I have spent so much time focusing on the facts that I haven't even taken the time to try to documents the methods I've used to gain the information I've used in this blog.
As a child, I was fascinated by the wreck of the old 97. To this day, I still have my copy of the book written by Clara Garrett Fountain. I even read it to the children when I worked at the YMCA Afterschool Program in Wilmington. I'm sure most children in my generation who grew up in Danville owned the book or at least read it once. Written in 1977 and illustrated by children at Grove Park Elementary School, I don't believe there is any better way to begin a fascination with the history of your hometown.
It's that same story that lead me to explore even further in middle school. When my father worked at the Chamber of Commerce, I used to go into the archive folders and read the newspaper articles and, if I recall, a copy of the telegraph sent on that cold September day. Through those archives, I ultimately found a copy of the 1965 city plan book. Which fascinated me to no end.
Also in middle school, I got copies of the postcard history book and the Images of America book which I always enjoy flipping through and reading.
Then, in high school, my interest was renewed yet again. I moved into my first apartment, which was in an 1870s farm house. For my 17th or 18th birthday, a friend's mother gave me a copy of Victorian Danville: Fifty-Two Landmarks, Their Architecture, and History. Included in that book was the house in which I lived.
Through college, I loved reading that book and exploring the attic and "dungeon" of Ms. Gott's house. But it wasn't until after college that I realized I could make use of my mother's Ancestry.com account to get information on the house. I then learned that the Register and Bee were archived through that.
Within the past year, I finally got the opportunity to do real research at the courthouses in both Danville and Chatham. There, I was reading the actual deeds to the house. Most were typed, but others were handwritten. As Mr. Gott said, I was getting my hands dirty.
The hardest part, I think, of researching an old house is the more historical documents. When researching the newspaper online, you have to be able to account for typos. That can make searching online hard when the exact thing you need could be in any given article, but one typo means the search won't pull it up. I've lucked out a few times by a necessary article being on a page I was taken to for some other reason. It's daunting, to say the least.
When it comes down to doing the dirty work, though, deed searches are about as tedious as it gets. It's only been within the past 100 or 110 years that deeds were typed. In 1800s, the deeds were handwritten. Not only is it time consuming to decipher 130+ year old handwriting, but using indexes to look up which deed book and page to go to requires a lot of back and forth.
It's fun, though. I can honestly say I enjoy the time I spend doing this research, even if I come up empty handed. I may not find what I need, but every time I try, I learn something new and find another interesting story. And isn't that what it's all about?
Tuesday, March 27, 2012
Monday, March 26, 2012
Researching an Old House: Did I Find My Answers?
Highway 29 is the perfect road to drive when researching an old house. If you have to drive between two places, I can't picture a better road to take. The route between courthouses takes you by a number of historic buildings and houses that just seem to set the mood for researching an old house.
I immediately got to work. My first task was to find the old map located in Deed Book Q on pages 602 and 603. I had no idea whether these pages would be of use, but it was sure to be a start. The map shows how the land of Abram Wimbish was subdivided in the 1880s.
Abram Wimbish owned the house at 413 Greensboro Road, which became 413 West Main Street, and then 120 College Avenue in the 1920s. The beautiful yellow Gothic cottage was the starting point for my quest. Although the house now sits on a small parcel of land, in 1877 it sat on 81 acres land that extended from Howeland Circle to just past Virginia Avenue. There will be a more detailed entry on the house itself soon, but for now I'm going to stick to what is relevant to Ms. Gott's house.
While I was at the Danville Courthouse, I thought to snap a picture of the F.W. Beers Map of Danville and Pittsylvania County from 1877 that hangs on the wall just inside the record room. Ms. Gott's house doesn't appear on the map, but it's important when combined with the later map that a deed pointed me to.
For reference, the area that says "LARGE ORCHARD" is roughly where
Howeland Circle is today, and the "Danville Water Reservoir" is, as best
as I can ascertain, where Virginia Avenue and Mount Vernon Avenue
intersect. Another reference point would be the small stream, that runs through the property. I read of a swamp or marsh that was once at the bottom of Avondale Drive. So, I would assume where the stream crosses the train tracks is somewhere near Southampton Avenue and Stratford Place. In fact, now that I look at it, the proposed half mile race course may have become a reality. In looking at Google Maps, the curve of Westhampton Avenue seems to mimic that of the race course, but that could just be coincidence.
In the 1880s, Abram Wimbish passed away and his family was left with massive amounts of debt. In 1882, an agreement was made so that his wife, Fannie, could keep the house if the property was subdivided and the land sold at auction to satisfy the debts.The Wimbish property was divided into 5 parcels. J.T. Watson bought a triangular piece at the outer left edge of the property, extending from about the intersection of Virginia Avenue and Carolina Avenue to the train tracks, down to South Main Street, and at an angle back to Carolina Avenue. J.M. Neal and E. H. Miller bought the land that now makes up Howeland Circle, Westhampton Avenue, Stratford Place, Brockton Place, and Southampton Avenue to the train tracks. Mrs. Wimbish was left with land that extended to back to Carolina Avenue, east to Virginia Avenue, and west to about halfway to Westhampton Avenue.
