A bright paint scheme highlights the eclectic mix of salvaged and antique furnishings in the dining room.

Blending old and new is often the most difficult part of adding onto a vintage house—but for architectural historian Joan Lawrence, adding a sense of history to a new kitchen and dining room for her 1882 Carpenter Gothic house was easy, thanks to her passion for architectural salvage.

“The house was built as a modest summer cottage, and many of its original elements and furnishings would have been castoffs from a primary residence,” Joan points out. “So building an addition from secondhand items fit with the house’s beginnings.” For five years, she had collected locally salvaged materials—most dating from the 1880s through the 1920s—and carefully stored them in her basement until she had enough architectural components for the addition.

It was her love of salvage, in fact, that connected her with architect Dean Brenneman, who designed the addition—the two met while volunteering at Old House Parts, a now-defunct nonprofit salvage shop near Joan’s Maryland house. They began talking and realized they were kindred spirits when it came to reusing old materials. “She had collected radiators, doors, windows, a sink, a stove, light fixtures, hardware—she even had pieces left over from an old row house on Capitol Hill that she had restored years ago,” says Dean. At the time they met, Dean was deconstructing his grandparents’ carriage house in Rockville, Maryland, which had floorboards and timbers that would lend themselves nicely to Joan’s kitchen project. “My job was to find poetry within the pieces,” he says.

By the Book

Dean designed the new addition within the footprint of an existing two-story 1950s addition, which looked woefully out of place on the old house. “Knowing that houses evolve over time, I have a more eclectic view of restoration,” he notes. “Rather than restore to a particular period, I mix and match elements in a project such as this one. It’s like working on a jigsaw puzzle—how will the new part fit with the old? It’s a challenge to create a cohesive whole—to make logic of several different pieces.”

To highlight its different timeline, the addition is stepped down slightly from the original house and painted in a contrasting color scheme. (Photo: Melissa Newman)

To join the new addition to the old house, he followed the Secretary of the Interior’s Standards for additions, which state that while the addition will differentiate from the old, it should be compatible in massing, size, scale, and architectural features to protect the house’s historic integrity. In this case, that meant an addition that is subordinate to the original house, mimicking its roof pitch and gable ends, but on a smaller scale. Joan chose a brick-red color for its exterior to distinguish it from the original structure’s German board siding, which is painted green.

The addition is filled with a treasure trove of well-crafted materials. The connection between the two wings of the house features an early 1900s tin ceiling Joan discovered while volunteering at Old House Parts. The onion-domed window in the gable came from a Russian Orthodox church, and the space is lit by Art Deco pendant fixtures from Australia.

Unfitted Kitchen

To bring an old-house feel to the kitchen’s design, Joan took inspiration from British kitchen guru Johnny Grey and his book The Art of Kitchen Design. In the book, Grey advocates for kitchens with an unfitted design—a concept based on historical models before cabinets were built into walls, when kitchens were composed of freestanding pieces of furniture like hutches, cupboards, iceboxes, and worktables. “You have much more flexibility when designing an unfitted kitchen,” Dean points out.

In the kitchen, a reproduction retro refrigerator mingles with a refurbished 1920s stove and a freestanding pantry fashioned from reclaimed boards.

For her kitchen, Joan found the freestanding pantry that sits next to her Northstar reproduction fridge—made of milk-painted boards reclaimed from an early 18th-century house—at a secondhand store. She found the marble-topped baker’s cabinet cases—now used as a food-prep area—at an antiques shop; the 1920s Detroit Jewel gas stove she bought from a friend and had refurbished. The only fitted cabinets are found under the bay window—craftsman Ed Mroczka of The Uncommon Carpenter replicated them based on ones Joan had seen in a book on bungalow kitchens.

Green Savings

Not only did using salvaged materials give Joan’s kitchen the old-house aesthetic she sought, but it also kept the project green. The U.S. Environmental Protection Agency (EPA) estimates that residential demolition accounts for 5 million tons of debris per year nationally; EPA figures suggest that only 52 percent of this is recycled. That’s the equivalent to tearing down two Empire State Buildings each month and throwing the debris away. “When you use salvaged materials, you’re not fabricating anything new, so there is no ecological expense,” says Dean.

Not to mention, it’s friendlier on the budget. Dean estimates that this project netted a 60-percent reduction in materials costs by relying so heavily on salvage. Take the windows—Joan scored 11 casement windows reclaimed from a 1920s house at The Brass Knob in Washington, D.C. “If we had bought new windows, they could have cost $20,000, but by using recycled, we only spent about $2,000,” says Dean. “Those windows are in great shape—they even came with their original frames.”

Thanks to its thoughtful design and quality materials, the handsome, efficient kitchen is an appropriate companion for the old Carpenter Gothic—and good for the planet at the same time. “It’s tragic how much beautiful building material is thrown into landfills each year,” Dean says. “If we can use existing material in our projects, we can reduce the waste stream.”

Nancy E. Berry is the editor of New Old House magazine. She lives in an 1870s Queen Anne on Cape Cod.

Online bonus: Find an architectural salvage store near you with our online directory.

Thanks to good design, old, weathered buildings can sometimes be as sound as newly built ones.

