ハリスバーグ オーディオツアー：鉄道、大理石、そして議事堂の伝説

Picture the unique energy here: mornings are filled with the sounds of musicians tuning, dancers warming up, and artists sketching away in studio-based classes. Afternoons switch gears to a whirl of interdisciplinary collaboration-imagine a filmmaker working with a writer and a dancer, all prepping for a one-night-only show at the Whitaker Center. Getting in isn’t just a matter of filling out a form-prospective students have to audition and, if too many apply, there’s a little drama of a literal lottery draw! CASA draws its talented crew from all over Dauphin, Cumberland, and Perry counties, and since 2010, aspiring writers got their own creative writing program. Who needs a boring old classroom when you’ve got downtown Harrisburg as your canvas?

Back when it opened in 1966, this building was just called the Federal Building-simple and to the point. But in 2004, with a flourish of patriotism, it was renamed in honor of President Ronald Reagan. If these walls could talk, they’d have some stories about federal justice. The United States District Court for the Middle District of Pennsylvania used to call this place home, overseeing court cases from about half the state-so you can bet there was always a bit of legal drama inside. But nothing stays the same for long! By 1993, folks realized this federal building was getting a bit cozy, and everyone started dreaming big about a brand new courthouse. There were debates, community protests, and more plot twists than a courtroom drama show, especially when proposed sites threatened local neighborhoods. Eventually, after years of back-and-forth and a few good mayoral speeches, a new spot at North 6th and Reily was chosen for the future courthouse. In recent years, the old Federal Building got ready for a new act-no more judges, but maybe the occasional pool party. Sold to new investors, it’s being transformed into “The Federal,” a swanky spot with luxury apartments, rooftop pools, bars, and even two restaurants. It’s proof that in Harrisburg, history doesn’t just stand still-it moves in, redecorates, and probably hosts brunch on Sundays.

Take a good look at this impressive building in front of you-Harrisburg Technical High School, or as it’s sometimes known, Old City Hall. This place has worn many hats over the years, and probably a few mortarboards too! Imagine Harrisburg, over a hundred years ago-a city humming with industry, its factories churning out dreams as well as gears and gadgets. The city leaders were watching how schools in Philadelphia and D.C. were teaching kids to work with their hands-not just their heads. So, in 1905, Harrisburg decided it needed its own space for “manual training,” and expanded the old DeWitt School right here to house all sorts of heavy machinery. And yes, it was as noisy as you’d imagine-think machines thumping and kids learning trades that powered the city. The old front of the school got retired (knocked down, to be honest), and in 1910, this sturdy four-story building rose up-designed by Harrisburg’s own Charles Howard Lloyd, using plenty of local brownstone, some from Hummelstown. Whether students were practicing carpentry or figuring out engines, there was always something buzzing. But the story doesn’t end there! Sports fans, this place had a football team to be reckoned with. The Tech Maroons, under Coach Paul G. Smith, won 21 games in a row-undefeated seasons in 1918 and 1919! Johnny Kitzmiller was a star, racking up 21 points in a championship game. I guess you could say they really “schooled” the competition! Even when the city grew too big for one school and Harrisburg Technical shut its classroom doors in 1926, the building just shrugged and carried on. It became City Hall, and then, as the years marched on, got another makeover as apartments. Demand for chalkboards may change, but a beautiful brownstone building? Always in style.

