Author: Karen Sikes Collins
About six weeks after we acquired the farmstead property, an article about the project appeared in the Thursday newspaper. For several days, we had numerous visitors to the site. Many stopped to look from their cars, creating a small traffic jam, but dozens more parked and joined us inside the construction fence. We welcomed visitors—after all, this place represented their history, too. We frequently learned from them interesting facts about this place and the people who had lived here.
Among our visitors one Saturday was a well-dressed slightly familiar-looking man. At the time he arrived, our son, Charles, and Mike’s father, Walter, were helping remove the rotting back room from the rock structure. While Charles and Walter continued working, our guest toured the buildings. Among the questions he asked was “Do you think this place will be zoned historic?” Yes, we supported that and felt sure it would. “When is zoning likely to be completed?” We had been told that the Planning Commission would vote on February 28 and the City Council on March 30.
Mike finally inquired of our visitor if we had known him before. Since both of us had attended the University of Texas from 1960 to 1968, we frequently ran into old classmates and acquaintances whose names escaped our memories.
Our visitor handed Mike his business card while saying “This is not entirely a social call.” The card read “Ken Oden, Travis County Attorney.” He looked familiar because we often saw him on television talking about county jail overcrowding and hot check prosecution.
Our hearts pounded as we mentally raced through the possible reasons for his interest in us and this place. Could a lien have slipped by us? Was the government going to raze the condemned house in spite of verbal assurances to the contrary? Had we violated a law with our fence or dumpster? We had just completed a very complicated real estate transaction in only three weeks: something important must have been overlooked.
Mr. Oden turned our panic into confusion with his next question. “If you get historic zoning on this place, would you be interested in some free labor?” This well-dressed man did not look like he was going to volunteer, and life had taught us that if something sounds too good to be true, it probably is not true. Oden explained that in his job, he occasionally had the opportunity to recommend to a judge community service instead of a fine or confinement for certain offenders, and as an Austin Historic Landmark with historic zoning , our restoration project would qualify to receive service hours.
Our initial reaction was negative, but then he outlined a unique case for which he sought a unique solution. He thought our project might be the solution if we were willing.
In 1987, a University of Texas student died as a result of a hazing incident, and the Texas legislature passed a law to stop hazing. The next year, a student died from a fall during a chase by fellow fraternity brothers. It was a tragic accident involving the young man’s best friends. The county attorney and the University would follow the law, but they and the victim’s parents as well as the fraternity wanted a way in which atonement could be made in a constructive manner. Mike had taught on the University level for over 20 years and saw the possibility of mutual benefit. Their community service on our project could be educational (much of our effort involved archeology, history, architecture, and engineering) and therapeutic (they felt terrible about the accident). With their help, we could more quickly accomplish the restoration of a unique Austin historic landmark—the only remaining log house on its original site—as well as relieve the neighborhood and city of a problem property.
As educational and constructive as it might be for the fraternity, it would still involve many hours of muscle-stretching, hand-blistering, physical labor. It would be, however, no more than what we ourselves were doing.
Discussing pro and cons preoccupied us for several weeks. Suppose one of them knocked out the wrong post. Suppose someone got careless during archeological work. Suppose someone got hurt! We ultimately said Yes and the Delta Tau Delta fraternity was given 2,000 hours of community service on this project by the judge. For our peace of mind, we hurried to finish demolition of all of the dangerously deteriorated parts of the building before these young men began work.
Both we and fraternity members were nervous as we started this unusual relationship. Hours began to accumulate at a painfully slow rate until a routine was established late in September. It took several months to develop a relaxed rapport. With the hours spread over 150 members, we could not train individuals for certain tasks and expect to see them when that skill was needed.
We purchased multiples of tools (at one point we owned seven tack pullers, eleven hammers, sixteen putty knives, and twelve pair of gloves), and devised a method of registering hours and people. Cold water in summer and hot chocolate in winter along with sign-in book, soap, paper towels, mosquito spray, hydrogen peroxide, and bandaids always sat on the picnic table in the yard.
Numerous records were set by fraternity members, though perhaps not of Guinness World Record quality: champion chinking chiseler undoubtedly was Marcus Bushong; best canvas tack pullers were Tate Barber and David Smith; most unreadable handwriting was practiced by Mark Norby and Robert Denyer (this talent seemed especially appropriate for Robert who was studying to be a doctor); most days worked with his shirt off Matthew McConaughey; most innovative suggestion Jeff Scott; most enthusiasm during demolition Van Taylor and Rik Lipscomb. Stirling Warren and Tom Clements could label artifacts with the smallest numbers; Stacey Lawrence and Hutton Sentell found the oldest artifacts—60 million-year-old fossilized sharks teeth. Several Delts put in considerably more individual time than expected: those working more than 30 hours were Will Hajek (42 1/2), Chris Gleason (33 1/4), Wyatt Whitaker (31 1/4), Sam Centanni (30 1/4); and Duane Biggs (30 1/2).
There were some special talents that we noted: Rob Berra and Ron Bass used their engineering skills to brace the little log building for foundation renovation; Neal Meinzer did cement work; and Pete Hinojosa knew bones. Jeff Pitts could improvise almost anything needed, and Kurt Wissner had muscle-power to spare.
Much to our distress, there was an injury: the award for being wounded in the line of community service went to Randy Ridlon for the nail which barely did not miss his big toe. Perhaps the Psychic Injury award should go to Darrell Armer. Much of the dirt which was screened came from disturbed areas and was labeled “loose fill.” Darrell, who spent many of his work hours leaning over the screens searching for tiny artifacts in this dirt, complained good-naturedly that flashes of “loose fill” kept him awake, and he found himself counting beads (often found on the screens) instead of sheep. Darrell, and also Todd Gustawes and Neal Meinzer were our contacts at the fraternity; all were exceptional leaders.
When it began to look as if the fraternity would complete their 2,000 hours by April, 1990, we and the Rosedale Neighborhood Association began to plan a barbecue lunch to bring their part in the restoration to a fitting close. On Sunday May 6, members of the fraternity were invited to come to the Farmstead one last time to “clean up” a table of chicken, salad, and potato chips.
Over the year in which they worked the 2,000 hours, we developed respect and affection for “our boys,” and the project benefitted handsomely from their efforts. This Austin historic landmark is part theirs, and their names will always be on the Honor Roll.
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