I started out with only a Facebook status update and the vague directions “across from the Carmax on Glenwood” to go on. An hour and a half later, I found the Water Garden.

Walking along Glenwood Avenue after it leaves downtown Raleigh, one feels beyond doubt that this is not a place intended for human traffic. Furniture warehouses and car lots sit in misanthropic isolation off of a busy road with no sidewalk. You’re not supposed to walk around here, and if you do, you feel small and lost in a blinding, concrete commercial desert. On foot, you realize how far apart everything is, how much space there is that possibly no one has walked in years.

When I finally found the entrance to the Water Garden, I was surprised I had missed it. It looks like a sign for some vintage funland. Walking down the gravel path from the treeless light on the road, the light gains compassion, becomes photosynthetic, happily leafy. It was surreal, walking off of the hell of Glenwood into a place with such spiritual resonance. I had no idea what any of it meant. It was only after poking around for a while that I discovered:

• It was the home base of Richard Bell for over 50 years
• Richard Bell is one of Raleigh’s iconic landscape architects

I was able to meet with Kim Weiss, Bell’s biographer and close personal friend, and later with Bell himself, and this is what I learned.

Dick Bell in Pullen Park in the 1960s

Richard Bell is perhaps Raleigh’s most beloved landscape architect, although fewer and fewer people know who he is. Bell created landmarks like the Meredith Ampitheater, Pullen Park, and NCSU’s Brickyard, and the beautiful gardens surrounding the Legislative Building. In a real sense, Bell has shaped the ethos of Raleigh in a way all of its inhabitants experience. Bell, or Dick as he’s known to friends, left Manteo in the late 40′s to come to what was about to become Henry Kamphoefner‘s newly established School of Design. Kamphoefner’s vision was to not simply create a talented body of graduates versed in philosophy and the practice of design, but for those graduates to set up shop in North Carolina. Essentially, Kamphoefner dreamed of creating an infrastructure of modern design in North Carolina, not just a school of design in Raleigh. “We were orchestrated to work in North Carolina,” Bell told me. “Eighty-five percent of our graduates went on to work in North Carolina.” Bell told me that Kamphoefner insisted that his faculty not only lecture, but also practice their disciplines, and had distinguished individuals such as Frank Lloyd Wright come and talk to the students. Bell chuckled as he told me that Wright refused to lecture in the Design buildings because he thought they were so ugly. Bell met Wright under a tree near Holladay Hall. “It was an open ended school,” Bell reflected. “Kamphoefner had a master plan for development.”

Kamphoefner’s intense program of training worked, and in 1951, Bell won the Prix de Rome at the age of twenty. “It was- How would you say it?- totally weird,” remarked Bell. He was the youngest individual to ever receive the prize, and in a bold move, asked the committee to delay his acceptance of the prize until he was twenty-one. Surprisingly, they agreed, in part because they appreciated his desire to apprentice in a working landscape architecture office before going to Europe to study. He traveled to Italy and toured thirty countries in Europe, and remarkably for someone raised in the pre-civil rights South, often travelled on a Lambretta scooter with a black sculptor. He cited this experience as a major influence on all of his later work: “It gave me a broader perspective, and that was incredibly valuable.” He came home inspired, ready to start designing in North Carolina.

Image credit: Dick Bell

The Water Garden began when Dick stopped along a then-rural stretch of Highway 70, helped his new bride Mary Jo out of the car, and told her, “If we ever have a place, I want it to be like this.” He told me about showing the site to her that day: “It was so beautiful. The sky reflected in the water. It was way out in the boonies at that time… but there were wetlands, pines- It was a mini-environment of bog and plants.”

Image credit: Dick Bell

There was already a foundation for a building on the property, and with the help of architect John Evans of Florida, the Bells designed and built their modern home over it. The first building became known as the “Chicken Coop”. It was rough going. The Bells did much of the work themselves, and by that time the couple had two young children. “It was rough,” said Bell. “We had two kids, $7000, a plywood floor, and newspapers over the windows for insulation.” But gradually the buildings were completed. It took about 14 years to build the Water Garden, from their first house there to the ultimate office park, gallery, residence and gardens that spread over 11 acres. Finally, in 1963, the Bells held the first art show at their Garden Gallery. Even more than just being a breathtaking piece of modernist design, the Water Garden was crucial for Bells’ career and mission on two levels.

