The Enos Kellogg Homestead - Restoring an 18th Century Connecticut Home

Sap Run! Maple Sugaring at the Enos Kellogg Homestead

2012-02-07T14:25:00.001-05:00

For those of you who don't know her, my wife likes to tell stories. Elaborate stories that, no matter how unlikely they seem on the surface (and they often seem extremely unlikely), she swears to be true. In the interest of full disclosure, most of these stories seem to have at least some verifiable basis in fact, which is extremely annoying whenever I attempt to debunk yet another remembered episode that took place when she was one-and-a-half years old. Whenever I call her out on a particular tale, one of her family members inevitably confirms at least the gist of the story. Although my take is that this "verification" is indicative of nothing more than a genetic memory defect, or a long-term gas leak in her childhood home (think about it Van Leeuwen family, it would explain a lot), it makes it impossible to decisively disprove most of her stories.

Having dispensed with that elaborate background, I will now underwhelm you by distilling one of Jenny's "unlikely-but-true" stories to its barest essence - when Jenny was a kid, her family raised chickens at home.

Now, this would not be worthy of note had Jenny lived in the country, on a farm, on a big piece of land, or even among 21st century Brooklyn hipster foodies craving house-made omelets crafted from locally-sourced, hormone-free, sustainably-raised, organically-fed, free-range, non-genetically modified heritage Lakenvelder laying hen eggs (By the way, I'm pretty sure that anyone who arrives in Brooklyn in skinny jeans is issued 23,000 hyphenated adjectives to sprinkle liberally throughout any sentence describing what they ate for lunch. What's the deal with that?). Anyway, Jenny lived not in the country, not on a farm, not on 10 acres, and not in modern-day Greenpoint. She lived on a fairly small lot in beautiful but decidedly suburban Greenwich, CT. While that type of backyard animal husbandry is not that uncommon today, based on what her old neighbors have told me, in early 1980s Greenwich, it was only a cee-ment pond removed from Beverly Hillbillies territory. Apparently people looked somewhat askance at the crows of a rooster emanating from a stately Victorian.

Anyway (and this is where I'm going to tie the preceding meanderings together into something that actually relates to what this post is about. Seriously, I know you don't think I'm going to pull this off, but I've got this under control), Jenny's explanation for the chickens is that, having grown up in Queens, her father viewed their fractional-acre property as rural countryside that should be fitted out with the appropriate agrarian accessories.

Not surprising given her formative experiences living as minimally-landed gentry, Jenny believes that our 1.7 acres should be put to work. Somewhat more surprisingly, I agree with her, for the most part. As I see it, our land was a working farm for 150 years, and I like honoring that legacy. In addition, we have a barn and a reasonable amount of open space, and I can't quite suppress the hope in the back of my mind that somehow, someday, we might be able to get an agricultural tax break if we play our cards right (Attention Department of Agriculture readers - if you would like to pay me not to plant crops on our "farm", please leave a comment below). So, the Enos Kellogg House now has a large and not so successful vegetable garden, a patch of wildly successful blueberry bushes, a mini-orchard of slowly maturing apple, peach and cherry trees, a bee hive, and plans to eventually get chickens. And, as of last February, we are a working maple sugaring enterprise.

Tapping Trees, 1940 - from the Library of Congress Collection

Allow me to explain that final endeavor. For Valentine's Day last year, I bought for Jenny a maple syrup starter kit consisting of three sap buckets, three metal spiles (the tap that gets driven into the tree) and an instruction manual. I know - a hackneyed, overly-conventional gift. We all know the stranglehold that the maple sugar industry has on the Valentine's Day gift giving market (I'm sure you'll all recall Linus railing against it in that old Peanuts Valentine's Day special on CBS), but I just couldn't resist their relentless commercial pressure.

Within minutes of opening her gift, Jenny had inventoried the sugar maples in the yard. There are quite a few - 6 or 8, including some very large, mature specimens. This embarrassment of arboreal riches necessitated the immediate purchase of additional spiles and buckets, and fuelled elaborate plans for industrial-level syrup production.

It takes approximately 40 gallons of sap to produce one gallon of syrup. This meant that we would need substantial sap storage facilities, commercial cooking facilities and lots of time. For days, the two of us, our kids and Jenny's brother collected sap, emptying buckets into coolers buried in snow banks (sap spoils, who knew?). Unable to resist a test batch, Jenny conducted the first boil in our kitchen. Not a good idea. Boiling down from a 40 to 1 ratio means that a tremendous amount of humidity is released into the air. Needles to say, it was tropical in our kitchen for quite some time. We also learned the hard way that the difference between sweet, amber maple syrup and smoking black char is a matter of seconds. Having boiled and boiled and boiled, Jenny picked an unfortunate time to become distracted by a particularly engaging episode of Survivor, only to be reminded of the syrup project by the wailing of our smoke alarm. Luckily, the firemen who responded were quite understanding.

Sensibly, the next boil took place outside, in a horrible sugar shanty that Jenny and her brother constructed in our driveway. Forget any quaint Currier and Ives images - this looked more like a meth lab. The lessons learned from this first outdoor boil were varied:

Sap can take days to boil down, especially when your propane burner is not working properly.
Propane is freaking expensive.
Tarps hung over ramshackle syrup production facilities should be made of a non-flammable material.
People get grumpy when they have to get up every couple of hours and go outside in a cold drizzle in order to add more sap to a pot that is boiling slowly in a squalid sugar shack (People being Jenny - I slept like a baby every night).

Sadly, the first outdoor boil ended in smoking black char once again. Not to be deterred, Jenny and her brother (I had long before distanced myself from this particular project) tried one more time, and at last produced what really was phenomenal maple syrup. Beautifully colored, sweet and mapley. In a blind taste test against the fancy 100% Vermont maple syrup from Whole Foods, Jenny's syrup was the undisputed champ. Unfortunately, the first two false starts had significantly depleted the sap reservoir, so the final output of the 2011 vintage was fairly limited. It was also probably more expensive than gold on a per ounce basis. Sap collection equipment + propane + ruined boiling pot + fire department false alarm charge + filters + bottles and caps + untold hours of time adds up to a number too high for me to want to contemplate (This reminds me of a great book, The $64 Tomato: How One Man Nearly Lost His Sanity, Spent a Fortune, and Endured an Existential Crisis in the Quest for the Perfect Garden. Any would-be gardeners should give it a read). But, at least pancakes were extra delicious for the next few months while our artisinal syrup supply lasted, and we got months of conversation fodder for social events.

So, with Valentine's Day fast approaching, and with the necessary combination of freezing nights and warm days occurring regularly, Jenny has begun preparations for the 2012 sap run. Sunday saw the construction of a new but still hideous boiling facility in our driveway. Any day now, the taps will go into the trees and the process will start again. This year, I promise to have delicious pancakes waiting for the firemen when they inevitably visit us once again.

For anyone interested, here is a short video of sap dripping. It's brought to you by the same filmmakers who previously directed "Watching Paint Dry" and "Evaporation - in 3D!". I would also recommend that you check out www.tapmytrees.com.

The 228th Christmas in the Enos Kellogg House

2011-12-22T21:27:00.000-05:00

Christmas 2011

As much as I like to stay true to the 18th century period of the house, I make a big exception when it comes to Christmas time. Christmas in New England in the 1780s just wasn't sufficiently festive for my tastes, and I can't imagine forgoing a glowing tree for the joys of a full day in church and maybe a piece of candy or fruit. To be fair, Enos Kellogg and his contemporaries didn't have the benefits of electricity, injection moulded plastic and recorded music, each of which lend their unique charms to our modern Christmas. Hell, they didn't even have Santa to spearhead the whole initiative. Sure, there was St. Nicholas, but the original St. Nick lacked the panache of Santa (by the way, let's take a minute to thank Thomas Nast, Clement Clarke Moore and Coca Cola for the gift of the man in red, as we know him today). Nonetheless, sometimes modern life is just unquestionably superior to those happy golden days of yore, and Christmas, like indoor bathrooms, falls squarely into that category.

That said, contemporary, 21st century style Christmas is not my thing either. As far as I'm concerned, the Christmas aesthetic peaked in the 1930s and 40s. Granted, this is no doubt informed by too many viewings of A Christmas Story and Miracle on 34th Street (the original 1947 version starring the definitive silver screen Santa, Edmund Gwenn, not the abomination of a remake from 1994). Still, all-white Christmas tree lights, jewel-colored LEDs, designer-trees bedecked in gold ribbons, and Justin Bieber Christmas songs leave me cold. I need hot-burning C6 lights from the '40s (preferably bubble lights), mismatched ornaments, tinsel, and the classic Bing Crosby holiday catalog.

My favorite ornament - a gift when I was 8.

So, this year's main Harrington Christmas tree is lit by approximately 100 vintage lights (on dimmers so as not to set the place afire), including 25 bubble lights from the late 1940s. Ornaments include a hodgepodge of decorations that range from some early glass ornaments the my parents gave us, to some 50s and 60s favorites that hung on my grandparents tree when I was young, to a small group that Jenny gave me for our first Christmas together in 1994, to a paper plate wreath that our daughter Brooksie made this year. There is no theme, certainly no sophistication, and the only thing that unifies the tree is the tinsel that covers everything. Still, it all works together, as far as I am concerned.

Living Room Hearth - Stockings Hung with Care

As you can see, the rest of the house gets the full vintage Christmas in Connecticut treatment, as well. Greens from our yard, antique Santas, snowmen, sleigh bells and, of course, the Christmas Garden all get their due. Did I mention the second tree in our den? Suffice it to say, we have a lot of ornaments. Don't ask how many plastic tubs all of this stuff fills up in the off-season.

While it may not feel like it when we're in our dirty second floor crawlspace pulling out container after container of decorations, it's a labor of love, and the resulting excitement of our kids, which manifests itself in almost a full month of frenzied singing, dancing and sundry Christmas spirit makes it well worth the work.

So, while I take a pass on authentic colonial Christmas, I can't imagine spending Christmas anywhere other than in our old house. For making it possible, and with apologies to Charles Dickens, raise a glass of Christmas cheer, and I'll give you Mr. Kellogg, the Founder of the Feast!

Merry Christmas!

