Get ready for a different kind of episode on Tri-State Time Machine! Today, we’re cracking open the story of 4401 Magazine Avenue. It's a house in Huntington that’s packed with secrets, surprises, and a whole lot of history tucked away in its attic. I focus on what happens when you find yourself not just buying a home, but inheriting decades of old photos, handwritten letters, vintage receipts, and enough neighborhood lore to keep any history buff busy for years.

It's interesting how a house can be way more than just four walls. Built over an original structure, this place reveals its past through quirky rooflines, old family cards, and remodeling plans scribbled on yellowed paper. I talk about the the detective work involved in putting these puzzle pieces together, sometimes leading to more questions than answers.

My research leads to looking into the lives of railroad workers, the women who owned property when it wasn’t the norm, and the shifting identity of Westmoreland, from powder mills and explosions to golf courses and block parties. I find out about the house’s ties to the Huntington Fire Department, the mystery of who actually first called it home, and the powerful connections between neighbors that have kept memories alive even when official records fall short.

If you love digging into the stories behind old houses, or you just want to hear about the quirks and mysteries that come from living in a place with real history, this episode’s got you covered. Come hang out as I share what it’s like to live inside the layers of 4401 Magazine Avenue. And maybe inspire you to take a closer look at your own walls!

If you have a memory you would want me to talk more about, just send me an email at [email protected]. Or post a comment on the Tri-State Machine FB Group page.

Welcome to the Tri-State Time Machine.

I'm your host Vanessa Hankins. This is a podcast where my guests and I share our memories and present day stories of the Tri-State Area. That's West Virginia, Kentucky, and Ohio.

Nothing too serious, no political views, and no ulterior motives.

We're just here to share our fun stories about this great area.

Whether you're a past resident or a current Tri-State resident, I think you're going to have fun with us.

So join in, press play on your podcast player, and welcome to the Tri-State Time Machine! 

https://ts-time-machine.captivate.fm/episode/4401-magazine-avenue

Copyright 2026 Vanessa Hankins

https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nd/4.0/

This is the Tri-State Time Machine. Each week, your host Vanessa

Hankins and her guests share memories and stories about the

past, present, and the future of the tri-state area.

That's West Virginia, Kentucky, and the Ohio areas. If you

used to live here or you currently live here, you're going to catch yourself saying

out loud, wow, I remember that. Now

here's Vanessa. Hey guys, it's Vanessa with Tri-State

Time Machine and This

episode is going to be a tad different, um, and I say that a

lot, I know that, um, but this one's different in the sense of

I don't think I've ever done something that was so personally

intriguing to me. Um, so I'm going to tell you the

story of my home, and the reason I'm telling

you that story is because we had had a few friends over a few weeks

ago for Brandon's birthday,

and we were just hanging out in the pool, and we were telling some friends

who had never been over to the house, you know, the story of the house

and things like that. And he looked over at me and was like,

you, you need to put that on the podcast. It would be a great episode.

And the thought had never occurred to me. Like, I knew how excited I was

about the story of this house, but it never occurred to me that other people

would be too. So today's episode is really going to revolve around the house,

but also a little bit more about Westmoreland. And I know we've touched on it

a little bit, but, um, It's always a fun story. So without

further ado, here is the story of 4401

Magazine Avenue, the house that kept its own receipts.

There are houses that you buy, and then there are

houses that in a strange way seem to come with an

assignment. You find the house,

you sign the papers, you get the keys, you move your own furniture in,

you You paint over somebody else's colors, fix somebody else's

plumbing, replace somebody else's bad decisions, and

eventually the house becomes yours. But every once in a while,

a house refuses to become only yours. And my

house that I share with my family and my husband here at

4401 Magazine Avenue is one of those houses.

When we bought it, we didn't just inherit structure. We

inherited boxes, old photographs,

negatives, letters, Navy papers,

family cards. And by family cards, I mean these

people sent a card for every

holiday. Um, and we're not talking one

card from one person that was sending cards. I mean, we're talking A lot of

friends, a lot of relatives were sending cards, you know, for

Easter, Passover, Christmas,

birthdays, congratulations on buying an

automobile, sympathies for the

loss of a child, you know, a miscarriage. Cards for

everything. And it was so beautiful because people seemed to

really take the time to make the effort to let folks know

that they seen them and they understood, you know. So along with

those family cards, there's receipts, furniture accounts,

handwritten agreements, remodeling plans that were later,

later filed with the city of Huntington, you know, the notes about the plumbing and

the electrical work, recipes, pieces of people who had

been gone from this home for decades. And the

longer I've lived here, the more I've realized that the physical house

itself is doing the same thing that the papers are doing. It keeps

showing me pieces of an earlier version of itself.

There are roof lines that do not make sense until you imagine

another house underneath the one that sits here today. There are

changes in the elevation, there are these beautiful arches, there are

spaces that feel added, enclosed, altered, or absorbed.

And in the attic, parts of what appear to be the older roof line Are

still there, almost like the first house was

never fully, completely erased. And I don't think it

was. I, I think parts were to fit into the new

construction, but for the most part, that house still sits here today.

Um, it was literally— the home that sits today

was built around, over, and under the original home

as it sat. It's pretty cool. That was

really the beginning of this rabbit hole of like, not who owned my

house so much as it was

what was my house before it became this house. And as it turns out,

the answer may be wrapped up in a couple named Herbert and Lucille

Clements, and in a much larger story about the railroad,

Huntington, Westmoreland, DuPont Place, World

War II women owning property and how ordinary

families disappear from the historical record, even when they have

left half their lives behind in an attic.

I think a big deal to recognize is, you

know, how these boxes were found and why I had decided to keep

them. When we first moved in the house,

there there were things left behind from multiple

owners, from the most recent, um, to the

ones who had built the addition that we see today, and of course from the

person who built the original home that sits here. Um,

I found all these things and these photos, and being a

history person, I completely fell in love. They were in really, really

bad shape though, so I had brought them all down from the attic and had

gone through them, and that's when I found the original negative of

the home that stand— that stood here originally, or that still stands here

but was added on to and remodeled.

Um, that home with a lovely young lady standing in front of it, uh,

was the beginning of the rabbit hole. Um, at that

point I was a stay-at-home mom and our laundry room was downstairs in what

is or was the original cellar for the home that was

built here at this location in West Merlin.

And after I had gotten those things out, we had been

here a few weeks before I'd made it to the attic to go through that

stuff. But after

everyone had gone for the day, you know, James had gone to school,

Brandon had gone to work, and it would just be me and Carly, weird

things started happening around the house. And The

only thing that I could explain it, and I and I don't know.