Image credit: Dick Bell

First, Bell used the Water Garden as a laboratory, constantly trying out new ideas and combinations of plants. “I didn’t feel like my clients ought to be guinea pigs,” Bell told me. Bell had inherited a love of plants from his father, Albert Bell, who helped design and build the Lost Colony Amphitheater. Bell grew up in his father’s and grandfather’s nurseries on Roanoke Island, and his green thumb combined with a creative mind produced some innovative ideas for gardening. It was Bell’s idea to create berms around pine trees up to eight feet high- previously, gardeners had assumed that a berm that high would kill pines. Nurseries would send Bell plants to experiment with, and Bell was the first person to take many local plants out of the forest and use them in residential design.

Image credit: Dick Bell

Secondly, and perhaps more crucially, Water Garden was critical in establishing the profession of landscape architecture in Raleigh. Bell built the Water Garden, not only as his home, but as a place that he could point to and say “There. That is landscape architecture.” In a real sense, the construction of the Water Garden was the foundation of Landscape Architecture in North Carolina as a whole. It was a showpiece that opened the door for Bell’s other projects, projects which have helped define Raleigh and the idea of landscape architecture.

It was so interesting to come as an unrecognized pracitioner of an unrecognized profession and say ‘This is what we should do for our city.’ It all came about as a kind of mystical relationship between me and my clients.

Bell’s goal in all of his projects was not simply to create beauty, but to establish landmarks to show what Landscape Architecture could do. ‘Water Garden’ was the first landmark.

Image credit: Dick Bell

Bell’s vision for the Water Garden was that it would be a mixed-use building, in which work, play, and the fabric of living were integrated through the beauty of its design. He saw it as a place not only for living, but in which living and art and design were side by side. The Coop housed a gallery, and the first art opening was held there in 1963. “Mary Jo was in charge of the gallery,” he told me. “We had a sculptor and a painter for the first exhibit.” The Water Garden soon became the cultural center of Raleigh. I work with an older lady who has lived in Raleigh for over fifty years, and she told me that she used to go out to the Water Garden on occasion. Kim Weiss told me how Raleigh’s arts scene in the 60′s and 70′s had its epicenter in Water Garden: “People would tramp out there in the rain. It didn’t matter- they just wore boots.”

As the decades passed, Bell remained prolific in his work but the arts scene moved downtown and development along Glenwood Avenue/Highway 70 West began  to encroach on his and his wife’s oasis. Water Garden was no longer the haven it had been before Raleigh began its spastic sprawl: Cookie-cutter housing developments were being slapped together around the property, and at night, you could see the neon signs of a car dealership through the trees.

Bell knew it was time to leave. He assumed that the property would be passed to his children. Unfortunately, this didn’t happen. Although his daughter and son-in-law were able to take over the design firm, taking over the care of the 11-acre property was simply too much.

“It was rough leaving,” Bell told me, staring into his cup of coffee. “We hadn’t created the proper background for our family to take over. It wasn’t a happy time.” Bell had thought that perhaps the city would buy the property, but Water Garden wasn’t old enough to attain historic status, and Bell ended up selling the property and buildings to developers. “On one hand, he was glad to have [the hassle of taking care of the property] off of his back,” Kim told me. “On the other hand, he spent his life there. It was- and is- a huge loss.”

Unfulfilled Water Garden redevelopment plans, courtesy of Dick Bell

At the moment, no one is sure what will happen to Water Garden. Bell worked tirelessly, and on his own dime, to design beautiful building plans that would allow the developers to preserve the original buildings while incorporating them into larger development schemes, such as a shopping center and a senior care facility, to name a few.

Unfulfilled Water Garden redevelopment plans, courtesy of Dick Bell

“The senior living one was the best one,” said Bell. “I tried to present a plan of adaptive reuse.” The developers didn’t even thank him for his efforts.

Since the property was sold and vacated in 2007, the state of the buildings has grown steadily worse. The place looks like it’s been sacked by Vikings. Scrappers have gutted the walls, most of the windows have been shattered, and traces of paintball wars splatter the walls.

Since I began work on this article, gates have been put up to discourage local vandals from inflicting further damage, but much of the mutilation was a result of the sherriff’s office using the property for training. After a group of high-school students vandalized the property last year, Habitat for Humanity was allowed to salvage what they could.

