The Things We Leave Behind

There are two kinds of people who buy old houses, according to The New York Times: old house people, who know what to expect, and regular house people, who don’t.  But I would argue that there is a third kind of purchaser: the temporarily crazed but otherwise rational person who walks into an old house and suddenly decides to buy it because of a feeling, a sense — or in my case, the ghost of a dog that had been dead for more than a century.

In 2002, my husband and I were on our way to make an offer on a solid brick foursquare in Meridian-Kessler when we decided to check out a previously overlooked listing in the Old Northside.  I walked into the house, saw an old photograph of a dog, and told my profoundly skeptical husband that the photo was a “sign” we should buy this house instead.

We made an offer 20 minutes later and have lived there ever since.

My descent into temporary madness actually started a few months earlier, on a snowy Saturday afternoon when we stopped by Animal Care & Control and fell in love with a scrappy little rat terrier. Her kennel name was Mitzi but we called her Scout.

The faded photo that caught my eye showed two little girls standing in front of our soon-to-be home with a scampering rat terrier that looked exactly like our Scout. In my view, the photograph was irrefutable evidence that we belonged in this house.

Of course, the photo is not the only reason we bought the house.  I may be irrational but I’m not insane. This was the perfect house.  It had all the standard features you expect to find in a 100-year-old home — hardwood floors, beautiful woodwork, and a front porch swing — but then it also had some bonus features that you generally see only in the higher-end models, such as dual sunrooms, original light fixtures, and a mysterious hallway in the basement that led to a nailed-shut door.

But still, the decisive factor was the photograph.

My conviction that we were meant to live here deepened a few weeks later, when I was working alone one evening in the now-empty house. I took a break from painting the parlor to peruse the stack of papers left behind by the previous owners.  Right on top was another old photograph, one that I had not seen before.

It showed a group of children lined up across the street from our house for a parade.  When I looked closer, I could clearly see that the young boy in the second cart was holding a little rat terrier that looked exactly like our Scout. Only this photo was at least 15 years older than the other picture, so it could not have been the same dog.

And yet it looked exactly the same.

After we moved in, we started joking about the “ghost dog.” But at some point I began to wonder if there actually was a phantom rat terrier running down the hallways.  On more than one occasion, I would hear the sounds of a dog skittering down the front staircase to greet me when I came home from work.  But when I opened the door, I would find Scout fast asleep in her bed.

There was also something strange about the back stairway.  Scout adamantly refused to walk up the back stairs at night with me and my husband.  Instead, she would take a circuitous route through the kitchen, around the dining room, across the parlor, and then up the front stairway before retiring with us for the evening.  It was if she was trying to avoid something — or someone — on the back staircase that only she could see.

And then there were the times that we would wake up in the middle of the night to find Scout sitting up in bed, staring intently into the darkness.

Albert Metzger, his children, and their rat terrier, Dickie. Photo courtesy of Rick Patton.

We had been in the house for a about a year when we found out that the rat terriers in the photographs actually belonged to the Metzger family who lived across the street. But the probable absence of a ghost dog did little to quash my growing conviction that our impulsive purchase was the right move.  Because by then, I had found even more compelling evidence that we were destined to live in this house.

In addition to the photographs, the previous owners had left behind an old abstract of title that started with a land grant in 1821 and ended with a mysterious death in 1943.

The first owner of the property was Robert Culbertson, who received a land grant from President James Monroe for 80 acres in the area now known as the Old Northside.  Culbertson helped build the ill-fated Governor’s House on the Circle but left town unexpectedly in the mid-1820s after an embarrassing incident involving his wig.

The land cycled through a series of owners until Christmas Day 1846, when Ovid Butler bought the heavily wooded property to build his country estate, Forest Home.  Some 20 years later, Butler platted part of the property and sold several lots to the adult children of his old friend, Samuel Merrill. Merrill’s son kept one lot and built a magnificent Italianate home.  Both Forest Home and the Merrill house still stand today.

Until I saw the abstract of title, I had no idea that our land was once owned by Ovid Butler and Catharine Merrill. In 1824, Merrill rode in a wagon with her father when he moved the state capitol from Corydon to Indianapolis. She would later go on to serve as one of the first female college professors in the country at North Western Christian University, which would subsequently be renamed after its founder, Ovid Butler.