Back in 1929, when the Pennsylvania Railroad built this place, railroads were the rock stars of transportation. All those tracks once merged right near here, meaning Harris Tower’s operators had to keep an eagle eye on every signal and switch-or risk chaos on the rails. On the second floor, you’ll find a mechanical giant: the Union Switch & Signal Model 14 interlocking machine. It’s nearly 25 feet long, covered in steel levers, and used to prevent trains from playing bumper cars at high speed. Picture a stressed-out operator, hands flying over 113 levers, with a massive board glowing with more than 450 little lamps, each one showing where the trains were and which way the tracks pointed. Try not to picture them accidentally turning off the coffee machine instead of a signal light-railroads weren’t built for decaf emergencies. During its busiest days in the 1940s, Harris Tower was the portal for passenger and freight trains from all across the northeast heading west. It even marked the last stop for electric locomotives before they were swapped for steam or diesel for the climb past the mountains. Now here’s something wild: before Harris Tower replaced three older towers in 1930, it took 21 people to juggle the maze of tracks. With Harris Tower, that number dropped to 12-though I suspect lunchtime still meant a jam at the sandwich shop. But time brings change. In 1989, with the advent of computers and new signaling, Harris Tower found itself in semi-retirement, controlling just four Amtrak trains a day. By 1991, its last signalman packed up his lantern and the magic of steel bars and lamps gave way to digital control rooms elsewhere. Yet, the story doesn’t stop there! In 1992, the local National Railway Historical Society saved Harris Tower and turned it into a museum. Today, you can even play signal operator yourself, running simulated trains just like the old days-minus the possibility of an actual train pileup. So, while those levers no longer decide the fate of real locomotives, Harris Tower stands watch as a living memory for railfans and the simply curious. Just don’t try to pull any levers without permission-the last thing we need is a simulated traffic jam!

Back then, the library was for General Assembly folks to share books-though, let’s just say, the House and Senate weren’t always the best at sharing. For years, each group collected books like rival baseball card collectors-no tradesies! Finally, in 1816, Governor Simon Snyder decided enough was enough. He signed an act to merge their stashes, fund the whole thing, and even appoint a librarian-cue the sound of eager footsteps as the two troves came together. When Harrisburg became the new capital in 1822, the collection moved here, perching proudly on the second floor of the old building. Sadly, for decades, the library was just a legislative warehouse, not a treasure trove for all. Cue William Henry Egle-think of him as the Indiana Jones of Pennsylvania books. He spotted fire hazards, shoddy electrical wires, and probably the ghost of lost paperwork. He campaigned for more space and, with some serious muscle (and help from the governor), relocated over 100,000 books before disaster struck. In 1897, fire ripped through the old capitol-flames licking at what history remained. Fortunately, most of the collection had been saved by Egle’s daring move! The 20th century brought new heroes. George E. Reed made a catalog so thorough he probably knew the library’s books better than his own family photos. Then came Thomas Lynch Montgomery, who expanded the reach, diversified collections, and even helped birth the State Archives and the State Museum. Talk about a multitasker! Since 1931, this grand location at Commonwealth Avenue and Walnut Street has welcomed everyone-from lawmakers to ordinary citizens hungry for knowledge. Its mission? To hold, preserve, and share our written heritage, making sure every Pennsylvanian’s story can find a page and a place

Let your eyes wander to the bridge’s west end - do you see those enormous pylons reaching up 145 feet into the sky, one perched with an eagle for the Army, one with an eagle for the Navy? Lee Lawrie, a sculptor whose hands touched everything from New York skyscrapers to this very bridge, crafted these guardians. Each eagle stands 21 feet tall and weighs a whopping 300 short tons - that’s about as heavy as an entire herd of elephants. Talk about “watching over Harrisburg”! Now, let’s step back in time. After the state capitol burned to the ground in 1897 - yes, the whole thing! - Harrisburg was determined to rebuild bigger and bolder. Plans danced around for years, drawn up by the visionary Arnold Brunner. But then: World War I broke out, and everything slammed to a halt. Only when the dust settled in 1919 did Pennsylvania decide this new bridge should double as a grand memorial, honoring the brave souls from the state who served in the Great War. The legislature wrote up the plans, signed the checks, and, with a few design tweaks by William Gehron and Sidney Ross, construction finally got underway in 1925. It wasn’t just about architecture - it was about meaning. You’ll spot the years of eight different wars stamped on the pylons, and humming along the length of the bridge are carvings of World War I weaponry, nodding to the new and terrifying machines that changed the world. And here’s a little twist for fans of “what could have been”: the original plans even included a museum underneath the western end, meant to hold Pennsylvania’s battle flags and the names of everyone from the state who fought. Wouldn’t that have been amazing to explore? So while you’re standing here, feel the history that echoes under each step: from tragedy to triumph, memorial to modern-day masterpiece. And remember - if those eagle statues are ever missing, don’t worry, they’re just out for a flight over the Susquehanna!