Vintage Santa and nativity set (thanks, Mom) on the pewter cupboard

The Corner Cupboard

Snow babies and pewter measures, a Christmas present from Jenny a few years ago

Santas and Stoneware

Antique Carousel and Bottle Brush Trees

Dining Room Pewter Cupoard

Tree #2

The Christmas Garden

Christmas Gardens - Hop a Train to Old Baltimore

2011-12-03T21:11:00.001-05:00

It being December and all, I am going to briefly switch tracks from my normal old house ramblings to pay homage to my favorite of all Christmas traditions - the Christmas Garden.

For those of you who are conjuring up visions of poinsettias, holly bushes or some sort of festive horticultural extravaganza, please accept my most sincere sympathies for the deprivation that you have so clearly endured in your life. On the other hand, for those enlightened souls who immediately picture the sparkle of mica on a well-worn cardboard house, smell a fleeting whiff of ozone from an ancient Lionel transformer, or hear the unmistakable Baltimore accent of a long-forgotten neighbor, I hope that you will grab a glass of egg nog and sit down to watch the trains while I school our less fortunate friends.

According to the Encyclopaedia Kriskringlia, a Christmas Garden is defined as a miniature village set up at Christmas time, located either beneath the Christmas tree or on a raised wooden platform, and encircled by an electric train. Actually, I made up the reference book (how can Wikipedia not have a Christmas Garden entry?), but the definition holds true despite its questionable source.

Sparkle, sparkle!

At its most mundane level, a Christmas Garden can be nothing more than a few Department 56 buildings and a new-from-WalMart train set (this qualifies as a Christmas Garden only technically, and certainly not in spirit). At the other extreme, it can be a display large enough to fill an entire fire station, and requiring hundreds of man hours to erect (check out the Wise Avenue Fire Department in Dundalk, MD, one of the few remaining public meccas of Christmas Gardendom). Whether large or small, however, when artfully executed, a Christmas Garden can be transcendent - a melting pot of ingenuity, nostalgia, childish wonder and manifest Christmas spirit.

Boring Historical Perspective
(If you are in a hurry, feel free to skip this section, like that interminable discourse on whaling in Moby Dick that nobody ever reads, whoops, too late, you've already come this far so might as well keep reading . . . )

These displays surfaced in America in the 19th century, brought to the Mid Atlantic region by German immigrants. The once static village scenes took on new life in the Victorian era with the arrival of electric toy trains. As Marx, Lionel and American Flyer made these trains more accessible in the early 20th century, the stage was set for the golden age of the Christmas Garden. Sometimes referred to as Christmas villages, train gardens, or Putzes (shout out to my large readership of Pennsylvanian Moravians), they flourished in Maryland as Christmas Gardens, and remained stalwarts of the Christmas season around Baltimore through 1960s.

The Baltimore Christmas Garden

Born in 1972, I missed the heyday of the Christmas Garden. Once upon a time, as the legend goes, every fire department in the area featured its own elaborate Christmas Garden (a few still do), as did many private homes. My grandmother used to tell us about her father's Depression-era garden, which featured moving playground equipment and other motorized scenes. Sadly, no pieces of that garden made their way down my branch of the family tree. Still, my grandparents always had a train around their tree, and I remember a second garden with old Lionel trains in their basement at Christmastime when I was very young, as well as a more elaborate, multi-level garden in the house across the street. For a 6 year old boy, there probably is nothing cooler than getting hopped up on Christmas candy and watching trains fly around a track next to a Christmas tree the week before Christmas.

From the time I lived in my first apartment in New York City, I have always had a train around the tree, and was a little surprised that this wasn't part of Christmas everywhere. Like sauerkraut at Thanksgiving dinner (weird, but true), it is one of the things that is so imbued in you growing up in Maryland, that you just assume that it is universal.

A few years ago, with a house of my own, I decided that it was time to set up a proper Christmas Garden. So, with a few pieces from my parents and grandparents, and with lots of help from eBay, I got to work. Having built my own garden, I obviously am now an authority, and have a boundless font of wisdom from which to fill your eager minds. So, get out your pencil and take notes.

Hey, Kids - You Can Build your own Christmas Garden Right at Home!
While much of the beauty of the Christmas Garden comes from the individuality that is reflected in each display, there are a few key ingredients that I think are necessary for a classic Baltimore Christmas Garden. These are:

Trains - old, metal and preferably Lionel. The engine should smoke and the cars should light up;
Buildings - glittery, mica-covered houses of all shapes and sizes. Houses, churches, stores and a train station at a minimum. These need to be lit up from the inside to show off the colored cellophane windows;
Accessories - Old metal cars, people and signs, woolly sheep and celluloid animals are a must. Scale does not matter and mixing large and small items without regard to their relative proportions in the real world seems to enhance the overall feel;
Nativity Scene - big and centrally located is best. It is Christmas, after all, and gardens started out as quasi-religious displays.
Santa Claus - include as many as possible around the garden;
Snow - cotton, soap flakes, glitter, spray-can snow, even plain old white paint. It is always snowing somewhere in a Christmas Garden;

Animation - something should move. Skaters spinning around, Santa's sleigh circling overhead, cars moving on a road, whatever. Bonus points if you make it yourself.
Local color - include a friend's name on a sign, a copy of a local building, or street signs from your town. Cleverness counts;
Scenery - a pond and a tunnel are required. No exceptions. Bottle brush trees should be used lavishly;
Extra Credit: use red brick-printed corrugated cardboard rolls to wrap around the garden to hide the plywood and wiring.

So, there you have it. The Christmas Garden in all of its holiday splendor. Now, go get out your grandfather's Lionel trains and set them up around the tree. I'll be working alongside you in spirit. Having missed my self-imposed schedule of setting up the Christmas Garden the Saturday after Thanksgiving (much to my 2 year old's disappointment), my project for the week is to get everything up and running by the weekend.

Here is a picture of last year's finished product to help inspire your Christmas Garden green thumb.

What am I Bid? Auctions and Old Houses

2011-11-16T14:38:00.001-05:00

I saw a post concerning auctions on another old house (and more) blog that I really like (www.katyelliott.com), and got to thinking about how integral a role auctions have played in our old house.

First, let me say that I love auctions. Ebay, country auctions, major auction houses, I love them all. Why? Not to sound like Charlie Sheen, but it's all about winning. Jenny has often tried to convince me that competing for the privilege of paying money for something is not winning. To quote Ned Flanders, that's stinkin' thinkin'.

Auctions are an American institution. They are a test of fortitude, strategy, patience, knowledge and luck. Sadly, they are also often a showdown between my meager funds and the bottomless pockets of a dealer whose hedge fund manager client has authorized him to spend indiscriminately to make his country estate have that charmingly rustic feel of a Ralph Lauren store. Like that redneck facing off on tractors against Wren McCormick, that is a battle that I am not going to win (Let me be clear that this is an allusion to the one-and-only "real" Footloose, starring Kevin Bacon and featuring the inimitable musical stylings of Mr. Kenny Loggins and Shalomar, and not to that 2011 upstart starring I don't care who and featuring the music of some country singers that I vaguely know. But, I digress. Now, back to our program.) Still, if you are patient enough to follow the right auctions and wait for something to slip through the cracks, you can find some great stuff at very reasonable prices. We have furnished and decorated our house that way - tables, chairs, corner cupboards, pewter cupboards, beds, pottery, artwork, fireplace accessories, bric-a-brac (mostly bric-a-brac), all from auctions. I'd say about 75% of the decor of our house is auction-sourced, and I'm always on the lookout for a chance to upgrade when an opportunity presents itself. If you are restoring an old house, auctions can also be a great place to get hardware and other architectural items that you might need in the restoration. I've gotten lots of period iron hinges and latches at auction for way less than I would pay retail.

Based on my experience, there are a few keys to success at auctions. First, you need to know what you want. Educate yourself in your areas of interest so that you can make smart decisions. The internet is an unbeatable tool for this, although it is helpful to go to antique shows in person to look at retail prices and talk to dealers. Most dealers are more than happy to share their knowledge with you.

Second, you need to know what you are bidding on. Preview the auction in person if you can, or check out the often detailed internet listings and catalogs. Check old auction results to see what similar items have sold for recently. Ask questions - once you have bought it (won it), there are no backsies.

Third, you need to know where you are bidding. Some auction houses always have price estimates that are way, way too low. It's miserable to get excited about an item only to see it sell for many multiples of the expected price, but it is pretty common. Some auctions are frequented by big-spending dealers. Some auctions are off the beaten path and can be a great place to score good deals. Remember to check out auctions that are not local. I have gotten the best deals on New England pieces at auctions in the South. Even after factoring in shipping, you can still come out far ahead when the auction location and the item that you want are uncorrelated.

Finally, know how much you are willing to pay. It's very easy to get caught up in the competition and bid more than you would, in your right mind, ever spend on something. Leaving a maximum bid either directly with the auction house or on the internet is a great way to not get carried away. It also helps to have a spouse who will kill you if you spend a ridiculous amount on something.

Auctions can be nerve wracking and frustrating when you miss out on something that you have your heart set on, but they're also a lot of fun. You never know when that deep-pocketed dealer will be off at the restroom and you are able to buy something that you love for a song. And, as my wife likes to point out, and for all of you hippies out there, auctions are green - the ultimate in recycling.

So, bid well, but for the love of God, please don't bid against me.

Now, since we've established that you won't drive up the prices on me, here are some of my favorite auctions:

Northeast Auctions - Amazing Americana and early American furniture, heavy on New England. www.northeastauctions.com

Skinner - Holds both really high end auctions and more accessible discovery auctions. www.skinnerinc.com

Garths - Focused on Ohio items, but great Americana, too. www.garths.com

Eldred's Auction - New England furniture and 18th/19th century accessories, with a Massachusetts focus. www.eldreds.com

Crocker Farm - Premier dealer in redware and stoneware - leave the Norwalk pieces for me, please! www.crockerfarm.com

Pook and Pook - The creme de la creme of early Americana, with prices to match. Still, the catalog itself is an educational tool. www.pookandpook.com

Nadeau's Auctions - Eclectic auctions with often affordable antique furniture. www.nadeausauction.com

Ebay - Everything and anything goes. If you need the link for this one or the one below, I'm afraid I cannot help you.