The last parcel of land, which encompasses the upper part of Carolina Avenue, parts of College Avenue, and Avondale was sold to W. P. Robinson. It is he who bought the land which now contains Ms. Gott's house.
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.JPG)
Unfortunately, the revised Wimbish Property is entirely in the margin on the book, and thus nearly impossible to make out. The road that runs through the center of the area is part of Howeland Circle and then follows a straight line to Carolina Avenue and ends where the alley is today. In fact, it wasn't until 1920 that Carolina Avenue was extended to meet Virginia Avenue.
This map was made in 1882. I could, unfortunately, find no evidence of a house on the land that W. P. Robinson purchased. In fact, the first mention I could find of anyone living there was 10 years later, when his wife was suffering the same fate that Mrs. Wimbish did. She was in debt from payments on her house, merchandise for the Dry Goods Store she and her late husband ran on Main Street, and other things.
So, did I get my answers? Not entirely. I know that there was someone living in the general area of Ms. Gott's house in 1892, and I know that in 1924, only 32 years later, the newspaper suggested that Ms. Gott's house was the oldest house in the neighborhood, other than 120 College Avenue (the Wimbish property). But, I still have questions...many questions. My search did not yield any information about how J. E. Perkinson, who sold the property in 1924, came into possession of it. Nor did I find out why I found his brother's name on a book cover in the attic.
For now, I will have to guess that the house was built in the mid 1880s. Perhaps building permits can be found. I, personally, won't have time to do anymore research at the courthouse until this summer. I might be able to get someone to be a proxy for me, but I don't know. The house still has many stories to tell, and I hope to one day be able to recant them all.
I immediately got to work. My first task was to find the old map located in Deed Book Q on pages 602 and 603. I had no idea whether these pages would be of use, but it was sure to be a start. The map shows how the land of Abram Wimbish was subdivided in the 1880s.
Abram Wimbish owned the house at 413 Greensboro Road, which became 413 West Main Street, and then 120 College Avenue in the 1920s. The beautiful yellow Gothic cottage was the starting point for my quest. Although the house now sits on a small parcel of land, in 1877 it sat on 81 acres land that extended from Howeland Circle to just past Virginia Avenue. There will be a more detailed entry on the house itself soon, but for now I'm going to stick to what is relevant to Ms. Gott's house.
While I was at the Danville Courthouse, I thought to snap a picture of the F.W. Beers Map of Danville and Pittsylvania County from 1877 that hangs on the wall just inside the record room. Ms. Gott's house doesn't appear on the map, but it's important when combined with the later map that a deed pointed me to.
.JPG) |
In the 1880s, Abram Wimbish passed away and his family was left with massive amounts of debt. In 1882, an agreement was made so that his wife, Fannie, could keep the house if the property was subdivided and the land sold at auction to satisfy the debts.The Wimbish property was divided into 5 parcels. J.T. Watson bought a triangular piece at the outer left edge of the property, extending from about the intersection of Virginia Avenue and Carolina Avenue to the train tracks, down to South Main Street, and at an angle back to Carolina Avenue. J.M. Neal and E. H. Miller bought the land that now makes up Howeland Circle, Westhampton Avenue, Stratford Place, Brockton Place, and Southampton Avenue to the train tracks. Mrs. Wimbish was left with land that extended to back to Carolina Avenue, east to Virginia Avenue, and west to about halfway to Westhampton Avenue.
The last parcel of land, which encompasses the upper part of Carolina Avenue, parts of College Avenue, and Avondale was sold to W. P. Robinson. It is he who bought the land which now contains Ms. Gott's house.
.JPG)
.JPG)
Unfortunately, the revised Wimbish Property is entirely in the margin on the book, and thus nearly impossible to make out. The road that runs through the center of the area is part of Howeland Circle and then follows a straight line to Carolina Avenue and ends where the alley is today. In fact, it wasn't until 1920 that Carolina Avenue was extended to meet Virginia Avenue.
This map was made in 1882. I could, unfortunately, find no evidence of a house on the land that W. P. Robinson purchased. In fact, the first mention I could find of anyone living there was 10 years later, when his wife was suffering the same fate that Mrs. Wimbish did. She was in debt from payments on her house, merchandise for the Dry Goods Store she and her late husband ran on Main Street, and other things.
So, did I get my answers? Not entirely. I know that there was someone living in the general area of Ms. Gott's house in 1892, and I know that in 1924, only 32 years later, the newspaper suggested that Ms. Gott's house was the oldest house in the neighborhood, other than 120 College Avenue (the Wimbish property). But, I still have questions...many questions. My search did not yield any information about how J. E. Perkinson, who sold the property in 1924, came into possession of it. Nor did I find out why I found his brother's name on a book cover in the attic.
For now, I will have to guess that the house was built in the mid 1880s. Perhaps building permits can be found. I, personally, won't have time to do anymore research at the courthouse until this summer. I might be able to get someone to be a proxy for me, but I don't know. The house still has many stories to tell, and I hope to one day be able to recant them all.