Believe in what you want to believe. I'm just telling you my experience. But things

started happening around the house, and I never felt unsafe.

But things would move across the room.

I never felt alone. I didn't feel fearful

of this thing or spirit, or I I don't even know what to call

it, and I don't even I don't know what I think that it was. I

just know that it had a A feel that it was

a male presence, and he hovered very closely to me in

everything that I was doing. And it was only in certain parts of the

house, which of course I, I had not

put two and two together of what I know now to be the original home

here. But what led to— I would only feel him in spaces that

were the original home, and I thought that was really weird. Um, but

it got to the point where I didn't like the feeling of not feeling alone

in the home. And I cleaned everything up as much

as I could. There were like these little bugs eating the paper and things like

that, but I cleaned all that up and I

purchased a like sealed up plastic

storage tote and I put everything in there and put it

right back where I found it in the old box and I left it

alone. And you know, that's been 12, 13 years ago.

Um, after having that

conversation a few weeks ago in the pool, I was like, you know what, I'm

gonna pull that stuff back out because I would— I would— I'd

like to deep dive. Um, and you guys will laugh, and some of you may

have seen it on my Facebook if we're social media friends, but, uh, when I

pulled it back out of the attic, I was sure to let them know that

I was only messing with their belongings because I

wanted to tell the story of this house that we have grown

to love and let them know that, you know, we're

thankful and the story deserved to be told, and that I would put everything

back as soon as I had uncovered what I needed for the story. Um,

and I haven't had any experiences so far. I hope it

stays that way. I think they're happy with me for telling their story. I hope

so. We'll see. I'll update you later if anything crazy starts

happening. Um, but let's get into this. You know, this is Part 1,

before Magazine Avenue was a residential street.

So before I ever get to Herbert Clements, there's another piece of the

story that I think makes the address

itself more interesting. So why in the world

is it called Magazine Avenue? The answer appears to go back to the industrial landscape

that existed here before this stretch of Westmoreland became the residential neighborhood.

Neighborhood. That we all know today. Near what is now

Magazine Avenue and Burlington Road stood the Kellogg Powder Works,

a gunpowder and manufacturing operation in the Westmoreland area.

Historical accounts of the site specifically connect the street name Magazine with the

old meaning of the word. A magazine was a place used to store gunpowder and

other explosives. So the name of the street that my house sits on

may literally be left over from the days when explosives were being

manufactured and stored in this part of the Huntington area. And

that's already like a good local history story, but the powder

works were not some quiet industrial neighbor. On the morning of

January 18th, 1892, the Kellogg Powder Mills exploded.

An account published a few days later in the Ironton Register described people in

Ironton, Ohio, roughly 14 miles away,

feeling buildings and windows tremble so strongly that they first

thought that an earthquake had occurred. Think about that for a second.

Before my house, before DuPont Place was plotted

into the lots that we recognize today, there was an explosives

operation in this landscape capable of sending shock across the Ohio

and into communities miles away. 14 miles

away. It's wild. The powder works were

made up of separate buildings spaced apart for safety, which tells you something

about how expected danger to be

happening on that location was. And in

1892, a blast was not remembered as a one-time freak

accident. Newspaper accounts described explosions there as a

recurring danger. By 1903, when the powder

operation resumed after years of idleness under the Phoenix Powder name,

residents in Kellogg and across the river in Burlington were reportedly

so concerned about another explosion that there was talk of damage suits and

even an injunction to stop the plant from operating. A Huntington Herald

account reprinted the Time and said previous explosions

had been frequent, that people had lost their lives during the plant's earlier

years of operations. Residents were not arguing that gunpowder had

no purpose. They were arguing that making it next to where people lived

was dangerous. And obviously we know that. Um,

I, I guess they were living and learning.

At that time? That matters for the house's story

because it completely changes the mental picture of this area. Magazine Avenue was not

born as a sleepy residential street. This western edge of Huntington had

industry, explosive manufacturing, railroad activity,

river connections, and then gradually subdivisions, houses,

recreation, and then family neighborhoods. By

1911, the revised map of DuPont Place was on record.

That's the same year that the Westmoreland Country Club opened just east of Camden Park

near the mouth of the Twelve Pole Creek. So within a relatively short span, this

landscape was moving from dangerous industrial uses into a place where residential lots

were being laid out and a country club was operating nearby.

That contrast is almost hard to picture now. You know, powder mills

capable of shaking windows across the river, a country club and golf course,

Camden Park. railroad workers and new residential lots, all part of

the same western Huntington story. And that is the ground that

4401 Magazine Avenue eventually rises out of. I

think a lot of people confuse Magazine Avenue when I say my address as,

um, it should have been named for like a publishing company, um, but when in

reality the explanation is much more explosive.

Hahaha, get what I did there? Anyways, um, let's move on

to part 2. Um, let's put this house on the map. But before we get

to Herbert and Lucille and all of the people in the boxes, it helps to

place 4401 geographically. The legal description that we

eventually confirmed for the house is Lot 11, Block 14 of DuPont

Place. And that matters because for a while I was

tracing the wrong property. I found a deed involving Lucille Clements,

Nevia Blackmon, and Philosse Ray and followed it backwards through decades of

owners. It was very fascinating, and I got all

the way back to the DuPont Place Improvement Company. And then I

realized that's not my house. It was actually a

different DuPont Place lot about a block away. So

that detour was really frustrating, but it also taught me something important.

DuPont Place was not an accidental collection of houses that simply grew here.

It was plotted. Uh, the revised map was recorded in 1911.

Lots and blocks were laid out so sold, resold, mortgaged, inherited,

and sometimes divided. So when we say 4401 Magazine Avenue,

we're talking about a little piece of a planned early 20th century

neighborhood whose paper history should exist somewhere, even if the

modern county databases seem determined to

keep it hid from me and my research.

West Huntington itself was shaped by forces much bigger than one house, obviously.

Huntington was fundamentally a railroad city. The Chesapeake and

Ohio Railway was not simply an employer among many. The

railroad helped create Huntington in the first place. The C&O established major

shop facilities here, and the city became

kind of a gateway— or not kind of, it was— it was a gateway between

Appalachian coal country and national markets. That matters to our

story because the man whose name appears on the remodeling papers from a house was

a railroad electrician. Herbert Malcolm Clements

was not just somebody who happened to work around electricity. By

1930, the census lists him as an electrician in the railroad

shop. In 1942, his draft registration specifically

identifies the C&O Railroad as his employer. So

in 1950, he is still an electrician working in the railroad

industry. So when we later find an H.M. Clements

writing detailed notes about electrical service, wiring, outlets, lighting,

garage controls, plumbing, and structural changes here at 4401

Magazine, we are looking at a homeowner whose working

life had trained him to understand systems, machinery,

construction, and electricity. And that makes the house plans feel

different to me. They stop looking like paperwork that somebody handed

to a contractor and started looking like the work of a man who

probably had opinions about every wire. In the wall.

