Remembering The Shamrock

by Gene Lockard

One June morning in 1987, a man climbed onto a large building crane and brought the machine to life. He pivoted the crane on its axis, sending a heavy steel ball attached to the crane's derrick into a lazy arc. The ball slammed into the side of a large, ivory-colored building—over and over again. In a fraction of the time it took to be built, the Shamrock Hotel, once the finest hotel in Houston, was reduced to rubble, soon to be replaced by a surface parking lot for the nearby Texas Medical Center. Such is the price of progress in Houston. And with the hotel's destruction, the city lost a familiar landmark and a colorful part of its history.

The Shamrock Hotel, or simply "The Shamrock," as it was referred to by locals, was built by wildcatter oil man Glenn H. McCarthy in the mid-to-late 1940s and opened for business in the spring of 1949. The dedication ceremony was held on St. Patrick's Day, and McCarthy flew in celebrities and newsmen from across the country for the event. While fireworks exploded above the hotel grounds that evening to commemorate the occasion, spirits flowed freely inside as the general public hobnobbed with the elite. It was allegedly a wild and rambunctious affair, and the scheduled appearance of at least one Hollywood actress was canceled for her protection. Opening night at the Shamrock was for most Houstonians like nothing they had ever seen before—nor often since.

While the dedication ceremony was extravagant, the Shamrock lived up to the hype. With 1,100 rooms contained within its 18 stories, the Shamrock's proportions were more robust and sturdy than sleek and futuristic, and its massive size ensured that it dominated the surrounding area. Even the colors of the hotel stood out. McCarthy, ever the Irishman, had capped the substantial ivory-colored exterior with a green roof. Within the hotel, each guest room was painted in one of more than 60 shades of green.

On the south side of the hotel grounds was what was said to be the world's largest outdoor swimming pool, a monstrous affair measuring 165 feet long by 142 feet wide. Indeed, it was large enough to have sometimes accommodated exhibition water skiing. At one end of the pool were the usual low and high diving boards, along with a diving platform on a tower 10 meters high. The size of the pool and the landscaped grounds surrounding the pool, including many palm trees, lent an exotic, almost tropical flavor to the site.

As a child, I had yet to learn of that colossal swimming pool. My earliest recollections of the Shamrock were of its green roof, which had seemed so unusual to my youthful eyes, and the fact that I most often saw the hotel when I was with my father.

My parents were divorced, and my father would pick up my brother Mike and me on whatever weekend afternoon he had custody of us. Because he frequented different parts of town than did my mother, who offered my only other window to the world at that time, those days with my father were always an adventure of sorts, if for no other reason than because what we saw was often unfamiliar. The wide, flat intersection of Main Street and Holcombe Boulevard, where the Shamrock stood sentinel, was one such area.

My father would arrive in whatever car had recently struck his fancy, for he worked in the car business and changed vehicles frequently. Most often, he would pull up in a two-tone Cadillac or Lincoln, white and pastel-green or white and pink—combinations that were oh-so-50s and oh-so-stylish. Occasionally, Mike and I would get lucky—our father would arrive in a convertible! We would eagerly climb in the back seat and take in the sights as we cruised off on another journey. Sometimes, our destination would take us in the direction of Main Street...and the Shamrock.

In those days, I had no real interaction with the hotel, other than to view it with my brother as we rode past in our father's car, or, a few years later, to take it in while riding the bus downtown. While I always enjoyed seeing the Shamrock and its green roof as I went by, it was little more than a comforting landmark, and I seldom, if ever, thought about it otherwise.

That all changed one summer day in the mid-60s, when the Shamrock became the scene of what was to be a low-water mark for me in my pursuit of the opposite sex. Houston's heat and humidity were oppressive, and my friend Rick mentioned the Shamrock's enormous swimming pool. We began to contemplate the distaff denizens that were sure to be lounging pool side, and it took very little persuading by him for me to quickly decide his idea to crash the pool was as grand as the hotel itself. A short car ride later, we were at the hotel. With an air of importance not unlike that of the original guests flown in for the dedication ceremony, Rick and I walked inside and were soon lounging by the pool ourselves, as though we belonged there.

Our theory had been correct; it didn't take long for us to notice a significant gathering of girls about our age, lounging about while taking in the sun and reveling in the attention of the guys hanging around the pool. At first, there seemed to be little way of standing out. Then I noticed the diving platform atop the tower on the other side of the pool. Because of the size of the pool, the platform was quite a distance away, and from my vantage point, it didn't look particularly challenging. So, with just enough fanfare to attract the attention of the girls nearest us, I began to make my way to the platform.

As I drew closer, I began to realize my plan was ill-advised; the height of the diving platform seemingly growing exponentially as I neared. By the time I arrived at the bottom of the cylindrical stairs leading up the tower to the platform, I wanted out. Having attracted the attention of several curious coeds, however, I was determined to see it through, and made my way ever-more-slowly to the top.

Having never jumped off the roof of a skyscraper, I can't say for certain what it's like. However, as I walked to the end of the platform and peered down, I think I got some idea. Miraculously, that enormous swimming pool had somehow become a marginal puddle. Alas, judgment won out over pride; I shrank back and slowly made my way down, my ears burning with the cackles of pool side laughter.

Despite my debacle at the Shamrock that day, the hotel always remained a welcome sight. Unfortunately, the hotel's sheer size, its location several miles south of the downtown business district, and the rapidity with which so many structures in Houston arrive at obsolescence all but guaranteed its demise. The city's growth, which had accelerated in the 50s and 60s, shifted into high gear in the 70s. Building cranes like the one that would figure so prominently in the Shamrock's destruction had become ubiquitous around town, leveling the old and building the new. Houston was in a full-fledged boom.

Much of the growth occurred in downtown Houston, or near a business, shopping and entertainment district called the Galleria a few miles to the west. Glass-sheathed hotels—smaller and far more profitable than the Shamrock—seemingly sprang up overnight. Fewer and fewer guests spent their nights under the Shamrock's green roof. But McCarthy's grand hotel wasn't just becoming unprofitable, it was becoming something far worse. It was becoming old.

By the early 80s, Houston's boom had played out, replaced by an economic downturn that would last a decade. Fewer hotel-seeking tourists and businessmen come to town, and those who did typically checked into those newer hotels located in more convenient parts of town. The Shamrock had become a relic of the past. In 1985, it was acquired by the Texas Medical Center, Inc., which then deemed parking at the Medical Center to be inadequate. The grand old hotel nearby stood in the way of progress, which arrived in the form of a wrecking ball that morning in 1987.

I guess I should be glad that the Shamrock Hotel managed to grace the local landscape for 38 years. But I'm not. Somehow, that doesn't seem long enough