Artfact.com - Online aggregator of auctions. Save search criteria and the site will email you when something of interest is up for auction.

Mr. Kellogg Goes to Washington

2011-11-11T11:13:00.001-05:00

Huzzah! I was going to say Yea!, but thought that I would kick it 18th century style in honor of our house.

We got our approval from Connecticut's National Register of Historic Places Review Board last Thursday. Our house's nomination will next be sent on by the state Historic Preservation Office to the Department of the Interior for final review and inclusion on the National Register. This is supposedly pretty much a formality - nominations are not supposed to be sent out by the state until they are a slam dunk, but I'm always skeptical until things are officially official.

The Review Board meeting in Hartford was actually pretty interesting. There were three Historic District nominations presented before our house, and it was a unique opportunity to hear a group of very distinguished architects, historians and archaeologists provide their thoughts an opinions on some fascinating buildings and historic sites. The Review board does a lot of preparation work. They had five nominations to read and they clearly had read and thought about each with care and interest.

Our review was, thankfully, pretty tame. I briefly introduced the property and the reasons for nomination, and, upon request, shared the story of our acquisition of the Victorian-era photo album of our house that my parents found last year. You, of course, already know this story, having feverishly read and re-read each and every post in this blog, right? If not, go back to my March 2010 postings. Do not pass Go, and do not collect $200 dollars. Say 3 Hail Marys, and sin not again.

The Review Board had lots of compliments (apparently, it is very uncommon for homeowners to prepare their own nominations, and even rarer for them to do this and not embarrass themselves), and only a few suggestions. Specifically, they wanted me to include more of the old pictures of the house in the nomination, and to draw more attention to the Hudson Valley influences that are present in our house. As it turns out, the architectural and design influence of the Hudson Valley on Connecticut is a hot topic in architectural historian circles in Connecticut. No doubt, you have been following the debate on Twitter. Happily, even the self-described nit-picker on the board had found no typos, which would have really bothered me.

Anyway, that was it. Nomination approved unanimously. After I make the few changes to the document, it all gets printed up on archival paper, and two copies and a CD go to the state for onward distribution to the Department of the Interior. They have a 45 day turn-around time for nominations, so I'm tentatively planning a plaque-unveiling for late winter.

Wouldn't this be a sassy addition to the front of our house?

The only downside to the day was when I learned from a Connecticut Trust for Historic Preservation representative that they would no longer be offering barn preservation grants for private structures. Since that was the whole reason I started down the National Register road, that was a bummer. Oh well. Times are tight and funding for old barns isn't at the top of most people's agendas (including mine), so I can understand it. I'll just need to buy some extra duct tape to try to hold the barn together until my inevitable lottery win allows for a proper restoration.

Reaching for the Bronze Plaque

2011-11-02T21:03:00.002-04:00

Jenny and I are heading up to Hartford tomorrow morning to listen to the state Review Board weigh in on our home's nomination for the National Register of Historic Places.

I spent a long time working on the nomination form (with some key help from my friend Tod Bryant), which we had to submit to the State Historic Preservation Office in August. We also had a pre-submission site review by the state during the summer. From what I have been told, our nomination should be well received, but it's still a little nerve wracking.

If the state approves our nomination, it goes on to the U.S. Department of the Interior for final review in the next few months (why does this sentence make me think of the classic "I'm Just a Bill" song from Schoolhouse Rock?). After that comes a month of hazing, the probationary period, and finally the revelation of the secret National Register handshake.

Off to the Dept. of the Interior?

The process is long, and requires more paperwork than I have had to deal with since applying to college. And for all of that work, if you make the cut, you have to purchase that nice plaque yourself. That hardly seems fair. That said, it would be an honor for the house to be recognized, and it provides a small extra layer of protection for our property should the state ever want to do something like run a highway through our property, which actually happened in the 1930s, when Connecticut appropriated part of "our" farm for the Merritt Parkway, a road which itself is now on the National Register of Historic Places. My hope is that it also might make it a little easier for us to access some grant money to stabilize our badly deteriorated 18th century barn in the next few years. We shall see. In the meantime, please cross your virtual fingers for us.

Nota bene: Most people seem to think that being on the National Register ties your hand with regard to working on your house, but that certainly is not the case. The current This Old House series in Bedford, Massachusetts disproves that theory - that house is on the National Register, and they are doing a lot of work that is really more renovation than period restoration. Sadly, it is not even unprecedented for buildings on the National Register to be demolished. The publicity from something like that can't be good, however, so would-be condominium developers and those interested in bulldozing an old house and building a McMansion (if either of these species still exist today) need not apply at our door.

Snow Miser vs. the Great Pumpkin

2011-10-31T23:04:00.001-04:00

Snow Miser, Running Amuck in Connecticut

We carved some great jack-o-lanterns this year - one for each family member and a joint entry for our cats. Feel free to vote for your favorite. Sadly, as usual, there were no trick-or-treaters to admire our pagan handicraft. For some strange reason, even the most maniacal candy-seekers seem to be turned off by dark, dead-end streets with cemeteries and old houses on them. Go figure.

In any event, more candy for us. Mmmmm. Twix.

To top it all off, Saturday's snowstorm brought down so many branches and power lines that all of the towns in the area decided to "postpone" Halloween until Saturday. I thought that only the Grinch was sufficiently deranged to believe that he held such sway over the holidays, but apparently the Snow Miser and his local politician minions have similar delusions of grandeur. I think that there might be the makings of a claymation holiday special somewhere in all of this meterological madness.

Thanks, G.P.

Luckily, our premature snowification didn't take too large a toll on the property - we lost a huge branch from an elm tree and a few boxwoods that were already looking pretty raggedy, but otherwise we are in good shape. We even managed to keep our power. Sincere thanks to the Great Pumpkin, who must have recognized us as the most sincere pumpkin patch in the area and staved off any real damage.

Happy Halloween!

October 30?!

American Horror Story

2011-10-28T10:51:00.000-04:00

Watching four episides of American Horror Story the week before Halloween is making me think about the people who preceeded us in our house in a new way. I might have to think twice before going into our semi-creepy basement at night, as I really would not like to run into anything like this:

Halloween around the House

2011-10-14T16:42:00.000-04:00

The leaves in southern Connecticut are finally starting to change, and much to our kids' delight, the Halloween decorations are up at the house. Since they're only 2 and 4 years old, we can't really spookify the place too much, so we'll stick with some vintage decorations and a bunch of pumpkins for now.

40s or 50s Paper Party Hat

Oreo, the Halloween Black (and White) Cat

Archaeology 101, or Get a Real Job, Hippie!

2011-10-10T21:56:00.000-04:00

I'm going to go on the record here and state that our house is a cruel tease. For as long as we have lived in the house, I have desperately wanted to find something really cool buried in our yard. I'm not talking about real buried treasure (although let me make it totally clear to the powers that be that if my shovel should happen upon a cache of gold coins, I will reluctantly embrace the find). All I'm looking for are a few colonial coins, some intact pottery, even an arrow head or two. Just the little tangibles that provide a link to the people who lived on the property in the 18th and 19th centuries.

While we have found a few neat items, including a beautiful cobalt ink well, some early clay marbles, and iron strap hinges and tool parts, for the most part, the property has been pretty stingy with us.

This is particularly disappointing given the lengths to which I have gone to uncover the artifacts that our yard must contain. When we put an addition on our house five years ago, I over-enthusiastically instructed the excavator to pile the fill that was removed from the newly dug basement in our side yard, so that I would be able to sift the dirt for stuff. As the basement was being dug, it seemed like everywhere I look there were pottery shards, glass, metal and other artifacts. No doubt, there would be lots of even better stuff in the big pile of dirt that now stood next to our house. So, I started sifting. I don't know how many of you have watched archaeologists sift for artifacts on TV, or at Jamestown or places like that, but the reality is that the process sucks. I quickly found that it takes a brutally large amount of time to work your way through even a small amount of dirt, especially when the dirt contains lots of gravel and rocks. To be sure, I found some interesting things - bits of local redware, stoneware, some decent sized pieces of green hand-blown bottles and some cool china pieces, but really all I was finding was old trash. And this is not to disparage old trash. Old trash can tell you a lot about the past. If you haven't read it, I recommend James Dietz's fantastic book, In Small Things Forgotten: An Archaeology of Early American Life, to find out what I mean. That said, there is only so much broken trash that a person can take before they throw in the towel. Which is pretty much what I did after a few months. And which is why "The Dirt Mound" continues to stand in our side yard, an eternal testament to my archaeological hubris. From time to time I will take a few wheelbarrows of dirt to fill in a hole somewhere in our yard, and our kids love running down the mound at full speed and digging around the mound to find "Daddy's treasures", a phrase that sounds genuine when they say it, and more than a little sarcastic when used by Jenny.

While Jenny gently teases (mocks) me for the Dirt Mound, she is the one who retained the services of a metal detecting enthusiast at a silent auction, so she shares some culpability for our local (and predictably disappointing) National Treasure sequel. Sadly, the semi-pro detector guy had just as bad luck on our property as I have had. Among his paltry finds were a sheet of lead, a dog tag from the 1950s, a few axe head (old, but not that old), and a round metal disk that was the right size, metal and color to have been an 18th century coin, but which had been rubbed flat to the point that it was impossible to identify. More old trash.

"Treasure" Hunting

The closest I have come to finding anything useful in the dirt was a cache of pottery shards, glass and bones that turned up under a circa 1840s entry hall on the side of the house. As we were repairing the foundation around this structure, a few tantalizing pieces of Norwalk redware plates emerged, followed by some broken slip decorated stoneware and broken case bottles (and some creepy, unidentified bones). Thinking that I was finally going to hit the jackpot, I excavated under the hallway, a process better suited to a small, double-jointed child than to someone of my size. Still, I dug every piece of trash out from under that house, but never did encounter one complete item.

Still, hope springs eternal. There are old wells and privies on the property to be dug (seriously, digging up old outhouses is generally considered to be the most likely way to find "good stuff" at an old house), and I may be only a shovelful of dirt away from finding that buried musket, figural flask, 18th century plate or diamond ring.