A little bit of local context. Westmoreland after the war.

The book Gate to Westmoreland has been helpful here, even when it does not

even name the Clemenses directly. What it does give us is the

neighborhood that they were living inside. The book describes Westmoreland after World War II

as an established growing community rather than an isolated edge of

town. The late 1940s and 1950s brought roadwork,

businesses, family, school, recreation, and constant movement through the

western end of Huntington. One detail that I especially like is

the Four Pole Creek story. The book describes the beginning

work, uh, in the 1940s on a new 4-lane bridge connecting

West Huntington with the Waverly Road side, and

that bridge was opened around 1950. That sounds like a

small infrastructure fact, but imagine what it meant to the people living there.

Roads changing, traffic patterns changing, new businesses becoming easier

to reach, property becoming more accessible, neighborhoods that had

once felt separated becoming more connected.

Camden Park was nearby and very much part of the social landscape.

Route 60 businesses served the area. Westmoreland was a place where

railroad workers, tradespeople, families, shop owners, firefighters,

and generations of neighbors Built ordinary lives side by

side. That is the world that Herbert and Lula,

and later Herbert and Lucille, occupied.

They were not living on some forgotten rural track. They were living

in a working neighborhood attached to one of the most industrially

important cities in the region. So, let's

talk about Herbert before 4401.

Herbert Malcolm Clements was born in Huntington in 1902.

We have a small disagreement among records over the exact July

date, so I'm not going to pretend that this part is settled,

but 1902 and Huntington are solid. We know that

for a fact. So by 1920, Herbert was 17

and living with his family in Washington, D.C. That discovery was especially interesting

because the archive contains old Clements material tied to

324 Pennsylvania Avenue Southeast in Washington.

What once looked like a random out-of-state paper suddenly fits into the

family's geography. So by 1929, Herbert was

back in the Ohio Valley and marrying Lula Elizabeth Schnack

in Lawrence County, Ohio. And Lula turned out to be

her own entire side quest.

Her birth name was Lula Elizabeth Schnack. And her parents

were John H. Shanack and Isabel Carter. That discovery

explained why the Shanack name kept appearing through the archives and

appeared to be on a lot of the papers that I had found

in the attic. So Lula appears to have married before Herbert

more than once. We found evidence connecting her first

marriage was to a George Atkins and then to a

Joseph Dexter Wagner in 1927. When she

married Joseph Wagner, the record identifies her as Lula Schenack

Adkins. So I went back from that. So then in August of

1929, Lula Wagner marries Herbert Clements.

By the 1930 census, Herbert and Lula were living together in Lawrence County,

Ohio, with Herbert's widowed mother Martha living in the household as

well. Herbert was already a railroad shop electrician.

So the 1940 census finds Herbert and Lula together again, this

time in Huntington, and Lula's parents, John and Isabel Schnack, are

living in the household as well. And then

comes one of the strangest pieces of their history, or their story, I guess.

In May of 1942, Herbert and Lula

married each other again in Missouri. We know

that they had already married in 1929, and we know that they were living together

in 1930. We know that they were together in 1940,

and yet we also have a 1942 marriage certificate.

I couldn't quite figure that out, so I don't yet know why.

Maybe there was a divorce and a reconciliation. Maybe there was a legal problem with

the first marriage. Maybe something about Lula's earlier marriages

complicated their status. Maybe there was court records sitting somewhere that will

make this whole thing obvious. But I haven't found that. So until

I do, the honest version of the story is simply this:

Herbert and Lula appear to have married each other twice. I will

tell you, when digging and trying to find this information, I did have

to become a member and pay for— not a

lot, but pay for several records to

find this information. Because it's— unless you're in this field, I

mean, And I don't even know if for them it's easy, so I don't want

to speak for them. But this digging up the past and the

census and the records and all that stuff, it's work.

And literally every answer that I found created a new question.

So we're going to jump over to kind of another little side story

in 1942, the St. Charles connection.

Herbert's World War II draft card gives us one of the clearest snapshots of him

before his military service. In February of 1942, he was living at

523 Jefferson Road in Huntington. He

identified the C&O Railroad as his employer, and his mailing

address was the St. Charles Hotel in St. Charles, Missouri, and his

work location was connected to American Car and Foundry there.

That St. Charles detail is not random. American Car and Foundry's

St. Charles plant was a major railcar manufacturing operation.

During the World War II period, the plant also turned heavily toward military production,

including tanks and hospital cars. So Herbert, a railroad

electrician from Huntington, was another heavily industrial

railroad manufacturing city as the United States entered the war.

And 3 months after his draft registration, Herbert and

Lula married again in the St. Charles area. We may never know

whether his work assignment had brought them there for the wedding Or whether the wedding

was part of a larger attempt to reset the marriage before wartime service, but

the geography now makes sense. So let's move on to another part.

So part 4, we're going to talk about war, the Seabees, and

coming home. Herbert's military archive is

extraordinary because it's not one neat service record.

It's the clutter of a real wartime life. There are

dog tags, Navy envelopes, censored mail,

Seabee newspapers, official photographs,

memoranda, Thanksgiving menus,

telegrams, Pacific photographs, letters

home. Herbert served in the United States Naval Reserve and was

associated with the Naval Construction Battalion 127, the Seabees.

The Seabees were builders in uniform. They constructed and maintained

the infrastructure that the Navy needed to operate. Bases, roads,

airfields, utilities, docks, shops, and everything in between.

That makes Herbert's electrical background especially relevant. A

railroad electrician was exactly the kind of skilled tradesman that wartime

construction units could use. The surviving material places the

127th in the broader Pacific War, but with the archive containing

photographs labeled Hawaii, the Philippines—

I'm not even sure how to pronounce this, so I'm not even gonna try, but

L-E-Y-T-E, and then New Guinea. We

have to be careful though because a photograph in Herbert's collection does not

automatically prove that Herbert personally stood everywhere pictured.

Servicemen traded and collected photographs, and that was well known.