Researching an Old House: The Quest for Answers
"To truly preserve history, you have to know the history. To know the
history, you have to read the history. You can clean up an old house or
building and call it preserved but without the knowledge of the past,
you've done nothing but fix an old building." -- Me
In the quest for information about an old house, you are often left with more questions than answers. Some may be easily answered with a little digging, and others may require spending hours on end reading hand-written documents from hundreds of years ago. I found the latter out the hard way.
Last Friday, I finally got my opportunity to go to the Pittysylvania County Courthouse to research Ms. Gott's house. There, I was certain, would be a deed mentioning the selling of that particular parcel or more importantly, the selling of the land with a dwelling. After two and a half hours, I uncovered nothing more than a handful of documents referencing deeds that were recording in the Danville Courthouse. Deeds did exist in the county deed books, luckily, but most mentioned that a more detailed reference could be found in Danville. I didn't walk away entirely empty handed, though. I was left with the location of a map, a vague story about how the area was subdivided, and a name: W. P. Robinson. It wasn't what I had hoped, though.
So, rather dejectedly, I closed the windows and sunroof on my car, and then got into Mr. Gott's truck and headed back into Danville. The next three and a half hours would lead me to some marginally useful information that may hold the key to unlocking the history of 275 Carolina Avenue.
In the quest for information about an old house, you are often left with more questions than answers. Some may be easily answered with a little digging, and others may require spending hours on end reading hand-written documents from hundreds of years ago. I found the latter out the hard way.
Last Friday, I finally got my opportunity to go to the Pittysylvania County Courthouse to research Ms. Gott's house. There, I was certain, would be a deed mentioning the selling of that particular parcel or more importantly, the selling of the land with a dwelling. After two and a half hours, I uncovered nothing more than a handful of documents referencing deeds that were recording in the Danville Courthouse. Deeds did exist in the county deed books, luckily, but most mentioned that a more detailed reference could be found in Danville. I didn't walk away entirely empty handed, though. I was left with the location of a map, a vague story about how the area was subdivided, and a name: W. P. Robinson. It wasn't what I had hoped, though.
So, rather dejectedly, I closed the windows and sunroof on my car, and then got into Mr. Gott's truck and headed back into Danville. The next three and a half hours would lead me to some marginally useful information that may hold the key to unlocking the history of 275 Carolina Avenue.
Wednesday, March 7, 2012
Researching an Old House: Hidden Chambers
This post is somewhat of a subpost of the previous entry. It's along the same lines, but didn't really fit into entry.
For years books, TV, and movies have depicted a scenario: someone moves into an old house and finds a secret passageway or hidden chamber. The house in Clue, for example, is full of secret passageways, hidden doors, and concealed chambers. It's fascinating to think that it could happen, and unbelievable when it (almost) does.
In the summer of 2006, Ms. Gott, Cat, and I were cleaning out the cement basement. It's become somewhat of an annual task, and somehow the mess always seems to end up being my fault. I really need to stop agreeing to take stuff down there from the house...but I digress. It was during that cleaning that something absolutely amazing happened, if only for a brief second. I'll get to that shortly.
The cement basement has always had a bit of mystery surrounding it. Between the faux stained glass window, odd paneling, and writing in crayon on the walls its previous uses are relatively indeterminable. There are names written into the wall in crayon, obviously done by children. Almost as if it was a little clubhouse at one point. The son of a previous owner, Robert Grasty, carved his name into the paneling. Worst of all, during the cleaning of basement that summer, a swastika was discovered carved into the paneling as well.
In the midst of that summer cleaning, something amazing happened. When it came time to rearrange the shelves that were in there when Ms. Gott bought the house, I was tasked with physically moving them. I pulled a tall, white, metal shelving unit away from the back wall. As it moved, there was a collective gasp from all three of us. Followed or preceded by a "holy crap" from yours truly, I'm sure. The shelf had completely blocked a large, rectangular hole in the wall. We all seemed to think that we must have uncovered something amazing....but only for a brief second. For once the shelf was completely away from the wall, there was a resounding groan and probably followed or preceded by a "damnit!"
Sadly, there was no secret room or anything amazing in there. Just the brick that once supported the rear wall of the house, a pipe, and some interior shutters. Ms. Gott and I later determined that was probably where the water heater was once kept, given that there is a pipe in it. I'll always remember, though, the way my heart seemed to stop beating when I saw that gap behind the shelf. In the years since, I've occasionally made references to "my little hole in the wall," but for now, it sits empty and useless. Although I'm sure many times over the years (and probably now, too) Ms. Gott and Cat have wanted to put me in there and find a way to close me in. But, *knocks on wood* as of yet, it still hasn't happened.
For years books, TV, and movies have depicted a scenario: someone moves into an old house and finds a secret passageway or hidden chamber. The house in Clue, for example, is full of secret passageways, hidden doors, and concealed chambers. It's fascinating to think that it could happen, and unbelievable when it (almost) does.