In the meantime, I will continue to fill container after container with broken glass and pottery, and to gaze in awe at the beauty of brilliant autumn sun setting behind the Dirt Mound.

Birdseye Views - Play Along at Home

2011-10-05T22:03:00.000-04:00

I thought that I would pass along a great link for those people who are researching their old houses. www.historicaerials.com makes available aerial photos of geographic locations from various times in the past. For my house, they have overhead pictures from 1934, 1949, 1960, 1974 and 2006. Pretty amazing to see the land change incrementally from wide open farmland to New York City suburb over a period of 70 years. Particularly interesting is how long this location maintained its rural landscape. Through 1960, my property consisted largely of open fields, stone walls and agricultural structures. Pretty amazing. Sadly, I can't paste in a picture here, but this link shows the Enos Kellogg Homestead property in 1934:

http://www.historicaerials.com/api/img-server.php?op=fetchHistoricPhotograph&bbox=-73.4613987412072,41.136469353837,-73.4528468642608,41.127988348799&year=1934&stamp=true

Check out your old house's address - very cool. Now if only I could get back all those wide open acres . . .

A Cavalcade of Pictures!

2011-10-05T20:44:00.000-04:00

Better late than never. I am backfilling photos on my last few posts, which were tragically short on anything other than text. So, even if no one is reading this blog, at least we will have a visual record of what we have done on the house over the past ten years. This batch covers the recently completed work in the living room, entry hall and den. I am throwing in a few pictures of reproduction lighting fixtures that we have installed over the past ten years for good measure.

Remember, if you like it then you shoulda put a comment on it . . .

Living Room and Entry Hall

Living Room

Restored Board-and-Batten Door to Entry Hall

19th Century Corner Cupboard

Hydrangeas from Jenny's Garden

Living Room, with 18th Century Ladderback Chair from Stratford, CT Area

Newly Restored Entry Hall

Wood Lantern, Converted to Sconce

All Lit Up

Entry Hall Peg Rack with Carved Wooden Hooks

Newly Painted Fron Door with Original Hardware

Iron Strap Hinges

18th Century Door - Original to House

Early October Fire

George Washington Andirons

Original Cooking Hearth

The Haunted Question

2011-10-02T23:37:00.000-04:00

When you live in a really old house, there are a few questions that you are guaranteed to hear with some regularity. When we first moved into our home, the most frequent question was probably "Are you out of your freaking minds?" Fair question. As the house has slowly taken shape, however, that question has, thankfully, started to fade away. These days, the favorite question is "What is it like having kids in such an old house?" Simple answer - the house has survived 227 years and dozens of children. It's pretty much bomb proof (bomb proof being the minimal structural rating necessary to survive the onslaught of our wild 4 and 2 year old kids).

The most consistent question that we have gotten over the past ten years, however, has concerned the supernatural. "Is it haunted?" "Have you seen any ghosts?" "Is that blood running down the walls?" OK, I made the last one up. Still, without doubt, our house has seen a lot since 1784. More than a few people have been born and more than a few people have died in this house. Quite a few of them are buried just up the street from our house. Have their spirits stayed local, too?

For the most part, Jenny is very uncomfortable with these questions. She doesn't want people to think that our house is creepy. I, on the other hand, love it when the topic comes up. First of all, who doesn't love a good ghost story? Secondly, we have had a couple of weird - but never scary - things happen in the house, and I am always curious to see what people think about them. I've never been much of a ghost believer, but ten years in an old house is bound to make you question a few things.

So, with Halloween only a few weeks away, I thought that I would share the ghost stories of the Enos Kellogg Homestead. No worries - there is nothing gory or really scary, no poltergeists or apparitions - just a few low-grade campfire stories of weird things that my rational brain can't fully process.

The house decorated for Halloween - 2009

Our first weird experience came shortly after we moved into the house. Actually, it was probably almost ten years ago to the day. We moved in to the house with major restoration work underway. Accordingly, there was no heat, we were sleeping on a mattress in our den, and our creature comforts consisted of little more than blankets, a few lamps and a small TV (I can survive a lot or inconvenience, but it would be tough for me to choose between running water and the soul-warming glow of my precious television. Quoth Homer Simpson - "Television! Teacher, mother, secret lover!"). As background, it should be noted that we were not (yet) engaged in any real work on the home's electrical systems. This is why it was strange when light bulbs began to go out repeatedly in the house. I would replace a burned out bulb in a lamp, only to have another bulb go out shortly thereafter. No power disruptions, no tripped circuits, just one bulb after another burning out. This went on for a few days before Jenny couldn't stand it any longer. She stood up in our den one evening after the bulb in a lamp burned out (again), and addressed the house (and anyone or anything therein). "Hey, we're working to save this house, not to destroy it." And with that announcement, the flurry of burned out bulbs ceased. Cue Twilight Zone music.

Our next spooky story is location specific. The second floor bedroom at the top of the stairs was, prior to kids, the guest room in our house. For whatever reason, people love this room - always claiming that it has a good vibe and that they sleep wonderfully in it. My brother-in-law was a frequent visitor to the room in the years after we moved in. One morning he told us a story (corroborated by his girlfriend) about the night before. At some point in the night, his dog, who was sleeping on the floor next to the bed, stood up and began growling at the door. He then proceeded to act as if someone had entered the room. Focused on whatever he saw, he swiveled his head, and watched the "guest" proceed across the room to the far side (where a now sealed door to the adjoining room was located). He then lay back down and went back to sleep. In writing it, this sounds very mundane (a story better told than read, I guess), but both witnesses were insistent that they had seen this exact behavior many times before, when someone new to the dog came into a room, and that the dog, without doubt, thought that he was watching someone walk across the room.

My next ghost-ish experience took place following the birth of my now four year old daughter. In the weeks after she was born, we spent quite a bit more time roaming the house than we were accustomed to. Feedings and diaper changes had us (mostly Jenny) doing a lot of zombie-fied shuffling around the house in the wee small hours. One night, trying to soothe my crying daughter, I began walking laps around our living room (the home's original kitchen), carrying her on my shoulder. As I walked around and around, I gradually became aware of something. I smelled smoke. Not call-the-fire-department smoke, but pipe tobacco. As I began to pay closer attention, I got a distinct whiff of pipe smoke every time I reached a point just before the staircase in the corner of the room. Nothing felt scary or intimidating, but the smell was unmistakable. It was as if someone was checking in on the new addition to the house. As I walked the same route around the room over the coming weeks, the tobacco smell would surface again from time to time, always in the same place. I have no idea who was enjoying their pipe in my living room, but it was actually sort of a comforting presence.

My final household Halloween stories are really just stories of coincidences that are too improbable to believe, and I have relayed both in previous blog posts, so please forgive me as I plagiarize myself.

Most improbable was a call I received from my parents the day before Halloween in 2009. They were calling from an auction in middle-of-nowhere Pennsylvania. As my dad was flipping through books on a table at the auction, he opened up a Victorian-era photo album. As he looked, he was struck by how similar the house featured in family photo album was to my house. The more closely he inspected, the more striking the similarities were. Same house shape, similar looking barns. A sign in one picture even seemed to read Norwalk in tiny print. But it couldn't be, right? Finaly, with a call to me, he was able to confirm enough details to make it clear that he had actually stumbled on a 100+ year old photo album from my house. The photo at the top of the blog is scanned from that album, which is now back in the house. A priceless treasure for me for the grand sum of $20. By my calculation, that chances of this event occurring are precisely zero (mathletes - please spare me any lectures on probability and statistics, this is my story). No way this book was not delivered to me by something supernatural.

In a similar vein, I was shocked earlier this year to see an auction advertisement for an early 19th century redware plate, manufactured in Norwalk fewer than five miles from my house, and emblazoned with the name Enos. Around the time that the plate was made, I can find only three individuals named Enos in the various towns around Norwalk - the Enos Kellogg who built my house and who died in 1832, his nephew and namesake (also Enos Kellogg), and one unrelated Enos. While it is by no means a certainty, this puts the odds freakishly high that the plate is memorializing either the man who built my house, or his namesake. Weird, wild stuff.

So, there is the long answer to the ghost question. No real ghost sightings and no skeletons in the basement (although who knows what is under that concrete floor?), but plenty to get your mind to thinking when you're sitting in an old house on a dark night.

I'd love to hear how the rest of you old house people deal with the ghost question. Do you revel in the chance to freak people out a little, or do you downplay anything weird?

Happy (early) Halloween!

Reproduction Light Fixtures - an Unsolicited Testimonial Now With Actual Photographs!!

2011-09-30T11:05:00.000-04:00

This week I installed a new wall sconce in my daughter's room, and was reminded of exactly how good my favorite source for reproduction lighting is.

When our house was built, there would have been very few lighting devices in the home. People's lives were more synchronized with the sun, and lighting devices and fuel were expensive. The fireplaces would have been a constant source, and candles, either in candlesticks or lanterns would have played a role. Since Enos Kellogg was fairly well-off, there might have even been a tin candle sconce or two somewhere in the house. Rush lights, betty lamps and other oil burning devices also were in common use at the time. But, since we aren't going to walk around carrying candles at night (other than those occasions when our kids request an "old time" candlelit dinner), and since whale oil is both hard to find and apparently quite smelly, we have had to go a little more modern. So, over the past ten years, we have purchased 8 or 10 fixtures from Period Lighting Fixtures in Clarksburg, Massachusetts (http://www.periodlighting.com/).

Most of these fixtures have been tin sconces (our ceilings are too low for most ceiling mounted fixtures), but we also have purchased a turned wood chandelier for our dining room (adios, shiny brass anachronism), and a small tin ship's cabin chandelier for one of our bathrooms. Without fail each light has turned out even better than I had hoped. The craftsmanship is unparalleled, their antiqued finishes make the fixtures fit right into our house, and everyone I have worked with at PLF is just really, really nice. I think life in the beautiful Berkshires must encourage that.

Anyway, the most recent fixture is a copy of a period fixture in the Van Rensellaer Collection from Peterboro, New Hampshire, and per their catalog, is "possibly associated with the Liberty Tree lanterns of 1766." My daughter loves it because it looks sort of like a snowflake, and because it casts a shadow on the wall that looks like the Statue of Liberty's crown.