As a Butler University graduate and Statehouse history buff, I was awestruck by the unexpected connection.

The abstract showed that our lot remained vacant until 1894, when a drug salesman named George Smith and his much younger wife Hattie built a modest Victorian house. George Smith died in 1918.  Hattie converted the house into a double and sold it to Jesse MacDaniel, who lived across the street.  A few months later, MacDaniel went to prison for running an illegal baseball lottery.

MacDaniel’s daughter Ruth Maher eventually inherited our house and used it as rental property. In November 1943, The Indianapolis Star reported a man named Clarence Throckmorton caused an auto accident but attempted to evade arrest by claiming that he was Ruth Maher’s husband. He told police that he was rushing to Ruth’s bedside at Coleman Hospital, where she lay gravely ill.

Ruth died a few days later and Throckmorton attempted to claim her estate, which was worth more than half a million in today’s dollars.  As noted in the abstract, however, Throckmorton’s claim was rejected because he was married to another woman at the time.

After Ruth’s death, the house was purchased by two sisters and their husbands.  One couple lived downstairs, the other lived upstairs.  In their later years, the sisters refused to speak directly to one another, choosing instead to convey all messages via neighbors and other third parties.  I found their brother’s 1912 grammar school graduation diploma in the basement.

A young couple bought the house in the early 1980s and restored it to a single family home.  They were active in the Old Northside Neighborhood Association and left behind a box stuffed with old newsletters, real estate listings, and other ephemera that paint a vivid picture of life in downtown Indy in the early days of urban renewal.

Some people head straight to the dumpster when they find a box of old stuff left behind by a previous owner. Others will refuse to buy a “used” house in the first place.  I am glad I am not one of those people.

But for the abstract of title and old Northside ephemera left behind by previous owners,  I would not have become so passionate about Indianapolis history. But for the old photo of a rat terrier left behind by previous owners, I would likely be living north of 38th Street, a place where I seldom venture today. And but for a visit to Animal Care & Control in 2002, I might have a cat instead of a scrappy little rat terrier who still fills me with joy every time I see her.

We’ve been in our house for 13 years now, and my husband is starting to talk about the inevitable downsizing. Our little Scout is 15, and failing.  It will be sad and strange to live in this house without her. But I am not ready to leave this place yet.

Maybe after a few more summers on the front porch,  I will finally be ready to hand over the keys of this house to someone who I hope will love it as much as I have.  When that day finally comes, I will leave behind the treasures that were left to us, along with two photographs taken 100 years apart of a little rat terrier standing in front of the place we call home.

Our next-door-neighbors’ children posed in 2012 with Scout for an updated version of the dog photo.

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This article was originally posted in HistoricIndianapolis.com on November 28, 2015. We lost our little Scout two weeks later. Since then, our four-legged family has grown to include two rescue dogs, Annie and Marcy, and two formerly stray cats, Boris and Natasha. None of them are afraid to use the back stairs.

Out of the darkness & into the Circle of Lights

When his second son was born in April 1913, Greek immigrant Pantelis L. Cafouros was hard-pressed to find a way to top the fireworks that had literally heralded the arrival of his first-born son in August 1911. As per the custom in his native Greece, a gleeful Cafouros had fired 21 “bombs” from the roof of his restaurant on West Maryland Street, thrilling thousands of Indianapolis residents who watched the 10-minute display of pyrotechnics.

Cafouros was just as delighted with the birth of his second son some 20 months later, declaring himself to be “the happiest man in Indianapolis.” But Greek tradition reserved the 21-gun salute for the first male child. So the proud father turned to something uniquely Hoosier as a way to commemorate the latest addition to the Cafouros household.

“Although I am not a rich man,” Cafouros told The Indianapolis Star, “I would be willing to give $500 to a fund” to illuminate the Soldiers’ and Sailors’ Monument at night. “It seems that something is lacking about the beautiful structure.”

A postcard from the early 1900s shows Victory shrouded in darkness.