No one is sure now what will happen to the property, but whether or not the buildings stand, Water Garden will remain a beautiful and central part of Raleigh’s history. “Dick always envisioned Water Garden as a place where people could live, work, play, and interact,” said Kim. “And for a while, it was. It does make me sad, but I know Dick has many monuments. They will live on.” On all of the occasions I talked with her, she didn’t seem to be at a point of resignation, but then neither am I. And perhaps for those who have experienced Water Garden, in any capacity, that resignation will be a long time coming. “OK, Water Garden will disappear. But all the other landmarks Dick designed… Those are still there.”

Many thanks to Kim Weiss for all of her help. Dick Bell’s first book “The Bridge Builders”, edited by Kim, comes out soon.

Unless otherwise noted, all images credit John Morris

More photos from the Water Garden

For more than a century rain has been mulling over a way to make a home inside the once regal house on the corner of Ashe Avenue and Hillsborough Street.  The house, often referred to as the “Green House” or “The Jackpot House”, drops slate roof tiles as if it were inviting its wet foe inside for an extended stay.  The perimeter of the house is littered with malt liquor bottles, window glass, and broken slate.

A story accompanies every house that man inhabits.  Much like children, we give these organized piles of lumber and stone an identity of their own when they become the structural shadows of their past residents.  The Jackpot House wears its history in plain view.  Its weathered green asbestos siding, peeling paint, gray wood, and cinder block appendage tell a vague story of neglect and abuse.

During the late 1800s and crossing over into the first few years of the 1900s, residential development crept onto Hillsborough Street, and the tract along Ashe Avenue between the railroad tracks and Hillsborough Street was in the process of being sectioned off for development.  It was during this time the Jackpot House was constructed.

Wake County tax records indicate a build date of 1915.  However, city directories and deed research suggest an earlier date of around 1902.  The Queen Anne-style architectural details such as the hipped roof with lower cross gables and the gabled dormers also suggest this earlier build date.  Porches are very significant in dating a residential structure, but sadly only a small portion of the original porch still exists.  It is very likely that the original building had an asymmetrical porch that ran the width of the house and along half of the left side.  The portion that exists today is a good indicator of how the original appeared, but it is still difficult to imagine what this house looked like with a lawn and a front porch.

If the house had any dignity remaining before the Jackpot was built, it was lost when the porch was removed.  As journalist Michael Dolan once said, “a house without a porch is like a man without eyebrows”. Sifting through its catalog of structural scars reveals a more accurate picture of how this structure came into its own identity, and leads to more questions that beg deeper investigation and further speculation.

It is believed that the house was built for the family of Fabius Briggs, a son of Thomas H. Briggs, the founder of Briggs Hardware.  In 1874, the Briggs Hardware building on Fayetteville Street was Raleigh’s tallest building and remained so for three decades.  The Briggs family has deep seated roots in Raleigh and the family business continues to operate today.  The Fabius Briggs family lived at 1301 Hillsborough Street until around 1927.  By 1929, the Great Depression brooded over the city, and in 1932 the Raleigh Building and Loan Association acquired the house through foreclosure.  It likely spent a time unoccupied, and was eventually rented to a Raleigh lawyer, and then to the Sigma Nu fraternity for ten years.

By 1944, the once palatial residence had been humbled and abused by its tenants.  It had lost its innocence, status, and shine. It was around this time that a Greek family by the name of Kledaras bought the Briggs house, which they would own for the next 60 years. In 1949 an architect unwittingly drafted the fate of the old house alongside plans for three storefronts: a dry-cleaners, The Brite Spot Restaurant, and a contractor and building estimator.

Present day, store fronts

One might wonder why someone would destroy any outward aesthetic appeal of a turn of the century Queen Anne house by attaching an ugly cinder block building.  Simply put, in the mid 1950s this style of architecture was out-dated and all too common.  In the eyes of a 1950s Raleigh resident, 1301 Hillsborough Street was a throwback to a time that was becoming increasingly hard to identify with.  In recent years, the Garland Jones building in downtown Raleigh gained attention for its modernist exterior and was considered ugly and outdated by many Raleigh residents.  The revolving door of architectural trends had come full circle.  The Raleigh residents who designed and built Garland Jones were also razing and turning their collective noses up at gaudy, ornate turn of the century architecture.  We are simply mirroring the actions of our ancestors with a new aesthetic ideology.