Mirrored Oval Sconces in the Master Bathroom - Reproduction of Deerfield Originals

Aged Tin Fan Top Sconces

Turned Wood Dining Room Chandelier

Diminutive Tin Sconces in Bathroom

Tin Ship's Cabin Chandelier in Bathroom

Tin Sconces in Second Floor Bathroom

Photographic Appetizers

2011-09-30T10:30:00.001-04:00

While I'm waiting on pictures to add to my last post, I thought I would throw up some great pictures that we used in our application to the National Register of Historic Places last month. All of the pictures were taken by Tod Bryant, an amazing photographer, as well as an extremely knowledgeable historic preservation professional. Check out the link to his business, Heritage Resources, on the right.

A Painting Primer

2011-09-29T23:00:00.000-04:00

So, after more than a month of fairly frantic (and unflaggingly messy and dusty) work, I managed to wrap up just about all of the loose ends that were really bugging me in our living room and entry hall. Even better, I got it all done in time to actually clean up after myself before 50 or so people came tramping through our house on a historic house tour.

Unfortunately for me, most of these loose ends involved painting, which is my all-time least favorite project. I had gone to great lengths since we purchased the house ten years ago to establish my total incompetence when it comes to painting, and for a few years we had a great painter who did beautiful work for a very reasonable price. With him not in the business anymore, the work sadly fell to me. Luckily, I seem to have picked up enough technique osmotically that I ended up doing a pretty fair job. Really, the key is prep work, prep work, prep work. I would guess that I spent at least twenty times the amount of time and effort on surface preparation that I did on actual paint application, and that seems to be about the right ratio. Another key to success when it comes to 230 year old wood surfaces is Minwax High Performance Epoxy. Seriously, it works miracles on holes, gouges, cracks and all manner of wood blemish.

So, what got done since my last post? The remaining wood panel walls and trim in the living room were scraped, sanded, repaired, primed and painted. Cracks in the plaster walls along the back of the room were patched, and the floors got a cleaning like they haven't experienced in quite a few decades. Paint splatters (mostly my own), plaster, dirt, and lots of generic crud had accumulated to the point where I couldn't take it any longer, so I went after the floors with a scraper, dental tools and an abrasive pad. I got a little carried away, so there are a series of light spots trailing across our living room, which means I am going to have to apply some dirt to re-patinate the spots. Yes, you know you have a "special" house when it is necessary to make it dirtier in order to look better. Oy. Anyway, the living room is pretty close to finished. I still need to prime and paint the ceiling, but that can wait until another day. Or month. Or year.

The entry hall off of the living room, meanwhile, got a radical overhaul. This little room (an early 19th century addition that we're guessing was a firewood storage room) had looked like it had just been opened up by Sir Howard Carter. The walls and doors were flaking grungy white paint, the wood trim was in rough shape and the door to the outside had been very badly cased in rough pine lumber. The prescription - more paint scraping, filling, sanding, priming and painting, replacement of the door casings with simple beaded flat stock that matched the rest of the house, and insulating, sheetrocking and skim coating the gaping vertical hole that was being hidden by the old door casing. The closet door and the door to the living room got stripped and restored as well, and both were re-hung with period HL hinges to replace the bad 20th century strap hinges that had been in place. The HLs came from the salvage yard caked in paint, so they got a soak in paint stripper, some clean-up scrubbing and a coat of boiled linseed oil and turned out beautifully . Also in the entry hall, I hung a cool reproduction peg rack with carved wooden hooks. That project sounds easier than it was, thanks to the concrete-like plaster in this room, which eats drill bits in a voracious manner. Finally, the "ye olde" tin sconce that previously lit the entry hall was replaced with an electrified wooden lantern that I reconfigured from a hanging fixture into a sconce and mounted hanging from a driven iron hook.

As a bonus to the work in the living room and entry hall, I finished up most of the work that our AWOL painter failed to complete two years ago at the tail-end of another big project - repainting the inside of the Dutch door at the front of our house and the raised panel door between the den and the living room, and patching and painting some dings and cracks on the staircase.

With everything looking fresh and clean, the house tour was a big hit. We got lots of compliments from the tour-goers, who couldn't believe how well-preserved the house was, and we met a few other historic home owners from Norwalk and New Canaan. We even got a picture of the house in the local paper. We also saw some other interesting old homes in Norwalk, including the two remaining 17th century homes in town, both for sale, and both of which would be really cool with the investment of around 10 years and a small to medium sized fortune. Been there, done that.

Pictures of the new work to follow as soon as I can get my resident photographer (Jenny) to take a few.

The Magical Mystery Plate

2011-07-26T22:24:00.000-04:00

One of the coolest, but least likely thrills of living in an old house is stumbling upon something that may have come from, or is related to, your house. In nearly ten years, it had happened to us only one time, until this month. As of this week, however, we have added a piece that may or may not be associated with the Enos Kellogg House, but that needed to become part of our collection in any case.

Redware Plate, Norwalk, Connecticut. Circa 1840. Inscribed "Enos".

The picture above is of a circa 1840 redware plate manufactured here in Norwalk, Connecticut, fewer than five miles from our home. With an inscription of "Enos", it is almost too good of a story to be true.

Norwalk was a major manufacturing center for stoneware and redware in the 19th century, and we have put together a fairly nice collection of local pieces over the past ten years. Norwalk redware plates are famous for their distinctive slip decoration, and somewhat generic aphorisms, biblical phrases and other words were commonly inscribed on pieces. There are also more customized pieces, created specifically to commemorate particular events or individuals. Operating on the assumption that such a unique customization is most likely to have originated close to the place of manufacture, and with census research showing only a handful of individuals named Enos in Norwalk and surrounding towns in the 1830s and 1840s, it is entirely possible that this plate references or memorializes the Enos Kellogg who built our house and died in 1833, or his nephew and namesake, whose father was raised by the elder Enos Kellogg in our house. Of course, there is also more than a reasonable chance that it references some entirely unrelated Enos, but cut me a little slack here. I prefer to think that this piece came from our house, somehow ended up at an auction in Maryland, and magically returned to its city and house of origin some 170 years after it emerge from the kiln. Ten years of paint scraping, construction dust, sweat equity investment and restoration wounds should buy me a little karmic treat, right?

So, the Norwalk redware Enos plate has been claimed by the Enos Kellogg Homestead, and thanks to some spirited on-site bidding by my parents in Maryland, here it will reside.

A Little Motivation Goes a Long Way

2011-07-25T22:42:00.001-04:00

Not unlike my fits-and-starts approach to blogging, our house has been languishing in a mini-purgatory of half completed projects. I start on something with every expectation of bringing it to swift completion, only to find myself putting it aside "temporarily" as life intervenes. Most glaringly, there are a number of partially completed painting projects around the house that I was counting on our now AWOL painter to finish up.

Luckily, I have found some motivation in the form of our inclusion on a historic house tour in September. The Enos Kellogg House will be one of four featured properties on the Norwalk Preservation Trust's "Norwalk's Living History Tour: Historic Homes from 1675 to 1830". It should be lots of fun, but for the time being, it is the kick in the butt that I needed to finally wrap up some of the loose ends. Living room, entry hall and dressing room all need lots of prep and paint. I'm feeling pretty good about progress in the living room, but we'll see how long that is sustained.

For anyone who wants to see if I can achieve some sort of paint closure, please check out the house tour information on the NPT's website: http://norwalkpreservation.org/pages/events/tours.html.

History

2011-07-21T15:52:00.001-04:00

Deed research indicates that the original farmhouse was constructed circa 1784 on 16 acres of land in Norwalk that was purchased by Enos Kellogg on March 29, 1784 from Mary Fitch. By the time of its construction, Enos had been married to Lydia Fitch Kellogg for ten years, and had three surviving children: Aaron, born February 10, 1775, Esther 2d, born October 30, 1779, and Hannah, born May 29, 1784. Another daughter, also named Esther, born January 12, 1778, had died in infancy. One more child, Rebeckah, was born March 16, 1787. In addition, it appears that Enos Kellogg’s orphaned nephew, Matthew Kellogg, was raised by Enos and Lydia, and lived with the family. Enos Kellogg died in May 1832, and his wife Lydia quickly followed, dying on December 14, 1832. Both are interred at the Kellogg Comstock cemetery located on the southernmost edge of the original property and now owned by the city of Norwalk. Inheriting the property, which included the “Dwelling House, Barn, Hogg House, Wood House, 1 Barn West Side of Road, 1 Carriage House West Side of Road” was Enos and Lydia’s daughter, Esther Comstock. Esther’s husband, who died in 1827, is also buried at the family cemetery.

Concurrent with her inheritance of the property, Esther purchased, for $1,000, an additional abutting 20 acres of land, with buildings, from her cousin, Matthew Kellogg, who presumably inherited that property from his uncle upon his death. The two parcels of land would remain Esther’s property until her death 34 years later. In 1864 in accordance with the provisions of Esther’s February 15, 1852 will, the property passed to Esther’s grandchildren, the five heirs of her eldest son, George E. Comstock, Sr. George E. Comstock, Sr. had also purchased an adjoining 33 acres of land in 1835, and this land passed initially to George E. Comstock’s oldest son, Walter. In 1868, Walter sold this land, along with his interest in his grandmother’s 25 acres, to his brothers George E. Comstock, Jr. (known as Edwin) and William McCuctheon Comstock. Between 1868 and 1878, George E. and William M. Comstock’s sisters, Agnes and Rebecca Comstock, also sold their interests in the inherited property to their two brothers. The 1870 census shows George E. Comstock Sr.’s widow, Mary, “keeping house” and four of her adult children, including Edwin and William, living in the home. By the 1880 census, Edwin is listed as “Head of Family”, and both he and his brother William are listed as living in the house and employed as farmers. Their older sister Rebecca also remained a resident, and is now identified as “keeping house”.

On what was ultimately 66 acres of land, George E. and William McCuctheon Comstock established Comstock Brothers Nursery. On February 11, 1886, William M. Comstock sold his half interest in the property to Edwin Comstock’s father-in-law, Harvey Lyon, and the Norwalk Directory subsequently lists the business as Comstock and Lyon, Nurserymen of Ponus Avenue and Nursery Street. The 1910 census lists George E. Comstock as a “Nurseryman”, living with his wife, Emma, their adopted daughter Nettie Comstock, his father-in-law and business partner Harvey Lyon, and several boarders.