When I drive along rural roads, I sometimes come upon old farm buildings that have been abandoned long ago. I’m often surprised to find that although the wood is weathered and gray, the siding, trim, window sash, and sills are still remarkably sound. Why is this, when I’ve seen just as many 10- to 15-year-old buildings already in need of replacement sash and jambs?

The survival of traditional materials in an outdoor environment usually depends upon four interdependent factors: design, material, craftsmanship, and maintenance. In the case of these old buildings, I can’t speak for the craftsmanship, and I know that maintenance has been absent for quite some time, so I attribute their stubborn survival to quality, old-growth wood and the attention paid to design details. These details were often second nature to builders until the early part of the 20th century, when man-made materials (aluminum, composites, synthetics) freed the builder from the mundane and time-consuming chores of detailing every joint and attending to the pitch of every surface.

However, for the restorer who still works in the everyday realm of old houses, and does not have the advantage offered by old-growth timbers or the choice to install synthetics, then attention to detail can mean the difference between a project that lasts 5 years and one that lasts 10 times that. Modern plantation-grown lumber is notoriously poor at resisting decay, so protection through thoughtful design should be the number-one concern.

The simple key to all good design is the ability to shed water. The study of older structures reveals this on many levels. Sometimes the aesthetic style of a building is even shaped by this basic requirement. Craftsmen who are not familiar with traditional building practices are inclined to reproduce the overall appearance of an element without a full appreciation of the original construction detailing that incorporated this simple rule of thumb.

Even small surfaces such as panel molding need a slight slope to keep them from trapping water.

If we mentally follow water that flows across the roof, we can trace its path all the way to the ground as it encounters many surface textures and pitches, various joint orientations and path changes before it soaks into the soil. New, old, or treated lumber, as well as stone and metal, can benefit by employing three basic principles of design that will keep water away from the portions of the structure that are most vulnerable to fungal decay, freeze/thaw cycles, and ponding.

Design Principle #1: Avoid Flat, Horizontal Surfaces Where Possible

Everything from porch floors to windowsills and head casings should be constructed to promote the flow of water away from the building. Slopes of 5, 10, or even 20 degrees are reasonable. Although this seems intuitively obvious, it’s remarkable how often I see new porch railings installed with a flat handrail and bottom rail.

Many times, small pieces of molding, such as the lower panel molding on a door or shutter, are often discounted as having an insignificant amount of flat surface to make any difference. Yet, these are places where water can pond for prolonged periods of time, so make sure that every horizontal surface, no matter how small, is inclined away from the building.

When joints at the base of square columns point downward and are protected by flashing, rainwater naturally slides off the wooden element, preventing infiltration that can lead to rot.

Design Principle #2: Avoid Joints That Face Skyward

This may well be the chief source of water infiltration and subsequent deterioration in modern construction. This joint orientation tends to show up where broad handrails meet columns or when square column bases are wrapped in wood.

No matter how carefully the joints of newly restored wooden elements are caulked, the caulk will eventually fail and admit water. If you do need to caulk existing vertical seams, avoid caulking the earth-facing lower edge of an element. When water enters, it’s much better to let it flow through unimpeded, rather than to trap it by blocking its path with a bead of caulk.

In practice, this may be the most time-consuming joint to make watertight, but the dividends are worth the effort. To get the design right, think like a roofer, and install pieces from the ground up. For example, install the lower panel molding first and cope the side moldings to it. Use flashing on seams that can’t be easily eliminated or redesigned. Where horizontal and vertical members meet (such as handrails and columns), mortise the vertical member to accept the horizontal.

Design Principle #3: Avoid Unvented Spaces

Water seeping into hollow, unvented columns can create a breeding ground for mold; simple vents at the top and bottom of the column will allow water to evaporate.

Box beams, hollow columns, soffits, and even weight pockets on sash windows can trap water or water vapor. Moisture typically enters through open seams in the upper portion of an element and puddles in a watertight lower space—for example, water entering a column through a leaky porch roof. Unvented shafts will then fill with water until it ever so slowly seeps under the edge of the shaft. In the darkness of an enclosed space, moist air laden with fungal spores spells peril for wooden surfaces.

Although I’ve seen unvented, old-growth hollow columns that have survived for more than 100 years, it’s unlikely that unvented columns constructed from modern lumber will survive that long. Columns can be vented through the plinth or through vents directly installed in the column shaft. Make sure that any vents installed in this way are screened to limit the potential for the open space to become living quarters for insects or other pests. The top can be vented into the roof space or simply at the perimeter joist. Venting both extremities of an enclosed space will promote airflow and the consequent movement of water vapor.

Although it’s tempting to give in to the immediate pleasure brought on by fresh caulk and paint, as old-house stewards, we must take a longer-term view of repair projects. The first step in doing so is to hold fast to the principles of good design.

Ray Tschoepe, one of OHJ’s contributing editors, is the director of conservation at the Fairmount Park Historic Preservation Trust in Philadelphia.

Online exclusive: Get more tips for keeping water away from your house from restoration pro Duffy Hoffman, who will be teaching a class on the subject at this spring’s Historic Home Show.

