Olmsted Manor Narrative

Growing up, he witnessed the true desolation in poverty; his was a childhood marked by the Depression. Sadly, no grand Ithacan hall beckoned him home, for theirs was a small house, the Helds’, one where eggs was the sole dish on the royal carte du jour. Herb’s father, a man of few words and humble character, would often take rounds on the street as a panhandler, scouring the empty streets for pennies. Such was the way of man.

In the Northeast portion of the United States there are many different cultures, some extravagantly different than others. Many of these are not fully understood by the average man such as the Amish and Mennonites. Within the 50+ miles between Harford County, Maryland and Lancaster County, Pennsylvania there are many differences but also many similarities. Family Time, transportation and lifestyle are a few examples. With many differences, both of these cultures are worthy of appreciation, respect and education of the ways of life all of which are about to be explored.

Our tale first begins southeast of New Mexico in the 1870s with the rugged frontier territory dotted with a few small towns, cattle ranches and mining settlements. Although historians are not sure where William Henry Bonney was born, they do believe that his family came out of the Midwest. However, when William was a young boy at the age of fourteen his birth father died at the end of the Civil War from an unknown cause. As time passed, William’s mother grew lonesome and married miner, William Antrim, who was never reality there as a father figure for Catherine two children. Soon enough, Catherine and her new husband William Antrim moved to Silver City in New Mexico because of

When I began reading “Lehigh Acres” by Spencer Fleury I immediately noticed a dark, ominous tone that carried through to the end. This bleakness can be seen through the connotations of the words that Fleury uses such as; “ruins”, “empty”, and “indifferent”. The use of negatively associated words gives the reader an idea of what Lehigh Acres feels like. Going hand in hand with this tone was a strong theme of the emptiness and loneliness of human civilization. Throughout the work Fleury does an excellent job of using the juxtaposition of common suburban characteristics with the qualities of an abandoned or ghostly town to emphasize this theme. Although the overall work demonstrates this theme one line specifically stuck with me, “it was easy

For nearly eighty years, Pennsylvania was a safe haven for colonists as well as Native Americans. …The residents of “Penn’s Woods” tried to avoid

A quaint place, a town tucked in between the great big blue mountains of the east, is remembered only for its nooks and crannies and wondersome leaves. The train station is sitting there too, it's old tracks, white steam, lingers, the train engine still beats and booms with every tired stride. One side of the tracks lays the great beyond that passes the mountaintops and even the sun, but on the other side lays my dear little town- the houses both weary and warm, holding artifacts from the past; covered in that dark, sorrowful, coal dust and the desperation that looms over the old clock tower. On Main street resides “Little Switzerland” with houses staggering over the ridge and so wobbly that a mere birds wings could send them toppling down

Every summer we would drive to Ohio to visit Grandma, Grandpa, Uncle Jim, and Aunt Nicole. Every summer, it was tradition. We would drive eight hours from St. Louis to Toledo, Ohio. We only stopped for gas and food which we normally packed with us. We would spend a week up north on average. We would stay with my grandparents and always meet up with our Aunt and Uncle. My grandparents, the Howe’s, had a big two-story house. The upstairs hallway was cut-out so you could see the downstairs living room and the kitchen. My parents would stay in my mom’s old room, my sisters in the quest room, and me in my uncle’s room. We would spend the days there hanging out, playing outside, and going around town. One year we went up up to Lake Michigan

I was born and raised in the picturesque New England town of Bangor, Maine, where I lived in a cozy, modern house, designed and custom-built in 1950 to my parents’ specifications. This house was located on the upper-east side of Bangor, referred to by some folks as the area where the rich folks live.  Magnificent nineteenth-century Victorian mansions are scattered all around Bangor, nestled among luscious green lawns and sculpted foliage. With their pointed-top gables and round castle-like towers, the estates still boast of the elegant, high society lifestyle of their original residents, the barons of Bangor’s booming lumber

The story of how the roots of one house allowed me to mature and blossom into the person that I am today all begins not too far from here. In a four bedroom, two bath house with Saltillo tile, a clear blue pool, old wooden swing in the back yard, and an olive tree that is the trademark of the house. The exterior of the house is painted a clean white paint with a beige trim and is the home of Mom mom and Pop pop. However, this story goes deeper than the description or who lived in the house, it is about what actually took place at 8615 N 45th Ave.