But the Hawaii connection is strong, and official histories of the 127th

place the battalion in Hawaii before later Pacific

assignments. Then, in August of 1945, the

tone changes. Herbert is in California and he's trying to get home. And we

know this because of the letters that he writes home to his wife here in

Huntington. He sends telegrams. He

writes from San Pedro and Terminal Island. On

August 15th, as the war ends, he writes about the wild celebration in

California. You know, whistles and paper flying from buildings

and people pouring into the streets and horns honking and

Underneath the victory of celebration is a much more private story, though.

Jack, at this point, is worried about his marriage. He wonders whether

Lula wants him back. He talks about mistakes and distance and

loneliness and trying to straighten things out when he gets home. That

matters because we also found a handwritten separation agreement between,

between Herbert and Lula. And it's undated, but it

shows their marriage had a real period of strain or had

periods of strain. This is part of the history that I love. The big

historical event is V-J Day. The

tiny historical event is a husband sitting in

California on the right side of— on the night that the world is

celebrating, worried that his wife in Huntington may not want him anymore.

And both are history.

Some of it is the history, you know, that newspapers tell. But

the other part is the history that my attic has told me.

So let's move back into— or not back into, let's move forward

to part 5, the Herbert and Lula back in Huntington

days. So by 1950, Herbert and Lula

are together in Huntington again. Herbert is still listed as a railroad

electrician according to the census. And then a

1949 Gold's Furniture account And remember,

these receipts and books and all these things, they're

handwritten, and we have them all, and I'm going to show them all to you

if you'd like that on, on our socials. But

that account connects Herbert and Lula with a 37 West 3rd Avenue.

Lula's 1970 death certificate later confirms that address and identifies

Herbert as her surviving husband. So whatever complications

existed in their marriage, they remained legally married through Lula's death in February

of 1970. Lula's death certificate also solved one of the

archive's oldest mysteries by naming her parents as John H.

Schnack and Isabella Carter. Suddenly, the Schnack

dictionary that I found— and it's like a little handheld one, it's so

cute, leather backing— the photographs, the address

notes, the family names, they were no longer a random piece of paper.

Those belonged to Lula's family. So now I had that connection. And it

means that when we tell Herbert's story, we, we should not

erase Lula just because 4401 later becomes associated with the sale.

Lula was part of Herbert's life for decades. So

let's move on to part 6. When does 4401 enter the

story? This remains one of the most frustrating gaps.

We know that Herbert and Lula were at 37 West 3rd Avenue around 1949 to

1950. And again in 1970. But we

also know that by the mid-1960s, H.M. Clements

was connected to a major remodel at

4401 Magazine Avenue, the home that sits here today. That

creates a question that I've not yet solved. Was

4401 another property they owned or managed while maintaining the West 3rd Avenue

residence? Did Herbert oversee renovations for someone

else in his circle? Did Magazine Avenue property already belong

to Lucille? Did Herbert move between these households after

Lula's death? The documents don't yet let me state

that answer, so all I have is speculation.

But what they do let me state is that H.N. Clements and 4401

Magazine Avenue were connected by the 1960s because the

remodeling papers say so. The 1966

house papers. I want to talk about these, and they're very important. The

papers are the reason that I cannot accept simple modern database line that

says the house was built here in 1972 and just move

on, because I have paperwork around 1966

describing an existing structure receiving substantial changes.

And remember, I told you in the beginning, if you go into my

attic The original home, the roof, the old

boards that were the roof of the home, it's all there.

Um, it's as if that home was never torn down. They

just added to, built above, and built below.

So let's talk about that for a minute. There are notes about plumbing for a

new powder room. There are new drain locations,

basement shower work, electrical service, garage doors,

windows, lighting, new rooms, old rooms, plans

showing walls and additions and these lovely arches that we know today.

These are renovation documents. You do not renovate a house in

1966 that does not exist until 1972.

That does not automatically mean that the modern record is fraudulent or

even wrong in the ordinary sense.

Assessor databases can preserve an

effective build year, a major rebuild year, a reclassification

year, or a date associated with a substantial addition. My

suspicion— and I want to label this clearly a suspicion— is that the

house underwent such substantial transformation during the Clements

era that a later assessment treated the remodeled

house as effectively newer. And that makes

sense. The physical house supports that possibility. In the attic, the

older roof plane is still visible. Parts of an

earlier parapet line appear to

remain inside the later structure. The layout has the feeling of a smaller

house that was swallowed by a larger one, just to

explain that easily. But I still want the old assessor card or

building permit that says it plainly. Like, I would love that. So far I've not

had luck. And then there's the negative that I talked about. So

let's talk about that. Among the family photographs is an

old negative showing a woman beside a distinctive low house with a flat

roof and a stepped or

crenellated parapet. And I'm probably butchering that. I don't think I'm

saying it correctly. But another negative shows what appears to be the same house from

a slightly different angle. The first time I saw it,

which was when we bought the house, you know, and I'd gone through that box

of heavily damaged and probably gonna ruin

if somebody didn't take effect, but the first time I saw it, I felt like

I knew that house. It looked like the weird little architectural skeleton

that I had been trying to imagine underneath my current house, and that feeling has

never really left. But feelings aren't evidence.

So the negative came right from the archive. The Clements papers

are tied to 4401. The architectural form appears consistent with the

kind of older structure that could have been incorporated into that later house.

That is why I call it strongly likely, but I cannot say that this is

absolutely 4401 until I can match something fixed— a neighboring

house, lot spacing, driveway, surviving wall,

porch relationship, or Or another historical photograph. That

distinction matters to me because the whole point of this project is not to make

the story prettier than the evidence. It's to

just preserve what is true and leave the mystery where the mystery still belongs.

So let's move on to part 7. Let's talk about Lula

passing and Lucille appearing. Lula

died in February of 1970. By the early

1970s, Herbert is appearing in legal records with Lucille

Clements. At 1972, a deed involving a

different nearby Dupont Place property identifies Lucille Clements and

Herbert M. Clements as husband and wife. So at some

point after Lula's death, Herbert married Lucille. We have not

yet found their marriage record, and Lucille is still the hardest person in

the story that I've had to reconstruct. Her later legal

name appears as Lucille Sims Clements. A

1983 property form for 4401 shows the

assessed name as Lucille H. Sims. That is one of the most

intriguing clues in the whole property story because it suggests that 4401 may

have been Lucille's property in her own right, possibly

acquired under the Sims name. But I want to be careful here because we've not

found the deeds showing how Lucille acquired Lot 11, Block 14.

