Losing a Piece of History

The green house looked like it was haunted, and maybe it was. Trees had grown around it, so it was barely visible from the street, and it was obviously uninhabited. It sat on one part of a double lot, and the whole parcel was wooded.
“It’s in the forest,” my grandson said.

One day I noticed some of the trees had been cut back, and some removed, so that a car could pull in next to the house. Bags and boxes of trash appeared at the curb. It was obvious that someone was cleaning out the house. Clearing the debris of whomever had lived there last.

Now I could see the house, the front porch, the scalloped gable. I could tell it was in a state of disrepair, but I could also tell it was old, very old, and it had what is called “good bones.”

I had a little book, a pamphlet really, that I bought at a garage sale. It was published in 1989, and was called Touring Wickliffe. There I found the history of the green house. The house at 30111 Ridge Road was built by George Mosher in 1868. He was the third generation of Moshers to live on what was then called “the ridge.” His parents lived down the street at 30023 Ridge Road. Their house was built in 1874. His grandparents had settled there in 1832, and owned a farm of 200 acres across the street, on the south side of the ridge. The farm isn’t there anymore, but the home of George Mosher’s parents, John and Abbie Mosher, is still standing and has been refurbished. I call it the yellow house.

I drove past the green house often, watching to see the next step that would be taken. Would the house be repaired, remodeled, dragged into the twenty-first century or would it be torn down, and replaced with two or three smaller, less distinctive homes? For a long time nothing happened.

In the fall of 2007, I attended a house tour from the Wickliffe Historical society that included the John Mosher house. My friend and I walked down and looked at the green house, so that I could satisfy my curiosity close up. At one of the homes on the tour, we met a woman, named Virginia, who was instrumental in setting it up. She told us how she researched the homes, discovered their history and ownership, and arranged for them to be on the tour, even if it meant knocking on a door, and asking to see the home. She mentioned that she lived on Ridge. I asked about the green house, and listened to its tale of woe.

She lived across and right up the street from the green house, and had been interested in it for a long time. Neighbors said that it had been inhabited for years by a family with many children. That the kids ran wild, and the parents did nothing to control them or care for the house. The widowed mother of that family lived in the house alone for many years when her children were grown. She either could not or did not do anything to keep up the house or yard. At some point, she was declared unable to live alone, and went to some kind of senior care facility. The house sat empty for many years, until she passed away, and the estate cleared probate.

Virginia asked the owner if she could go inside. She reported that it was a mess with rodent droppings and other debris and much damage. Still, she said it was an interesting house with some detailed features. She hoped it would be restored, rather than removed. So did I.
One day I went past the house and saw a For Sale sign, actually two of them, one in front of the house, the other in front of the extra lot. I went online and looked up the property, it was listed for over $200,000, but as a fixer-upper that needed a new roof among other repairs. There was a virtual tour, and the house had fireplaces and other features that could draw in someone who loved antiques and old houses. I had hope for it to be sold to such a person, and for the green house to have a bright future. More of the yard was cleared, temporary front steps were put in place. I watched and waited.
When I passed the house a week and a half ago, a tree service was there. The next time I passed it, I saw that every tree on the property had been chopped down. I felt a chill, particularly when I saw that the front door was gone and that and all the windows were boarded up. Two days later, the green house was gone. Torn down to the ground, not even a foundation left behind.

Trucks seem to be there everyday, clearing and leveling the property. There is no forest anymore. There is no house anymore. Soon there will be a clean, level piece of ground, and someday, perhaps, there will be two or three little houses built where one once stood, surrounded by trees.

One hundred forty years ago, George Mosher built a house on the ridge for his family. A place where his four children could live close to their grandparents and near their great grandparents’ farm. That house saw children born, saw them grow, heard their footsteps echoing through its rooms, running up and down the stairs. That house saw families at their best and at their worst. Trees grew up around it, and in time, more houses were built, and it stopped being a house in the country, and became a house in the suburbs, on a busy road. In 1868, George Mosher built a house. In 2008, someone tore it down. We’ve lost a piece of history, and it makes me sad.