The landscaping near your house can have a major effect on how much water the structure retains. (Photo: Courtesy of Vixen Hill)

In order to know how a house functions, we also need to know how the surrounding landscape affects it. Shrubs, flowers, trees, gardens, and sidewalks—most of which probably weren’t there when the house was originally built—all can contribute to excess moisture that can damage a structure. Many of these landscapes were probably put in place with little to no consideration about how the house functions.

For instance, there are certain plants, shrubs, trees, and ground covers (such as rhododendrons, azaleas, ornamental holly trees, and certain types of boxwood) that grow very slowly and will soak up more water than other species. If you know the foundation of your structure has moisture present, these types of plantings can help you control it naturally.

If replanting isn’t an option, here are some other ways to improve your structure’s moisture content:

Regularly cleaning gutters will ensure that water is draining away from your house. (Photo: Mitch Aunger/iStock Photo)

1. Downspout leaders: Extend them so they’re several feet from the house to keep water away from the foundation.

2. Garden beds: Make sure they are pitched away from the house to keep excess water from draining toward the foundation.

3. Gutters: Backed-up gutters can cause water to leak onto the house—clean them out to keep it flowing.

4. Soil or mulch: Hard soil or mulch won’t let water drain slowly, so turn soil or mulch near the house yearly.

5. Trees, bushes, and shrubs: Trim them back so there’s at least a body’s distance between the plant and your house, to promote airflow.

Want to know more? Attend Duffy Hoffman’s free class at the Historic Home Show in Oaks, Pennsylvania (March 10-11, 2012) to learn more about how your home functions.

Homeowners David and Susanne Neiblum were able to take their 1922 French Norman house off the grid while maintaining its historic character.

In August 2011, David and Susanne Neiblum opened their electricity bill to find a pleasant surprise: It was for $7—the total cost for one month of the electric company’s service charges for their 6,700-square-foot home in West Chester, Pennsylvania. The energy payday was the result of the three and a half months the Neiblums spent sensitively converting their 1922 house from oil heat to a geothermal heating and cooling system that runs on electricity from a solar array.

When David Neiblum first spotted the French Norman style house for sale, he thought, “It’s too big, too much, but how can I walk away from this house?” Clad in local fieldstone, with a central staircase and fireplaces imported from France, the impressive house was perfect for this family of five, but it was expensive to heat and had no air conditioning.

The family looked into installing central air ductwork and a standard compressor, which, for such a large house, would’ve cost approximately $100,000—but for a bit more money, they realized they could opt for geothermal energy instead. “We had looked into geothermal for a house we had planned to build,” says David, so they were familiar with the costs. “But we weren’t sure it was possible for this house.”

Geothermal systems can reduce heating and cooling bills by 70 percent in comparison to oil, but the upfront costs are expensive. For this house, the entire geothermal installation, including the ductwork but excluding the solar array, was approximately $160,000. (The cost varies with the size of the house.) A federal tax credit for green technology—30 percent of the entire project, including ductwork—helped to offset the expense.

With the energy savings of geothermal, David estimates they’ll earn back the upfront expenses in five to seven years. “The price for ductwork and regular A/C with oil-heat radiators was the same as geothermal with the tax credit,” David points out. “It made sense in the long run.”

The system's solar technology is located on an otherwise unusable hill in the back yard.

The Neiblums hired Bill Sinton of Sinton Air Conditioning and Heating to do the work. “The geothermal installer you choose is crucial because it’s a major job for the house,” says David. Geothermal installation was only 7 to 10 percent of Bill’s business as recently as 2003, but it now encompasses 95 percent of his company’s work. The increase in oil prices has spurred homeowners’ interest in geothermal energy, which is a renewable resource.

Geothermal systems tap into the constant temperature under the earth, which is found as shallow as 11′ to 12′ below the surface. Ground temperatures vary from region to region. “Florida, for example, may be 61 degrees,” Bill explains. “The ground is slightly colder at a higher latitude; slightly warmer at a lower latitude.” In Pennsylvania, where the Neiblums live, it is 53 degrees. This heat is then transferred from the ground to the home through a series of underground pipes that are filled with an antifreeze solution and then sealed. Unless a house has no accessibility to the grounds around it, neither the size of the house nor the plot are limitations to tapping into that heat source.

What Lies Beneath

Installing the geothermal system first involved drilling six boreholes into the earth to access consistently warm temperatures. (Photo: David Neiblum)

The Neiblums’ house sits on an acre of land that includes a hill, which became the site of the bore field for the geothermal system, as well as for the solar array that would provide electricity to run the system and power the entire house.

For this project, six 6″-diameter vertical boreholes, called geothermal exchangers, were drilled at a depth of approximately 350′ to 400′. (Although constant ground temperatures can be found at the shallower depth noted above, to find the most stable and consistent temperature, it’s best to go deeper.) The number of boreholes and depth varies, depending on the size of the house. Because bedrock runs below the earth in Pennsylvania, Bill created the boreholes with a rock hammer drill, whose bit hammers as it spins. Not only is rock a much better conductor of heat—a benefit to the geothermal exchangers—but boreholes drilled in rock also won’t shift or fill in, which can happen in coastal areas with soil composed of sand, shale, and loose rubble. For these sandy areas, a mud rotary drill is used, which is labor-intensive and costly.

