Sidewalk Skirmish
When ODOT arrived to commandeer our sidewalk for a handicapped accessibility upgrade, I could have said, “Yes.”
They’d jackhammer our 19th century sandstone slabs and haul the pieces away. New cement would fill the expanse.
But I refused.
And I refused up the chain of command, finally telling the head engineer that this 1859 house of Martin Harter’s was a village landmark–right down to its original sandstone sidewalk. He’d had a store on the square where Thomas Edison’s family shopped. Harter, a pianist and violinist, held community concerts inside the house. At this point my voice broke with tears.
“Martin Harter was an American hero. He rode downstate by horseback to Cincinnati, joining the army to fight in the Civil War. We do not honor his contribution to the nation by ripping up his sandstone. New cement would be a stain on the integrity of this historic property that has been a touchstone for generations of residents and visitors.”
Silence for a while on the other end.
“Ma’am, I can tell how much this means to you. I hear it in your voice. I can’t make you 100% happy, but I’ll get close. I’m on my way.” He told the project supervisor to step away from our curb until he arrived.
And he did, instructing the crew to lift the stones on the corner and place them on pallets. “And,” he added, “if you break any, the ghost of Thomas Edison will haunt you.” At that point amidst the distress, a chance to laugh was appreciated.
However, what we assumed would happen next did not transpire. It was not in their bylaws to remove and replace the remaining sandstone to grade the expanse. You can’t fight city hall, but we reasoned with it, getting a stay of execution to find a solution before Labor Day.
Cliff took to the phone, discovering companies were booked until winter.
I took to the streets. When walking Maria, I’d ask anyone who moved about possible contacts for our crisis. People felt our pain, saluted our attempt to save the stone, but had no solution.
Then I approached Joe. I had no idea what he did for a living, but I’d watched his progress on his own nearby historic property. My tears rolled, as I explained our predicament. “Let me take a look at it,” he offered. After surveying it, he explained he’d grown up with a father who was a contractor and knew exactly what to do.
On a Saturday morning, he pulled up with the rented equipment and set to work. All smiles, he announced, “This will be fun. I don’t get to do something like this anymore.” He and Cliff wrangled sandstone and dirt, inch by inch, into late afternoon, cutting pieces for a retaining wall to support our fence.
Looking at the finished product, I said, “This is a work of art.”
People congratulate us for saving a row of rocks. Although we had to surrender to the corner’s cement curbing, the rock directly in front of the house maintains the original presence.
We live in a busy world, weighing the time and price for every job. The business model chooses: Quick in. Quick out. No muss. No fuss. Sometimes that isn’t the point. Getting it right is the point. One fine neighbor, who willingly rolls up his sleeves and understands the priceless value of history, is all you need.
Someone like Joe.
