NEW LIFE FOR OLD TIMBER By George Laurence Nelson

Note: This is an excerpt from George Laurence Nelson's memoir of his love affair with the ancient old house in Flanders, Kent, CT. New Life for old Timber is available for $6 through the Kent Historical Society Gift Shop.

Introduction: Helen and Laurence Nelson were warm and colorful participants in all the activities of Kent during their life in the town. Their talents contributed to a lively interest in music, town history, the Library Fairs, Community House programs, the Art Association, and endless personal relationships.

In addition to their gifts as writer and artist, their garden, full of color, unique in its small-scale plan, drew admiration. Laurence's fine voice, accompanied by one of his musical instruments, and his gift for storytelling, made any gathering at the Old House a delight. They made "Seven Hearths" a charming center for their family and friends by the warmth of their personalities and their affectionate understanding of human foibles.

The Historical Society, of which they were charter members, is honored to be chosen as the means of preserving "Seven Hearths," one of the early Kent Houses in the Historic District, as the headquarters of the Society and as a memorial to Helen and Laurence.

The Old House, as Laurence lovingly referred to it, had its high and low periods, from the time John Beebe Jr. built it, through its occupancy by several other Kent families to its low ebb as a tenant house before its revival by Helen and Laurence.

We hope you will enjoy "Seven Hearths" and find in it some of the flavor of the old village, the warmth of its last occupants and rewarding art study.

We bring you "New Life for Old Timber" as a delightful picture of the old house and village in 1919 with the flavor of Laurence in its telling.

Emily M. Hopson Kent Historical Society, 1982

"When the old house first came into our possession it had been waiting patiently while the quiet life of the hill country passed it by. That was nearly thirty years ago, and for an appreciable period of time, the surge of life within had ceased completely. Bleak and gray, it hid its dejection effectually beneath the great maples. They spread their branches in a towering profusion of green that rustled about the eaves, and reached out to envelop the two great chimneys that dominated the steep pitch of the roof. Dense lower branches concealed the opalescence of the many-paned windows, and almost hid the lean-to in the rear which sheltered the well, the old milk room, and the kitchen pantry. Needless to add, the interior remained in constant twilight relieved by a timid spot of sunlight.

"The appearance of the surrounding land completed the picture of abandonment. Everywhere thistles, nettles, burdock and plantain competed with the grass which had grown to the height and volume of a sturdy crop of hay. This growth attempted to conceal the haphazard confusion of sheds and chicken coops, cluttered with an assortment of junk and wire, which the grass seized upon and bound tightly to the ground. A vine which we never did identify, bearing the clusters of minute purple and white flowers, enveloped the fences. It twisted its hardy wood stems about the wire and clinging to the ground shot out in all directions to reappear wherever it found support on a plank or tangle of chicken wire. Here and there currant bushes struggled amidst the nettles and the flamboyant rhubarb leaves alone succeeded in retaining a place in the sun. A few old-fashioned roses revealed where a garden might once have flourished, and a clump of day-lilies managed to raise their clear yellow blooms above the confusion.

"Apparently there comes a time in the life of a community when a period, or manner of living, draws to a close and another begins. This change is imperceptible at first, but gains momentum over an appreciable number of years. Such a period had come to the community in which our house had played an important role and families which had lived on the land for generations were fading out completely. Some of these folks were childless, and when they passed away, the auctioneer was called in to dispose of the accumulation of the years. Others sold out and departed; they were leaving the land and many an old farm and house were to be had for prices that today would hardly pay for a new heating plant, or for the building of a garage.

"But this changing cycle worked to the advantage of artists like myself, who were searching for a studio home for the summer months or for year-round occupation. The old places were intriguingly quaint, and often afforded studios in the house or in barns close by, readily convertible to the painter's needs.