A loop, made of 11⁄4″ high-density polyethylene (HDPE) pipe, a long-lasting thermoplastic that won’t corrode, is inserted into the boreholes. Each loop bends in a U shape at the bottom of the borehole, so each hole contains two pipes but one circuit.

The pipes are filled with an antifreeze fluid that conducts heat. There are three antifreeze options for residential installations: propylene glycol, methanol, and ethylene glycol. The Neiblums chose methanol, the densest of the three, because of its enhanced energy-carrying properties. (The denser the fluid, the better its heat-carrying ability.)

A trench between the bore field and the house holds both the refrigerant lines for the geothermal system and the electric wires for the solar array.

After the loops are installed, the area around them is filled with bentonite grout, which remains pliable so it can expand and contract seasonally. The function of the grout is threefold: First, it maintains uninterrupted heat conductivity between the pipes and the earth. Second, it serves as a seal to bring the ground back into balance. Third, it prevents any aquifers from getting contaminated.

Once the grout is in place, a pipe ties the loops from each borehole together. The pipe is connected to a 3″ manifold, which attaches the ground loops to the heat pumps in the house. A trench running down the hillside from the bore field to the foundation of the house holds the manifold.

Supply and Demand

Three heat pump units, located in the basement, service the entire house. The first one, a package geothermal unit that contains all the heating and cooling components, completely heats and cools the first floor. Ductwork and the ground loops are tied to it directly. The other two units—split systems with geothermal heat pumps in the basement and air-handling units in two separate attics—heat and cool the second and third floors of the house. Each unit handles two floors, but they service different wings of the house.

Supply and return ducts run from the heat pump units to every room in the house so that all areas maintain an even, comfortable temperature. Each room has two termination points: the supply register, which can be adjusted for airflow, and an air-return grille that always remains open.

Running ductwork in an old house is a tricky prospect. The airflow in each room has to be carefully balanced and measured so the temperature remains constant. Any home considering a geothermal system should have a full heat-loss and structural analysis. For the Neiblums’ home, Bill performed his own proprietary analysis in addition to the standard analysis known as a Manual J, which determines how much energy a home needs to stay cool in the summer and warm in the winter. “If someone only does a Manual J, there’s a lot that will be left out,” says Bill. “The challenge is finding the proper volume of air to each room on each floor.”

The kitchen and dining room were in such poor shape that they had to be completely redone, allowing the Neiblums to run ductwork under the floors.

Placing the termination points and the ductwork in an old house has to be done “more like a surgeon than a bullfighter,” says Bill, so the home’s character isn’t affected. “You can’t just be an engineer; you have to be an artist as well,” he says. “You have to be artistically creative but scientifically sound.”

“Every place we had the opportunity, we put the ductwork inside the envelope of the house,” he continues. Where ducts couldn’t be run behind walls, they were tucked into unusual places. “In the great room, there was a hidden wet bar in the wall that was probably from Prohibition, which we took out to hide the ductwork,” David says. “You can’t tell anything is there.”

Ted Trethewey, a contractor who specializes in restoring old houses, custom-built the soffits to hide the ducts. “Ted was essential to not making it look like a new house,” David says. Soffits were created in all of the bedrooms on the third floor; painted to match the décor, they blend in with the architecture of the house. “We’ve taken people through the house, and they don’t notice the soffits until we point them out,” says David.

Solar Spotlight

Air-return grilles are incorporated into the home’s décor.

To power the Neiblums’ geothermal system, a photovoltaic solar array was placed over the bore field. “We had an unusable hill facing south,” David explains. “Geothermal runs by electricity, so we thought it made sense.” However, ground installations are a more involved process than solar panels placed on the roof. The Neiblums hired Astrum Solar to build a frame for the panels and dig a trench to run the electrical wires from the ground mount to the home’s electrical panel.

Although roof installations may take only a couple of days, the extra steps involved with ground installations means they can take longer. Permits are another factor to consider. “The longest part is all the zoning/permitting, utility interconnection, and incentive paperwork, which can take months,” says Michelle Waldgeir, vice president of marketing at Astrum Solar. In this case, the historic status of the Neiblums’ house didn’t affect the permitting process, since the panels were placed 100′ away from the house and screened by landscaping.

Solar panels, which are made up of crystalline silicon, convert light into electricity. The electricity travels from the panels through wires to an inverter. “The inverter converts the type of electricity produced by the panels [direct current, or DC] into the type of power your house uses [alternating current, or AC],” explains Michelle. “Once the electricity goes through the inverter, it travels through wire into your home’s electrical panel.”

Instead of having all the panels wired in a series to one central inverter, compact inverters (in this case, Enphase Energy micro-inverters) are installed under each solar panel to maximize efficiency. This approach allows each panel to function independently, avoiding the pitfall of having one panel drag down the system. The micro-inverters can be linked to an online performance monitoring system, where the Neiblums can track their energy usage from the panels.

In one of the children’s rooms, a false wall was built to disguise ducts attached to the wall.

Roof- and ground-mount installations that are situated identically can generate similar amounts of solar energy. But because ground mounts can be sited anywhere and aren’t constrained in size by a roof, they often produce more power. The region can play a role in the system’s power potential, too. “The Northeast is a great place to install solar,” says Michelle. “[The Neiblums] get almost 95 percent as much sunlight as Florida.”