On April 27, 1917, the Enos Kellogg House and 32 acres passed out of the hands of Enos Kellogg’s descendents, as George Lyon and Emma R. Comstock, Edwin’s widow, sold the property, and presumably the nursery business, to a group of four individuals. Subsequent owners sold off various pieces of the land for development, and in the late 1930s, construction of the Merritt Parkway resulted in the State of Connecticut’s ownership of land to the north of the original dwelling house and barn. As of 2011, 1.67 acres of land, containing the original dwelling house and barn remain intact. Two additional outbuildings from the farm, located across Ponus Avenue from the house, also remain, although they have since been converted to residences.

2010-03-29T16:51:00.002-04:00

And here is the house (opposite side) in the snow more than a century later. Sadly, no oxen.

2010-03-29T16:27:00.007-04:00

Here is a picture of our house in Norwalk, CT, probably around 1900.

Unbelievably, my parents randomly found this picture and about 20 additional shots of our house and its owners in an old photo album being auctioned in Pennsylvania last October. What are the odds of this falling into my hands in such a crazy way? I can't even imagine, but the old house gods work in mysterious ways.

I think that the oxen are particularly cool, and the picture clears up some questions about when our kitchen wing (a 19th century timber frame barn) was pushed up against the house. It is probably the structure directly behind the house in this picture.

The Setback Setback

2009-06-17T11:06:00.009-04:00

Once we had determined to move ahead with the bathroom addition, we contacted Jud, our contractor so that we could get on his schedule and wrap up the project "quickly." Having never had to deal with the town before, we assumed that permits would be a relatively painless process. After all, our house is quite modest by the standards of our area, one of the McMansion capitals of the United States, and we were increasing the footprint of the house only by a small amount. What problem could we possible have?

To build our proposed addition, we were required to comply not only with building regulations, but also with zoning guidelines. This is a good thing. Fairfield County, Connecticut, where we live, is famous for massive homes planted on postage sized lots. In many cases, these monstrosities were built after tearing down perfectly functional, often beautiful and sometimes historic residences that had previously occupied the land. Thus, we understand as well as anyone that growth needs to be controlled, and that buildings should be in keeping with the existing community norms in terms of style and size. We were acutely aware of this in our proposal, adding only modestly to the size of the house, and going to great lengths (and cost) to design an addition that was in keeping with the historic nature of our home and the surrounding neighborhood. As a result, I expected that we would breeze through the permit process, with nothing more challenging than the associated fees and the time spent negotiating City Hall. Wrong, wrong, wrong.

Where we ran into trouble is with our town's setback regulation. For those of you who are lucky enough not to have ever heard the term, the setback is the distance from the front of the property line past which one is not permitted to build. The intent is to build a buffer so that buildings do not loom over the street - not a bad thing. In our case, there was a 40 foot setback regulation, meaning that construction was not permitted within 40 feet of the front property line.

Our challenge was that in the 18th century, homes tended to be built fairly close to the road, even in rural areas. As our survey revealed, about two-thirds of the space in our house is located within 40 feet of the property line.

While we understood the issue, our assumption was that we would have no trouble obtaining a variance to this requirement. As our proposed addition was located significantly behind the front of our house, we would not be encroaching on the property line any more than the house already did. Moreover, as our home was built 200 years before the regulation even existed, we assumed that there would be some sort of grandfather clause that would allow us to proceed. Wrong again.

Upon the initial submission of our application for a variance to the Planning and Zoning (P&Z) department, we were told that our addition was "never going to happen". Even worse, the individual to whom our proposal was assigned seemed to take significant joy in turning us down. We were informed that we had many other alternatives that would for putting the addition in a conforming location behind the setback line, and that, accordingly we should not even bother to appeal to the Zoning Board of Appeals (ZBA), because the P&Z representative would do everything in his power to block the addition. Not good.

Naively, my mind was blown by how this was playing out. We were two young, relatively affluent tax payers, who moved to a town notorious for less than stellar schools and services, and we were prepared to make a large investment that would pretty much ensure that we would stay in the house and town for a long, long time to come. In addition, the addition that we proposed would make the house habitable for a modern family, which was not the case when we moved in. Our intention was to ensure that our home would endure for another 200 years, and not be bulldozed by a future owner who valued the land and modern amenities more than the historic value of the property. This was a win-win situation, and our P&Z friend made it clear that we would be better off demolishing the 18th century structure and building anew. Arrgh. Bureaucracy and stupidity rear their ugly heads.

Undeterred by the feedback we received on our rejected application, we filed for a hearing with the ZBA. This was a big deal. In addition to meaning a lengthy delay (months and months due to a backlog of cases) to get an appeal hearing slot at the monthly ZBA meeting, it required detailed architectural drawings ($$), a lawyer ($$), and a massive investment of time and energy as I prepared our case. We needed to inform our neighbors of our proposal (certified letters to everyone!), get neighbors and preservation experts to write letters and speak on our behalf, review legal precedent with our lawyer, etc., etc.

I spent countless hours completing paperwork for the appeal application - an exercise in cutting and pasting to make everything fit on the forms. And this was old school, second grade-style cutting and pasting involving scissors and Elmer's products, not modern Microsoft cutting and pasting. Unbearable.

I also spent a lot of time familiarizing myself with the Secretary of the Interior's Standards for Rehabilitation, which are the federally designed guidelines that are widely accepted as the benchmark for properly restoring or making changes to historic properties.

The major hurdle that we would have to overcome with the ZBA was P&Z's insistence that there were viable alternatives to our proposal. Our P&Z friend was only too happy to enumerate his grand alternative. His suggestion was that we locate a bathroom addition off the back of our house. In effect, he was suggesting that it was reasonable that the primary bathroom in the house require residents to enter the living room, go through a hallway, into the dining room, up a flight of stairs (to be located somewhere in our already very, very small dining room) into a new mater bathroom that was somehow magically suspended over the dining room (an early 19th century addition that could never handle the load of a second floor). Wow. Why didn't we think of that.

In total, we spent almost an entire year navigating this process, from the point of deciding to do the addition to the point of our Zoning Board of Appeals hearing.

Finally, we had our time in front of the ZBA. The P&Z representative perfunctorily reviewed our application for the board and indicated that there were clear alternatives to our proposal, and thus recommended that we be turned down. By this time, I was madder than hell, and not going to take it anymore. When our turn came, I walked the board through our proposal, why it was the only viable option, and why the alternative presented by P&Z was not only non-sensical, but also clearly contravened federally recommended guidelines for preserving and modifying historic structures such as out house. We then had supporting testimony from our neighbors, and from a representative of the Norwalk Preservation Trust. I then produced 20 sacks of mail, all addressed to Santa Claus. OK, everything happened but the last part.

The ZBA had many, many questions, but by this time I was pretty much in a fugue state of some sort, and was able to respond to their issues without any trouble.

I should take this opportunity to mention one funny thing. When we arrived at the meeting, we found that we would be the last case of the evening. We were all starving. Jenny, who despite being tiny, eats more food than anyone else I know, insisted that she could run out, pick up food and be back long before our turn came. Of course, the food took longer than expected to procure, the cases before us went fairly quickly, and Jenny didn't make it back until we were deep into our case. I might have been mad if we had lost.

Anyway, the ZBA cleared the room, deliberated for 10 minutes, and then brought us back in to unanimously approve our variance. Suck it, anonymous P&Z official!

Can you tell that the whole process still gets me angry?

So, in the end, we got our addition, as proposed. Rationality prevails!!

Pouring Money Down the Drain

2009-06-12T13:38:00.014-04:00

When we purchased our house, the bathrooms were not high on our list of priorities. Compared to the facilities in our small apartments in New York City, they seemed positively spacious, and frankly, our attention was more focused on the 18th century elements of the house.

Once we actually moved into the house, however, it quickly became clear the the bathrooms would eventually need some attention. The master bath was located in a small shed-like addition located off the side of the house. It was small by modern standards, with a sink, toilet and combination tub/shower. There was a nicely sized linen closet, but the the decor featured an early-1980s low-end hardware store motif, including a large mirror surrounded by dressing-room style lights that screamed "A Chorus Line!". The real challenge, however, was the room's height. The doorway from our dressing room into the bathroom was very low, and the top corner of the door was crossed by a cased-in drain pipe from the second floor. Not cracking one's skull when maneuvering the single step down into the bathroom was a challenge. The low height in the bathroom had led to a shower head placement that was fine for Jenny, but that resulted in me being treated to a stream of water chest high. Not good for those if us who are not vertically challenged.

The second floor contained what I assume was the first plumbed bathroom added to the house. This small room was located on the western side of the house, tucked under the slope of the saltbox roofline. The condition when we moved in was appalling. Everything in the room had been painted over in a thick, sludgy brown paint that I can only assume was purchased as surplus from the military or some institution. There was nothing attractive about it, yet it covered the walls, ceiling, trim and exposed pipes. Even worse, the paint on the sloped ceiling had been applied over several alternating layers of paint and wallpaper. By the time we moved in, these strata of decoration were flaking and peeling all over the room. To us, it looked like one of the dark and disturbing settings for the movie "7". There were, however, a few interesting features, including an old, white pedestal sink, and a very short cast iron bathtub tucked back under the eaves of the room. One wall of the room also featured what looked like original 18th century horizontal paneling. The tongue-and-groove board had separated over the years, leaving large gaps that had been badly filled with a large amount of wood filler over the years, and there were just faint indications of the bead detail that ran down the edge of each board buried underneath 200+ years of paint.

With too many other items requiring immediate attention when we moved in in 2001, the bathrooms were left pretty much alone for some time. We did, have our contractor reroute the death pipe that crossed the doorway downstairs. Given the low ceiling and doorway height throughout the house, it did not take me long to intuitively move around the house cautiously and with a bit of a stoop. Having literally laid myself out on the floor several times with blows to the head, it became a matter of self-preservation. The bathroom door pipe, however, was too much. There was no way I was not going to severely injure myself in the middle of the night at some point if it was left in place. Happily, the plumbers were able to raise it up just enough to clear the doorway.

