On the original National Road, route 40, not far east from Washington, PA, lies the community of Scenery Hill, originally called Hillsborough. From its highest point one can see Pittsburgh's tallest building off to the distant north. Central to the community is the tavern/inn called Century Inn. It stood in continuous use from 1794 to 2015, when a devastating fire consumed much of the building and its valuable antiques. It is now under reconstruction. Why? Can it be restored?
Aside from the economic value to its owners and the charm it has afforded to its many patrons and visitors for more than 200 years, Century Inn is, in American terms, “old” in the “good sense.” It is “historical,” having been visited by the Marquis de LaFayette, Henry Clay, James K. Polk, and Mexican General Santa Anna. It housed a harpsichord used for special occasions like weddings, and it also graced its tavern with the flag of the Whiskey Rebellion. Old wooden floors, silverware in antique curio cabinets, and antique tables and chairs made the dining room warm and inviting. Upstairs there was a collection of antique dolls. There might even have been a ghost as some rumor. Charming in all, and graced outside by large trees, its stonewalls withstood the onslaught of the flames.
Old places and things. We seem to distinguish among those we want to keep and those we want to throw away. In an affluent age, accumulation is seemingly not only inevitable but also inescapable. Look around. Got old stuff? Clutter? Need to treat it as something you just have to replace if it’s broken (or burned)? Most of the patrons of Century Inn look forward to its reopening, eager to see how such a restoration is possible (the company has a website: http://www.centuryinn.com/ ). Would you be eager to see how you could replace the authentic appearance, texture, and color of your old stuff? Or are you of a mind to acquire something new?
That which reminds us of a happy or idealized past (No one now living ever met the beloved Marquis) seems to be worth keeping. That which we cannot idealize seems relatively, if not completely, worthless. Landfill material. New and different construction necessary.
Similarly, we look at an inner city and we have a choice: Revitalize by destruction of the old and construction of the entirely new or revitalize by sprucing up the old and making it “trendy.” And we all have personal inner cities or Century Inns. Not just the stuff we have accumulated in our excessive affluence and scattered about the places we occupy, but the stuff of our lives. We are all structures with old emotions and ideas we have accumulated through our rich experiences. In a sense everyone is emotionally affluent. In such affluence we face every once in a while the dilemma of what to do with a familiar but now burned out edifice. Do we rebuild, all the while knowing that we cannot replace antique emotions exactly? Can we really replace the antiques with which we have lived in the Century Inns of our lives? Or do we tear down, change the landscape, and make the place entirely new?
No one expected a fire to consume Century Inn and change what people had come to cherish as a reminder of an idealized past, one whose current charm they had not participated in making or witnessing centuries ago. Everyone has some bit of idealized past, even if it is a small personal matter never shared with others. All of us encounter unexpected destructions, even those faultless ones like an accidental fire. Do we rebuild in the knowledge that what we attempt to reconstruct will be, in a sense, a mere replica?
Aside from the economic value to its owners and the charm it has afforded to its many patrons and visitors for more than 200 years, Century Inn is, in American terms, “old” in the “good sense.” It is “historical,” having been visited by the Marquis de LaFayette, Henry Clay, James K. Polk, and Mexican General Santa Anna. It housed a harpsichord used for special occasions like weddings, and it also graced its tavern with the flag of the Whiskey Rebellion. Old wooden floors, silverware in antique curio cabinets, and antique tables and chairs made the dining room warm and inviting. Upstairs there was a collection of antique dolls. There might even have been a ghost as some rumor. Charming in all, and graced outside by large trees, its stonewalls withstood the onslaught of the flames.
Old places and things. We seem to distinguish among those we want to keep and those we want to throw away. In an affluent age, accumulation is seemingly not only inevitable but also inescapable. Look around. Got old stuff? Clutter? Need to treat it as something you just have to replace if it’s broken (or burned)? Most of the patrons of Century Inn look forward to its reopening, eager to see how such a restoration is possible (the company has a website: http://www.centuryinn.com/ ). Would you be eager to see how you could replace the authentic appearance, texture, and color of your old stuff? Or are you of a mind to acquire something new?
That which reminds us of a happy or idealized past (No one now living ever met the beloved Marquis) seems to be worth keeping. That which we cannot idealize seems relatively, if not completely, worthless. Landfill material. New and different construction necessary.
Similarly, we look at an inner city and we have a choice: Revitalize by destruction of the old and construction of the entirely new or revitalize by sprucing up the old and making it “trendy.” And we all have personal inner cities or Century Inns. Not just the stuff we have accumulated in our excessive affluence and scattered about the places we occupy, but the stuff of our lives. We are all structures with old emotions and ideas we have accumulated through our rich experiences. In a sense everyone is emotionally affluent. In such affluence we face every once in a while the dilemma of what to do with a familiar but now burned out edifice. Do we rebuild, all the while knowing that we cannot replace antique emotions exactly? Can we really replace the antiques with which we have lived in the Century Inns of our lives? Or do we tear down, change the landscape, and make the place entirely new?
No one expected a fire to consume Century Inn and change what people had come to cherish as a reminder of an idealized past, one whose current charm they had not participated in making or witnessing centuries ago. Everyone has some bit of idealized past, even if it is a small personal matter never shared with others. All of us encounter unexpected destructions, even those faultless ones like an accidental fire. Do we rebuild in the knowledge that what we attempt to reconstruct will be, in a sense, a mere replica?
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