The Neiblums’ 10.36-kW solar energy system is capable of generating 11,740 kW hours per year. In comparison, the average American home uses approximately 9,000 kW hours per year. “It takes care of any electrical needs for the house,” says David, not just the geothermal system.

The Neiblums purchased their system for approximately $60,000 and received a 30-percent federal rebate off the installation price. For state rebates, “solar is more complicated,” notes David. “Every state is different. In Pennsylvania, there is a rebate, but there is only a certain amount of money, and it keeps reducing.”

A solar energy system also can be leased for a monthly rate with no down payment. (Many companies offer rental agreements for solar systems.) “Total costs are based on size,” explains Michelle. “If a customer is interested in leasing, the quality of their location (ability to generate energy), their utility rates, and the amount they would like to spend (upfront or monthly) will determine their rate.”

The Neiblums are pleased with the efficiency of the solar array and have noticed a tremendous savings in their electricity bills since setting it up in combination with their geothermal heating and cooling system. “Going solar is one of the best things you can do for yourself, your home, your wallet, and the planet,” says Michelle.

The new wall assembly is highlighted with a cheerful, contrasting paint scheme.

Keeping It Going

Geothermal systems are appealing in terms of longevity and maintenance compared to conventional systems because they have very few moving parts. Unlike conventional systems, geothermal heat pumps operate in steady conditions without internal combustion, and boast a 20- to 30-year lifespan. “The amount of heat inside a furnace is a lot for metal surfaces to withstand—that’s why furnaces die,” says Bill. “Same with outdoor units—they have an 8- to 12-year lifespan,” says Bill. “Everything that affects a machine outside destroys it.” When a heat pump does need to be replaced, it’s easy to swap out the unit. The ground loops will not have to be changed.

The system also needs very little maintenance to keep running smoothly. The air coils should be cleaned twice a year, the filters get changed yearly, and the temperature and pressure get checked annually. There is no outdoor unit to clean.

The Neiblums find the geothermal temperature controls very responsive. “You can change the temperature by one degree, and within fifteen minutes, you can feel the temperature in the room change,” says David. They also consider the geothermal system to be in keeping with how the house and outbuildings were originally built. “We think a lot of the stones were salvaged from old buildings,” notes David. “That ties in with the green theme.”

Online Bonus: Geothermal Resources

DSIRE (Database of State Incentives for Renewables and Efficiency)
A comprehensive source on federal and state incentives and policies for renewable energy

IGSHPA (International Ground Source Heat Pump Association)
A nonprofit, member-driven organization to advance geothermal heat pump technology nationally and internationally; includes a business directory

North American Board of Certified Energy Practitioners
Offers professional certification for PV solar installations and has a certification locator for businesses nationwide

Suppliers for this project:

• Geothermal system: Sinton Air Conditioning and Heating, Inc.
• Solar panels: Astrum Solar
• Contractor: E.C. Trethewey Building Contractors
• Pump specialist and drilling services: B. L. Myers Bros. of PA, Inc.

ABOVE: Penelope Creeley’s family transformed this fire station into their home; the tower at the rear of the building, once used to drain fire hoses, became her kids’ favorite hangout.

After moving into a new home, you’ve likely never had to ask yourself which end of the hayloft should hold the pool table, or whether a choir balcony will fit two twin beds or one. You’ve probably never shopped for kitchen fixtures in a railroad yard, either. But others have.

Lured by the frisson of experiencing something unique—or maybe just enticed by the idea of challenge on a really big scale—some old-house lovers forsake the world of the predictable to follow a different path to architectural bliss: by buying, living in, or restoring old buildings—barns, churches, schoolhouses, fire stations—that were never meant to be homes.

“The first thing we said was, ‘It’s a castle!’” jokes Jennifer McTernan, recalling the moment when she and her family laid eyes on the 1897 brick building they now live in, which began life as a Roman Catholic church. “It just seemed so perfect.”

The idea of adaptive reuse—taking over a public, religious, or commercial structure and turning it into a livable home—is not new, and it’s not always the best answer: Many preservation standards maintain that structures are better served by remaining true to their original purposes. But when buildings have outlived their intended purpose—and as the world grows more aware of the environmental impact of new construction—the idea of transforming structures from underused curiosities into beloved residential spaces strikes some as practical, if not downright trendy. Those who have done it say it’s not easy—but that it’s a process so rich in its own rewards that it amply pays back the time, money, and effort involved.

1. Before taking the plunge, get expert advice.

Solid construction made the Callahans’ barn ideal for transformation into a house.

When Donna and Joseph Callahan were looking to move from the city to the country with their expanding family, they took a drive and spotted a hulking 4,000-square-foot barn. The massive size of the unfussy clapboard building—which was no longer needed for livestock, and thus a potential target for teardown or vandals—caught their eye, as did its prime position on two acres of rolling farmland. The Callahans weren’t deterred by the fact that the late 19th-century building had recently been a working stable, filled with cows and horses.

After tentatively agreeing to buy the well-worn barn for $7,000, the couple decided to check their instincts with objective advice. Not knowing any renovation experts, Donna called an architect and described their plan.

