Part Two: 1897 Reeves House--Saving Yesteryear

Even the few farm animals still around here are shouting the news:  A major fund-raiser to transform the Reeves 1897 in-town farmhouse into a cultural arts center has begun!! A few people have said a new structure in its place might be more efficiently constructed for less cost. I say, sometimes it's beneficial to go with the speculative, costly and difficult rather than the feasible, economical, and easy. Once in a while, extravagance of vision and wallet are required. Such times are rare but important. Without that direction our country would be without the Golden Gate Bridge and Mount Rushmore. Georgia would be missing Amicalola State Park and Jekyll Island. What would Atlanta be, minus the amazing Fox Theater or the grand and evocative Swan House?

For Woodstock, our town, there must be one point of focus, one symbol that unites the former, struggling agricultural city (pop.300) and the current vibrant community (pop. 26,890). The vintage churches are the lingering spirit of this town, and the Reeves House should be its heart.

The 1897 Reeves farmhouse

When my husband and I moved to Woodstock in 1980, the city was a sleepy, quiet town. Commerce, culture and places of learning were limited to a handful of turn-of-the-20th-century storefronts, a charming red-brick elementary school, a minuscule but busy library and a very few modern-day establishments like the Burger Inn and several gas stations toward two-lane, easy-paced Highway 92. What I noticed most were the interesting old homes spread along Main Street and the immediate area. Until my relocation here, my life had been spent on the periphery of major metropolitan cities in modern suburban developments. So when I drove past those Woodstock abodes of yesteryear I wondered, who had lived there? How did their daily existence unfold? Now, most of those windows into the past are gone, like the sprawling Fowler farmhouse, the cute-as-a-button cottage known as the Hendrix home and the butter-yellow Dobbs house with its gingerbread-style front porch that displayed antique buggies near a small cannon in the yard.

In 1980, townsfolk could still drive by the Fowler farmhouse, sitting on South Main Street near Hwy 92. Shortly after, THE STRUCTURE WAS DEMOLISHED for modern-day commerce. A Sam's Club on the same spot is opening soon.



  

A picturesque cottage, the Hendrix home sat snuggled under the trees on South Main Street near the railroad. This little bit of hydrangea heaven is NO LONGER HERE.

Spring daffodils in the yard almost went unnoticed in comparison to the sunny-yellow place called the Dobbs house. The first buggy of an antique collection sits on the porch. The lovely house is GONE WITH THE WIND, so to speak.

Woodstock was a community of hardworking men and women tilling the land, plying their trades, raising families and trying to make their way in a hardscrabble world. Let's remember them and their struggle, with a generous outpouring of effort. Who knows? Someday all our farmhouses may be gone. Let's be sure we saved one! Your gift will bring the Reeves house new life as it supports the arts and inspires creative minds, while holding onto the ephemeral past. Put aside some dollars, maybe many, and go to the website link: REVIVETHEREEVES to honor your town.

Knowing yesteryear helps us preserve the past.

Preserving the past leads us to value where we live.

Valuing where we live makes our days rich and inspired.

Patti Brady is a member of Preservation Woodstock Inc., and she is author of the contemporary Woodstock novel series: The Heart of a Child and The Power of Her Smile

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The Woodstock Fire of 1913

Turn-of-the-20th century Woodstock knew the ravages of fire. Periodically, one-of-a-kind houses and their contents turned into embers. Barns also burned to ashes. At the Haney home, Dave Haney raced to lead his wild-eyed horses from the ignited barn to safety. Crazed with confusion the horses ran back inside the inferno. Several storefronts along Main Street in downtown Woodstock faced the threat of fire once upon a time. When church bells clanged for the "bucket brigade" businessmen's hearts rattled in their chests--someone's livelihood soon might be smoldering ruins.

Why the occasional conflagration? In that bygone era, citizens interacted daily with the cruel culprit responsible for destruction. People actually depended on the fiend--an open flame--for their only source of light and warmth.

One example that blazed out of existence is the former Johnston home, shown above. A red brick replacement, also vintage, sits on the same spot, today, housing Venessa's Salon and Spa. The earlier Johnston home was the hard-earned reward of J. H. Johnston and his wife, Avis. The couple had climbed a long, hardscrabble road to prosperity.

J. H. Johnston--a determined man

Five years after the Civil War, the father of 14-year-old J. H. Johnston passed away. Work was scarce, more so for a boy. He saved enough to buy a cow and some corn for planting. At 15, he rented a small farm in Cobb County that he cleared and sowed. He labored in the Cox gold mine at night. Lonely, grueling years passed. By the age of 21, he garnered a good living from the farmland. That same year, 1877, he wasted no time making 17-year-0ld Avis Benson, a Cherokee County girl, his wife. In addition to her numerous household duties, Avis began the process of bearing children. Nine boys and one girl would live to adulthood. Four others died at birth or in early childhood. Meanwhile, J. H. cultivated his cotton fields and accumulated more acreage with his savings.

J. H. sold the farmland in Cobb County as he "had to provide a better home for his children," and they moved to a farm near Woodstock. He transitioned into general merchandise and the unpredictable cotton trade. In 1890, the family moved to downtown and into their lovely, milk-white home, shown above. Eventually, the Johnston cotton brokerage, warehouses, store and other enterprises solidified the family's success.

Then in 1913, that perilous visitor mentioned earlier crept near. In my imagination, this fictional phantom tries to disguise himself as a chimney sweep but fails. His top hat wafts a plume of smoke. The rumpled cutaway jacket he wears looks singed, and his coal-black boots give off sparks as he steps.

One quiet evening at the Johnston home, an older son accidentally knocked over a kerosene lamp. That single flame burst into a raging fire that consumed the beloved house and the wooden Baptist church next door. Only devastation remained. . . . Some mothers would have banished such an erring son to the next county, but not patient, forgiving Avis (pictured below, before the fire). Picking up the pieces, the family returned to their labors and continued strong.

Avis Johnston--a saintly mother 

 Tough times, back then, but those determined souls and the stories they left us still inspire our endeavors. As I like to say, a town can never have too much resilience and Woodstock certainly has plenty.

Patti Brady is a member of Preservation Woodstock, Inc.
and author of the contemporary Woodstock novels: 
                                                                           The Heart of a Child 
                                                                                               and 
                                                                            The Power of Her Smile