COALVILLE — The Daughters of Utah Pioneers (DUP) Museum is one of the first sights to greet visitors from Interstate 80. Situated beneath a signboard reading "Welcome to Coalville," it's hard to miss.

To its north lies the historic district, which retains a charming, small-town character. To its south is a clash of modern houses, trailer homes and Victorian originals.

"It's a town where everybody knows everybody," says Ramona Pace, Coalville's DUP Camp Captain.

At their museum, the DUP conducts tours of historical sites and looks after an array of pioneer keepsakes. It's a cause summarized by a sign above the entryway: "A people who forgets its heritage soon has none."

In that spirit, Pace is currently engaged in preservation efforts for a white-frame chapel in the northeast of town. Completed in 1909, the Cluff House was built for the old Coalville East Latter-day Saint Ward and used for local events before falling into disrepair.

After previously forming a nonprofit—The Cluff House Inc.—to restore the chapel, Pace is eager to restart the project after some dormancy. Restoring and maintaining a historical building can be complicated, but Pace looks forward to what may be accomplished.

"We were working to raise funds but ran out of money, so things have paused," she related to City Weekly in a recent interview. "I'm hoping to get back on that."

The Cluff House stands on the threshold of renewed life as a modern community hub, and its preservation would add a new chapter to a fraught history of architectural preservation in Coalville.

Some of the town's historic buildings have been saved through relocation and adaptive reuse, like the Old Rock Schoolhouse that now greets guests at Lagoon's Pioneer Village. But others were lost—most notably the old Coalville Tabernacle.

Indeed, the Tabernacle episode forever changed Utah preservation by spurring specialists and locals into action during the early 1970s, after a Latter-day Saint stake president hastened the building's destruction.

The debate over whether to renovate or replace the unique LDS meetinghouse split the Coalville community, leaving deep and lasting scars. According to Pace, it hinged on how "user-friendly" the Tabernacle building was for modern needs, highlighting the tension between practical utility and aesthetic/cultural value that underlines virtually every effort around preservation and redevelopment.

After all, things inevitably do and will change—but a society that forgets its heritage might also someday awaken to find that something precious has been lost.

Collision Course
Settled in the 1850s, the community of Coalville organized into an LDS stake (or area diocese) in 1877 as the Summit Stake. The following year, the Stake (which extended into Wyoming at the time) launched an effort to construct a meetinghouse.

Designed by architect Thomas L. Allen (1849-1928), the Coalville Tabernacle was built of 600,000 hand-rubbed bricks and 75,000 feet of timber, with labor, supplies and produce donated from stake members. Fitted with 14 towers, sandstone trimmings, imported Belgian stained glass windows, a pipe organ and elaborate interior decorations by Norwegian artist Christian Olsen (1858-1942), the building was completed in 1899.

For the generations that followed, noted a 1966 history of the Summit Stake, the Coalville Tabernacle stood as "an edifice of imposing beauty," the refined Gothic haven of the community.

Coalville resident Joan Judd certainly remembers the building that way. "The activities we had!" she exclaimed to City Weekly. "The Gold and Green Balls, Mutual Improvement Association, road shows. We did everything in that building."

Judd was particularly struck by the intricate interior design, like the painted bust portraits of early LDS church leaders that adorned the ceiling. "I thought how lucky we were to have those things," she recalled.

But even in her youth, Judd knew the building was having difficulty providing for the wards (local congregations) that used it. And by then, the Tabernacle had already been dramatically remodeled in the 1940s as a means of extending its lifespan. That renovation removed the organ and balconies, added classrooms and installed the floor of Coalville's old opera house to bisect the main hall, creating a second level.

Judd can remember her father saying that "the day they took the balcony out, they destroyed the character of the stake center." It was a problem that was apparent to many.

"Had the great single hall remained, and had it been properly maintained, it could have been incorporated into a new stake center complex without excessive costs," wrote Edward Geary for the Winter 1970 issue of Dialogue. "Even in remodeled form, the Tabernacle failed to meet the needs of a two-ward chapel and stake house. The chapel was too small; the classrooms were cramped and few in number; the recreation hall was unsuitable for basketball and too far away from the kitchen (in the basement) for banquets."

Utah's Penn Station
Emily Utt serves as curator of historic sites for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Regarding the Coalville Tabernacle, she noted a number of factors that contributed to the building's fate.