But when 4401 finally leaves the Clements circle, it leaves

through Lucille's estate, not Herbert's. So that

leads us to part 8, the women's property network.

And this is a part of the story that really surprised me.

And it's not to say that women

owning property was unheard of in this time, but it

wasn't as common as either a man tied to her

property or a man with a woman tied to the property. So

Lucille was repeatedly connected to legal documents to 2 other women, women,

Neva Blackmon and Flossie W. Ray. In

1971, a different DuPont Place property was conveyed to

Neva Blackmon, Lucille Clements, and Flossie Ray with

survivorship rights. That property turned out to

not be 4401, but it was nearby. It's actually a

house that I can see out my front door and side door. And then Flossie,

who lived at 4246 Magazine Avenue,

executed a power of attorney naming Lucille and Neva as people who

could act for her. Later, Herbert and Lucille both

gave Neva broad powers of attorney. These are not

casual connections. Whether these women were relatives, lifelong

friends, or some combination of the both remains unsolved.

But they trusted one another with property, money, and legal authority.

That is important because these women owning real estate in the mid-20th century was

absolutely legal and not unheard of. But Lucille's

pattern is still interesting. She was not merely listed as somebody's

wife in every transaction. Property passed through her.

She participated participated in ownership arrangements. Her will controlled the

future of 4401. The paper trail gives

her a level of financial agency that deserves to be part of the story.

So I want to talk a little bit about the Ray neighborhood clue.

There is also a strange modern neighborhood echo.

Flossie Ray's documented address was 4246 Madison Avenue.

Very close to that property are homes still today associated with the Ray

surname. One nearby house, now owned by us,

was described by a current neighbor, Lovella Ray,

as having been her grandmother's home for as long as the family could

remember. Her husband Pete does not recognize the name Flossie Ray,

so I cannot claim a family relationship, but still, I find the

geography interesting. These legal relationships were not happening

between people scattered across 3 states. They were

concentrated in the same small West Huntington landscape where

I can literally throw a rock and hit these other addresses. So these were neighbors

to some extent. I don't know what else that looked like, but

they trusted each other. They depended on one another and they trusted

them to give power

of attorney to one another should something happen to them.

So let's move on to Part 9, June 16th, 1982. June

16th, 1982 is one of the dates that suddenly starts glowing when you put all

the paperwork together. On that day, Herbert M. Clements of

4401 Magazine Avenue executed a broad power of attorney naming

Neva Blackmon. Lucille Sims Clements of

4401 Magazine Avenue executed her own broad power of attorney

naming Neva as well. According to a later deed,

Lucille's last will and testament was dated that same day. That was

coordinated estate planning, period. We

know that. We do not know what triggered it. Age is

possible, illness is possible, preparing for incapacity is possible,

preparing for property transaction is possible.

Documents do not tell us why, so none of those possibilities should be told as

fact, but the timing tells us that they were organizing their affairs together.

Herbert, he dies July 1983. Lucille

also died before the property was conveyed in October 1983 because

the deed identifies Neva Blackmon and Thurman B.

Louder as devisees under Lucille's will. The

exact, the exact date of Lucille's death is still one of the maddening things

that I have not been able to pin down. And believe me, I have

looked at countless, countless documents and

historical files and all these things. That's going to move us into Part

10. And Part 10 is 4401 leaving the Clements era.

The 1983 deed is our cleanest title anchor.

It identifies the property at Lot 11, Block 14, DuPont Place

as 4401 Magazine. Avenue. Lucille's will had devised the

property to Neva Blackmon and Thurman B.

Louder. Neva and Thurman, along with their spouses,

sold 4401 to Billy E. Adkins.

The deed was dated October 7th, 1983, and recorded on

October 13th. The price was $83,000.

And that sale is the point where modern county records suddenly

become much easier to follow. In fact, when I tried calling to

get older property information at the Wayne County Courthouse, I was told

that the county had nothing before Billy Adkins attached to the property in its modern

system. Which is exactly why this investigation becomes so

ridiculous. The history exists. I have the 1966

house papers in my hands. I have Herbert and Lucille at 4401

in 1982. I have the 1983 deed explaining

how Billy acquired it. But the modern database behaves as though the story

starts with Billy. That is the perfect example of why local

history disappears. Not because nothing happened, but because

the systems that we use today are not designed to preserve every older

layer in an easy, searchable way. And it's so frustrating.

And that's going to lead us to part 11, what the house itself says.

When documentary history becomes incomplete, buildings become

evidence. At 4401, the physical house keeps insisting

that something older is inside it. The roof structure is one clue.

The changes in the floor elevation are another. The relationship between

rooms, the arches, the cellar, the basement spaces, and the way

later construction seems to wrap around earlier forms all

matter. The 1966 plans give us a way to test

those impressions instead of just romanticizing them. One of the things that I want to

do eventually is take those plans room by room and mark every

wall as one of 3 things: clearly existing in

1966, clearly new in 1966, or

uncertain. If we can reconstruct those pre-renovation footprint

from the plans, we can compare that footprint directly to the strange little house

that's in the negative. That may ultimately prove more than any

deed ever could. Um, so some local context. Why this

house, or why a house like this,

matters in Huntington. One of the things that I've become

increasingly convinced of while doing the Tri-State Time Machine is that Huntington's

history is not only the Keith-Alvey, it's not Marshall,

the big railroad buildings, the famous names, the disasters

that everyone knows. It's also in homes like this. Or

houses like this. Huntington grew because people came here to work—

railroad workers, tradesmen, factory workers, merchants,

clerks, engineers, builders, domestic workers, teachers—

and families who moved into neighborhoods that expanded around those

industries. So the C&O built more than tracks.

It created payrolls. Those payrolls created houses,

stores, churches, schools, amusement, and neighborhoods. West

Huntington and Westmoreland sat inside that ecosystem. A

railroad electrician like Herbert was not a side character in Huntington's

development. Skilled tradespeople were part of the machinery

that kept the entire city functioning, and the house itself

reflects that working city history. It was not frozen in the

architectural moment. It changed when its owners needed change.

Rooms were added, systems were modernized, Garages changed,

windows changed, electricity changed, and the house adapted.

That is what most real houses do. The beautiful old

houses that we preserve as museum pieces are important, but the altered

houses may tell an even more ordinary and honest story. People

stayed, improved, improvised, enclosed,

rewired, expanded, and made do.

And that's going to move us into Part 12. The questions that still

keep me up: Who first bought Lot

11, Block 14 from the DuPont Place development?