By the 1960s, the three storefronts and a rooming house occupying the Briggs House itself had been open for more than a decade.  The 1970s proved to be a rough time for the house and its appendage.  The Brite Spot restaurant became an aptly named strip club bearing the same name.  The house, virtually abandoned at this time, naturally became a place for patrons of the strip club to get “privacy”.  The house had become a den of iniquity, and would remain so for some years to come.  When the city cracked down on strip clubs in the late 1970s The Brite Spot closed.  The cinderblock building was then home to a long list of bars and other establishments, while rooms in the house were rented out — or left abandoned.

Fireplace, main floor

A beautiful oak staircase runs along the left wall and turns up at a right angle to the second floor.  Walking up, dark wood surrounds you. Waist-high rail and stile paneling runs the length of the wall opposite the banister, worn smooth by thousands of hands.  The steps have become concave, and the walls seem to ache with age.

The future looks bleak for the Briggs House.  Recently condemned by the city of Raleigh, its days are numbered — unless it is either brought up to code, or moved.  Preservation North Carolina (PNC) is working to save it; however it seems the only way to preserve the house is to move it.  This option would require a tremendous amount of effort and money.  The gleaming question is whether it is worth all the trouble.  History buffs and architecture geeks would certainly chime in with a resounding “yes”, but sadly the majority of people would remain apathetic to its destruction.

Whatever the future holds for this old structure, one can confidently attest to its long life and steadfast nature.  Personally, I take comfort in knowing that I’ll be here in 30 years, telling a new generation of Raleigh residents — “There once was a wonderful old house that sat right there”  — the very words that I find so fascinating today.

If you’ve driven down Hillsborough Street towards downtown, then you’ve gone past the old Staudt Bakery at the Hillsborough/Morgan Street split.  This nondescript art moderne-styled building from the 1940s has sat vacant for around 50 years.

This sprawling yellow-brick structure is bounded by Ashe Avenue and Hillsborough, Morgan, and Whitley Streets. It once produced bread, cakes, and pastries and employed a fleet of delivery trucks to bring these baked goods to residential and commercial destinations around Raleigh.

Although the history of this building dates back almost 70 years, The Staudt Bakery started around the turn of the century at a still-standing residential structure at the corner of East Hargett and Haywood Streets.

F.G. Staudt, founder of the bakery

A 1910 publication from the Raleigh Chamber of Commerce gives more information on the bakery first started in 1895:

This bakery is owned and controlled by F.G. Staudt, an expert baker himself and a man who employs none but skillful and cleanly assistants in his work. His bakehouse is splendidly fitted with modern ovens, dough mixers, kneaders, etc., and everything turned out of this establishment is guaranteed clean, pure, and wholesome.

The bulk of the business consists in making and baking of bread which is delivered to all parts of the city daily by Mr. Staudt’s own delivery wagons, of which he has three. In addition to the home trade, Mr. Staudt  sells a great deal at wholesale, supplying the retail dealers throughout the city, and shipping to outside points. Purity of ingredients, accurateness in making and baking, and prompt and courteous attention to customers are the main points on which Mr. Staudt’s success is based, and his business is steadily and rapidly increasing.

He is a native of Germany, coming to this country twenty-six years ago. He learned his trade in Baltimore, moving to Raleigh twenty-two years ago, the last fifteen of which have been devoted to the bakery business. Fraternal life knows him well, as he is an active member of the Royal Arcanum and a number of local organizations. He is a member of the Merchants Association and a keen supporter of Raleigh’s best interests.

– 1910 Raleigh Illustrated, Raleigh Chamber of Commerce

Although the exact date of the end of Staudt’s Bakery is unclear, it’s clear from the photos here that the building has sat derelict for a very long time. I’ve often walked by and wondered how such a structure can sit in such a valuable piece of real estate unused, for so long.

Turns out that this sprawling complex of a building was part of a deal between bankrupt Bolton Corp. and a Charlotte real estate company in 2007:

The three Bolton brothers with an interest in the former mechanical, electrical and plumbing concern are selling 18 parcels of about five acres that front Morgan and several neighboring streets near Hillsborough Street. The properties are being sold by Bolton Properties and Harrison Avenue Partnership, two entities created by brothers Michael, Douglas and William Bolton.