Indeed, something was missing. In the 20 years since Victory had been hoisted to the top of the Monument, only daytime visitors had seen her face. Four candelabra stood at the base of the Monument, lighting the sculptures near the ground but casting the rest in murky shadows. By night, the top half of the Monument was veiled in darkness.

Cafouros took his idea to the Monument’s Board of Control, which expressed initial enthusiasm for the proposed project. When his plans were still pending a month later, however, the board strung temporary lights around the base to illuminate the Monument during an encampment of the Grand Army of the Republic.

The lights were removed at the end of the meeting, and the Monument remained dark for the next three years.

Cafouros’ proposed tribute to his second son never came to fruition.

As the state’s Centennial approached in 1916, two rival electric utilities saw the obvious marketing potential of a fully-lighted Monument serving as the centerpiece for the massive July 4th celebration. The Indianapolis Light & Heat Company announced in June that it would position floodlights on the roof of its Monument Circle building to bathe the Monument in light. When delays appeared to jeopardize the Indianapolis company’s grand scheme, the Merchants Heat & Light Company quickly stepped in and announced on July 3 that it would illuminate the Monument with 25 floodlights placed atop the Hotel English, the Fletcher Savings & Trust building, and the Waverly. And if the view of Victory shining down from a night sky was not enough to entice the crowds, Merchants would also throw in a free concert from the Indianapolis Police Department band.

The competing power companies ran ads in The Indianapolis Star and The Indianapolis News on July 4, 1916 touting their respective roles in lighting the Monument.

Not to be deterred by its rival’s announcement, the Indianapolis company scrambled to complete its own preparations. At 7:30 p.m. on July 4, 1916, Indianapolis Light & Heat Company threw the switch on its battery of lights, and the Merchants Heat & Light Company followed suit a half hour later. According to The Indianapolis Star, “[a]s the latter company’s lights were projected upon the Monument the band broke into a medley of patriotic airs. Necks craned, and there were audible expressions of wonderment and admiration everywhere in the throng.” The crowd dispersed after the concert, but a steady stream of automobiles poured in from both the north and south, as motorists from miles away were drawn by the site of the luminous Monument towering in night sky.

The Centennial illumination of the Soldiers’ and Sailors’ Monument was hailed as a feat of electrical engineering. Indianapolis was the first city in the United States to light a monument of such great size. Engineers from New York City traveled to Indianapolis in hopes of using the same techniques to illuminate the Statue of Liberty.

The Indianapolis Star, July 5, 1916

The idea of lighting the Monument actually originated with its designer, Bruno Schmitz, who envisioned a ring of bronze lamps lining the outer rim of the Circle. This plan was vetoed by the Monument’s commissioners, however, who believed that the lamps would not cast sufficient light. Instead, Schmitz was asked to install four candelabra at the base of the Monument.

Sadly, Schmitz would not live long enough to see the Monument illuminated. He died in Germany two months before the Centennial celebration.

In 1924, Carl Lieber proposed an upgrade to the Monument’s lighting, arguing that the candelabra were not part of Schmitz’s original design. A campaign to raise $20,000 for new lighting was launched, and four years later, floodlights were finally installed in the base of the candelabra. The Soldiers’ and Sailors’ Monument has been illuminated year-round since 1928, and decorated for Christmas since 1962.

The World's Largest Christmas Tree could have been the World's Fattest Christmas Shrub if the design by Chicago architect Frederick Baumann had been selected.

Last night, thousands of people thronged the downtown area last night to see the lighting of the World’s Largest Christmas Tree. The annual event has become a cherished family tradition, with parents who delighted in the Circle of Lights as a child now sharing the experience with their own children.

When I first moved to Indianapolis, I was somewhat bemused by all of the fuss over the so-called “World’s Largest Christmas Tree.” Not to state the obvious, but a limestone statue is not a tree of any sort, Christmas or otherwise. Further, the tradition of stringing colored lights on a monument honoring fallen soldiers and sailors seemed a little strange, if not inappropriate. But over time, I have come to appreciate the Circle of Lights as a fitting tribute to the Hoosiers who sacrificed to preserve our way of life.