When was the first house actually built? How did Lucille Sims

acquire the property? Was Lucille related to Neva

Blackmon, Flossie Ray, or Thurman Louder? When

did Herbert marry Lucille? Was 4401

already Lucille's home? home while Herbert and Lula were still living at 37

West 3rd Avenue? Why do the

1966 plans exist under H.N. Clement's name if the

modern Lick records treat it later as the

1972 as the house's build year? And is

that woman in the old negative standing beside the original version of my

house— who is she? Is that Lula? Is

that Lucy? Still, um, and why were their names so

close? Like, did this guy have a pattern? I'm kidding.

Um, but those are the questions that I still cannot answer honestly,

and I think it's important to leave them open rather than fill them in with

just a story, because the story would sound good. I, I don't want that.

So let's move into part 13, what I think happened. And again,

this is just my current theory, clearly labeled As theory,

I believe that there was an earlier house on Lot 11, Block 14 before the

house took its present form. I strongly suspect that the

strange flat-roofed house that's in this

negative is the earlier version of 4401. I believe that

Herbert Clements was involved in a substantial renovation or expansion of the

property beginning by the mid-1960s. Given Herbert's

decades-long career as a railroad electrician and his CV background,

I suspect that he was personally involved in the technical decisions and the renovation

rather than functioning only as a passive homeowner. I

suspect that Lucille either owned 4401 before marrying

Herbert or acquired it independently under the Sims name

because later the title history passes through her estate and the property

remained assessed as Lucille H. Sims. And I suspect

that Neva, Flossie, Lucille, and Thurman

belonged to a close family or a chosen family network whose relationships were

obvious to them and therefore rarely explained in the legal documents

that were left behind. Every one of those ideas

fit the evidence, but none of them is completely proven yet.

So, Part 14: The Human Thing That the Records Can't Tell Me.

What frustrates me the most is that I can tell you where Herbert worked in

1930. I can tell you where he was registered for in the draft in

1942. I can tell you which Navy unit appears in his

papers. I can tell you what day he wrote home when the war ended.

I can tell you the book and page number where property was recorded.

I can tell you that Lucille signed a power of attorney on June 16th,

1982. But I still cannot tell you what Lucille

sounded like when she laughed. I

cannot tell you whether Herbert was

difficult or generous or funny or quiet. I cannot

tell you whether they sat on the porch every morning.

I can't tell you if the neighbors liked them. I can't tell

you why they kept so many photographs or why so many of these photographs and

papers stayed behind. That's the wall that you eventually hit with records.

Documents are very good at proving that somebody existed. They are much worse

explaining who somebody was. So

I guess to kind of wrap this up, or start towards wrapping it up,

and I think this would be like an unfinished story. I started this because I

wanted to know how my old house, or how old my house really was.

Instead, I found a Herbert Malcolm Clemex, a

railroad electrician, a CB, a husband, a complicated human being. I

found Lula Elizabeth Shanack, whose name changed enough

times to make genealogy feel like a practical joke.

And, you know, I do know that one of her husbands

died by disease that, you know, we later found medicines to prevent, but

she lived a life. I found Lucille Sims Clements, a woman who

appears to have controlled property and estate decisions in her own right but

remains almost impossible to find in ordinary

biographical records. I found Neva Blackmon and

Flossie Ray and Thurman Louder circling the story without yet explaining who

they were to one another. I found a neighborhood laid out on a

1911 DuPont place map. I found a house being renovated in the

1960s even though a modern database wants to tell me that it was built later.

I found a negative that may show the house before almost everything I

recognized was added to it. So I still cannot give you a

neat little plaque that says built in this year by this person, but I

can give you something that I think is more interesting. I can give you the

layers. The railroad layer, the war layer, The

marriages, the neighborhood, the women holding property together,

the renovation, the estate planning, the sale,

the box of photographs nobody carried away. And maybe that is what a

house really is after enough time passes. Not one story,

but a stack of them.

So I want to give like a little rundown.

And I may do this at the very end, but so for now I want

to do like a little call out. If you remember a Herbert,

who actually went by Jack, we found, Clements, a Lula Shanack

Clements, a Lucille Sims Clements, a Neva Blackmon,

a Flossie Ray, a Thurman Louder, or if your

family lived around Magazine Avenue, DuPont Place, Auburn Road, Westmoreland,

or West Huntington in the 1940s through the 1980s, I would love

to hear from you. I'm especially looking for anyone who remembers

4401 Magazine before the later renovations, anyone

that knows how Lucille acquired the property, or anyone who can identify the

relationships among Lucille, Neva, Flossie, and Thurman.

Sometimes the missing source is not another courthouse record. Sometimes it's somebody's

grandmother saying, oh, I know exactly who that was.

I do want to talk about some additional things. One of the funniest parts of

this entire process was spending hours carefully tracing a property deed

backward, only to discover that it was not my house. The deed involved

Lucille Clements, Neva Blackmon, and Flossie Ray, so everything about it

felt right. And I followed it from the 1970s into the 1950s

through tax delinquency, heirs, buyers, sellers, and eventually back to

the DuPont Place Improvement Company. And then the old map showed me that

the parcel was Lot 19, Block 20. And my house is Lot

11, Block 14. So I had reconstructed the history of

somebody else's lot. But that mistake taught me how these deed chains

work. It showed me how deeply interconnected Lucille and her circle were with

the property in the neighborhood. And it gave me a better understanding of Dupont

Place itself. So even if the wrong rabbit hole turned out to

belong to the same Warren— Warren. I wasted time,

but I learned a lot. I also, I want to

talk a little bit about Herbert's records chronologically. One profession keeps

showing up. 1930, electrician in the railroad shop.

1942, C&O railroad employee. World War II, Navy Seabee

serviceman in a construction battalion environment where skilled

trades mattered. 1950, an electrician in the railroad industry.

1960, Detailed house renovation notes involving upgraded

electrical service, outlets, lighting, garage controls, and relayed systems.

That is one of the strongest through lines in the entire

archive. It also makes me wonder how much of the surviving house

contains Herbert's own handiwork. I cannot prove that he personally

wired it, and I do not want to say that he did, but the idea

that he was closely supervising or influencing the electrical work is

much more than a random guess.

I want to talk also about why 1972 may not mean what people think that

it means. Modern real estate websites love one

clean number: year built. For 4401, that number

often appears as 1972. But historical houses are

rarely that cooperative. If an older structure was heavily

enlarged, rebuilt, reclassified, or reassessed, later

databases can preserve the effective age of the remodeled structure instead of

the date somebody first poured a foundation on the lot. That is why I'm

not trying to disprove 1972 for the sake of being contrary.

