Homes & Home Building, Knott.

HOMES AND HOME BUILDING.
By J. O. Knott.

Standing once more in the front yard of the hold home in Jefferson county and looking towards the mountain rim to the east which marks off the horizon and presents one of the most striking panoramas in the county, I thought of how this view had suggested a lecture which I gave repeatedly in both Chautaqua and lyceum, on “Over the Mountain in Pleasant Valley.” But now, as I looked on the mountain, shutting off the horizon, I felt that another lecture would be more to my mind; and it would be on “Pushing Back Life’s Horizon.”

What I write in this communication is not flattery, nor insinuation, nor personal in any sense. I wish to give some reflections on the building and care of homes, suggested by my recent visit to my old home that has of late undergone complete transformation.

In the early days of my childhood, the homes that made a deep impression upon me as I went from place to place in my own community, were first the Capt. Lee H. Moler mansion, a short distance west of Moler’s Cross Roads, and now owned by W. J. Knott. This home had a spacious front yard, wonderful shade trees, and front porch on which usually sat in the summer time happy and cultured people. No one could easily pass that home without wanting to stop for a while. Within, the home was elegant and spacious. Oil paintings hung an the walls and furniture of appropriate and comfortable sort spoke tast and touch of luxury. Despite the fact that the house was stone, which is the most cheerless material with which to build, this particular home pulsated with life and warmth.

A little to the southeast from the Cross Roads was the old Border Farm, now the home of the family of Clayton Donley. For many years this home was tenanted by Mr. Philip Moler. Such excess of hospitality and such refined outbursts of youthful spirit, can hardly be imagined as was exhibited here by Mr. Moler’s popular family. On Sunday afternoon the well-kept and wide-extending yard would be filled with buggies — no autos as yet– and the music of young people in the parlor was of the best in our community and Uvilla could then afford. This home drew the neighborhood to it by irresistible influence.

On the road to Harper’s Ferry, as one goes from the Cross Roads, was the Banks home, now owned and well-preserved by Geo. M. Knott, where another tenant lived in a home that he kept up with as much pride and pleasure as if the home were his own. This Banks home was one chiefly of boys, but a jolly lot was there and the mother was a favorite with every home-keeper in the neighborhood.

Down upon the river’s edge, nestled beneath the hills of pine, and commanding a most wonderful view of the Potomac, was the home of my grandfather, Samuel Knott. It is no exaggeration to say that at no hour was the horse-rack at the front gate without an occupant, and the horse usually belonged to some guest. The premises bespoke peace and plenty, as well as order. It was a well-kept home inside and out, and drew it not only the entire family connection, but people from over the country and from the city. I think of that home as the best-ordered and most nearly approaching the southern plantation idea of any home I knew in childhood.

On top of the hill was the old McMurran home, then occupied by Mr. W. J. Knott, father of the three brothers who now dwell in the same community.

The farmhouse afterwards known as the “Maggie Knott” place, was situate on the river, opposite the Wade Lime-Stone Quarries. This was a small and old house, but its premises were well kept and as the traveler wound around the garden in passing to and from the road, he saw the best garden b[?]ed with flowers, and one of the finest orchards, to be found anywhere. The house itself had an almost tragic history, and was from time to time in war days the scene of contending forces. This is the first home I remember in my own childhood.

On over the hill to the west from the Maggie Knott farm was the Christian Reinhart home, embowered in a clump of majestic and luscious cherry trees. This is the home now of Dr. S. T. Knott. The Reinhart home was for a long time the gayest in the community. The family was a large one, with many attractive girls and companionable boys. Many persons from Shepherdstown visited this home on Sundays particularly. I recall the deaths, one by one, of the members of this old home, and the tragedies of the same. But to the last the home retained much of its former social prestige. As I passed by the home a few days ago, I missed the trees that once decorated and shaded the yard; but most of the buildings are standing yet, much as they were years ago.

As [?] home builders in the Moler’s Cross Roads community, mention must be made of the Charles H. Knott home, off the road to the east of the Reinhart place. This home at the time of its building was an innovation for it was then the modern one in our neighborhood. It soon became the most popular one in our neighborhood. It soon became the most popular one in the surrounding country. The builder spared no pains to make his yard so extensive that his lawn and orchard combined to give a setting to the house such as no other person had attempted in the community. How delighted I always was to visit that home! What cordiality and good cheer reigned there! My uncle was at time criticized for his views of hospitality and his rather un-Methodistic diversions. He simply lived fifty years ahead of his time in this particular. Taking him all and all, I have never known a man with a more tender heart, nor with a readier hand to help the distressed. His early death left a social void that has never been filled.

Mr. J. M. Hendricks, still living, built his new brick home by the side of that marvelous clump of oaks which he has had the fine sense not to touch in all these years. The Hendricks home is in what was then known as the Hoffman neighborhood. The house has been well preserved and looks much now as it did when built. It soon became a center of church influence, as my grandmother Knott lived there with her daughter, Mrs. Hendricks.

Another new home that went up about this time was the brick structure of Mr. George S. Knott, on the site of the old log house by the side of the woodland near the Banks home. This soon became the preachers’ favorite stopping-place. The table literally groaned with good things and the very pear trees and grape vines in the garden, within touch of the front door, cried out to be picked, as they were loaded with most enticing fruit. Here the horse rack was not without a horse at any time of the day; and the proprietor and his home-loving wife seemed to have time on their hands to talk by the hour or by the half-day to all guests. No one seemed to be in a hurry, yet work went on without let or hindrance.