“He said, ‘Stay away from barns; they are very unstable, they warp,’ and on and on,” remembers Donna. “I was thinking, ‘Oh no.’ Then he asked me where the barn was, and it turned out that he lived nearby. He said, ‘The Schmidt barn! I love that barn!’” With that, the matter was settled, and the Callahans signed on the property.

The moral of the story is twofold: There are exceptions to every rule, but it’s best to check your gut against some expert views. “You can have a vision,” says Donna, who still lives in the barn today, “but check it out with somebody first.”

Passersby might mistake the McTernan abode for a regular church, but inside, it’s a comfortable family home.

2. Take a chance on a dream.

When the McTernan family first toured the spire-topped, Gothic-style Catholic church, they were impressed with the enormous, 75′-long hand-dug basement and stained-glass windows, which glow in mellow tones of amber, violet, and pink. They also loved the unfinished choir loft—picturing twin beds for their two daughters there—as well as the tile roof and time-softened red brick exterior.

For Jennifer, who had grown up near the church in Angola, New York, the historic appeal of the building—at once imposing and intimate—sealed the deal. She had loved the church as a child; returning to the area as an adult, she jumped at the chance to own it, following in the footsteps of previous owners, who took over the empty building decades ago when its congregation moved on to larger digs.

“To me, it’s history,” says Jennifer. When given the chance, in other words, you act—because some buildings only come around once in a lifetime.

3. Prepare for plenty of work.

Moving into a non-residential structure means signing on for all sorts of repair and conversion projects to make the place workable as a house. Plumbing and lighting can be issues that take time, thought, and money to solve; so can drainage and dampness in basement and garage areas. “Keeping that slate roof in order was a pretty major investment,” says Penelope Creeley, who, with her late husband, converted a 1912 brick fire station in Buffalo.

The Creeleys divided the fire-truck garage and horse-stabling space on the bottom floor of the building into a study, a mudroom, a bedroom and bathroom, and a two-car garage for their own vehicles; the upper floors became the kitchen, bedrooms, and more living space. A tower once used to drain fire hoses was repurposed as a hangout for their children.

The Callahans filled their barn with salvaged finds, including industrial signage.

For their barn project, the Callahans had to add several bathrooms, as well as fashion interior doors and walls to divide the large first floor—adding barn doors to divide a living area from a parlor, for instance. They also realized, in carving out a kitchen, that a second set of stairs to the upper-level bedrooms would be handy; because the first floor of the barn did not lend itself to a traditional staircase, they instead cut a hole into the ceiling above the kitchen and installed an iron spiral staircase salvaged from an old Purina mill.

4. Embrace the imperfections.

Living in an old building means learning to accept, and even appreciate, the scars left by time. Because it began life as a carriage house for a grand Lake Erie estate, the Callahans’ barn was constructed out of better-than-typical materials, but by the time the family bought it, the original heart-pine floors had been pitted and gouged by countless hooves and heavy equipment.

Still, Donna never seriously considered replacing the floors, or even repairing the holes. The boards that had completely deteriorated were replaced with patches, but the only other treatment they got was a good scrubbing. “Our barn is old, but it’s very sound,” she says. “People built them to last.”

5. Treasure vintage material.

In their kitchen, the Callahans constructed a hearth out of bricks they’d saved for years before moving in.

When one of the two towering steeples on their church had to be taken down after being damaged by weather, the McTernans saved most of the old roof tiles from the spire. It was a tough job collecting and storing them, says Jennifer, and they still haven’t been used. But the next time roof work is needed on the building, the McTernans won’t have to hunt fruitlessly for the perfect replacement tiles.

Even material you don’t immediately see a purpose for can come in handy. Before she ever laid eyes on her barn, Donna Callahan had started stockpiling bricks. Her husband would bring home piles of them from demolition sites—a row house once owned by Mark Twain; a Catholic church that had stood across the street from where Donna grew up—and she would clean them and store them in her basement. When the couple moved into their repurposed barn, they used the stash of bricks—all 4,000 of them—to build a custom fireplace and hearth for their new kitchen.

6. Adjust your scale.

When you live in a space that was created to hold items like hay bales or fire trucks, you need to recalibrate your sense of scale. In many cases, this means thinking bigger.

In the cavernous barn repurposed by the Callahans, the sheer scale of the interior spaces—including a hayloft that can hold beds, an antique oak bar, and a pool table, as well as a tack room that became an open-plan kitchen and breakfast room—lent itself to a decorating scheme that incorporates commercial and industrial signage and equipment. The iron pot rack in their kitchen was a massive piece thrown out of the railroad depot at Buffalo’s Central Terminal.

“We could always buy the larger things,” says Donna. Indeed, with an unusually sized or shaped home, you just might put yourself in the market for décor that is truly unique.

Religious artifacts abound in the McTernans’ home, including stained-glass Gothic windows and an original altar rail.

7. Consider the logistics.

There are downsides to living in an adaptive home, often where simple logistics are concerned. Inside the McTernans’ church, chandeliers hang 17′ off the floor, making lightbulb-changing a challenge. Ladders are a good investment, they’ve found, as are extension poles and mini-scaffolds.