The cement basement has always had a bit of mystery surrounding it. Between the faux stained glass window, odd paneling, and writing in crayon on the walls its previous uses are relatively indeterminable. There are names written into the wall in crayon, obviously done by children. Almost as if it was a little clubhouse at one point. The son of a previous owner, Robert Grasty, carved his name into the paneling. Worst of all, during the cleaning of basement that summer, a swastika was discovered carved into the paneling as well.
 |
| Betty R., Tom B., Susan G., Sandy (?) W. |
 |
| No idea what any of that is supposed to mean. |
 |
| Betty, Susan, Mommy |
 |
| Robert Grasty |
 |
| Plastic sheet mimicking stained glass |
In the midst of that summer cleaning, something amazing happened. When it came time to rearrange the shelves that were in there when Ms. Gott bought the house, I was tasked with physically moving them. I pulled a tall, white, metal shelving unit away from the back wall. As it moved, there was a collective gasp from all three of us. Followed or preceded by a "holy crap" from yours truly, I'm sure. The shelf had completely blocked a large, rectangular hole in the wall. We all seemed to think that we must have uncovered something amazing....but only for a brief second. For once the shelf was completely away from the wall, there was a resounding groan and probably followed or preceded by a "damnit!"
 |
| The shelf to the left once obscured that hole in the wall. |
Sadly, there was no secret room or anything amazing in there. Just the brick that once supported the rear wall of the house, a pipe, and some interior shutters. Ms. Gott and I later determined that was probably where the water heater was once kept, given that there is a pipe in it. I'll always remember, though, the way my heart seemed to stop beating when I saw that gap behind the shelf. In the years since, I've occasionally made references to "my little hole in the wall," but for now, it sits empty and useless. Although I'm sure many times over the years (and probably now, too) Ms. Gott and Cat have wanted to put me in there and find a way to close me in. But, *knocks on wood* as of yet, it still hasn't happened.
Researching an Old House: Buried Treasure
Finding buried treasure is always an amazing experience. Be it money found in an old pair of pants, a childhood relic found in a box, or a piece of history from an old house. The latter shall be our focus here. For it is little trinkets that not only vocalize the history of an old house, but help to pin point the era in which the house or part of the house was built.
My fascination with scrounging for buried treasure was not always as e're present as it is now. As a child, there was a cement retaining wall encircling 3/4 of my yard, and where it met the sidewalk at the right of the property, there was a gold 'x.' Part of me, as a child, believed in "x marks the spot" and wondered if there might be buried treasure under the cement. But as time passed and I grew older, I forgot about the 'x' and years later I realized it, as with time, had faded into a memory. In middle school, however, I had my first experience with "buried treasure..." well, sort of. There were random dips in the grass in my backyard, and one evening I took a shovel and tapped the ground. The shovel met resistance and a now familiar thunk was heard. I had no idea what I'd hit, but I sure as hell investigated. One week later, I had unearthed slate stepping stones that led from the old back stairs to the old back gate. I can still recall my mother saying "there used to be stepping stones back there." She never paid enough attention to them for it to occur to her that they had been buried under years of mulched grass. It is the things we see every day for years, such as the 'x' on the wall, that we take for granted until years pass and we suddenly realize they're gone. I did, however, in the process find an old Hot Wheels car that no one knows how it came to rest in the middle of my backyard. It certainly wasn't one of mine.
Again, though, my desire to find buried treasured waned. But it returned years later, and completely by accident...
One day, for one reason or another, I grabbed a flashlight and entered the crawlspace under Ms. Gott's house. As I clicked on the flashlight, bent over, and began to enter the crawlspace, the flashlight reflected off of something under the front of the house. I walked, back bent, another 10 feet or so and then began to crawl. Soon enough, I was on my belly, inching toward the object. As I maneuvered through old foundation supports I began to see the object: a glass bottle.
Nestled against a random pile of dirt, and the corner of the front porch as an old blue bottle. It was dirty, but between the flashlight and slivers of light coming through the foundation vent that I would later knock out in a fit of claustrophobia, I could clearly see the beautiful blue, and barely make out words on the label. With the flashlight in one hand, and the bottle in another, I inched my way back to the crawlspace door. Covered in dirt from my shoulders down, I climbed the stairs into the house to present my find. That night, after letting the bottle soak, we learned it was a "Rumsford Chemical Works" bottle and, through the helpful resource of the internet, I found out that it was made and used around the turn of the century.
Some people would have been thrilled with the find, and they probably would have stopped there. But not me. It was summer, I was bored, and so day after day I inched my way to the front of the crawlspace. Between the rafters, I could sit hunched over, but couldn't move much at all without whacking my head. While, overall, my efforts were relatively futile, I did find a few interesting things: a blue glass insulator and a ceramic disk that may have been an insulator. In any event, it was something to do with electricity. I can't remember where I found the former, and the latter is long gone. Probably reburied under sifting dirt. I do, however, remember exactly where and how I found it: under the front porch after removing a broken piece of cinderblock.