Several miles just outside of Jamestown, sat a small log cabin atop a hill with a long, winding, carmel carriageway. The house was weathered and worn. Dandelion white smoke spewed out of the chimney, and an old wooden rocking chair moved ever so slightly in the delicate wind. Just inside the door sat a chest filled with quilts of many colors, made with scraps and patches of old clothes. Each piece, with uneven stitches, hand sewn with love. To the left sat a cast iron pot, black as night, heating over the red-orange blaze of the cooking fire. Next to that there was a small wooden table with a plaid cloth draped across it, and two ash grey bowls anxiously waiting to be filled with soup. In the back of the cabin there were two rickety beds that held up mattress made of straw, and on one a small doll with golden locks and heavenly blue eyes. Outside, in the backyard, there was an ice cold creek used for bathing and cleaning, and at the very bottom of the carriageway stood a small girl named Elizabeth Jackson.

Independence was very important to us, hence tonight’s outing. We slipped silently down a side street then turned a corner into a narrow alley stopping in the shadows at the other end. Opposite us, a large manor house rose up, two stories of sun-baked brick painted a lustrous, verdant green. The upper floor held two wide, deep windows while the ground floor was bare except for a single recessed doorway in the center. Two large men stood guard, flanking the door, moonlight glinting off their spears. The house was bordered on all sides by a tall, thick hedge with a wide gap in the front where a brick path led from the street to the steps.

What is known in western Pennsylvania as a coal patch is really homes that were built very close together, all identical, and are still lived in to this day. These were known as company towns as laborers were often not paid in legal U.S. currency but rather with company money that could only be used at the company’s general store that was located in the small coal patch. It is important to understand the foundation in which western Pennsylvania

Living in small town De Witt, Iowa - it takes an easy 45 minutes to arrive in Port Byron, Illinois, the town my grandfather and his wife had built their life and business a mere 30 years ago and had resided in since before my father even recalls. Each trek I can remember making to the farm was one I will never forget. Whether it was a snowy Christmas holiday crossing the river, gleaming lights casting a glow across the states, or a gloomy and rainy day that my father had decided to drag me into work with him on days I had off of school, or - my favorite, the days that the entire family and I travelled together in the glow and warmth of the sun casting through the open sunroof, and a light breeze encasting us on our way to surprise Grandma and Grandpa for a day at the farm. Every single ride, each scenic route we took, and all of the memories we made there will

There used to be a small town in the backyard of my father’s rickety house. It wasn 't constructed by carpenters or designed by architects. This primitive village was built by children with overactive imaginations and an abundance of time. In fact, I was the one, who came up with the idea to build it.

Now the small, white Cape Cod-styled home wasn’t really the prettiest house to look at. The door changed colors quite a few times over the years, but it was always paired with the off-white aluminum siding. The front of the house had shown a view of the living room through the largest windows I had ever seen on such a little house. My grandmother’s gardens, her pride and joy, were strategically placed around the tiny lot. Most of the time they would overgrow and become a hassle that she loved to handle. My little brother’s toys were strewn across the yard for the better part of sixteen-years. He would refuse to put anything away and he’s still the same exact way about his things now. The inside of the house felt like home to anyone who stepped in it. The well-lived space always felt comfortable to be in and everyone felt like family, no matter who you might have been with. It was never the fanciest house; the mismatched furniture, the walls that never were the color my mother wanted them and the 60s-styled linoleum flooring was always questionable. But, the style was never the main focus, that