The properties, a collection of light-industrial sites and vacant buildings, were put on the market in early 2004. Though coveted by apartment developers, the properties failed to fetch a buyer at the original $8 million price.

– Jack Hagel, N&O

For two and a half years this Charlotte-based company has sat on this tract of land and quietly accumulated other nearby parcels. This is the same company that assembled the land used for the stadiums where the Charlotte Bobcats and Carolina Panthers play.

They also own the old Esso Station on the corner of Boylan Avenue and Hillsborough Street.

This property occupies a very unique space – almost exactly halfway between Downtown Raleigh and NC State University. The latter consisting of around 40,000 people, including faculty and staff.

While it’s almost certain that this vacant structure and those around it will be coming down in the not too distant future, what will replace them is still a source of speculation amongst Cameron Park and West Morgan St. residents.

Stay tuned for more commentary on the West Morgan Street community area.

The local graffiti artists have taken over the exterior with their spray cans.

Among Raleigh’s commercial development areas, along well travelled highways, behind overgrown rows of southern pines, lie left-behind abandonments that most drivers and pedestrians overlook. The haste to arrive at the ‘next place’ has consumed so many that they have forgotten to stop and look around.

An empty guard station, sits in wait, for the crew that will never again report to work.

To the neighborhood kids, these are “known” spots. To the homeless, these are a dry place to rest the head for a night. To the city planners, these are eyesores in need of gentrification.

Vandals have smashed nearly every window.

In North Raleigh, sits a vacant building. Once a 23-acre research and development facility, now a crumbling pile of rain-soaked, drop-ceiling tiles and moldy drywall. While viewing what this building has become, one would never know that this property is valued at over 10 million.

This rusted satellite stands watch over every sunrise and sunset that comes to the city.

Still a vision of beauty in the night.

Earlier this year, uliveandyouburn beautifully documented the underbelly of the Boylan Avenue Bridge. Hidden from street-level view, the area serves as a transit point and temporary shelter for freight riders, hobos, and taggers. A few hundred feet away at the intersection of Mountford Avenue and Cutler Street is a smaller bridge, which tells many of the same stories.

Graffiti under the bridge in early 2004

I’ve found myself near or under this bridge on several occasions  (mostly when train spotting) since first discovering it early in 2004 . Each visit provides something new to look at — mostly graffiti, but artifacts of hobo life too.

Graffiti under the bridge in early mid 2009

The scenery changes, but the story remains the same –  discarded food containers, piles of clothes, blankets, car parts, remnants of campfires, and shoes — there are always piles and piles of shoes.

One likely reason it remains so popular for those seeking shelter (despite being almost within eyesight of a guard tower at the State Prison) is because of its proximity to the Wye, where passing freight trains provide an exit to far off places. It is central yet almost completely hidden and away from any sort of pedestrian traffic, except for the occasional curious explorer.

Each of the items tells a story, and often the gaps must be filled in with your own imagination. Some defy all, however, such as the 2009 Pug Calendar pictured above.

I refer to it as a “bridge to nowhere,” as it no longer serves as a path to anywhere. The bridge once led to the old prison’s main  entrance and the prison youth facility, both now demolished. The youth compound had been abandoned for many years prior to the compilation of this video I made from still images I took in 2006. About a year ago, to the annoyance of many area residents, the state began work on a $160 million hospital project on the site.

Now the bridge sits blocked with a simple “Road Closed” sign.

Construction on the hospital continues today, and two large tower cranes sit not far from the disused bridge.

The Bloomsbury Estates condos are within sight, passing motorists over the Boylan Bridge can be heard, and prison construction audible in the distance. Meanwhile, the quiet hobo camp continues on in the same way it has for decades–providing shelter and protection from the elements for those without any other place to sleep or rest.

In terms of a manufacturing past, Raleigh pales in comparison to the gritty, once bustling tobacco town of Durham to the west. Nonetheless, an entire area abutting the railroad tracks on the western fringe of downtown Raleigh remains as a towering testament to our own city’s industrial past. The landmarks are everywhere throughout this area known as Raleigh’s Warehouse District — from a former Cotton Oil Mill, an abandoned coal yard, a defunct concrete plant, the old Southern Railway freight depot, to the most ubiquitous example: The Dillon Supply Co. buildings.”