I am trying to understand what 1972 represents because the

1966 remodeling material proves something was already there.

The question is whether 1972 marks the completion of a long renovation

A later addition, an assessor update, or something else entirely.

I want to talk about the paper archives as a

time capsule. The documents themselves may be my favorite part of all

of this, and I knew how excited I was the moment that I found them.

But there is something intimate about seeing a person's life not as a polished

scrapbook, but as an accumulation. A furniture

payment book beside Navy photographs, a recipe

beside financial notes. I think one of them actually even says

that the recipe is Herbert's cake,

and I'll find it and I'll post a picture of it. But a power of

attorney beside a birthday card, a military menu beside a household document.

Nobody curated this for a museum. That's why it feels real.

People save what matters in the moment, and decades later, the meaning changes.

A receipt becomes evidence. A scribbled address becomes a genealogy clue.

A negative becomes a possible architectural record. That's basically what

Tri-State Time Machine is built around. And, and I don't know that

W.G. knew that this is where this would lead, but the idea that ordinary

things become history if somebody bothers to look twice,

that's relevant and it matters. It, it's everything that we're

trying to do here at Tri-State Time Machine.

So let's talk a little bit about my research notes, and I

think it'll help us, you know, wrap up some loose details if anybody

was still questioning. We have confirmed local context used in

this draft. Huntington's development was deeply tied to Chesapeake and Ohio

Railway. C&O established major Huntington shop facilities, and the city grew

as a rail and industrial center. The revised Dupont Place map was recorded in

1911. The Gate to Westmoreland provides neighborhood context for

postwar Westmoreland, including growth, local businesses, and the Four Pole

Creek Bridge improvements around the late 1940s and 1950s.

Additional outside-of-context used: the American Car and Foundry plant in St.

Charles, Missouri was a major railcar works and shifted heavily

into wartime production during World War II, including military equipment and

hospital cars. Still unproven

and intentionally labeled, such in the script that we've used here, the

exact original construction date of 4401, whether the old negative

definitely shows 4401, how Lucille acquired the

property, the exact relationships among Lucille and Eva, Flossie and

Thurman, the reason for Herbert and Lula's apparent

1942 remarriage, and the meaning of the modern

1972 build year entry. I also

want to insert another piece of Westmoreland history that I think

helps explain what this part of Huntington felt like in the years when DuPont

Place was being laid out. In 1911, the same year associated

with the revised DuPont Place map, the Westmoreland Country Club opened just

east of Camden Park. And we've talked about it in previous episodes,

but I want to touch on it again because it was near the mouth of

the Twelphoe Creek. The course was built by Herman Shute, an

English-born clubmaker and golf professional who became one of the foundational

figures in Huntington golf. Before Westmoreland, Shute had built the

old Cabell County Club course near Four Pole Creek. That course had

problems with flooding, so club leaders looked further west

and established the Westmoreland course. The Westmoreland clubhouse itself was

designed by Versus T. Ritter, one of Huntington's important architects.

I love this detail because it changes how I picture the western end of

Huntington in the early 20th century. Today it is easy to drive through

Westmoreland and think almost entirely in terms of the houses,

Route 60, railroad remnants, and the businesses we know now.

But in 1911, while neighborhoods were being plotted, there was

also a country club and a golf course developing near Cannon Park.

Eventually the Westmoreland course was replaced by Spring Valley Country Club.

That club became a major piece of West Virginia golf history. Sam Snead

repeatedly played and won there, and in 1960 Arnold

Palmer and Art Wall came to Huntington for the West Virginia Open.

Thousands of spectators reportedly turned out. So within the lifetime

of Herbert Clemens, this neighborhood went from an early subdivision

development and a country club landscape to the post-war West

Moreland that he would have known as a railroad electrician and homeowner.

That is the larger landscaping surrounding

4401 Magazine. Railroads, amusement, golf,

industry, new roads, and residential development all overlapping in

a surprisingly small area. One

reason that I keep coming back to the house itself is that Westmoreland's residential

history has never received the same kind of attention as some of

Huntington's The city of Huntington, their own planning

material has noted that Westmoreland contains historic homes and the buildings that are

not formally listed on the National Register and specifically

points to places such as the Vinson Family Plantation House and the Vinson Memorial

Christian Church as neighborhood assets worth preserving. And

that feels relevant to the story because 4401 may be exactly the kind of place

that slips through the cracks. Not a mansion with a bronze plaque, but a small

house that's been plaque, not the home of a governor, but the house of—

a house whose physical fabric may persevere several

generations of West Huntington development. The neighborhood

contains a mix of early 20th century houses and later mid-century homes.

That mixture is exactly what makes a house like 4401 difficult to date by

appearance alone. A house can begin as one style and spend decades

being enlarged until the final product would Looks like it belongs into a completely different

period. I want to talk some more

about some Huntington houses. Huntington has houses whose stories are much easier to

tell because somebody preserved the paperwork and somebody decided early that that house

mattered. Something I used for an ad for this

specific episode is the Queen Harvey House, and I

had a lot of feedback on that. I don't think a lot of people actually

read the post. They just looked at the picture and decided decided to comment, so

I didn't really get what I was asking for in the post. But the Quinn

Harvey House, for example, dates 1874. William Hope Quinn

Harvey reportedly remodeled its New Orleans-influenced design after

houses he admired there. The Cabell Hicks House, built in

1896, survives as one of Huntington's distinctive Queen Anne

residences and has documented chain of prominent owners.

Then there are the houses that are historic because they are Representative

rather than individually famous. Huntington has hundreds of recognizable

2-story brick houses, sometimes described as Huntington's own residential

Gothic type, that collectively give

whole sections of the city their architectural identity.

Those houses make useful contrast with 4401.

Nobody appears to have been writing a formal architectural history of Herbert and Lucille's

home. There was no preservation nomination waiting for me.

Instead, its history survived accidentally. A roofline sealed

inside of an attic, old plans left behind in a negative

in a box, legal documents scattered across county records. And

that may actually be a more typical way that neighborhood history survives.

I also— there's a few more things I have to touch on because you

can't really tell a Westmoreland story without acknowledging Cannon Park. And we've

talked about it before. We actually had a Fantastic episode. So if you never listened

to that, go back and listen to it. The park's history reaches

back to the streetcar era when amusement parks were often developed at the end

of the transit lines to give people a reason to ride on weekends. And that

helps explain why the western edge of Huntington was never simply out of the country.