Utt says that with a "backlog of maintenance" to aging infrastructure and a demand for new construction nationwide following WWII, the push by many Americans was for the "shiny and new." New York's demolition of Pennsylvania Station, however, galvanized a larger preservation movement that culminated in the National Historic Preservation Act of 1966.

"When preservation becomes a sticking point in Utah, it takes us a few years to catch up and figure out what we're trying to do," Utt said. "The Coalville Tabernacle was our Penn Station. It was that moment when we realized locally this is not just 'another person' issue, this is our issue. It's hard that you often have to lose something so monumental to realize that the conversation is local."

Utt explained that in the 1960s, the LDS church was evolving as a corporation and—particularly with historical preservation—there was neither a clear policy nor professional preservationists in place. In a 1961 letter, the church's Building Department communicated with Coalville's ecclesiastical leaders to consider their options with the Tabernacle.

These being the days when local congregations chipped in a sizable percentage of project costs—and the rural stake's membership then hovered around 2,100—the Building Department stated that "the entire local membership" would need to reach full agreement of whatever course they took: "This can be most effectively solicited at a special meeting, other than a sacrament service, where the members of the Wards may feel free to discuss the scope of the project and their obligations."

Talks stalled for the next few years as church leaders mulled whether to remodel the building or just raise an entirely new structure elsewhere. By early 1970, Summit Stake President Reed Brown (1915-2000) reasserted appeals to the Building Department for a meetinghouse that would meet capacity needs, thinking that any decision on the Tabernacle could be delayed until after a new structure was completed. The Department responded that the older building had to be dealt with before they considered anything new.

According to Geary, local preservation officials kept in touch with Brown through the first half of 1970, even succeeding in listing the Coalville Tabernacle on the State Register of Historic Sites and the National Register. But then a period of "bad communications" and buck-passing ensued.

"Those who could have offered concrete proposals [about the Tabernacle] were unaware of what was happening, and as they gradually grew aware they were unable to reach Church leaders with their suggestions," Geary wrote. "Those who were making the decisions were cut off from the expert advice of anyone besides the Church Building Committee, which has almost invariably in recent years preferred building anew to remodeling or adapting."

Fall of a Landmark
On the advice of the Building Committee, Brown narrowed his choices: sell the building, as had been done at the time with Heber City's tabernacle, or demolish and replace.

Seeing as the Heber building was then in poor condition under new ownership, Brown opted for the latter course, submitting his plan to the church's First Presidency and Building Department and obtaining demolition approval by early December.

Presenting the plan publicly and claiming "unanimous" approval based on the perceived response at one Dec. 20 priesthood meeting, Brown forged ahead while others in the community were aghast.

"It saddens me," remarked Utah Historical Society director Charles Peterson to the Summit County Bee, "that so many of the fine structures characterizing the Mormon achievement as founders of towns are being torn down."

Bernett Smith (1894-1981), captain of the Coalville DUP, took action. With her associate Mabel Larsen (1898-1989), they circulated a petition among the stake membership in opposition to Brown's plan.

Larsen reported that 55 percent of the stake's adult members signed their petition. But Brown denied such a percentage accurately reflected the stake, later dismissing those who did sign as "inactive members."

"I will not be intimidated by anyone, as long as I am standing up for what I think is right," Larsen told The Salt Lake Tribune. "This action is in no way a criticism of the LDS Church ... I don't want to start something that will discredit our stake or our stake presidency, but so many people have told us that they want to sign but they are afraid of the reaction of their bishop or stake presidency."

The issue was covered extensively by newspapers and broadcast nationwide. While Brown lined up bids for disassemblers, protestors picketed in Salt Lake City and the DUP retained lawyer Thomas Blonquist (1938-2011), who filed a temporary injunction to halt the Feb. 19 demolition. The request was granted by the Fourth District Court, pending a March 1 hearing.

Defensive against claims that a majority of the Summit Stake opposed demolition, Brown called for meetings to be held stake-wide on Feb. 28 for members to vote either for or against the proposed plan.

"This meeting will not be open for public discussion," read the notice, attached to a statement listing why a new facility was preferable.

The meetings proved a disappointment to preservationists, resulting in a majority of attendants who favored Brown's plan. That said, Chad Dobson, a student in attendance, alleged at the time that children in arms had been counted in the tally and no alternatives to demolition were raised.