There are a number of nightclubs and bars interspersed through the area: Buckhead Saloon, White Collar Crime, Club Mosquito, Five Star, among others. If you’ve traveled to any of these, then you have navigated through the nondescript giant brick structures that for the most part sit vacant. There’s one in particular that has always puzzled me though, and it’s also the least visible.

A cropped version of the Viaduct image from the post: “Why the Wye?“

The same side today, in a much more worn and aged state

I first took a photo of this building in late 2007, knowing nothing about it. In the past year and a half, I really haven’t learned anything else about it. By examining some minor details, however, a few clues emerge that give hints to its former purpose.

It sits vacant with every entrance sealed shut with concrete block. There is almost no circulation whatsoever, and the warm humid air sits thick and carries the dust unsettled with each step taken. There are few artifacts left behind to tell any sort of story. It’s one wide open area, a small office area (second image from the top), a swing arm and control module for loading cargo aboard freight cars, and a barely noticeable set of tracks that run through the center (lower right corner of above image). My guess is that this set of tracks once connected to the Wye, under the Boylan Bridge, to carry steel products to other parts of the region. But when looking at a satellite map of the area, there is little other evidence to support this theory.

One of the other puzzling pieces is this ramshackle lean-to near a corner in the center of the building. It houses a light fixture above, but not much else. Pieces of refuse and scrawled graffiti on the rotting wood perhaps tell the tale of passing travelers that may be seeking out an area less conspicuous than under the Boylan bridge only a few feet away.

With each passing gust of wind, the corrugated metal exterior would bend and sway, creating eerie tapping sounds and groans. It’s not unlike the sound a tall and well worn roller coaster makes as it ascends to its peak, coupled the sound effects heard in a movie when a metal bridge collapses. Being in dark and unfamiliar areas certainly isn’t anything new for me, but I was spooked on more than one occasion on this particularly windy night. I knew exactly where the sound was coming from and what caused it, yet the sound was so imposing I couldn’t help but be a bit on edge.

Just outside of these windows lie a set of tracks that connects to the Raleigh Amtrak Station. While lingering about inside, what I assume to be a freight train passed on the set of tracks on the side closest to the former coal yard (near where Five Star is now). The sound echoed about inside, which for a brief moment gave the impression that the void space contained more life than it really did.

But rather than the hustle and bustle of industrial work taking place, the sound of the passing freighter was simply a reminder of an era long passed. The time of downtown Raleigh’s industrial past has long since come and gone.

From the roof, you can see some of the other former warehouses in the area. In the foreground is one such example that sits directly across from a set of railroad tracks that cross West Martin Street. Today, the place with the two large garage doors and concertina wire on one side houses an limo service and garage.

Today the building sits quiet and stagnant. No viaduct, no loading freights, no workers sending steel and products to various parts of the country. While Dillon Supply remains a viable company headquartered in Raleigh, the last of their operations left downtown a couple of years ago. The dull, quiet, and plain buildings they left behind sit in the shadows of the growing skyline to the East and a thriving residential neighborhood to the West.

Not long ago I wrote about the Boylan wye, and described what remains of that former downtown train switchyard and industrial district. Its most prominent relic can be easily seen from the Boylan Ave bridge: a rusted cement hopper towering over the site. But virtually invisible to most observers today is the weed-choked and debris-strewn sunken area that is the footprint of the former Smith Coal and Oil Co. coal yard.

This is a view of a portion of the Boylan wye from the bridge in 1970. The concrete plant is on the left and the coal yard is just right of center, below the two box cars. The present-day photo at the top shows the tracks the boxcars were parked on in 1970. The remnants of the coal yard are just to the right of these tracks.

In the winter of 1972-73 I drove a delivery truck at the coal yard, which was then owned and operated by Mr. Norwood Smith. I had dropped out of college after my sophomore year and worked a series of blue-collar type jobs until I decided to return to school a few years later. I must say working in the coal yard was the most memorable experience of them all.

