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Do IT this week: Layering
Beacon Journal's David Giffels shares family's journey of restoring Akron mansion in his new book
By Mary Beth Breckenridge
Beacon Journal staff writer
Published on Saturday, May 31, 2008
Some people would call this a labor of love.
Probably more would call it a labor of lunacy.
When Beacon Journal columnist David Giffels and his wife, Gina, set out to renovate a crumbling mansion on North Portage Path 12 years ago, they were swept up in the romance of possibility. Never mind that the 1913 house had bricks falling from the exterior, holes in the roof and 55 foil roasting pans in the attic making a vain attempt to intercept the rainwater. They were driven by a vision, a promise of crystal chandeliers and fireplaces in the bedrooms.
Chasing that vision has brought chaos, years of toil and periodic battles with marauding critters, yet somehow they've persevered. And in the process, they've created both a home and a life.
Giffels has chronicled that journey in All the Way Home: Building a Family in a Falling-Down House, a book just released by William Morrow. It's a disconcertingly public revelation for an essentially private couple, he admitted. In fact, he said, Gina Giffels has said she wants everyone to buy the book and no one to read it.
The book paints a picture of dereliction the day the couple first toured the 3,857-square-foot Tudor-style home. The top of the chimney was missing, its bricks piled in the yard. The stained plaster of the living room ceiling sagged, and the wallpaper hung in tatters. Moth-eaten drapes blocked the light; grease coated the kitchen surfaces.
They found a wisteria vine growing through the attic and a hole in the master-bedroom ceiling, through which they could see all the way through the third floor to the sky. They discovered the house had no working plumbing and questionable electricity, even though its elderly owner still lived there.
As Giffels puts it in the book, ''It seemed as though we'd walked into a lifetime that had tumbled in upon itself.''
Yet when their low-ball offer of $65,000 was accepted, Gina Giffels screamed with joy. They could hardly believe their good fortune, her husband recalled. What else but luck could explain why everyone else had passed up this unpolished gem?
''It didn't dawn on us till later that they were probably right,'' he said.
Years of rebuilding
In the ensuing years, Giffels has poured countless hours and considerable sweat into rebuilding the house, often with the help of relatives and friends and sometimes in the middle of sleepless nights. He remembers one time when the rest of the family was away and he adjusted his body clock around the drying time for varnish, setting his alarm to signal when it was time to wake up and apply another layer and then sleeping till that coat was dry.
What he hasn't put into the house is a great deal of money. He scavenges whatever he can — bricks and plumbing fixtures from a house that was razed next door, slate from a friend's foyer, wallpaper for a kitchen backsplash left over from a brother's project.
''Historical preservation and cheapskateness are almost the same thing,'' he said . '' . . . One has a moral imperative and the other doesn't, but that's the only difference.''
The effort has paid off. The house today is graceful and neatly kept, an elegant counterpoint to the urban bustle of Highland Square. Gone is the corrugated green fiberglass that was tacked over the failed solarium roof and the tangle of overgrowth that once shielded the house from the street. The trimmed landscaping and tasteful house-number plaque tell visitors this house is loved.
The front door opens to a Spanish-influenced foyer, dominated by a fireplace and a staircase that glows in the light from leaded-glass windows. The fireplace is accented by glazed mosaic tiles with aqua designs, which had once been obscured by what Giffels called ''tragic eggshell'' paint.
To the left, down two curved steps and through a set of columns, is the living room. It's a big room, rich with wood but simply adorned in an Arts and Crafts style. Giffels stripped and refinished the bookcases, painted the lintel over the entry with a faux marble treatment and used dental tools to remove the last bits of paint that clung to the fireplace mantel.
Solarium of destiny
Beyond is the solarium, where arched transoms stretch over broad windows and yellow walls make the room even sunnier. It was here, Giffels said, where he and his wife first sensed their destiny when they spotted a crystal chandelier hanging prettily from the ruined ceiling.
''Our eyes met. We knew,'' he wrote. ''We belonged here.''
On the opposite side of the foyer is the dining room, with its Colonial wainscot, wall moldings and mural of wine and bread — symbols from Giffels' favorite movie, It's a Wonderful Life — over a fireplace carved with a flowery design. Giffels likes that the public rooms each have a distinct style, an extra dash of personality in a house that lacks for none.
The back of the first floor is taken up by the butler's pantry and kitchen, complete with what Giffels calls ''the floor of contention'' — a wood floor he unearthed under worn, cat-urine-soaked linoleum and initially coated with porch paint, much to the dismay of his wife, who wanted tile. The floor has since been refinished, and it's a focal point of a charming work area with simple white-painted cupboards and the original porcelain drawer pulls that Giffels found in the basement.
One of the few parts of the house that's still unfinished is the basement billiards room, apparently once a clubby gathering place where wood paneling — the real kind — now buckles from water-damaged walls and a moldering deer head keeps watch over the fireplace. ''DG + GG'' is painted on a wall, a tradition whenever the couple works on a room.
Heading upstairs
The second floor houses three bedrooms — two for the Giffels' children, Lia and Evan, as well as a master suite that has a dressing room and sleeping porch. Giffels likes to point out the plumbing access panel behind Lia's desk, the place where a contractor found a box containing $14,000 in bills hidden since 1930.
The third story is the servants' quarters, which have been transformed into Giffels' office — or, as he puts it, his ''suite of man cave.'' It's part work area, part hangout, populated by the things he loves: a room devoted just to books, guitar cases balanced across a claw-foot tub, a desk in a dormer and the inevitable computer.
Outside, the landscaping has been given the same care as the interior. The concrete pond, hidden by overgrowth when the Giffelses moved in, has been once again edged with stones and surrounded by ferns, hostas and irises. Pieces of flagstone that once formed a square patio have been rearranged in a free-form style. Mock orange forms a natural screen from the neighbors and a backdrop to plants that include peonies, phlox and a scattering of young trees that were saved from the property.
The house still isn't done. Never will be, Giffels said. There's a hole in the attic where the bats still get in. There's a ghost supposedly haunting the master-suite dressing area, an apparition Giffels has never experienced, but doesn't discount. There are still pieces of wisteria in the walls that he can't reach.
But for the Giffelses, it's home.
Mary Beth Breckenridge is the Beacon Journal home writer. She can be reached at 330-996-3756, or at mbrecken@thebeaconjournal.com.
Some people would call this a labor of love.
Get the full article here.
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