The Slow Decay of Highland Towers _ What Happened to Michigan's Forgotten Giant

There are buildings that disappear overnight. And then there are buildings that you drive past for decades and assume will always be there. Highland Towers was one of those. And as I record this, it's being demolished. Not imploded in spectacle. Not erased in a single afternoon. But dismantled. Slowly. Methodically. Floor by floor. And before it disappears completely, we need to talk about what it was. Highland Tower stands at 12850 Woodward Avenue in Highland Park, Michigan. 12 stories. Brick and reinforced concrete. Designed in the early 1930s. Visible from one of the most historic roadways in America. If you've ever driven Woodward, north out of Detroit, you've seen it. You may not have known the name, but you knew the silhouette. Highland Towers opened in 1932. And that matters. 1932 was not a moment of economic ease. The Great Depression was deepening. Industrial production was collapsing nationwide. And yet, in Highland Park, a 12 story luxury apartment building rose. Designed by architects Frank W. Weidmayer and John B. Gay. Forgive me if I mispronounce those. Highland Towers reflected late Art Deco influence. Vertical emphasis. Restrained ornament. Confidence and structure. It was not workforce housing. It was not temporary. It was marketed as modern, upscale apartment living. And that tells you something about what Highland Park believed about itself at that time. To understand Highland Towers, you have to understand Highland Park in 1932. Highland Park was not peripheral. It was central. The Ford Highland Park plant, opened in 1910, was where the moving assembly line was perfected. The Model T became industrial reality there. For years, Highland Park had one of the highest per capita incomes in the country. Population surged in the 1910s and 1920s. The tax base expanded. Confidence was real. By the time Highland Towers was conceived, Highland Park had already experienced two decades of industrial dominance. Even during the depression, there was still institutional memory of prosperity. Highland Towers was not built in desperation. It was built in expectation. There has long been a claim that Highland Towers featured one of the earliest underground parking garages in the region. Possibly even among the earliest residential underground garages in the country. Here is what we can say with confidence. The building did include underground parking, and in 1932, that was still relatively uncommon in residential high-rise construction, especially outside major coastal cities. Whether it was definitely the first nationally is difficult to confirm, but its presence is itself evidence of forward-thinking design. Highland Park was a city built by the automobile, and Highland Towers accommodated that reality underground. That was modernity. That was optimism. Highland Towers was constructed with permanence in mind. Thick masonry walls, reinforced concrete, steel integration. It was engineered to last, which is why, even after decades of vacancy, it remained standing. That durability was not accidental. It reflected the mindset of 1930s Highland Park. Build strong. Build vertical. Build like tomorrow is guaranteed. Over time, Highland Park's industrial centrality diminished. Automotive production dispersed. Population declined. The tax base shrank dramatically through the latter half of the 20th century. Highland Towers changed ownership multiple times. Maintenance varied. Utilities were eventually shut off. Residents were displaced. The building became vacant. That vacancy stretched into years, then more than a decade, then nearly two decades. Now, as demolition proceeds, you can see inside what was once hidden. Interior floors exposed. Rebar visible. Concrete fractured. The underground garage, once modern, partially filled with debris. It is strange to see a building that stood for over 90 years being dismantled in months. It reminds you how quickly permanence becomes temporary. If you lived there, if you had family who lived there, if you remember driving woodward in the 1970s, the 1980s, the 1990s, if you remember when it was still fully occupied, I would love to hear that. Because buildings don't just belong to architects. They belong to the people who moved through them. If Highland Towers meant something to you, leave it in the comments. Memory is the one thing that demolition cannot remove. Highland Towers did not close quietly. It stood. Vacant. For roughly 17 years. By the mid-2000s, utilities had been shut off. Tenants were forced to leave. The building was officially empty. And from that point forward, it entered a different chapter. Not residential. Not productive. Visible. There are abandoned buildings that disappear into industrial corridors. Highland Towers did not have that luxury. It sat directly on Woodward Avenue. Woodward is not just a street. It's Michigan's spine. Historic. Ceremonial. Observed. Every day, thousands passed by a 12-story structure with no lights inside. And when abandonment becomes