The crawlspace was not the only treasure trove I would come to find in that house that summer. It seems that anytime something needed to go into the attic, it was automatically my task. The house has two attics, separated by the center of the house. One is accessed via a door on the landing, and the other through a tiny door in the bedroom that I have, at least once, liked to the door to Wonderland. For whatever reason, if any, I decided to remove a loose plank in the landing attic and took a splinter of wood and sifted through the insulation. Through that, I unearthed some of the most random things: a deterioring book cover, an old Ligget Cigarette pack, an old condom box, a burlap sack, and random pieces of newspaper. While I was perplexed by the burlap sack and amused by the condoms and empty cigarette pack, I was fascinated with the book cover. For on the inside cover was written a name: T. R. Perkinson...a name that would be pivotal in my search, and already mentioned in this blog.
The attic from the upstairs bedroom was much less intriguing. It's narrower, and with less of a planked area to store stuff. It was in this attic, however, that I found some shards of china. Once retrieved, and glued together by my friend, Cat, it was revealed to be a doll teacup.
On cool days, I yearn to go back into the attic, remove the board, and sift once again. Unfortunately, the presence of Ms. Gott's kitten and my two kittens makes that task difficult as I'd have to shut myself in. One day soon, however, when I have a free Saturday, I do intended to search for that book cover again. Maybe even don a pair of gloves and sift by hand. Who knows what other treasures may lurk in the fluff yellow stuff between the ceiling plaster of the den, and the planks that floor the attic.
My fascination with scrounging for buried treasure was not always as e're present as it is now. As a child, there was a cement retaining wall encircling 3/4 of my yard, and where it met the sidewalk at the right of the property, there was a gold 'x.' Part of me, as a child, believed in "x marks the spot" and wondered if there might be buried treasure under the cement. But as time passed and I grew older, I forgot about the 'x' and years later I realized it, as with time, had faded into a memory. In middle school, however, I had my first experience with "buried treasure..." well, sort of. There were random dips in the grass in my backyard, and one evening I took a shovel and tapped the ground. The shovel met resistance and a now familiar thunk was heard. I had no idea what I'd hit, but I sure as hell investigated. One week later, I had unearthed slate stepping stones that led from the old back stairs to the old back gate. I can still recall my mother saying "there used to be stepping stones back there." She never paid enough attention to them for it to occur to her that they had been buried under years of mulched grass. It is the things we see every day for years, such as the 'x' on the wall, that we take for granted until years pass and we suddenly realize they're gone. I did, however, in the process find an old Hot Wheels car that no one knows how it came to rest in the middle of my backyard. It certainly wasn't one of mine.
Again, though, my desire to find buried treasured waned. But it returned years later, and completely by accident...
One day, for one reason or another, I grabbed a flashlight and entered the crawlspace under Ms. Gott's house. As I clicked on the flashlight, bent over, and began to enter the crawlspace, the flashlight reflected off of something under the front of the house. I walked, back bent, another 10 feet or so and then began to crawl. Soon enough, I was on my belly, inching toward the object. As I maneuvered through old foundation supports I began to see the object: a glass bottle.
Nestled against a random pile of dirt, and the corner of the front porch as an old blue bottle. It was dirty, but between the flashlight and slivers of light coming through the foundation vent that I would later knock out in a fit of claustrophobia, I could clearly see the beautiful blue, and barely make out words on the label. With the flashlight in one hand, and the bottle in another, I inched my way back to the crawlspace door. Covered in dirt from my shoulders down, I climbed the stairs into the house to present my find. That night, after letting the bottle soak, we learned it was a "Rumsford Chemical Works" bottle and, through the helpful resource of the internet, I found out that it was made and used around the turn of the century.
Some people would have been thrilled with the find, and they probably would have stopped there. But not me. It was summer, I was bored, and so day after day I inched my way to the front of the crawlspace. Between the rafters, I could sit hunched over, but couldn't move much at all without whacking my head. While, overall, my efforts were relatively futile, I did find a few interesting things: a blue glass insulator and a ceramic disk that may have been an insulator. In any event, it was something to do with electricity. I can't remember where I found the former, and the latter is long gone. Probably reburied under sifting dirt. I do, however, remember exactly where and how I found it: under the front porch after removing a broken piece of cinderblock.
 |
| Glass insulator Frisbee unrelated |
The crawlspace was not the only treasure trove I would come to find in that house that summer. It seems that anytime something needed to go into the attic, it was automatically my task. The house has two attics, separated by the center of the house. One is accessed via a door on the landing, and the other through a tiny door in the bedroom that I have, at least once, liked to the door to Wonderland. For whatever reason, if any, I decided to remove a loose plank in the landing attic and took a splinter of wood and sifted through the insulation. Through that, I unearthed some of the most random things: a deterioring book cover, an old Ligget Cigarette pack, an old condom box, a burlap sack, and random pieces of newspaper. While I was perplexed by the burlap sack and amused by the condoms and empty cigarette pack, I was fascinated with the book cover. For on the inside cover was written a name: T. R. Perkinson...a name that would be pivotal in my search, and already mentioned in this blog.
