Madam Speaker, my hometown of Knoxville, Tennessee lost a great citizen and community champion recently. Wallace Baumann was a longtime friend of mine and a tireless contributor to the arts in East Tennessee. His family is an institution…
Madam Speaker, my hometown of Knoxville, Tennessee lost a great citizen and community champion recently.
Wallace Baumann was a longtime friend of mine and a tireless contributor to the arts in East Tennessee. His family is an institution in Knoxville, and the building that housed their business has been a fixture in downtown Knoxville since just after the Civil War, when Wallace's grandfather Captain W.W. Wooddruff opened the hardware and furniture store.
The store remained open through most of the 20th Century, being passed down through the generations and standing out as a downtown staple even during difficult economic times. Although the business is now gone, the unique building which housed it remains with the family name still attached. I could not imagine downtown Knoxville without this landmark.
Wallace never stopped serving his Country or his Community during his 84 years. He served during World War II in the 10th Armored Division, surviving the Battle of the Bulge.
He was also a member of many boards and organizations throughout Knoxville, most notably serving on the Knoxville Symphony Society Board. Wallace could often be found at the Tennessee Theatre, and he even personally financed the restoration of the Theatre's historic organ.
Wallace's life is a living history of Knoxville, Tennessee that I hope will not soon be forgotten. Recently, the Knoxville Publication Metro Pulse wrote of this great loss to our community, recounting how Wallace was there to see John Barrymore and Glenn Miller perform at the Bijou Theatre and witness Ingrid Bergman plant a tree on Market Square.
Madam Speaker, in closing, I would like to call to the attention of my colleagues and other readers of the Record the article by Jack Neely in Metro Pulse, which is reprinted below. I thank Wallace Baumann for his dedication and love of East Tennessee, and I will greatly miss my friend.
[From the Metro Pulse, Aug. 19, 2009]
Wallace Baumann, 1925-2009--A Memory of a Surprising Philanthropist
(By Jack Neely)
Wallace Baumann died last week. I'd seen him a few times
this summer, and he seemed more or less the same as he did
when I was first aware of who he was, sometime in the '60s.
Cheerful, well-dressed, and with a cogent remark about the
last issue of Metro Pulse.
He didn't look 84, or even 74, as several people have
observed this week; some who hadn't known him for long had
assumed he was 20 or even 30 years younger. Wallace may have
been evidence of a paradoxical truth, that while young men
look older when they wear a jacket and tie, old men look
younger. I never in my life saw Wallace without a jacket and
tie, and with prominent horn-rimmed glasses, he looked like
an executive in one of those business-office comedies of the
'60s. For the last couple of years, there's been a big
portrait of him in the Tennessee Theatre in the landing of
the right
stairway up to the balcony. He was in recent decades the
theater's biggest supporter. He directed much of the recent
painstaking restoration of the theater; he was three when it
was built, and remembered it in its earliest days. But many
weren't aware of the extent of his personal investment in the
place.
Baumann was a merchant, by trade. He was, for some decades,
the president of Woodruff's Furniture, the Gay Street
institution his great-grandfather, William Wallace Woodruff,
founded at the end of the Civil War. About 20 years ago, when
downtown retail was widely reputed to be deceased, Woodruff's
was an extravagant exception, this multi-story emporium with
inventory that seemed fresh and up-to-date. The last time I
was there--it was the early '90s, we'd just had a second kid
and needed a kid-proof dining table--I found a plausibly
trendy one at Woodruff's. It was the last time I saw a
representative of a bygone profession in my home town:
Wallace may have been our last merchant to employ elevator
operators.
The place is now the Downtown Grill and Brewery. The last
time I talked to Wallace about it, he hadn't been inside to
see his great-grandfather's building renovated as a popular
restaurant and brewpub. He seemed all right with the fact of
it, but didn't feel an urgency to look. The family name is
still on the building; Woodruff was Wallace's middle name.
Wallace and I had some sharp disagreements about some
downtown issues, but stayed friendly, and he was my handiest
resource for certain questions about the past of our shared
hometown. A lifelong bachelor, he lived alone in Sequoyah
Hills and was usually there to answer his phone. For a guy in
my position, it's been handy to have the phone number of a
person who remembered going to see John Barrymore get off the
train for his show at the Bijou, 70 years ago, and who
recalled both of Glenn Miller's shows at the Tennessee as if
they were last Tuesday. (``Wallace never said, `Ah, it was a
long time ago, I just don't remember.' '') A few months ago,
when I heard an implausible story about Ingrid Bergman
planting a dogwood tree on Market Square 40 years ago, I was
pretty confident Wallace would know something about it, and
sure enough he was right there beside her, and had a funny
story about it.
He was also an authority on architecture, though I don't
think he would have claimed to be perfectly objective on the
subject. The Baumann family, German immigrants who arrived in
East Tennessee in the mid-19th century, was arguably
Knoxville's first architectural dynasty, dominating local
commercial and institutional architecture in the late 19th
and early 20th centuries. Wallace was a Baumann who didn't
design buildings, but he was a champion of the Baumanns'
architecture. Wallace's father, who died almost half a
century ago, was the last of them. (Wallace once corrected
me, rather sternly, when in a column I referred to his father
as Albert B. Baumann Jr. That was his given name, maybe, but
Wallace told me no one ever called him anything but ``A.B.'')
Baumann was a great supporter of several civic
organizations, especially the Knoxville Symphony Orchestra,
and he could be counted on to attend each performance with a
lady friend. Even if you'd known him for decades, as I did,
you might not gather, in conversations with this elegant
gentleman in the lobby of the Tennessee, that he was a combat
veteran of World War II, a member of Combat Command B of the
10th Armored Division, one of the first to breach the
Siegfried Line. He spent much of 1944 in a foxhole near
Bastogne with an M1 for company. He hardly spoke of the war.
I never even knew he'd been in the service until he was
invited to write an article about his wartime memories, in an
especially interesting collection of memoirs of members of
First Presbyterian Church, called We Were There. It's
characteristic that in his description of the Siegfried Line,
he mentioned that he'd previously known it only from
newsreels at the Tennessee Theatre.
(That book, by the way, is as good a collection of local
memories of that war as I've seen. Bill Tate, another
contributor to that book, a B-17 navigator who was shot down
over Germany, and a survivor of a Nazi prisoner-of-war camp,
also died last week.)
Back in 2001, Baumann personally financed the complete
restoration of the theater's original Wurlitzer organ; they
sent the organ away to one of the world's top organ
technicians. Today it's said to be one of fewer than 20
concert-grade organs in America which are installed in their
original locations. Wallace was proud of that fact.
The bill came to $180,000. Wallace was a private man, and
during his life didn't want that detail to be known. I hope
it's okay to mention it now.