In the Creeleys’ firehouse, Penelope hired an architect to help her create an office and a master bedroom suite. Work on the firehouse was done with as much sensitivity to its history—and its place in the surrounding Black Rock neighborhood in Buffalo—as possible. Because the inside of the brick structure was dark, Penelope wanted an expert to help bring light into the space. “It wasn’t much of a consideration in the original firehouse, that light get into where they stored the trucks,” Penelope says. “But light considerations in these building adaptations are very important.”

Along the way, homeowners who have adapted nontraditional buildings into homes have learned an important secret to making such logistics flow smoothly: Choose carefully when hiring contractors. “Just about everything you did to it was a big deal,” Penelope says of the firehouse. “Tradesmen would get nightmares looking at it.”

Jennifer McTernan soon learned this helpful trick: Start every conversation with a potential contractor by talking about the home’s uniqueness. Tell them right away, she says, that “this is not a house.”

Charity Vogel lives with her family outside of Buffalo, New York, in a rural Folk Victorian home that during World War II had its own adaptive reuse—as a maternity hospital.

Online bonus: Do you live in a repurposed building (or just want to?). Join our special discussion group on MyOldHouseOnline.com.

Cooper’s Pine Cone pattern is at home in rustic, cottage-style, and Arts & Crafts houses.

My days are often spent on the telephone, guiding clients who I know are standing near a window, atop a ladder (or kitchen chair) with a clacking tape measure in hand. As a designer and merchant of period-inspired lace curtains, I can offer them—and you—help in selecting appropriate window treatments. From 20 years of advice:

Which Pattern?

Many people mistakenly assume that lace curtains are Victorian. Not true: Lace was used at the windows long before Queen Victoria ascended the throne, and lace curtains are still common today, especially in the United Kingdom and Europe.

Although machine-made lace wasn’t available until after the mid-19th century, earlier historical patterns (previously hand-woven) are being reproduced today, suitable for Colonial, Federal, and Greek Revival homes. Down the timeline, Arts & Crafts-era, Art Deco, Elizabethan, and Colonial Revival patterns are being made. Because interior styles evolved, you can choose to coordinate the lace pattern with your furnishings rather than the house.

Shades of Lace

Most lace curtains today are finished in white, natural white (a.k.a. ivory), or ecru. White is bleached, like a new cotton T-shirt. Natural white is unbleached; I tell clients that it looks white until you place it side-by-side with bleached white. Ecru is a darker, almost tan color. All of these, as long as they are cotton, easily can be tea-stained or dyed to a darker shade. Consider that some people find ecru too “yellowy” against white-painted woodwork, while others find white too stark against dark trim.

Which Weave?

Most of your choices have been woven on Madras or Nottingham looms. Richly textured Madras lace is made by an appliqué process wherein a 100-percent cotton scrim is woven, and then the loom passes over it and a pattern is affixed. Finally, the panel is sheared, creating a crisp design. Nottingham is a type of machine-woven lace developed in the 1840s; it’s available in several point sizes that determine the fineness or coarseness of the pattern. Nottingham lace is produced in cotton/polyester blends ranging from 95-percent cotton to all polyester.

Shirred lace panels hung below transom windows lend privacy while admitting plenty of light. (Photo: Carolyn Bates)

Length and Width

There’s no exact formula; still, conventions exist that differ according to era. For Federal, Greek Revival, romantic (i.e., early to mid) Victorian, and some Colonial Revival styles, window treatments were “fuller” and more gathered. Typically, the ratio of lace was 1½ to two times the width of the window opening—say, 54″ to 72″ of lace (flat width) for a 36″-wide window. Lace panels often hung well below the windowsill, sometimes even pooling onto the floor.

For bungalows and most Colonial Revival houses, and for the styles of the 20th century—Craftsman, Deco, mid-century modern—window treatments were hung “flatter” with less gathering. The cloth to window ratio is not more than 1½ times; for many patterns, the preference is one to 1¼ times, or 36″ to 45″ of lace for a 36″ window. By now curtains were shorter, stopping at or near the windowsill or apron.  I offer custom shortening, as do some other vendors; the panels can be shortened from the top to preserve an ornamental bottom border.

Cleaning and Care

Unless you have some special (dirty or dusty) circumstance, once a year is more than enough. In the interim, you might shake the curtains out or gently vacuum them (using the soft brush attachment). Manufacturers recommend dry-cleaning, although my clients have found that washing their panels in cold water with a mild detergent, by hand or on the machine’s delicate cycle, works well. High-efficiency washers will deliver the clean curtains to you barely damp. Never put cotton lace curtains in the dryer! Simply hang them up, barely damp, back on their rods. Don’t hang lace by clothespins, and don’t drape it over a clothesline, because, as the rope sags, the lace may become distorted. Straighten them while they are hanging by lightly spritzing them with water, then gently tugging and smoothing the fabric by hand. Cotton lace will shrink slightly after washing. (Damp-ironing may mitigate shrinkage.) You can lower the rod or hang the curtain through the header hem instead of the lower rod pocket.

In a Victorian vignette, lace panels hang to the floor, tied back over a fancy roller shade. (Photo: Paul Rocheleau)

Hanging Curtains

The simplest way to hang a lace curtain is with an adjustable spring-tension rod, readily available at hardware stores. To mount the curtains on the face of the woodwork, you can find inside- or outside-mount café rods in a variety of finishes. Sash rods that fit close to the glass are preferred for door and sidelight curtains, where you might want a bottom rod pocket sewn into the curtains.