There were other homes, such as the quiet one of Mr. Davy Hoffman, that savored of old-time peace and hospitality; the home of Mr. John Hoffman down on Rattlesnake Run, and famous for its fir trees and pretty girls in the early days. The Osbourn place, like a city set on a hill, could be seen for miles, looking from our neighborhood towards Shepherdstown.

But what has become of this community of wonderful and peaceful homes, with its wealth and promising young people and such powerful church constituency? A small and inadequate school house stands by the road, near the Cross Roads, and speaks in words that need not be articulated of want of vision on the part of the community. The church in the neighborhood stands bleak and cheerless, with premises unattractive and trees fast being cut away to leave it still more cheerless. The neighborhood store is the same building that stood there years ago, and scarcely a building in the way of a home has gone up for years. Many old homesteads have been permitted to fall into a state of dilapidation, or are tenanted now by persons who can have no interest in their upkeep.

The young people of this favored and wealthy community have gone to the city– at least they do not care to stay at home. Homes have not been modernized, save in a few instances. An auto stands at the gate in every instance ready to take the community people to town, just as soon as the day’s work is done, and often before it is done. But must progress– and the auto is progress– mean that old, established and cultured homes in a community as influential and moral as this community has long been, must be sacrificed to the mere pull of the town moving picture or the chatter of mere street talk? Why should not the country home pull the town people, as it did in former days, and fill the spacious front yard with autos of town people glad to gather in the country home of peace and look upon the autumn colors that are now so gorgeous?

I shall not say why I think the trend is towards the town instead of the town towards the country, but I have my decided convictions. As I saw the old home of my father and mother (now renovated and modernized as well as beautified) and noted the guests that came in on Sunday afternoon, from every part of the community and from the town as well, and heard that this is but a common experience every Sunday afternoon, I was convinced that I saw the secret of country influence and happiness.

Not all of the homes in this favored community have been neglected as some have been. Here and there is to be found a gleam of the old-time hospitality and home love. Proprietors are either, in some instances, keeping up homes already built, or are making alterations to modernize these buildings. But this sort of thing is the exception rather than the rule. Surely no one will think me disloyal to my own community when I deplore the absence of that evidence of progress in home-making and home-keeping that is on every hand.

Why should a front yard be sacrificed for a potato patch? Why should a majestic oak, that Time has grown through a hundred years, be lightly cut down to make shingles? Why should color used as paint, shriek out against color, when reds, yellows, greens, blues, browns, drabs– and what-not are seen in one set of buildings on one farm? Would it not be just as easy to maintain one scheme of color and thus make a country home and its out-buildings soothing to the feelings instead of making you feel that you want to kill somebody?

Why not see the beauty of an unbroken sward, in front of an inviting and spacious front porch, while flowers and grape vines are relegated to the flower and fruit garden just in rear of the house, yet seen from the windows or from the front yard? Why bungle up a beautiful front yard with shrubs and every sort of color of flowers, till the effect is much what one feels when entering an insane asylum? If the front yard must have flowers in it, then sparingly choose them, with reference to colors and situation. Study our city landscape gardening and see the taste shown. Go thou and do likewise.

Why should country people not bathe? And how can they bathe without bath tubs and bath rooms; and how can they have bath rooms with out a reservoir and cesspool? But an improvement like this is simple and inexpensive.

Why should not country people have electricity for all premises? And the Delco and other such mechanisms are at hand to supply the need. Can anything be more depressing or cheerless than a home, with dingy oil lamps, in one or two rooms, while the gloom of outer darkness reigns on the premises?

Why should country people be cooked in one room, at a 90-degree temperature,, while the room on the other side of the “hall” is like Dante’s picture of the Inferno– one congealed mass of ice? Is it a wonder country people have “colds”? The old-time “hall” that separates the used-once-a-year parlor from the living room, is passed.

And why should not country people see that their dining rooms are the best kept and best heated in the house, as well as the sunniest? Are we still dead to the effect of good cheer while eating and its result on digestion? If one room in the house must be neglected, never let it be the dining room. Give it sunshine and make it a room in which people love to linger.

Speaking of heat, I cannot see why with a reservoir for water our country people should not have hot water heat, making every room in the house of one temperature. The make-shift that is now being cracked up by some heater firms, on the basis of economy, and which heats one or two rooms and freezes your feet by its returning cold air current, should be exposed as the fraud it is. Better old-time radiation from a large stove centrally situated than by this inadequate arrangement.

But above all, why not have in our favored communities of comparative wealth the community spirit of the best schools, the best-kept churches, the best roads, the most cultured influences, that will elevate the consolidate human effort? This often means just one man or woman, who, probably a rare teacher in the public schools, has vision and who leads the community to see its opportunity. A teacher paid two or three thousand dollars, who could do this service for a community, is a fine investment. I do not say that such a salary can be paid a teacher according to our present system; but I do say that a preacher or teacher is cheap indeed who can lead a community to find itself. And one or the other of these professions must do the work. We can only push back the horizon of life when we are told that it can be done, and that a wide outlook is the result. We need inspiration, leadership and confidence in that leadership to do this sort of thing.

If I get criticism for thus suggesting what could in every instance be done by such a community as I am proud to say I was bred in, then let those who criticize remember that I am wholly indifferent to their words. I have passed the period when such things injure or even worry me. And it has been said that people had better be made angry than to be left to utter lethargy. There is always hope ifor the man who can get mad. The tooth that aches is not yet dead.