My interest in Victorian Architecture has long roots leading down through the history of my life. From the moment I acquired a driver’s license, I would spend hours driving the back roads through the little New England towns near my hometown, trying to find the village squares where the grandest homes were situated. From the driver’s seat of my car I would muse romantically, as sixteen-year-old girls often do, about the people who lived in those staid Colonials and fanciful Victorians. I would wonder how the town looked when the homes were still bright and fresh from their very first coat of paint. I would imagine horses and buggies traversing the cobblestoned streets, and wonder at the strength and perseverance of these early New Englanders. Sometimes I would bring a friend along to share a particularly beautiful row of antique homes, but most often I would drive alone, letting my ancient Chevy Monza take me where it would, enjoying the act of upshifting and downshifting and weaving through the curvaceous and wonderfully unpredictable hilly terrain of my youth. It was a dream-come-true for a new “stick” driver and a lover of old things.
The town I grew up in was full of old buildings as well. I was surrounded by, not only a respect for history, but also an appreciation for taking care of things that were well-used but still had much life left in them. A class visit to the two-room post office in the Town Center was where I learned how the postal system worked. That post office served our town faithfully until the town outgrew it, but the building was repurposed for another business. Not torn down, not re-developed, but re-used. I believe it is a bank branch nowadays. My Brownie days were spent memorizing the initiation rites staring into a mirror on the floor in the local Center for the Arts, formerly a church. This building was used for more activities and performances in my childhood and youth than I could possibly remember. In fact, the old Westford Academy, mentioned in a previous post, https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=8480127081676954346#editor/target=post;postID=4164671418101841723;onPublishedMenu=allposts;onClosedMenu=allposts;postNum=15;src=postname The same Westford Academy where my beloved J.W. Fiske attended, became the home of the Rodenbush Community Center where I attended art classes, dance classes, and a myriad of other interesting and enriching activities. In fact, the ORIGINAL Westford academy that predates the Rodenbush still stands and is currently used as a museum for Westford History. Where I come from, they don’t throw old buildings away just because they are old.
I grew up with hay rides on an ancient “farm” that had evolved into more of a farm store, ice cream shop, and local attraction. It has since grown into a golf course, bumper boat pond, animal adventure spot, arcade, batting cages, and event facility. Yet still the original barn and silo stand testament to the original function of the place, and are a cherished local landmark. They also serve the best homemade ice cream around. Really, you’ll have to trust me on this. A thriving and beloved local business that has become hugely successful without having to knock down and build on the ashes of its roots. In fact, it is the charm and old-time feel that brings people flocking to Kimball’s Farm.
New Englanders also don’t throw old things away just because something new has come along. There were many antique shops in town, and everyone’s family had items from those shops, as well as cherished family heirlooms; items no longer for everyday use, but special because of how important those items were for the generations who came before them. Though the milkman no longer delivered, every home on our street still had the insulated, zinc-lined milk box next to their front stoop. For me, those boxes became the repository where I was required to empty the pockets of my patched overalls, removing all of the caterpillars, snakes, salamanders, sticks, leaves, and interesting stones, and store them before I was allowed to enter our neighbor’s homes, as my friend’s mothers were less tolerant of such treasures as my own mother. Re-purposed, not removed. Every family room had “Grandmother’s Rocking Chair” and every bedroom had an old hope chest, now used as a toy chest. Dining room furniture was passed along from generation to generation, and on special occasions, the family china was set upon it. As children we were taught to treat such treasures with respect and care. While my critters and collections were not necessarily appreciated, history and tradition were an everyday, important part of life.
Though I admit that I was temporarily distracted from the history around me as I struggled to make ends meet, it was impossible not to be awed and excited about the building I entered every day in order to earn my paycheck. I had the great fortune, as I began my career as a paralegal, to be working with the Niagara Mohawk Power Company in their flagship Art Deco building in downtown Syracuse, New York. The birds-eye view I was privileged to experience was just behind the shoulders of the mythical winged “Spirit of Light” and I made sure to glance up at the serrated wings daily whenever I had a break from reviewing documents. Though the carpets were worn and the furnishings were tired, the energy emanating from that building was contagious, and I attribute that energy to the building itself. Though I was required to work with document production from all divisions, which required off-site visits to such locations as mundane modern office buildings, ancient groaning warehouses, and the nuclear reactor complex in Watertown, NY; the energy was never as intense as it was at the downtown Syracuse Art Deco building. Perhaps it was that energy that created the spark between myself and my future spouse as our paths crossed there, and the immediate electricity between us was an undeniably powerful thing that simply couldn’t be ignored. The building will always hold a special place in my soul, as it was the stage for the launching the best friendship I could ever have known, the career that sustained my early adult years, and the memories of my daughter’s innocent and beautiful infancy. Some places simply cannot be separated from the lives that they touched and the memories they created by their very existence.
It is that emptiness that haunts me as I have a strong desire to only see the potential in an old building. I no longer see the sadness and despair of an abandoned place as a portend of the future, but rather I see far back into the building’s past, to see it fresh and clean and new. That past brings me to the potential of a future for that building. I see repairs made, paint renewed, roofs patched, and activity all around. I see an old building now for what it could become, not for what it is currently. I see every piece of abandoned architecture as wasted wealth — the time and money and energy that it took to create such a thing was enormous in the era when it was built. To leave that building empty is to deny the energy and imagination that went into it in the first place. To abandon it to the elements and allow it to rot is a sin against the generations before us who used the time that they had on this earth to create it, value it, use it, and maintain it. So it is no wonder that the moment I first saw our Danville house, it was that vision that allowed me to see what the place could become. I saw past the vast monotony of white paint, inside and out. I saw past the empty rooms and rotting windows. The sparse remnants of original details evoked a richness of architectural interest. I envisioned color, furniture, and people, lives to be lived and experiences to be had inside this amazing home. It was easy to see beyond the awkward built-ins and added walls and closets to see the open spaces of the original floor plan. There was an undeniable draw to the building to bring it back to its former glory.
For those of you unable to see what I saw…
I grew up in the Danville, VA area and am so happy to see one of these wonderful homes being restored to its original beauty. Thank you for giving Danville back one its grand old homes!
The transformation is stunning! I do like the original brick so much better!! I hope that you will post pictures inside also when you`re finished!!!
Read on, there are plenty of photos of the interior progress in earlier blog posts. Enjoy!
As a life long Danville resident I can't tell you how happy it makes me that someone with architectural knowledge, and knowledge of history has redone these treasures of homes! Its such a shame for these relics to waste away and this community for the most part could care less. They don't appreciate the history and uniqueness of these homes. Not to mention that this area is VERY economically depressed and these kinds of restorations take some cash. I'm also please to see that these homes are being restored to historical accuracy. You all are amazing and have done a wonderful job! The people of this community, like myself, thank you for all your time, patience and creativity that you have brought with you! I can't wait to for the full finished product and would love to one day see it all myself! Again, thank you! Danville needs more people like yourselves!!
I grew up in Danville and had many friends who lived in homes on Millionaire's Row. But as people came and went, and the recession hit, it was so sad to watch many of these homes and buildings start to decay. Some of the prettiest homes in Danville are, unfortunately, now in neighborhoods that won't attract people who have the time and money to give them the attention they need and deserve. I'm so pleased to see your progress restoring this old beauty! 🙂
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