Sources

Cooper’s Cottage Lace: Author Dan Cooper founded the company to extend the offerings available in cotton Madras lace. Besides his own adaptations, he’s invited some of today’s best revival artists to interpret Aesthetic and Arts & Crafts movement, Prairie School, Art Deco, neoclassical, and Colonial Revival designs. His 16 (and counting) patterns are 100-percent  cotton Madras lace woven in Scotland, available as curtain panels (in many sizes and widths), valances, and table scarves.

Bradbury & Bradbury: Lace curtains (Grecian, Eastlake, Regency, Art Deco) designed by Bradbury & Bradbury Art Wallpapers president Steve Bauer and produced by Cooper complement some of the wallpaper patterns.

J.R. Burrows & Co.: Nottingham Victorian lace curtains (8-, 10-, and 14-point) and Madras muslin curtains in a unique range from Renaissance Revival style to designs by C.F.A. Voysey and Candace Wheeler.

London Lace: Nottingham lace and cotton Madras lace from Scotland in historical and contemporary patterns.

Heritage Lace: Vintage-look patterns among many styles; 100-percent polyester, made in America.

The formal foyer, somewhat unusual for a Craftsman house, showcases stained and shellacked woodwork of Douglas fir. The library table and large Morris chair are Grand Rapids’ Lifetime Furniture antiques.

One word comes to mind to describe the approach taken by Carol Polanskey and Martin Ratliff for their restoration: scientific. Beginning in 1992, these committed homeowners used their analytical experience—both are rocket scientists—to take restoration to a higher level, researching the era and looking for evidence on site. The result is a house that glows.

Passersby inevitably slow down to take notice of the 1909 chalet–bungalow.  Its Craftsman-era piers of arroyo stone and clinker brick fit right in with other houses in Pasadena’s Bungalow Heaven Landmark District. But the exterior has “more action” than a typical bungalow, with steep gables and dormers, and stickwork that recalls late 19th-century Swiss chalets. Details are all the more evident with the polychrome paint scheme. (Despite many friendly knocks on the door, the colors chosen are a secret so that the house remains unique.)

A transitional nature is apparent inside, too, where entry is through a relatively large and formal foyer. The superb woodwork found throughout the house starts here, with a wainscot, staircase, built-in bench, and colonnade of stained and shellacked Douglas fir.

Living and dining rooms have a beautiful interplay of warm colors, authentic period furnishings, and original woodwork. A bold motif repeats: the peaked lintel over windows outside also frames doorways on the interior. Inside, the header is pierced by arrow-top stile extensions that look like through tenons.

The woodwork, which could be overbearing with white walls, has become the house’s strongest asset, owing to the owners’ paint-color choices and—they were amazed to discover—their embrace of wallpaper. Carol admits to having disliked fussy, papered walls. But, during an early restoration phase they dubbed “the white abatement program,” they say the house told them it had to have wallpaper. When they moved in, the interior was cold and uninviting and, scientists that they are, they had an explanation: Human eyes adjust to the brightest thing in the space; if that happens to be a white wall, the woodwork will look featureless and dull. Moody colors complement the dark wood trim, showcasing the wood’s grain and sheen and bringing it depth. The room becomes more cheerful.

Prepping for a bedroom paint job, the couple was surprised to find distinct layers of wallpaper on the walls, each paper from a different era. Martin and Carol slowed down to take note of individual layers, to experiment with various removal techniques, and to carefully save samples. It was the living room, however, that “really got the restoration juices flowing,” says Carol. This room had seven layers, one a leaf pattern that captured their fancy. They halted the project, meticulously photographed the paper on the wall before peeling it off, and eventually plan to have the pattern reproduced for use in another room. They went through a similar process in the dining room and first-floor office near the kitchen. “We’ve become wallpaper archaeologists,” Carol laughs, as she points out foam-core boards with vacuum-pressed samples attached. “We realize that this house has a true relationship with wallpaper.”

The first-floor office features a built-in, drop-front writing desk, below which is a twin hideaway bed.

Samples pulled from the upstairs bedroom ultimately influenced the couple’s wallpaper choices. Because their house is transitional, they wanted patterns with finer lines and subtle texture, not overtly American Arts & Crafts styles or 1920s geometrics. They selected hand-printed, abstract-floral reproduction papers by specialty companies, which required expert installation. Anticipating more discoveries, Carol notes that they’ve yet to strip the wallpaper in several rooms upstairs.

Precise and logical restoration came into play elsewhere, too. During the design of the new shade structure adjacent to the rear of the house, the couple agonized over how to be sure its stone piers would look authentic. On neighborhood walks, they scrutinized porches, even measuring grout thickness and depth, the clinker-to-rock ratio, how the clinker bricks were massed, and the distribution and size of the rocks. Then, using an Excel spreadsheet to chart their findings, they discovered that old masonry shows a wide distribution of color and size of rocks, while new masonry is more uniform. The craft of masonry was evident when the couple deduced that the grout tended to be about “two knuckles deep” and the distance between the rocks was always the width of a finger. Yet a rooftop feature of the new structure is hardly original: “Rocket scientists love solar panels!” Martin jokes.