In his message to a special session of the legislature in November 1865, Gov. Oliver P. Morton said, “Let us honor the dead, cherish the living, and preserve in immortal memory the deeds and virtues of all, as an inspiration for countless generations to come.” For the next 22 years, legislators would argue about everything from the location of the proposed monument to its cost, and even debate whether a home for Civil War widows and their children should be built in lieu of a monument. But from day one, there was strong consensus that any tribute to Indiana’s Civil War soldiers should both honor the dead and celebrate the living.

In the 117 years since its dedication, the Soldiers’ and Sailors’ Monument has been the site of thousands of celebrations and has become the icon for the city of Indianapolis. Millions of tourists have snapped its photograph, while its familiar image has graced everything from postcards to seed sacks to salt and pepper shakers.

A few years ago, I was surprised to read in the Indianapolis Business Journal that a focus group comprised of residents and convention planners from other Midwest cities had a mixed reaction when shown photos of the Monument.  According to the IBJ,  the focus groups disliked a photo of the Monument shot on a sunny afternoon, but responded much more enthusiastically to the view envisioned more than 100 years ago by Pantelis Cafouros  – the illuminated Monument standing tall and gleaming against the night sky.

A version of this article was originally posted on HistoricIndianapolis.com on November 24, 2012.

The day the H-Bomb hit downtown Indy

The Rev. Charles Lizenby was delivering his Sunday evening sermon on October 30, 1938 when a hysterical woman rushed to the pulpit at St. Paul's Methodist Church and shrieked "New York city has been destroyed.... I heard it over the radio."

The pastor said a brief prayer as panicked parishioners tore off their choir robes and fled the church. Elsewhere in Indianapolis, switchboards at both The Indianapolis Star and police headquarters were flooded with calls, anxious residents ran out in the streets, and at least one driver who heard the news on his car radio rushed to a filling station to gas up his vehicle in the event of an evacuation.

Some 20 years later, Indianapolis residents opened their morning papers to news of mass destruction that hit much closer to home. The previous evening - April Fool's Day 1959 -- a mysterious government plan known simply as "Project H" had been set in motion. But unlike the bombing of New York city in Orson Welles' infamous "War of the Worlds" broadcast, news of the pending obliteration of 42 acres in downtown Indianapolis was not a joke.

Under Project H, more than 200 buildings covering seven downtown blocks were set for demolition. Dozens of businesses would be shuttered and 1,250 people would be forced from their homes. But the plan's approval by the Indianapolis Redevelopment Commission was apparently so non-controversial that The Indianapolis Star ran the story on page 13 of its April 2, 1959 edition.

The Project H and H-1 area covered 42 acres and stretched from Michigan Street on the south to Fort Wayne Avenue on the north. The east-west boundaries were East Street and Delaware.

Project H was the eighth in a series of "slum clearance" programs launched by the Indianapolis Redevelopment Commission since its creation in 1945. Previous programs - imaginatively named Projects A through G -- focused on the demolition of dilapidated buildings to clear the way for redevelopment, including construction of Flanner House homes on the near westside, installation of a new park on West 16th, and expansion of Indiana University in downtown Indianapolis. But Project H was would prove to be the most ambitious plan ever undertaken by the Commission.

Without doubt, the area slated for demolition had seen better days. Originally built up as a mix of large homes, worker's cottages, and various businesses, the near-northside neighborhood had disintegrated into what The Indianapolis Star described as "debris-littered tenements and crime-breeding slums."

Prosperous chewing gum magnate Asa M. Fitch lived at 843 N. New Jersey from 1895 until his death in 1923. By 1958, the dilapidated home was invaded by squatters, including a teenage boy who lived in a car in the unheated garage. Source: Indianapolis Historic Preservation Commission Image Collection.

Under Project H, nearly every building on the 42-acre downtown tract would be demolished and replaced by brand new apartment towers designed to lure high-income families and singles back to the decaying city center. Only five buildings would be spared the wrecking ball: the English Foundation building, the Murat Temple, IPS School #2, the Salvation Army and the Zion Evangelical & Reformed Chuch. Even 10 newly constructed or newly renovated commercial buildings were slated for demolition.