The attic from the upstairs bedroom was much less intriguing. It's narrower, and with less of a planked area to store stuff. It was in this attic, however, that I found some shards of china. Once retrieved, and glued together by my friend, Cat, it was revealed to be a doll teacup.
On cool days, I yearn to go back into the attic, remove the board, and sift once again. Unfortunately, the presence of Ms. Gott's kitten and my two kittens makes that task difficult as I'd have to shut myself in. One day soon, however, when I have a free Saturday, I do intended to search for that book cover again. Maybe even don a pair of gloves and sift by hand. Who knows what other treasures may lurk in the fluff yellow stuff between the ceiling plaster of the den, and the planks that floor the attic.
Friday, March 2, 2012
From Randolph-Macon to Stratford House: A Brief Narrative on 1111 Main Street
As it is getting late and I should really be asleep, I will try to keep this brief. This will not be a formal history of Stratford College, as that already exists in many shapes through books and other blogs. I do, however, want to share my memories.
21 years ago, Stratford House opened it's doors as a retirement home. My grandparents, Joe and Louise Taylor, were some of the very first residents. As a child, I was a permanent fixture; roaming the halls and playing in the dining room. Even in high school, on a return visit with my church youth group, I was greeted by a woman sitting on the patio saying "I know you! You're..." then she used her hands to signal a young person. "You used to play under the tables in the dining room." I simply smiled, and said "yes, that was me."
In 1991, Stratford House was nothing like it is today on the inside. While change is enevitable, it's still hard to grasp. For that reason, it became increasingly hard for me to return to visit those I knew so well in my childhood. As the pages of the calendar fell, there were fewer and fewer of the elderly people I used to visit and whose days I would brighten with my youthful presence.
One of my earliest memories of Stratford House comes before my grandparents ever moved there. I remember vividly driving by there after they had signed up, and seeing two cars parked at the huge gates that used to lead onto Eager Street and into the college. Never again would I see that, as there would no longer be a road there leading onto the former college campus. For whatever reason, to this day, I still look at those gates as if I expect them to be open or for vehicles to be parked there again.
I spent most of my childhood at my grandmother's apartment. I knew every inch of that building, knew where I could and couldn't go, and wandered as I pleased. The staff didn't care, nor did the residents. Well, save for one, but I don't think she approved of ANYTHING. I even spent much of my time wandering the corridors of Carrington Hall and the old Main Hall. I used to love climbing the old stairs that rest at either side of the back of Main Hall. Walking from the first floor to the second, and past the portraits of past presidents. The watchful eye of Mr. (Dr.) Simpson watching my movements. I was always a little scared of that portrait. I always felt like I was being scowled at for my wandering around.
John Simpson was the first president of Stratford College. A man I never knew, but come to find out, I knew his daughter: Rosa Gray. A very sweet elderly lady with whom I attended Epiphany and who my mother would see frequently at the Belk Leggett Restaurant. Just a few months ago, I ran into at Food Lion and relayed the story about how I was always unnerved by it, and she laughed. Her father never wanted that portrait done, and that's why he looked so miserable. She very happily said her father would have liked nothing more than for young blood to be exploring the college over which he presided.
By the time Stratford House was built, all that was left was Carrington Hall, Main Hall, and the Cafeteria. I used to spend hours just sitting on the bridge over the duck pond, watching the world go by and feeding the ducks. When the nursing home was built, however, the cafeteria and beautiful brick walkway that meandered back from the bridge back to the parking lot were razed: replaced by the nursing home and a crummy asphalt path. I shall never forget the beautiful tree lined brick path, however. And even as a child, was outraged that they would removed something so beautiful and awesome.
The last relic of Stratford College, that may not even exist anymore, is the sign. Behind Kennedy Hall, just outside the side door of Stratford House, was an old metal sign that directed students to various buildings. I cannot, for the life of me, remember what they were although I must have looked at it 10,000 times. Long gone are the benches that were built on the middle of the bridge over the duck pond, and the residents who were always happy to see me, and I, in turn, happy to see them. It would be years before I would truly understand that I was such a joy in their lives, and it would take the staff who watched me grow to point it out to me.
While it would be easy for me to bemoan the fact that I spent my childhood around the elderly, or speak of how much I miss my grandmother, I shall do neither. For I will always cherish the memories of my days at Stratford House and exploring the older parts of it. Part of me believes that Main Hall, with it's beautiful views from the fourth floor, long elegant stair cases, and tall windows began my fascination with old buildings. And I know for a fact it is the staff and residents of Stratford House who helped make me into the man I am today.
21 years ago, Stratford House opened it's doors as a retirement home. My grandparents, Joe and Louise Taylor, were some of the very first residents. As a child, I was a permanent fixture; roaming the halls and playing in the dining room. Even in high school, on a return visit with my church youth group, I was greeted by a woman sitting on the patio saying "I know you! You're..." then she used her hands to signal a young person. "You used to play under the tables in the dining room." I simply smiled, and said "yes, that was me."
