of Joyland. They quoted from its rules — of which there were at least 15 — especially those that outlawed profanity. In November 1918, he brought in Baby Margaret, “the world’s greatest child skater” — only 11 years old.
But meanwhile, society notes about parties at Joyland vanished, ominous evidence of a joy-killing influence creeping over Arkansas: the great influenza pandemic of 1918.
Next time we’ll find out how Schmitt coped and gather intimations of how, in seven years, such a grand pool could be swallowed by fire.