The Zion Evangelical & Reformed Church and the Murat Temple were among the five buildings spared from demolition. Google street view, Aug. 2018.

Although Project H was generally well received, Mayor Charles Boswell said the Commission's plan to demolish new buildings was "just plain ridiculous." The Indianapolis Star echoed Boswell's concerns, stating in an editorial that the plan to convert a massive chunk of the Mile Square to exclusive residential use seemed to be the sort of city redesign concept cooked up by people "who don't like cities."

But the Commission stood firm. According to Commission officials, Project H would not succeed unless the new apartment city was 100% residential. And if Project H did not succeed, downtown Indianapolis would not survive.

The Commission's position -- while understandably unpopular with the soon-to-be-displaced residents of the Project H area -- was backed by data.

In July 1959, a Chicago-based research firm told the Commission that the flight to the suburbs had reversed course, and people were now seeking homes within walking distance of the central business district. Based on this "tremendous trend," the researchers determined that it was economically feasible for private developers to build and fully lease six apartment towers in downtown Indianapolis with rents ranging from $100 per month for an efficiency to $225 for a three-bedroom apartment ($877 to $1,973 in today's dollars).

This positive forecast strengthened public support of Project H. By September 1960, about 40% of the properties slated for demolition had been purchased. The first demolition contract for "14 large residences" was approved on January 4, 1961.

This once-grand residence at 705 N. Alabama was demolished to make way for Project H. Prominent attorney Harry A. Fenton lived there from 1905 to 1925 before moving to a new home at 2440 N. Park. Fenton's law library is currently for sale at an antique shop in Beech Grove. Source: Indiana Historic Preservation Commission Image Collection.

As demolition got underway, the massive redevelopment project began to draw national attention. The Commission was flooded with inquiries from nearly 60 different developers who were interested in turning the "down-at-the-heels neighborhood" into a gleaming new apartment city, which -- according to then-Commission president Charles E. Wagner -- would be "one of the most beautiful in the country."

Bidding opened in the fall of 1961 on four parcels comprising 20 acres. The Indianapolis Star gushed that the five proposals submitted by developers were "dazzling" and "painted a spectacular picture of towering penthouse structures, community theaters, skating rinks, traffic-free malls, and park-like settings." Most even promised fallout shelters.

Riley Center Corp. won the bidding war with its ambitious proposal to build four 30-story "Crown Towers," six 16-story "Twin Towers," and six groups of 3-story townhouses. When completed, the total project would cost $40 million ($342 million in today's dollars) and would include swimming pools, bowling alleys, shops, restaurants and a theater for films and live performances. Hundreds of trees and shrubs would be planted along winding walkways lined with benches and tables, giving a "Parisian flavor" to the community.

The proposed Riley Center apartment community as shown in a promotional brochure.

Riley Center would be built in three phases, with the option for a fourth phase on land that was still privately owned. The first phase, dubbed "Fountain Terrace Apartments" included two Crown Towers, one Twin Tower, townhouses, a restaurant and a reflecting pool.

The second phase, the "Plaza Apartments," would include a theater and outdoor concert venue. Phase 3, the "Promenade Apartments," would be built in the triangle between St. Clair and Fort Wayne Avenue.

Riley Center officials told the city that each phase would take from 12-18 months to complete. As soon as a completed phase was rented, construction on the next phase would get underway. The entire project would be privately funded.

On the morning of May 9, 1962, construction contracts were signed at 9:30, Riley Center Corp. received the deed to the land at 11, and groundbreaking on the new apartments began at noon. "It was as simple as that," marveled The Indianapolis News in a swooning editorial titled "The Lesson of Project H." This "shows the direct action that can be had when private financing - not government red tape - governs community projects."

Construction of Riley Towers gets underway on N. Alabama Street in 1962. Source: Indianapolis Historic Preservation Commission Image Collection.

Enthusiasm for the new apartment city grew as the first towers began to rise. Three model units opened at L.S. Ayres, generating an "overwhelming" number of inquiries and lease applications. In order to clear more land for redevelopment, the Commission approved Project H-1, which extended the footprint of Project H to Delaware and East Streets. Then in October 1962, Riley Center officials announced that the timeline for Phase 2 construction would be accelerated to meet the demand for downtown living.