The coal yard was about 10-15 feet below track level and encompassed an area of probably several hundred square feet. It was located across Hargett St. from an abandoned ice plant, and a gravel driveway led down into the site. The office and weigh station were near the entrance gate. In the yard itself was a Civil War era brick structure where the trucks were parked and coal was bagged and stored. Jutting into the yard was the trestle of an overshot loading system. The trains would back a coal car in from the main track and position it above the bins located below the trestle. Coal was graded according to its intended use (e.g. stoves, fireplace or furnace, etc.) and the particular grade was released into the bin. From there it was shoveled onto delivery trucks or into 50 pound bags.

This is the ruin of the overshot coal loading trestle.

I made my deliveries in a 2-ton pickup, the bed of which was divided into three half-ton sections. Most often my shotgun was Leroy, a grizzled, one-eyed black man of about 60 or so. Some of the workers in the coal yard shied away from me, suspicious probably, of why a young white kid would want to engage in such gritty work. But for some reason Leroy liked me. As we drove around the city delivering coal, he would occasionally reminisce about what Raleigh was like when he was young. Sometimes while making deliveries we’d drop in on friends of his and stand around a radiant coal stove, taking swigs from a pint bottle of MD 20-20. But as a rule, Leroy didn’t talk much, so I was kind of surprised one day as we drove over the Boylan Ave. bridge when out of the blue he announced: “See over yonder,” motioning to the now demolished state penitentiary. “I done time there.” Before I could think, I blurted out “For what?” “Killed my wife; caught her in bed with another man.” I don’t know why Leroy chose to share that bit of information with me; but he never mentioned it again, and I sure wasn’t going to bring it up. I never did find out how he lost his eye.

This is a view of the state penitentiary as it appeared from the Boylan Ave. bridge in 1970. All the structures seen here are gone.

Another denizen of the coal yard was Jimmy. Tall and dignified, he wore black horn-rimmed glasses and was always smoking a pipe (which never seemed to be lit). Jimmy was the go-to man if anyone ever needed advice on anything. He also served as arbiter in any dispute that might arise among the other workers. Jimmy had worked for Mr. Smith for many years and by this time in his career he didn’t drive a truck anymore, and he didn’t shovel coal. Jimmy was just Jimmy — the stabilizing force in the yard. He would accompany me on service calls to the handful of customers who still heated their homes with coal furnaces. He was the stoker. Jimmy knew I wasn’t experienced enough to handle that job, so he would stoke the glowing fire pit and I would shovel in the coal. I admired and respected Jimmy, for by his example I learned the dignity of work.

Then there was Junior. He was a short wirey man, probably about 30 years old, and had worked in the coal yard since he was a teenager. Junior didn’t have a driver’s license, so his main job was shoveling. Jimmy also assigned him various tasks around the yard to keep him busy, as he was somewhat of a lay-about. Unfortunately, he was also a drinker, and it was not uncommon that he would reek of alcohol at nine o’clock in the morning. One time he showed up for work intoxicated and was causing a ruckus among the other workers. Mr. Smith came down into the yard and confronted him, whereupon Junior, swaying unsteadily back and forth, protested: “I ain’t drunk Mr. Smith!” He was sent home and told to sober up and come back to work. As far as I know, Mr. Smith never fired anyone.

I believe Mr. Smith had “married into” the coal business, but I was never quite sure. Before it became Smith Coal and Oil Co. in the mid-1950s, the company had operated for decades as Merritt Coal Co. The motto “coals and oils of merit” was emblazoned on all the company trucks. Mr. Smith was of the “old style” brand of Raleigh businessman: paternalistic, yet genuinely benevolent toward his employees. I know — for he helped me out of a jam or two during the time I worked for him. His son, who handled the fuel oil end of the business, was in his late-twenties. He had just recently been discharged from the army after a tour in Vietnam. He didn’t really associate with the coal workers and seemed to keep pretty much to himself. And I know for a fact he didn’t want to take over the coal business from his father.

I think Smith Coal and Oil went out of business 25 or more years ago. I really don’t know: It seemed to just sort of fade into oblivion. Nowadays when something sparks a memory of my stint at the coal yard I always think of Leroy, Jimmy, Junior and Mr. Smith and his son the Vietnam vet, and wonder what ever happened to them. And even though the old Boylan Ave bridge and the old state pen are long gone, whenever I drive across the bridge there now, I never fail to recall Leroy’s confession to me that day so long ago — And I and still wonder to this day how he lost that eye.