"The glamour of that first day as owners of a house, of soil and trees, lingered a whole summer as we explored the labyrinth of rooms, knocking out partitions, opening papered-over doors and fireplaces, cleaning and fumigating. As fall drew near enough had been achieved to enable us to look forward to occupying part of the house upon our return the following spring, when the real work of painting and papering would begin. There were scores of broken and cracked window panes to replace and broken plaster needed mending. I was soon to discover what it meant to become a 'Jack of all Trades' with the necessity of mastering more than one.

"There are two ways of attacking a restoration project; one includes a complete job done as a single operation, and enough money to pay for it; the other, a gradual process by trial and error, and largely through one's own effort manually - we chose the latter. And today, when reviewing the past, this choice seems the more justifiable, as much might otherwise have been done to destroy the quaint atmosphere of the place.

"The second summer saw Tim Bissel with a couple of his boys brushing on the first coat of paint. The weathered siding drank it in like blotting paper, but the house began to emerge with a silvery sheen from beneath the maples. With this emergence began a succession of visits from those who had formerly shared in the life of the old house. Some of them made nostalgic pilgrimages; others came inspired by curiosity; still others offered assistance and advice. Just when Myra Waldo entered this friendly surge from the past would be impossible to recall, but as her great-great forebears had kept store in our house we mutually began to assume a vicarious relationship, however, tenuous, and she was soon known to us as Cousin Myra. From our first contact we felt that she belonged to the house as much as the stately paneling belonged to the dining room and parlor. Even her appearance evoked a kinship with the house; it revealed itself perhaps more as a spiritual relationship with the period in which her forebears lived ruggedly and wrought beautifully.

"We would find Cousin Myra lingering a moment at the massive front door, her deepset eyes affectionately following the grain of the old pine, etched in deep lines by the impact of the weather; with her strong, capable hands she would be fondling the brass knob that moved the amusing see-saw latch, a unique contrivance much like the rocking beam of an old side wheel river boat. It was then that her faded gingham dress, trimmed about the neck with a bit of heirloom lace, and her square toed, low heeled shoes, seemed to belong quite as much to the old doorway as the huge granite stone with its soft velvety carpet of moss. On the few occasions that Cousin Myra did wear a hat it must have been taken from an attic trunk, for it was always in keeping with the style of an earlier generation. It would be tilted to the back of her head and resting on a bun peremptorily drawn up for convenience. The graying, tawny hair, however, remained unruly, and rebellious strands framed in her face and the back of her neck. But there was always an impressive dignity whether she appeared with marked pride holding a gigantic Paul Neyron rose from her garden or chuckled with quiet glee over the foibles of the male population of the town.

"When I needed someone to jack up the sagging floors before proceeding with the repair of the walls and ceilings, Cousin Myra recommended Ward Thomas as one who understood old houses. Ward was not only carpenter and plumber but the undertaker as well. His roots too were deep in the soil of New England, and although aging, he had preserved the powerful frame of earlier life due, perhaps, to the necessity of retiring between jobs to tend his hardware. Repeated appeals failed to obtain his help. He was enjoying the comparative ease of his shop where he could tell his men off to their work each day, and set his books in order, or dig down in the basement to bring out a choice engraved lamp globe, or a piece of hardware still in stock since his father's days. This below-floor stock was reached through a trap door that opened behind the counter, and only favored customers of Ward could gain access to it.

"Once, however, he had come at a moment's call and Cousin Myra had brought it about by planned strategy. Her water supply had ceased to flow into her house and Ward was the only one who knew where the underground pipes were concealed, having sunk them originally. She called the store and after repeated ringing by the operator a man's voice responded. To be certain she asked for Mr. Thomas.

'Yes,' came the reply.

'Ward Thomas himself?'

'Yes, Miss Myra' - the voice registered anticipation.

'Well,' rang out Myra's high soprano note of urgency, 'I'm dead, come at once!'

There was a moment's pause and an appreciative voice came back with deliberation:

'All right, I'll be over right away - shall I bring a cooling board?'