In 1991, Stratford House was nothing like it is today on the inside. While change is enevitable, it's still hard to grasp. For that reason, it became increasingly hard for me to return to visit those I knew so well in my childhood. As the pages of the calendar fell, there were fewer and fewer of the elderly people I used to visit and whose days I would brighten with my youthful presence.
One of my earliest memories of Stratford House comes before my grandparents ever moved there. I remember vividly driving by there after they had signed up, and seeing two cars parked at the huge gates that used to lead onto Eager Street and into the college. Never again would I see that, as there would no longer be a road there leading onto the former college campus. For whatever reason, to this day, I still look at those gates as if I expect them to be open or for vehicles to be parked there again.
I spent most of my childhood at my grandmother's apartment. I knew every inch of that building, knew where I could and couldn't go, and wandered as I pleased. The staff didn't care, nor did the residents. Well, save for one, but I don't think she approved of ANYTHING. I even spent much of my time wandering the corridors of Carrington Hall and the old Main Hall. I used to love climbing the old stairs that rest at either side of the back of Main Hall. Walking from the first floor to the second, and past the portraits of past presidents. The watchful eye of Mr. (Dr.) Simpson watching my movements. I was always a little scared of that portrait. I always felt like I was being scowled at for my wandering around.
John Simpson was the first president of Stratford College. A man I never knew, but come to find out, I knew his daughter: Rosa Gray. A very sweet elderly lady with whom I attended Epiphany and who my mother would see frequently at the Belk Leggett Restaurant. Just a few months ago, I ran into at Food Lion and relayed the story about how I was always unnerved by it, and she laughed. Her father never wanted that portrait done, and that's why he looked so miserable. She very happily said her father would have liked nothing more than for young blood to be exploring the college over which he presided.
By the time Stratford House was built, all that was left was Carrington Hall, Main Hall, and the Cafeteria. I used to spend hours just sitting on the bridge over the duck pond, watching the world go by and feeding the ducks. When the nursing home was built, however, the cafeteria and beautiful brick walkway that meandered back from the bridge back to the parking lot were razed: replaced by the nursing home and a crummy asphalt path. I shall never forget the beautiful tree lined brick path, however. And even as a child, was outraged that they would removed something so beautiful and awesome.
The last relic of Stratford College, that may not even exist anymore, is the sign. Behind Kennedy Hall, just outside the side door of Stratford House, was an old metal sign that directed students to various buildings. I cannot, for the life of me, remember what they were although I must have looked at it 10,000 times. Long gone are the benches that were built on the middle of the bridge over the duck pond, and the residents who were always happy to see me, and I, in turn, happy to see them. It would be years before I would truly understand that I was such a joy in their lives, and it would take the staff who watched me grow to point it out to me.
While it would be easy for me to bemoan the fact that I spent my childhood around the elderly, or speak of how much I miss my grandmother, I shall do neither. For I will always cherish the memories of my days at Stratford House and exploring the older parts of it. Part of me believes that Main Hall, with it's beautiful views from the fourth floor, long elegant stair cases, and tall windows began my fascination with old buildings. And I know for a fact it is the staff and residents of Stratford House who helped make me into the man I am today.
An Old House: 130 Years of Change
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| House progression as evidenced by Sanborn maps. This image is the scaled down version of a poster that I made. (Note: I accidentally put 1866 rather than 1886, but it's correct on the larger image). |
As an old house fanatic, I'm lucky to have years ago befriended a local contractor who works almost exclusively on old houses. Through our friendship, he's graciously given me a chance to earn some extra money by way of doing the smaller jobs that often seem tedious to him. Through this and our friendship, I've also learned a little bit about the tricks of the trade and the idiosyncrasies of repairing an old house.
My friend, Micah Robinson, most recently acquired the property at 1021 Main Street. As an address, the house is unrecognizable, but by name it's immediately identifiable: Hope Harbor. I won't be going into how he acquired the property, the price, or the downfall of Hope Harbor. Sad, though the situation is, it's not pertinent to this blog.
What is pertinent, however, is the fascinating (though incomplete) history I've developed on the property. As with my best friend's mom's house, I've been recruited to use my research skills to find information on the house. Partially for what Micah would like to ultimately do with the property, partially to find a build date, and also to help him in his restoration of the beautiful house.
The house at 1021 Main Street predates most of the houses around it. Southerlin Mansion notwithstanding. The earliest record that I have found so far is a map that shows the house in 1877, with the name of the property owner listed as N.B. Norman, who is also the first person listed in any city directory living in the house. The area around it has barely been developed save for a few houses. Nine years later, when the first Sanborn map was released, the area was slowly developing. 126 years later, that area is well known for housing Main and Holbrook Exxon, the Wednesday Club, Danville Fine Arts and History Museum, and Midtown Market. In 1886, when it was the western border of Danville, it was far from what we would come to know.