On the second floor, we gutted the decaying ceiling as part of the major ceiling and wall renovation that took place when we first moved in. This made the room much less creepy, but it was still not the most welcoming facility for our guests, who were the only people who really ever had to use that bathroom, anyway. Around 2004, I did begin to start stripping the brown paint off the paneling in the room. This took place in fits and spurts, whenever I had some free time and felt the need to make progress on something.

Also around 2004, we begin to see signs that all was not right in the master bathroom. The floor tile in the room had cracks in various places even when we moved in. Over the next two to three years, these cracks got worse, and the grout began to fail in several places resulting in loose tiles that would pop out of place. Having caulked the edge of the tub where it met the wall when we moved in, I eventually noticed something disturbing. The gap kept opening up more and more. I re-caulked, only to watch it open again. The problem was that the movement between tub and wall was vertical, not horizontal. So, either our house had hit a growth spurt, or the tub was sinking. Not good. Our worst fears were confirmed when I entered the bathroom one day and saw that a tile in the corner was missing. What was left in its place was a black hole. With a little help from a flashlight, it quickly became obvious that the floor in this corer was basically non-existent, rotted away by years and years of water damage (I forgot to mention that when we moved in, the space between the tub and walls had not been caulked). Obviously, the whole thing was going to need to be torn up and replaced.

From here, the real fun began. We knew that we wanted to re-do the entire bathroom, but that this would be a major project. A visit from Jud, our contractor, revealed that any renovation would be from the ground up - the foundation under the bathroom was in very bad shape, the floors were rotten, and the joists consisted of logs sitting on the ground. So, we began to plan a new bathroom addition. We would tear down the dilapidated structure, and start anew.

At first, we began to plan rebuilding within the existing footprint. Then, we started talking about re-doing the upstairs bathroom at the same time. This would, by the impeccable logic of everyone restoring old homes, save costs (by doubling the work). ??. Next, it occurred to us that by building up, we could add on to the very small second floor bathroom at the same time that we rebuilt the master bath.

Before too long, I had sketched out (below) a plan for a two story addition that would mimic the saltbox roofline of the main house. We would double the footprint of the master bath, giving us room to install both a large tub and a separate shower stall, and we would convert the window in the second floor bath into a door, creating a bathroom suite that would allow us to put in a shower on the second floor, and make the house suitable for guests and kids (one day). Sure, it was a much, much bigger undertaking than we had ever envisaged, but it would dramatically improve the quality of life in the house for us and womever comes after us.

We expected that the entire endeavor would take 6-12 months. Little did we know that it would take that much time just to get approval from the town for the project, and that it would be two full years before the project was completed.

Around the House

2009-06-08T14:21:00.003-04:00

Windows, or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Warmth

2009-06-08T12:12:00.004-04:00

I somehow forgot the last big project in phase 1 of our restoration - replacing the windows. Unfortunately, when we purchased the house in 2001, all of the original windows (possibly excepting the two attic windows) had already been replaced and the openings had probably been re-sized (bigger). What we were left with was a collection of early 20th century windows and a number of cheap modern windows that the people from whom we purchased the house had installed themselves. Typically, they achieved this installation without the use of insulation and without any real knowledge of how to properly install or trim out a window.

Thus, winter in the house meant an uninterrupted breeze emanating from the window casings in our bedroom and den, as air penetrated the vacant, uninsulated sash weight pockets on either side of the windows. Upstairs, the windows moved up and down only with great exertion and, again, afforded very little benefit in terms of efficiency and sound reduction.

On the coldest days of winter, even with our new boiler running at maximum overdrive, we found it impossible to raise the temperature in the house out of the low 60s. Too cold. So, we decided to bite the bullet and replace the windows. More than 20 windows, all of different (i.e custom - or as I like to call it, expensive) sizes. To reflect the age of the house, we wanted to go with 12 over 12 light patterns on the windows where possible, and 6 over 6 in the smaller windows. The window guy who was recommended to us steered us towards Lincoln windows. These are all wood, double paned, insulated windows that tilt in for cleaning. A nice product, although not the hand made custom 18th century sashes that I would have certainly preferred to use if money had not been a factor.

Installation took forever - far longer than it should have, and this should have been my first clue that something was wrong. The installers were nice and pleasant, but were all very young and had little experience. Sadly, so did we, otherwise I would have pitched a fit if it had occurred to me that installing a second sill above the original in order to make the windows fit was a lazy shortcut to avoid additional framing and trim work. Also, it looks stupid. After more than 220 years, nothing in our house is plumb or level, and the installation was a challenge for installers who were used to working with new construction or relatively young houses. Lesson learned the hard way - never, ever hire someone to work on an 18th century house who does not love old buildings and who has not had experience working on them.

In the end, the windows got installed, work well, and look OK from the inside. Unfortunately, the trimming on the outside was done very badly, to the point where we ended up with rotted sills on several windows within three years, and the aforementioned unconscionably ugly double sills everywhere. So far, we have had Jud, our contractor (who does know and love old house) re-trim the worst offending windows, and will have to have the rest done at some point as money permits.

I don't like to think about the windows, as I have no idea why I didn't see at the time how badly the work was being done. I'll chalk it up to the cost of being in over our heads on the project at the time. To Jenny's annoyance, I still obsess over the period-correct windows that we will have hand crafted and installed after winning the lottery. I have learned, however, that vocalizing this obsession really doesn't get me more than a threatening look from Jenny, so I try to focus on the fact that we can now get our house warm (ish) in the winter and that the 12 over 12 pattern at least gives everything a distinctive, sort-of-appropriate look. By the way, I should mention that yes, it is a pain to clean 24 small panes on each window. As a result I try to operate on the assumption that dirty windows are also period appropriate.

Return of the Prodigal Blogger

2009-06-05T13:09:00.000-04:00

OK, once again it has been months and months since I updated the blog. But, here I am, so I will pick up the "power update" of the work that we did during the first few years in the house. After moving in to the house and finally obtaining luxurious amenities like heat and a water-tight roof, our contractor excavated around the patio off the back of the house, and poured a concrete lip to protect the sills (below grade). I can't recall why we didn't just drop the grade of the patio at that point (which we still need to do at some point), but I think it was just a matter of being cheaper and more expedient. Not good reasons, but what can you do?

The early years also saw lots more painting of rooms, but thankfully not any major structural issues. There were a few cool projects along the way. Jenny's favorite story about our house restoration was one of these.

In our second or third year in the house, I found myself with some free time in early December. Having been unhappy with the water-stained drywall that made up our living room ceiling, I had, for some time, speculated to Jenny that there might be some nice beams underneath, like the ones that were exposed in the den. Eventually, with speculation turning to obsession, I had to take a look, and secured Jenny's permission to open a small hole in the ceiling. As Jenny describes it, she returned to our house that day to find me elated that there were, indeed, beautiful beams in the ceiling. She also found my definition of small to be approximately 6'x6'. I maintain that that was the smallest hole that would let me get a good view given the dim lighting, but I don't think that Jenny bought my story. Anyway, the entire ceiling was down within a few hours.

While I maintain that the project was well worth it, I will concede that my timing was less than perfect. This all took place about a week before we were due to have 100 or so of our closest friends descend on the house for our annual Christmas party. Happily, Jud, our contractor, managed to squeeze in the time to sheetrock and skim coat between the beams, leaving is with a ceiling that, I believe, only enhanced the festivity of our party. That's my story, and I'm sticking to it.

Another key project during this time period was the restoration of our front door. The door is a beautiful, slightly squat, dutch door with eight raised panels. A beautiful hand wrought thumb latch was still in place, as were the original (I believe) strap hinges and pintles When we moved in, the door and its hardware were layered in paint, and the door had cracks in two of the panels that I could slide my hand through. Neither aesthetically pleasing, nor energy efficient. Despite the recommendation of one of my father-in-laws carpenters that we should toss it into a dumpster and buy a nice new aluminum door (Aaaaack!), we decided to have it restored to its original condition. After removing the door and having it stripped at a local establishment, we took the door to Paul Marlowe of Marlowe Restorations in Northford, CT. Paul disassembled the door, cleaned out two centuries of paint and dirt that were embedded around the panels, repaired the cracks with epoxy, and repaired a major splintered crack on one of the rails. The door was then reassembled and re-pegged. The door was primed and painted and I stripped and oiled all of the hardware (including the latch, which we left in place on the door as it was still attached by the original period nails, which we did not want to disturb). Hung back up, it looks amazing, and is a real focal point for the front of the house.

Other interior projects during this time included removing the mid-20th century built-ins in the living room to expose the original beaded wall behind it, and reglazing the old door at the back of our living room with 18th century glass panes purchased from Fairview Glass in Maryland.

Outside, we removed a large amount of rotting firewood from various locations around the property, created a perennial garden alongside the driveway and in a small area outside the dining room, and began the arduous process of reclaiming the property from overgrowth that had consumed much of the property in the preceding two decades. This entailed removing huge amounts of forsythia, poison ivy and vines that had grown unchecked under the not so watchful eye of the previous homeowners. By pushing back the forsythia in the backyard by about 40 feet, I was able to re-expose beautiful stone walls, and give some breathing room to the cherry and horse chestnut trees in the yard that had been largely obscured by the overgrowth. I also uncovered an old well of some sort about 15 feet from the back door. Although it was capped by concrete, there is a small plug that can be removed and inspection showed beautiful fieldstone masonry ringing the well form ground level down approximately eight feet. Definitely something that I want to explore at some point in search of artifacts.

For the most part, that is all of the work that made up Phase 1 of the restoration process, which was basically just an effort to stop the deterioration that appeared to have been taking place for the preceding 20 years, ensure that the house was structurally sound, and make the necessary upgrades to the systems that would let us live comfortably. In total, this took about four years, with the work occurring in fits and starts, as time, inspiration and money allowed. Hopefulyl, i will post an update on Phase 2, the bathroom addition, as well as some pictures in the near future.

Lazarus

2008-09-05T21:38:00.000-04:00

Yes, my blog is back from the dead. After a meager two year hiatus (I know, not an auspicious beginning to the blog), my wife Jenny has cajoled me into reviving the blog on our house.