The first tenant moved into Riley Center in April 1963. Accompanied by a photographer from The Indianapolis Star, secretary Millie Montgomery crossed the threshold to her new studio apartment carrying a big basket with a picnic lunch.

"It's even better than I thought it would be," Montgomery told the Star. About a dozen of her friends were also planning to move to Riley Center, and she was especially looking forward to utilizing the cabana club and hobby center that would be added during Phase 2.

A promotional brochure for Riley Center touted the downtown lifestyle and the many amenities that would be available to residents when the project was completed.

But as it turns out, Millie Montgomery and her 12 friends would not be enjoying these amenities anytime soon.

A few months later, the developers announced that rentals had fallen far short of expectations. Phase 2 would be put on hold until the Indianapolis community demonstrated greater acceptance of this new way of downtown living,

Meanwhile, the demolitions continued.

Riley Center Corp. had initially been granted a 3-year option on most of the Project H land. After aluminum giant Alcoa acquired a stake in the company, the option was extended to eight years. But as the years passed without any progress, city leaders grew impatient.

In August 1964, the Commission abandoned its original plan to dedicate the entire Project H area to residential use and sold some of the unencumbered land within the Project H footprint to Junior Achievement. The following December, additional land was sold to the Indianapolis Chapter of the American Red Cross.

The beleaguered Commission finally got some good news in January 1966 when Alcoa -- which now owned Riley Center -- gave the green light to Phase 2. Occupancy in the three towers had reached 75%, and there was even a waiting list for studio apartments. The new towers would have a higher percentage of lower-cost studio apartments to meet this demand.

But the project stalled again. And again. And again. Meanwhile, weeds choked the vacant lots surrounding the three towers, while adjacent neighborhoods turned into slum housing for the hundreds of families displaced by Project H.

1960s postcard shows vacant lots east of Riley Towers. Alcoa dropped its plan to build additional towers on these lots in December 1968.

Then in December 1968, the Project H bombshell dropped when Alcoa announced that it had no interest in building any more apartment towers. An economic study had shown that further apartment development in the downtown area was simply not feasible. The 16 acres that had been cleared for Phases 2 and 3 of the Riley Towers project would continue to remain vacant, at least for the time being.

For the next year, Project H sat dormant as UniGov wound its way through the legislature. But then in March 1970, the newly constituted Department of Metropolitan Development announced that it would start accepting plans from nationally known firms for the construction of 1,170 moderately priced apartments.

"We had hoped the project would set the downtown area on fire with interest in the early 1960s, but people didn't want to live in luxury apartments and look out on blight," a DMD spokesman told the Star. But now the timing was right. The pending construction of the new interstate would be a major selling point, not only because it would draw people downtown, but also because it would eliminate much of unsightly blighted areas.

1970s photo of John H. Barton tower with Junior Achievement building in the foreground. MIT Libraries, G.E. Kidder Smith Image Collection.

As it turned out, DMD was wrong in 1970 about the timing being right. Although the Indianapolis Housing Authority broke ground on a 15-story apartment building for low-income seniors, F.C. Tucker was the only firm to express interest in building market-rate apartments.

In late 1972, however, Tucker's plans fizzled after a feasibility study showed that it would cost more to build the apartments than investors could recover in rent.

Project H continued to languish throughout the 1970s. But by 1980, the city was feeling optimistic again about the long-delayed urban renewal project. Six developers submitted plans to build housing on the vacant land. Although four of the proposals conformed more closely to the high-rise "apartment city" envisioned in 1959, the city ended up selecting Borns Management's ambitious plan to build a village of suburban-style condominiums. The new development would be called "Renaissance Place."

And in November 1980 -- 21 years after Project H was launched -- the timing was finally right. The proposed condos were placed on the market at 11 a.m. on Sunday, November 8. By the end of the next day, Renaissance Place was sold out.

Then and now, southeast corner of Alabama and Fort Wayne. Click here to see more Project H photos from the IHPC collection at IUPUI.