When Blonquist's injunction died in court, Brown proposed a "cooling off" period before any other actions were taken. Blonquist deferred further injunctions while preservation committee member David Fitzen (1935-2018) negotiated with Brown.

But then, in the early morning of March 3, the citizens of Coalville awakened to find the Tabernacle's dismantling was already underway by individuals surreptitiously selected by Brown. "The opinion and attitude of Coalville residents could be termed 'bitter' and 'surprised,' according to queries directed at local people," wrote the Daily Utah Chronicle. "'I hope a brick falls on their heads,' and 'we'll never have anything like it again—they're taking it from us,' were some expressions."

Others entered the building, bringing food for the workmen and to ask for mementos.

"Before work stopped 7 ½ hours later," the Tribune reported, "they had stripped the interior of the tabernacle. All the furniture had been taken out, the stained glass windows removed, the carpeting lifted, and two of the five pictures on the ceiling were out and one other partially removed."

Letters flooded into newspapers, including from Larsen, who thundered in the Summit County Bee: "Like thieves in the night you stole into a House of God, and crushed its heart out."

Joan Judd's husband assisted in removing the building's glass and paintings, as did Ramona Pace's father-in-law. Both assert that utmost care was pursued by the group, who rescued the relics for installation to the new building.

Judd can recall harsh sentiments lingering for some time after that day, but personally felt at peace once the modern meetinghouse was completed.

"Not everybody felt that," she conceded. "Anger takes a lot of time to heal."

Bernett Smith later wrote that she was "heartbroken" by the loss, "But there was nothing more I could do. I knew we needed a church, so after the new building was built, though it hurt, I attended church there."

Loved and Lost
Allen Roberts never got to see the Coalville Tabernacle, but its destruction spawned his career. "I was a student at BYU," the retired architect recalls, "a second year junior without a major."

Drawn to the school's architectural program and sympathetic to factions on campus in support of saving the Tabernacle, Roberts found his life's work in preservation and restoration.

"It was this very event," he emphasized. "If it hadn't happened, I may not have gone in that direction. It caused me to think, 'are there so many of these great buildings that we can tear them down with impunity and it doesn't matter?'"

For 50 years, Roberts was instrumental in preserving Utah's historical architecture—including tabernacles and chapels. Whatever the structure, he points out, the key to its preservation is in finding a compatible use for it with a new occupant once its original purpose has been outlived.

"It's actually less expensive to renovate a building than to build a new one," he said, noting that the superstructure is already in place. Even with modern improvements and upgrades, he remarked that among the projects he's worked on, "virtually all of them were less expensive to renovate and restore than to tear it down and build new construction."

Roberts remains unconvinced that there were no alternatives for the Tabernacle. In the wake of the controversy, he and colleague Paul Anderson worked with church officials on the organization's first preservation roster with an eye for architectural significance. It laid the foundation for a roster that has since expanded, which is "a lot more global and a lot more cultural," in Utt's description.

"There will be people who just care about the future and there are those on the other side who want to save everything," Utt adds. "Somewhere in the middle is where good preservation philosophy happens. You have to demonstrate usefulness to those who don't care and you have to give technical training to those who just love everything to help guide and focus their efforts."

It's a tension she considers "healthy" for any group.

"When I listen too much to the accountants, we lose something of value," Utt explained, "and when I listen too much to the community I also lose a sense of [a building's] usefulness."

Even then, what's considered "useful" shifts. For Utt, many of the greatest preservation successes have occurred outside public view, with buildings few knew were ever at risk.

Brandy Strand has experienced that "healthy tension" too. As executive director of Preservation Utah, she's learned to be more approachable and collaborative with preservation advocates and property owners, for both have valid concerns.

"There is no one absolute way that a historic built environment should be preserved and protected," Strand remarked.

City standards differ and initiatives like the Utah Main Street Program go a long way, she said, but preservation really comes down to a local community, both to advocate for a building as well as in keeping it vibrant.

"I don't believe you should do preservation work to communities," Strand said, "you should do it with them."

Roberts adds that good preservation education is essential "at all levels of every institution." This sort of knowledge isn't cumulative, he stressed, and has to be relearned.

A loss like Coalville "sets an example," he says, "but so does a success."