You’re standing outside the Pennsylvania State Senate-home of some of the most serious lawmaking in the state, and probably a few legendary coffee runs. Imagine this: it’s 1791, and the Senate first gathers in Harrisburg. The city is buzzing as citizens gather, voices rising with hope-and maybe a few debates about who makes the best shoofly pie. Fifty senators now serve here, each representing over 250,000 Pennsylvanians-so you could say it’s a pretty exclusive club, with only slightly more drama than your neighborhood association meeting. Senators are elected for four years, but not all at once; they stagger their elections to keep things fresh-half of them face the voters every two years. Odd and even districts take turns, so campaigning never really goes out of style here. The lieutenant governor oversees the Senate, but gets to vote only if there’s a tie-just like that one friend who only appears when pizza’s on the line. And if something happens to the lieutenant governor, the president pro tempore steps right in-double duty, and double the headaches! To be a senator, you need to be at least 25, a U.S. citizen, a Pennsylvania resident for four years, and live in your district for a year before the election. So, as you gaze up at these grand halls, just imagine centuries of passionate debate, close calls, and maybe even a little political mischief echoing through these walls. Now, isn’t democracy a noisy, lively thing?

Alright, here we are, standing before the Pennsylvania State Capitol’s famous sculpture groups-the marble masterpieces that have silently observed more drama than a soap opera since their arrival in 1911. Take a second to marvel at the larger-than-life figures resting on each side of the grand entrance. These aren’t just ordinary statues. Nope! You’re about to meet the legacy-and a little bit of the scandal-behind these works, by George Grey Barnard. Let’s set the scene, Harrisburg-style. Picture it: It’s 1902. Architect Joseph Miller Huston taps Barnard, a sculptor with a big imagination, for the Capitol’s exterior art. The original plan? Eight grand groups of figures at every entrance and a colossal bronze scene up top so big, even the birds would stop to gawk. Too bad the budget for this epic vision was $700,000-just slightly more than what the state was willing to fork over. So, they settled on the two gigantic marble groups you see today. Let’s be honest, even politicians had to agree-less is more when sculpted in heavy marble! Barnard and family packed up and moved to France, setting up his studio in a barn that saw more clay models and artistic frustration than farm animals. Imagine Barnard and up to fifteen assistants, working away and waiting… waiting for money that wasn’t arriving. The Capitol project was entangled in financial chaos-so much so that people actually ended up in jail. Desperate to keep the chisels moving, Barnard started collecting and selling old Gothic sculptures he found dotting the French countryside. That’s commitment! After years of modeling figures in clay and plaster, the sculptures were finally carved out of dazzling Carrara marble in New York by the Piccirilli Brothers-yes, the same folks who cranked out the Lincoln Memorial. Once completed, the works made a star appearance at the Paris Salon, where critics couldn’t decide if Barnard was the next Rodin or just a marble maniac. Either way, he was a hit. When the statues shipped back across the Atlantic and landed in Harrisburg, they caused quite a stir-for a different reason. Here comes the juicy part. Barnard’s sculptures are, shall we say, uninhibited. Of the 30 figures in the two groups, 27 are definitely not hiding behind any marble curtains. The southern group, called "The Burden of Life: The Broken Law," depicts all the hardships mankind bears-grief, despair, toil, with Adam and Eve overseeing the whole drama. The north group, "Love and Labor: The Unbroken Law," celebrates the brighter side-family bonds, education, hope… and a very sturdy marble farmer with his wife. But some folks in Harrisburg weren’t exactly ready for so much anatomy on display. Even the Capitol’s birds may have blushed! Legislators wanted the nudity covered. At one point, someone slapped on plaster shorts-but that, let’s be honest, looked even sillier than socks with sandals. And get this: before marble modesty panels were added to the men’s statues, canvas tents went up to block the curious public while changes were made. But the art lovers of Harrisburg were having none of that, and on a Sunday, cut down the walls to get a peek! The real punchline? Even with the marble coverings, those statues still made quite the impression at the grand unveiling in October 1911. Barnard’s idea was this: only in the nude could he express life’s extremes-the suffering, the hope, the love, and the sense of future. Anything more covered up, he said, would just turn the statues into marble dummies. He won over most women in town-who, he claimed, had the better artistic sense anyway! So, next time you pass by these twin marble storytellers, know you’re seeing more than just stone. They stand as a testament to artistic vision, a crash course in Capitol politics, and just maybe, the boldness to bare it all for the sake of art. Now, let’s see what stories the rest of Harrisburg has in store!