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| Beers (1877) Map of Danville and Pittsylvania County. Forgive the blurriness...I took it with my iPhone one day when I was at the City Clerk's Office |
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| The numbers are incorrect. 1802 is 1021 Main Street (aka Hope Harbor) Legend: 2 = 2 stories 1 = 1 story Dw'g = Dwelling |
The area encompassed on this map by 1803-1807 Main Street constitutes what we know now as Main and Holbrook Exxon. Somehow, though it boggles my mind how, there were all of those buildings placed firmly within that lot. The next map, dated 1890, does not show the building listed as a Roller Skating Rink and Gymnasium, but the other four shops remain through 1920, but have disappeared by the 1951 revision.
Why is this important? Well, it's just a little side-note I guess. For you see, the corner lot remained relatively unchanged for decades. But through every revision of the Sanborn Maps, there were additions made to the house at 1021. For example, the rounded area to the left of the porch was added onto an existing porch between 1894 and 1904.
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| 1890 |
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| 1894 |
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| 1904 -- Note the distinctive circle at the edge of the porch |
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| 1910 |
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| 1915 |
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| 1920 -- Here is where we see the first iteration of what was to become Main and Holbrook Exxon |
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| 1951 -- That building at the back of the lot of 1021 still remains today. |
From working for Micah, I've explored every nook and cranny of that house. We've noted where former exterior walls are, and I've even pointed out a few things he hadn't noticed. But the greatest find of all came on the night we were moving bookcases. As we leaned an 8+ foot tall bookshelf over, what should fall on Micah's head other than an old blue print. We debated for a few minutes over whether it truly was the house, until I noticed the attic windows with their distinct wood work (which I still call sun rays). It was from this blue print, of unknown vintage, that we learned just how much has been changed on that house.
Unless you've gone walking down Main Street and taken a look down the side of the house (or been inside of it) you'd never know that there is an extremely ornate window as you walk up the staircase. The location is rather odd as it's basically invisible to all but the next door neighbors. This wasn't always the case, however. Where there is now a nice bay window on the upstairs of the house, was once that ornate window. And where there is window close to the rounded corner of the porch; that was the front door. A stained glass window that once adorned the front of the house now sits awkwardly facing Main and Holbrook Exxon.
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| Inside of the side window. I'm not sure it's possible to get a decent one from the outside unless I went into the neighbor's house, but there wasn't a lot of time to figure out another way. |
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| Outside of the stained glass window facing Exxon. |
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| And from the inside. |
Without a date, it's hard to pinpoint when these changes came or why. Logic might dictate the changed porch as a reason to change the front door, as there wasn't a porch at the time. Or perhaps the use of the house created a need for change.
For years it was a single family residence. In the 1920's, however, it became a boarding house under the ownership of the Estes family. While a variety of people lived here during their ownership, the most notable boarder is Lefty Wilson. In 1929 and 1930, he lived in the house while teaching at G.W. High School, then located just behind the house. After his marriage in 1930, he and his wife both resided in the house.
An interesting side-note here is that in the late 1920s, there were a few teachers listed as boarders at 1021. With G.W. then located on Holbrook Avenue, and basically being in the backyard of the houses in the 1000 block of Main Street, it was a logical place for teachers to live. In fact, when my grandmother moved to Danville in the late 1940s, she resided in a house on that very block that has since been demolished. She, as well, taught at G.W., which was still located on Holbrook Avenue. The school would later become Robert E. Lee Middle School, which was attended by my mother among others on the west end of town.
As the house grew, for whatever reason, distinct changes were made; many of which have been obscured through time and Hope Harbor's use of the building. Most of the walls appear to be in tact, save for one load bearing wall. But the specific purpose of most rooms are lost through time. The only certainty is the kitchen, which still contains an exhaust fan and moulding that is obviously designed to go behind a counter and refrigerator. Rooms have been converted to offices, bathrooms now devoid of fixtures, and 130 years of various construction quality create a distinct character as you walk through the house. Perhaps my favorite feature of the house, however, is the old upstairs bathroom -- still with the original early 1900s octagonal floor tiles.
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| Old bathroom |
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| Awesome tiles |
But as with my best friend's mom's house, the most indictive area is the basement and the attic. The attic at 1021 is a full attic, though the walls have been torn out, leaving the skeleton of what appears to have been servants quarters. Plumbing (and a bath tub?) still exist for a tiny bathroom, dormer windows still light the room, and various old bottles and items were retrieved from the floor.
It's amazing to walk through such an old house, and somewhat depressing. The foyer was once warmed by fireplace sitting at a 45 degree angle, and the lobby like area warmed form a fireplace on the backside of it. There is a grand mantle in the sitting room, adorned with intricate porcelain tiles and a mirror. So much of the house simply exudes grandiosity, but time has it's way of taking it's toll. Additions to the house have changed some features: the stairs have to modified for the new inner vestibule which also obscures half of the 8 foot french doors leading to the sitting room, and beautiful hardwood floors lost under layers of linoleum tile and carpet.
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| Mantle removed from an upstairs bedroom |
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| Foyer Fireplaced |
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| Living Room Fireplace |
I remain confident, however, that 1021 Main Street will soon be revived and once again achieve a look of class and grandeur. It is in very capable hands, and although what work I do on the house is miniscule, I will be glad to one day say that I helped return the house to it's former glory.
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