As you can imagine, there are a few things to update since my last post way back in 2006. Most importantly, we have a new addition to the family, our beautiful daughter Brooks, who was born in August of 2007. She's now a year old, and running around the house like crazy. She seems to like the old house just fine, and definitely loves the yard.

The baby's arrival of course spurred on a frantic round of work on the house, primarily focused on converting our decrepit office into a suitable nursery. I also powered through the vast majority of the paint scraping that was left in the house, in an effort to get rid of the last lead paint vestiges before Brooksie arrived.

Ok, in the interest of actually sustaining the blog from this point going forward, I will run very quickly through six years of restoration work to bring the house up to date. Some of these were biggies, and I will try to revisit these in more detail later. More or less in chronological order, we have:

Gutted the crumbling plaster walls and ceilings on the second floor (still kicking myself for this, but we had no idea what we were doing, and it seemed like the way to go). With the walls opened up, we installed modern insulation to replace the decidedly non-modern insulation that had been in place - lots and lots of dessicated corn cobs that were shoved in the voids between the timber framing. We then had the walls sheetrocked, and skimmed in plaster with a historic texture to match the original walls.

We also used the opportunity of the open walls to upgrade the electrical on the second floor, adding a fixture over the stairs, and adding and upgrading outlets.

Painted pretty much everything. The previous owners were smokers, and every surface in the house had a "patina" of smoke and dirt. I am a decidedly bad painter so focused my efforts on removing wallpaper, but Jenny and our families managed to get a fresh coat on most rooms downstairs.

Had all of the painted floors on the second floor sanded down to bare wood and polyurethaned. In hindsight, another mistake. The sanding messed up the nail heads on the old floors. Still bugs me, but live and learn. If I had it to do over again, I would have hand scraped. Of course, I would still be working on this project all these years later.
Had the chimney relined. We have 4 fireplaces, all off of one center chimney. The fireplace in our bedroom was boarded up, and the ancient Hercules boiler (coal converted to oil) vented through that flue. We opened up the fireplace, installed a dedicated vent pipe for the boiler, and reclaimed the fireplace. The other three fireplaces had been used over the previous 50 years to varying degrees, and it is a miracle that no one died. The fireplaces were lined using the Golden Flue process. Basically, they lowered someone down our massive chimney to chip out the old flues. They then inserted enormous bladders to each firebox. The bladders were inflated, and a special concrete was poured into the chimney. When it cured, the bladders were deflated and removed, and we were left with cast in place flues. Very cool, and provided the added benefit of making the chimney extraordinarily strong. The process works very well, and I highly recommend it, but our chimney guy was a nightmare. Lots of cut corners, sloppy, did not ask the right questions, and lost seven expensive bags of the concrete which he claimed went into our bricked up beehive oven (which he then insisted that we pay for half of). Anyway, it all worked out in the end, but thinking about it still makes me careen off into a rant.
Replaced the old Hercules boiler with a modern oil burning boiler. Unfortunately, between the boiler and chimney work, we spent our first few weeks in the house without heat during an unusually cold October. Brrrrr.
Replaced the roof, which the previous owners had assured us did not leak. This proved to be an optimistic assessment when a storm during the first week that we owned the house led to leaks everywhere. Our neighbor across the street kindly informed us that the previous owners kept a ready supply of buckets and pots to spread around the house whenever it rained.

All of this work took place during year one, with most of the messier items frontloaded in the weeks between closing and moving in.

The culmination was our hosting of Thanksgiving for both of our families. We were very proud to show off our cleaned up house but in retrospect, it still looked like a disaster. Our contractor managed to remove the table saw, and the rest of his tools from our living room only the day before our big event. I have a distinct memory of Jenny and I passing out on a big chair immediately after dinner. It may have been partly the tryptophan, but more likely it was the shock of our new endeavor catching up with us.

Ok, that's pretty much it for September-December 2001. Next post I will make some more progress on the next few years. Hopefully it won't be another two years before I get around to that entry.

2006-08-22T22:07:00.000-04:00

Here is an exterior shot of our house when we bought it in September 2001. Actually, I believe that this is the picture I first saw on the web that piqued my interest to begin with and kicked off this whole deal.

The real estate agent clearly was doing her job, selecting a vantage point and angle that drew attention to the classic saltbox profile and the "park like setting" (as I recall the realtor-speak blurb claiming), yet far enough removed to mask the well-worn roof, poorly installed replacement windows and overgrown back yard (an impressive mixture of steroidal forsythia seasoned with an unhealthy dose of poison ivy).

That being said, we now owned, in concert with our fine friends at Astoria Federal Mortgage, an undeniably cool house with lots of potential.

It was the best of houses . . .

2006-08-21T21:00:00.000-04:00

Hi everyone. Maybe "Hi anyone?" is more like it. Almost five years into our restoration of our c.1784 home in Norwalk, Connecticut, I'm finally going to put some of this on virtual paper.

Since we're starting out half a decade (scary) into the project, I'll give a little background, starting with the:

Cast of Characters

Me - John. 33 years old, born in Maryland, working in New York City, living in Connecticut. Obsessed with our house.

Jenny, my wife of almost 4 years. 31 years old, grew up a few miles south of us in CT, working a few miles north of us in CT. Less (o.k., not) obsessed with our home, but a generally good sport, even when I find it imperative put a "small" 5'x5' hole in our living room ceiling, just to see if some beautiful beams might be hiding above the decrepit drywall. Shortly before Christmas. God bless her.

Our cohabitants - Callie and Junior, our cats (baseball fans and those from Bawlmer should appreciated the juxtaposed cats names). Also, Elvis and Blackberry, the cats, both former residents, dearly departed.

Our contractors:

The Good: Jud, Esteban, Cesar, Russ, et al. The talent behind the evolution (revolution?) of our house.

The Bad: Crazy Chimney Guy, Half-Assed Window Guys. Hopefully not too many more to come.

The Ugly: Various and sundry who touted a "tear it down, put up some condos and make a ton of money" plan for our property.

There certainly will be special guest appearances by such notables as "The Van Leeuwen Boys", Jenny's always amusing younger brothers, past and present neighbors (only some certifiably insane), and a host of friends (only some certifiably insane) who have, hopefully, enjoyed our home along with us.

Basic background
2001. Both Jenny and I living in New York City. Astronomical rents being paid on two small but charming apartments. Jenny having quit her first job and about to head off on a summer-long cross country adventure with her friend Courtney. Just out of curiosity looking at what it would cost to move into one larger, hopefully more charming place to live, funded by two salaries.

Jenny's half-serious investigations into homes in Connecticut turn up a nice, but termite infested rental cottage (outrageously expensive), and several tiny, even more outrageously expensive homes for sale in toney, but terminally snooty, Darien, CT. And then, a sighting of a really cool looking, prototypically New England saltbox house on a real estate website.

Happily, despite being in the middle of a fight about some unknown, and probably stupid thing (certainly not my fault), Jenny agrees to go look at this unique fixer-upper opportunity. Greeted by a wild turkey in the front yard, but no one else at home, we snoop around, peaking in the windows and checking out the 1.7 acre yard. I'm hooked. Our real estate agent shows us the inside the next day. The house is amazing - spacious, with beautiful wood paneling, a huge stone hearth in the living room (original kitchen), and narrow, well-worn stairs winding up two bedrooms on the second floor. Even better, it's in great shape, at least in the eyes of two twenty-somethings who know absolutely nothing about old houses, antiquated plumbing, alligatored paint, wiring worthy of a display at a Thomas Edison museum, rotting sills, leaky roofs and a full acre of poison ivy. So, to the puzzlement of everyone, we decide to buy the place. Offer made. Counter offer received. Negotiate . . . negotiate . . . negiotiate. Offer accepted. Yeah!

Then we wait for four long months for our closing on September 21. With much of our down payment tied up in Jenny's brokerage account, we decide that, just to be safe, she will sell the stock ten days in advance - on September 11, 2001. That morning, with Jenny waiting at my apartment for the market to open so she can place her sales, I get off the elevator on the 56th floor of my office building in Midtown Manhattan, seconds after terrorists have flown a hijacked plane directly overhead, and followed a path southward to crash it into the World Trade Center. A second plane hits minutes later and we evacuate. Like my office, and virtually everything else in New York, the stock market is closed for days following the attack, and our downpayment sits out of our reach. When the market reopens, we raise the needed cash and wrestle with our bank until literally an hour before our scheduled closing to make the money available to buy our home.

Finally, the closing is over, and the house is ours. En route to a celebratory lunch with our real estate agent, an elderly woman coming off of a side street runs a stop sign and narrowly misses our car. Inexplicably, despite the fact that she has just come inches from smashing into us, she is consumed by a fit or road rage. Honking, accelerating to our bumper and swerving back and forth, she appears hellbent on finishing the job of running us down. With her racing towards us, Jenny begins evasive maneuvers. I should probably mention at this point that the brakes on our car are failing. As in not working, with a crazed geriatric nipping at our fender. I should also mention the old goat's license plate, which I can discern in my frantic glances backward reads "GGOAT". Yup. Very self-aware of the old broad.

So, Jenny is driving like Bo Duke with Sheriff Roscoe in hot pursuit. The brakes are smoking and we're doing 60 miles an hour on the otherwise quiet suburban street crossing the border between Greenwich and Stamford, CT. We whip into a small development abutting Long Island Sound, and find ourselves driving towards a dead-end. Jenny turns the car around, and there she is - GGOAT parked in the middle of the road, standing next to the open driver's side door and literally shaking her raised fist at us. Jenny swings up onto someone's lawn (sorry), and around the car blockade. We shoot up the road a mile to her Mom's home and barricade ourselves inside, two able-bodied young adults cowering from an octogenarian.

After a suitable waiting period, we check both directions to make sure an angry AARP mob isn't headed our way with torches and pitchforks, we head up the road to check out our new old house. We only have time for a quick tour of the home (where we notice that the house seemed to be in a bit more disrepair than it looked when it was full of furniture), and head off up I-95 for our friends Missy and Alan's wedding in Dorsett, VT.

There we are, we own the house. Now we just have to fix it up a bit. No big deal, I'm sure.

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