"Cousin Myra never enlarged upon the matter of the 'cooling board,' but Ward made his only quick response to a call not connected with his capacity as an undertaker.

"I found that it was not necessary to be too specific as to one's needs when calling the Thomas hardware store, for when Ward did respond to my appeals he came with a helper and an inexplicable quantity of tools. To be sure tools were one of his specialties, besides pots and pans and coffins, but he seemed to be tool conscious to a degree that made him wish to have a complete shop at each job; and as he agreed to clean the old well at the same time, the equipment included a pumping outfit, buckets and rope. All this gave me a feeling of pending achievement and confidence. What a man! What equipment! But once his jacks were in place and the floors began to creak upward in two or three locations, the house neither saw nor heard more of Ward Thomas for two sad months, during which the summer passed quietly into fall. The tools, however, remained in neat piles as a mute promise that, like the return of Spring, Ward's return would be merely a matter of time. Perhaps if I had called for a 'cooling board' he might have responded sooner, but nothing I did do succeeded in bringing him back before the first chill breath of autumn. Then with the cooler weather the jacks began to exert their irresistible pressure, and the house groaned and heaved and cracked with sudden jolts. My nice 'plaster work' as Ward called it, shot off the walls and had to be done over again.

"Meantime the pump was working away at the well with a rhythmic chug-chug, and buckets of silt were being hauled up at regular intervals. I knew that the early dug wells were seldom known to fail, abut ours seemed to have too small a supply of water and to be easily exhausted. Elsewhere I had descended a well to clean and scald the interior after a woodchuck had chosen it as ideal for suicide and I found the bottom had been dug down to flat rock. As our well gave no evidence of a hard bottom, the work of cleaning it out had been decided upon with the result that over four feet of fine silt, as smooth as talcum powder, was brought to the surface. Then followed a collection of hand-made tools: hammers, screw drivers, and meat hooks, all quaintly different from our present machined varieties, were brought to the surface. There were also some tin milk pails which had partially disintegrated instead of rusting away, and augmenting this collection of antiques were a three-pronged fork and a broad-ended knife, undoubtedly handy for scooping up peas, or for balancing a fried egg on its tip. Last but not least, a nicely turned earthenware jug, and a few ham bones, were recovered. As the silt diminished a second pump had to be added so that the man at the bottom could work free of water. The vein had opened up and water rushed in with a freedom that the silt formerly held back and the bottom was cleared at last.

"Only one who has been down in a well can know its penetrating chill, especially when descending with the light clothing coincident with warm weather. Besides high rubber boots, rubber jacket and hat, the man at the bottom fortified himself internally with plenty of warming comfort. Its aroma ascended to the air at the crown of the well and attracted the attention of three surprised kittens, Patty, Doodle and the Blond. In spite of the activity of the men, the noisy pumps, the slop and the mud, they returned again and again to sniff with evident relish. Doodle, the largest of the three, craned his neck over the dark abyss so far that he almost fell in when a neighbor's dog suddenly joined the enchanted circle. While he and Patty scampered off to the kitchen for safety, the Blond, smallest of the three, arched up into a ball of fury, and defiantly held her vantage point. The dog, more used to telltale fumes, left in evident scorn.

"Unused for many years, the old windlass was still in place under the lean-to roof. The rope for the well bucket had once been closely wound around the broad wheel, and a pull chain still hung within easy reach to check its too-rapid revolution. From the evidence produced, it was clear that the well had been used to keep food cool. It was also evident that meat and milk let down beside the bucket had often landed unceremoniously at the bottom, and I wondered how many times the bucket had to be drawn up and emptied before the water was drinkable again. Perhaps such small deflections from the sanitary path were ignored in those hardy days of the survival of the fittest; perhaps charcoal was thrown in to sweeten the water.