Once bustling with activity, this is how the coal yard looks today.

Medianera is a Spanish word used to describe a wall shared by two buildings. In Barcelona it is frequently used to describe a wall of a building that retains characteristics or artifacts of an adjacent building that has been torn down. One of the most easily noticed is the one off of Wilmington Street, as seen above.

Another one is the ghost staircase off of Salisbury Street, near the Court House.

Another one, visible on a building next to Lot 13.

These are the only examples that I am aware of. Do you know of more? Comment on this article and I’ll cover it in a follow-up.

Amid the bustling pubs, coffee houses, sushi bars and high-end restaurants downtown, a forgotten piece of Raleigh’s culinary history sits shuttered and forlorn on Wilmington Street. The long-closed Raleigh Sandwich Shop is a relic from an era when family-run grills, luncheonettes and diners were the mainstays of downtown eateries. These small, unpretentious lunch counters were commonplace downtown well into the 1960s. Nowadays only a handful (if that many) are still around.

Back in the early 1970s, when I lived in Boylan Heights, I often ate at the Raleigh Sandwich Shop. It was inexpensive and they served plain good food. As I was a vegetarian at the time, I usually ordered a bowl of pinto beans with grilled onions, cheese and a dash of Tobasco to top it all off! I liked the grilled cheese sandwich, too. The place was dimly lit, and some would say a little grimy, but it was real — no frou-frou lighting fixtures or pricey wall art here! The clientele was a mixed bag, and it was not unusual to see men in suits rubbing elbows with blue-collar workers. I especially remember the owner, Christ Capetanos, standing behind the old-fashioned lunch counter in his white apron and paper hat. He was a friendly, congenial man, who seemed to have genuine affection for his customers. In 1989, after nearly 40 years behind the lunch counter, Mr. Capetanos retired. And the Raleigh Sandwich Shop closed for good.

The N&O profiled Christ Capetanos in its Life Stories series back in April. Turns out he had a very interesting backstory which I never knew about. He was quite a remarkable individual!

When [Capetanos] got out [of the army in 1952], he went to work for his brother [John] at the Raleigh Sandwich Shop, a hot dogs, pork chops, cuppa-joe kind of place a block from the State Capitol… At its core, the business was, of course, about food. But there were opportunities for moral stands as well. The restaurant was a de facto meeting place for working-class whites and blacks at a time when the two races didn’t mix in public. There was a partition with blacks and whites on either side, but they shared a jukebox. ‘The cafe was, historically, the only place I know of where blacks and whites ate together in Raleigh,’ said Leon Capetanos, Christ Capetanos’ nephew and John Capetanos’ son… He took comfort in the relationships he formed with his regular customers, in the free meals he quietly gave to people who could not afford to pay.

- Bonnie Rochman, N&O

According to the article, a restoration of the building at 215 S. Wilmington St. is underway and “could be completed within a year.” I don’t know about that, but whatever does gets done, I sure hope they keep that iconic sign painted on the storefront’s plate-glass window and the old-fashioned lunch counter inside. It would be a fitting memorial to the man who personified the Raleigh Sandwich Shop.

Tucked away in the woods behind a nondescript building on Raleigh’s busy Oberlin Road is a long-forgotten chunk of inside the beltline real estate. I am speaking of the old Oberlin Village Cemetery. Few people are aware of its existence now, but this weedy three-acre graveyard entangled with ivy is the final resting place for many former residents of a once-thriving African-American Community known as Oberlin.

I first explored Oberlin Cemetery more than 25 years ago when I was researching information for a history project. That was long before development had crept right up to its edge. Oberlin Rd. was still a residential street for the most part. Even then, though, the cemetery had been neglected for years. I found it covered in a dense thicket of brush and debris, which made exploration a challenge. Ornate marble headstones still stood among the many broken and overturned ones. There were disturbed gravesites, scattered pieces of funerary art, illegible wooden markers, sunken graves and lost memories. It seemed a sad and lonely place.

I did not return to the site until last fall when I scouted the area for a cemetery documentation expert who records forgotten cemeteries for CemeteryCensus.com. Although a few attempts have been made over the years to clean up and preserve Oberlin Cemetery, I found it to be basically the same as it was 25 years ago. At least now it has been documented and the names of its residents recorded for posterity. Their memories however, are still lost and forgotten.