visible, it becomes symbolic. Urban explorers entered. Photographs surfaced online. Peeling paint. Collapsed ceilings. Broken windows. Graffiti across once-finished walls. The underground parking garage. Flooded. Rusted. Debris filled. Elevators silent. Hallways echoing. Lobby stripped. Highland Towers transitioned from home to artifact. Vacancy accelerates deterioration. Without climate control, moisture infiltrates. Without maintenance, small leaks become structural damage. Copper theft removes infrastructure. Vandalism compounds weakness. Fires occurred during its vacant years. Engineers evaluated the structure periodically. It was solidly built. But years of exposure took their toll. Restoring a 12-story 1932 reinforced concrete building is not modest. It requires complete mechanical replacement. Plumbing overall. Electrical rebuild. Environmental remediation. Structural stabilization. Window systems. Fire suppression upgrades. Code compliance. In a strong market, with incentives and tax credits, that can pencil out. Highland Park's market realities were different. Private redevelopment interests fluctuated. But sustained capital at the level required never materialized. And every year that passed made restoration more expensive. Time is the most expensive line item in preservation. Over those 17 years, Highland Towers became shorthand. For blight. For decline. For missed opportunity. But buildings do not volunteer to become symbols. They absorb narratives. It was easier to point to the tower than to unpack the larger structural shifts that shaped Highland Park. Industrial decentralization. Population loss. Municipal strain. Complex forces. A visible high rise is simple. If you remember it occupied. If you explored it. If you drove past it daily. Share that. Because these years, the vacant years, are part of the story too. Eventually, the conversation shifted. From could it be saved? To what must be done? As this episode is recorded, Highland Towers is being demolished. Not with spectacle, but carefully. Deliberately. Piece by piece. Heavy machinery sits where residents once parked. Equipment climbs the structure from the top down. Concrete breaks. Rebar exposed. Dust rising into the same woodward sky it stood beneath for 90 years. This is not drama. It is process. After nearly two decades of vacancy, the building had become a liability. Fire incidents raised alarms. Open access made trespassing persistent. For a municipality with limited resources, securing a vacant 12 story high rise was not sustainable. Demolition funding was secured. Including state assistance. Estimated around $1 million. This was not celebratory. It was necessary. Demolition is often interpreted as failure. But sometimes, it is acknowledgement. Acknowledgement that the restoration window closed. That the economics no longer aligned. That the risk outweighed the return. By the time the heavy equipment arrives, the debate has already lasted years. In this case, 17 of them. Drive woodward today, and you may notice something subtle. The skyline is shifting. Where 12 stories once stood, there is partial absence. Each week, less remains. And there is something deeply human about watching permanence dissolve. Cities are not static. They are negotiated. Highland Towers rose because Highland Park believed in itself. It is coming down because that belief, at least in its original industrial form, shifted long ago. In the early 20th century, Highland Park was an industrial powerhouse. Population peaked at over 50,000. Factories thrived. Schools were funded. Infrastructure expanded. But when manufacturing decentralized, Highland Park was hit disproportionately. Population fell dramatically. The tax base contracted. Highland Towers deteriorated within a shrinking ecosystem. The lesson here is timing. Preservation must happen early. When vacancy begins, that is the moment for action. Because once abandonment stretches past a decade, the economics shift rapidly. And sentiment rarely overcomes exponential cost. Demolition does not erase history. It removes the structure. The photographs remain. The drawings remain. The stories remain. If enough people tell them. If you remember Highland Park in the 1960s. If you remember visiting someone in Highland Towers. If you simply remember when it still felt modern. Leave that memory here. Because when the building is gone, your story is what remains. Highland Towers rose in 1932 because Highland Park believed in permanence. It stood for 91 years. It waited 17. And now, it is being dismantled. Not erased from history, but transitioning from structure to story. Cities are living systems. Buildings are chapters. Highland Towers is closing its chapter. The question now is, what story will replace it? This has been Stories We Keep. I'm Chris Hubble, founder of History Loves Company, and a Michigan-based realtor who believes buildings deserve context before they disappear. If this story meant something to you, follow along. Share your memories. History loves company. And these are the stories we keep.