Last year, in preparation for writing about the history and architecture of the Busch Mansion at Grant’s Farm, this author took a preliminary tour offered of the “Big House’s” grounds, past the prying eyes of regular visitors. As related last year, the giant, Teutonic house did not fail to impress, but then, out of the corner of the author’s eye, he spotted a strange anomaly on the august façade. There, sticking out of a second floor window, a large window air conditioner sat, dripping water unceremoniously down the side of the castle.
“Wait, doesn’t the mansion have central air? Why is there a window air conditioner up there?” this author asked. The guide politely stated that even with the best air and heating systems in the world, in such a large house such as this, there was always going to be a room here and there that didn’t quite get enough heat or cold at different times of the year. This room in particular, probably a bedroom, got the short end of the stick, so to speak. The window air conditioner, therefore, was needed.
Reading the recent news about the heirs of August “Gussie” Busch Jr. disagreeing over the future of Grant’s Farm, that window air conditioner came back to mind. Running such a huge enterprise such as the Big House and the surrounding estate must be a truly daunting task, and there is certainly always a long list of repairs and adaptations keeping the staff busy.
But the image of that window air conditioner also seemed significant in moral, allegorical, and philosophical ways. There are six heirs to Gussie Busch’s estate, and each of them have their own lives, many of them scattered throughout the United States from Texas to Virginia. How is it possible to “get the right temperature” in a figurative house? It is a constant battle to keep every resident happy.
Over the Thanksgiving break, this author was reading Under the Influence, the infamous, unauthorized biography of the Anheuser-Busch family written by two St. Louis Post-Dispatch journalists. While there are serious questions of the overall accuracy of some passages of the book, one passage on page 404 struck this author, which dealt with the division of Gussie’s estate among the six children from his third marriage after his death in 1989:
“Friends of the family recalling the words of August A. [Busch Sr.] over 75 years earlier, predicted the arrangement would brew trouble.”
Those words, though without a citation to their source, have proven prophetic. Earlier this week, the Post-Dispatch published another article on the ongoing controversy; family members who support selling Grant’s Farm to the Zoo claimed they have seen blueprints for the division of the estate into a housing development. Billy Busch, who is currently attempting to buy out his siblings, has stated that this would never happen (it’s interesting to note that Under the Influence claims that Gussie’s hope was that one child would eventually do just that).
The loss of Grant’s Farm, carved up into banal McMansions, is not beyond the realm of possibility. As this author once mused on the destruction of the once vibrant and legendary Gaslight Square, nothing in St. Louis, no matter how precious it is, lies beyond the reach of annihilation. Just look to the other beer barons’ estates that once dotted the bluffs of the Meramec River Valley only a couple of miles from Grant’s Farm; their loss did not occur during the suburban building booms of the 1950s and ’60s, but just in the last 20 years. Edwin Lemp’s Cragwold, once a stately mansion with a large animal park much in the same vein as the Busch estate, was mostly carved up into a subdivision in the 1990s. Further downriver, his brother William’s Alswel has been carved up into The Enclave, perhaps one of the laziest and most pretentious names for a subdivision in St. Louis development history. And finally, Rock Alva, the home of the Griesediecks of Falstaff fame, was ingloriously destroyed for a new housing development in just the last 10 years. According to an article, that was expressly against the wishes of Monsignor Ed Griesedieck, who had given the property to the Paracletes under the understanding his family’s estate would remain intact. The Paracletes instead sold the entire property to a developer. So much for promises.
One thing is for certain: the good old days of always assuming Grant’s Farm as we know it will be around forever are rapidly coming to an end, possibly within a year or two from now. Hopefully the heirs are able to come to an amicable solution. If this author had to predict the future, Grant’s Farm will pass to Billy Busch, and we will be drinking free samples of Kräftig in the Bauernhof. But if the sale to Billy fails, and the Zoo becomes the next buyer up at the plate, St. Louisans need to carefully consider whether or not to approve a new tax that will allow for the proposed expansion. And the people of St. Louis need to pay attention. The last thing this author wants to see in the newspaper a few years from now is an advertisement for bland, uninspired McMansions in the new Enclave at Grant’s Farm.
UPDATE, December 2, 4:38 p.m.: File this under “truth is stranger than fiction”: as it turns out, The Enclave at Grant’s Farm actually exists—you can find the Facebook page here.
Chris Naffziger writes about architecture at St. Louis Patina. Contact him via e-mail at [email protected].