Here we are at the Episcopal Diocese of Central Pennsylvania, where the spirit of history is as strong as a bishop’s handshake. Imagine the streets of Harrisburg back in 1904-horse-drawn carriages rattling by, church bells ringing, and a lot of excitement. That was the year the Diocese of Harrisburg formally separated from the original Diocese of Central Pennsylvania. Talk about a spiritual split decision! The diocese’s heart beats right here at St. Stephen’s Episcopal Cathedral on North Front Street. Through the years, this community watched as the first boys’ choir broke into song in the 1880s-picture bright choir robes and slightly off-key notes drifting from a church window. Fast forward to the 1970s, and the diocese cleverly reclaimed its old name-just when everyone had finally updated their address books. And here’s a twist worthy of a family reunion: after decades apart, the Dioceses of Central Pennsylvania and Bethlehem voted in 2024 to reunify, soon to be called the Diocese of the Susquehanna. The story here isn’t just old buildings and bishops; it’s about adapting, splitting, reuniting, and a touch of divine comedy. If you spot a bishop hurrying by, don’t worry-they’re probably just late for choir practice!

Here we are, in front of the grand Cathedral of Saint Patrick-the heart and soul of Catholic Harrisburg. Picture this: it’s the early 1800s, there’s nothing here but wild land, and the Catholics who gathered in Harrisburg could probably fit around a dinner table-no RSVP required! Their first little chapel appeared in 1813, and just a decade later, thanks to an influx of Irish immigrants, the Rev. Patrick Leary scooped up this very spot on State Street. By 1826, the community laid the cornerstone for their own St. Patrick’s Church-cost? A modest $6,500. Not bad, considering you can barely buy a used car for that nowadays! If you listen closely, you might just hear the faint echoes of early-day festivities and hymns as people gathered from near and far. Even St. John Neumann, Bishop of Philadelphia, visited this parish back in the booming 1850s, when horse-drawn wagons rattled up and down these streets. Now, fast-forward to 1902: Harrisburg’s Catholics are dreaming bigger-so Bishop John W. Shanahan rallies his flock to build a cathedral worthy of the growing city. Construction breaks ground in 1904. And, talk about dedication-bodies from the parish cemetery were respectfully moved to Mount Calvary Cemetery so the cathedral could rise in their place. In just three years, and for a whopping $250,000, the Cathedral of Saint Patrick was completed-a price tag that would send a fundraising committee’s hair standing on end! Take a look at those solid granite walls, shipped all the way from North Carolina, the Baroque Revival curves and Renaissance flourishes, and that glorious dome. Step inside, and you’d be greeted by a swirl of oriental and Connemara marble, forty-four brilliant stained glass windows from Munich, and a nave lined with mighty granite columns. The altar borrows inspiration from Bernini’s masterpiece in Rome, and up in the dome, frescoes gaze down with wisdom-St. Jerome, Augustine, Gregory, and Ambrose, just keeping an eye on things. With every renovation, from the frescoes added in 1950 to the chancel’s reworking in the 1970s, the cathedral has lived and breathed with the city. Shrines tucked throughout honor the bishops and saints who shaped the community-there’s even a shrine to Saint Katherine Drexel right in the portico. And don’t forget to read the inscription around the dome’s lower rim: “Behold, I am with you all days, even to the consummation of the world.” Powerful words, wouldn’t you agree? The Cathedral of Saint Patrick truly is a living story: part soaring architecture, part spiritual heartbeat, and part Harrisburg’s own family album-where every echo, every marble column, and every stained window has a tale to tell. Now, that’s a finale worth a hallelujah, if you ask me!