Recreation, transportation, railroad infrastructure, and residential growth were

feeding one another. So by the time Herbert and Lula were building their life in

the region, Families in West Huntington could live near railroad employment,

travel Route 60, visit Camden Park, which is much different then

than what it is now, but they could also watch the surrounding neighborhoods

become increasingly residential. The old Westmoreland Country Club and

later Spring Valley Country Club add another layer to the same story. This little piece

of Huntington was serving industrial workers, middle-class families, and

recreation seekers like golfers and commuters all at once.

That is the context in which a place like DuPont Place makes sense.

The other reason Herbert's occupation matters is that houses do not exist

separately from local economies. The C&O paid people like Herbert.

Those wages supported mortgages, furniture accounts, renovations,

local stores, and neighborhood property ownership. The

1949 Gold's furniture account found for Herbert and Lula

is almost mundane, but that is precisely

why it matters. It shows a railroad household spending money in

Huntington at a furniture store and maintaining a home

after the war. Then years later, the renovation

notes at 4401 show another phase of investment: upgraded electrical

service, plumbing changes, windows, garage work, and additional living space.

That is economic history written at a household scale. The railroad

created the job. The job supported the household and the household

changed the house. The house is still here.

So before I go back into the Clements paperwork, I think it's worth remembering that

4401 was never an isolated little mystery house. It's

set inside a neighborhood being shaped by the same forces that shaped Huntington

itself: the railroad, the industry, the transportation,

recreation, post-war growth, And families adapting

the old properties to new lives. That is why figuring out what happened

to one house can tell you something about an entire part of town.

Now I want to tell you a little bit, and I don't

have this part written down, so it may be a little all over the place,

but I want to tell you about the word-of-mouth information that I gained on

this house. So I was told That

H.M. Clements had told his wife,

I'm going to assume Lucille at that point, based

on the records, that because they were not able

to have children, and we have telegrams and cards

from Herbert to Lucille

conveying his sympathies for a lost child.

And that having children was being— was becoming a

difficult thing for them. And we have no records that support that there ever was

children between the two, or even with

other partners for that matter, because we know that they were both married several

times. But I was told by a neighbor who

has since passed that this home that we

see today that H.N. Clements and Lucille were building,

Was actually built by our local Huntington Fire

Department, um, which is super cool. And I

didn't just get that from my neighbor who has since passed. I also got

that from a random person who had his daughter stop by

and talk to me one day while I was having a yard sale in the

driveway. He passed the house and the memories came flooding back of

him and his old colleagues on the Huntington Fire Department building

this home. So he— the story he told to me was exactly

the story that I was told by this neighbor who was also on the Huntington

Fire Department.

So all accounts prove that to be fact,

although we have no actual historical documents that say

that. We have the individual

accounts by 2 separate Human men, um,

that said to have participated in said build. And the one

fireman, the neighbor— I mean, he's, he's the direct neighbor to my left, or was

before his passing. His wife still lives there, um, and she's amazing.

But, um, so I know that part to be true. I just wish I could

find some paperwork documenting that. But the stories

that they had told— and this is the part I wanted to get to— I

wanted to tell you the the personal stories that I have been told was

that because they had such difficulty having children, you know, that

Herbert had told his wife, you know, you treat this home as if it was

your child. This is your baby. Which makes so much sense because when

we bought the house, the home still had

all of the original, uh, window furnishings

or finishings, you know, so the curtains the blinds— well, not blinds, but

there were like the

sheers hanging under the really heavy, high-end velvet

draperies. And every single set was custom made. And I

know that because I have the paperwork from Sears' designing

department at that time that

designed these curtains for this I know

that also because when we started looking at the home, it wasn't left behind,

but we were told that the couch was

designed for a painting, and the painting is still here in the home. We actually

kept it, and it's in a new part of our home. But the

couch was designed specifically for the painting, and the painting was specifically designed

for the home. And we're— this is a large painting. When you, when you

see the photo, you'll understand. But also,

this house, if you've ever watched Mad Men, it's a

series, I think it was on HBO. This house was very reminiscent of

that time. This house was designed to entertain.

Lucille's bathroom had a

specifically designed bathtub that

sat beside her makeup stand that had this cute little,

um, stand that she could sit on, like a stool.

And it was this like pink and white and

variations of pinks tile work. And again, I have

photos of all this before we, um, had redone the—

that bathroom. Um, and of course, you know,

all the draperies, they— at the point that we finally got the house,

um, 12 to 13 years ago,

The draperies were dry rotting, like they would crumble at your

touch, so those all had to go. I think I ended up donating them to

an antique store at Central City. I don't, I don't know what became of them.

I never circled back. Um, but

that was super cool. We have the history

of the kitchen being put in, in the ensuite that was

downstairs in the basement after the house was added on to. And then

we have the further documentation of the Atkins family who put in the

pool. We, we have so many things.

Another really cool story, and I'm jumping around here, is that we were told the

electricity was done the way that it was because Herbert was losing

his vision. So every single room that you enter has

a light switch in 2 to 3 locations, so you can turn on

and turn off the lighting

at every entry into a room. And there's only one room in

the whole house that just has one entry. Every other room

has 2. It has an entrance and an exit. You can

almost make a full circle on our top floor, which I think is really cool.

The, the kids loved it when they were little because they would just run in

circles around the house. And of course, when the dogs get crazy, they also love

to run the circle. Um, another really cool thing is

that we found a fireplace underneath

the fireplace in the living room downstairs in the basement, which was

super cool. There also was— and I, I

forget what the thing was called, but, um, Lucille

or Lula, somebody along the way, I think more Lucille than Lula because of the

dates, did ceramic work. So they had like the big

furnace that they would heat the ceramics in down there, which that was

taken out by the time that we were here, but you could still see all

the hardware of where it sat. And then that fireplace was offset to the

left of it. We also

have these letters where they talk about the

different things and about the loss of the children and

all of that. So I just, I

think I'll, I'll end this episode with me having

more questions than I do answers, but also just having a cool story.

So what I had envisioned when I had made the post

to, um, kind of tease or, or look for insight

on some of these Huntington houses was that someone else would have a cool story

like mine and would love to share it with you guys. So

hopefully after this episode airs, that will happen

and maybe we can deep dive on another home. Or if you have a home

that you would like help deep diving on, I love to do this

stuff and I would be happy to help. Um, so

with that said, guys, we are out of here.

Thanks for listening to the Tri-State Time Machine. If you have a memory you

want Vanessa to talk more about, just send her an email at

tstm@ Or

post a comment on the Tri-State Time Machine Facebook page. Did you like the

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