"The well was but a step from the kitchen door and could be reached on rainy days without getting feet or clothing wet. But this concession to domestic convenience was all the house offered; not even a kitchen sink or drain pipe had ever been installed. Against one wall was a table-like trough which served to hold dishpan and dishes, and at one end of it was a hole through which excess water might drain into a bucket. The plank wall back of this excuse for a sink was covered by an accumulation of grease which had become so hard that no amount of washing was adequate to remove it. After I had scraped it off a solution of lye had to be used before paint could be applied.

"The kitchen, large and high-ceilinged, was blessed with nine doors. One led to the cellar, another to the front hall and one to the adjoining bedroom. There was a door to the backstairs, and in passing on around the room were the doors for the broom closet under the stairs, the pantry, the milkroom, and the large entry door. The ninth door opened upon a little passageway past the chimney breast and dutch oven, leading on to the dining room. As the kitchen enjoys two windows, the only space for the range was in front of the great fireplace which had to remain closed. There was no question of an electric range as electricity was not yet available. For years we used the soft light of kerosene lamps to read by in the evenings and candles to go to bed with. That period was indubitably one of romance, enhanced by contrast with the life in a New York City apartment. The children of our guests were eager for bed when allowed to lead the way with a lighted candle, and as there was a wide choice of style and size among the candlesticks their selection became an added inducement. When electricity eventually came with the new cement highway, we were content to remain for a few years longer with our lamps and candles, our oil-fed kitchen range, and the iceman who filled the box. We were not, however, as 'sot in our ways' as the old lady on the hill who waited three years before she decided to drive down in the buggy to see the new street lights in the village.

"Paperhanging bore no affinity to the techniques I had learned during the early days in the art schools here and abroad. I had, however, seen it done from time to time, and fortunately had made mental notes of its intricacies. As the house stood wide open during most of my operations as a paperhanger, people were popping in and out, singly and in groups, and I received plenty of coaching.

"There is undoubtedly great social significance to wallpaper; the lure of new designs and the look they give to rooms is irresistible to most people. But in spite of pride in my new vocation the day finally came when I had to lock the doors and get on with the job. The first problem had been to find a table long enough to facilitate pasting the strips but narrow enough to move readily from room to room through the many door and passage ways. It was solved, however, when a large painting arrived from the city; the long thin match boards of the case served as a removable top for the table. With the rest of the lumber I made up the stretcher and leg ensemble narrow enough to pass anywhere that it was needed.

"Apparently the house has no lines that are plumb, nor any that can be defined as the shortest distance between two points. The great projecting timbers are generally boxed in, but some have been plastered over and cause an irregularity along the top of the walls. To make the paper fit into these uneven places, and to match the pattern over the many bulges and cavities of the old plaster required all the patience and ingenuity I could muster. One neighborly mother of a large brood strolled in one day with a baby in her arms to remark that the walls would always look pockmarked. But new walls would have wiped out the agreeably old textures and Helen often came to help place a rebellious strip of paper, especially when they were being hung in the stairwell reaching from the ceiling of the second floor to the wainscoting of the first. Long strips sometimes have an impish way of curling up and pasting themselves in positions other than those intended.

"We followed a general plan of contrasting warm and cool colors, which allowed one to pass from a gray room to a yellow room, or from cream to one in pale blue and white. Most of the rooms open into each other and these contrasts are stimulating to the eye, especially on a sunny day. This plan also made it easier in the first place to decide upon a choice of paper. As the years passed the closing of the house in winter caused much of the paper to peel off, and after repeated attempts to make it stick we abandoned the paper for paint, retaining the general color sequence. Oddly enough, the one room which has remained intact as I originally hung it is the parlor, and it is the only room in which the overall pattern did not get matched correctly. Fortunately no one seems to notice my mistake. Although it was obtained locally, many have supposed the paper to be that of an early period……"

Our excerpt from "New Life for Old Timber" stops here, but Nelson continues his narrative with amusing and affectionate portrayals of his new friends and neighbors as well as more description of the house renovation and restoration.