the making of a TIMBER FRAMER

GROWING UP IN A SMALL TOWN in Massachusetts in the 1960s, it was easy to get swept away in the Modern movement. Everyone was looking forward to the great future ahead: flying automobiles, space travel, and, most importantly, plastics. We were an opportunistic and futuristic society; no one was looking back. In our haste to try every new fad or gadget, we were losing sight of many of the old ways that had served us well for centuries. No one thought twice about abandoning old stuff. I'm sure the preponderance of young people played a big role in that attitude. The number of students in my high school graduating class of 1973 was the school's largest ever, the peak of the post–World War II baby boom.

From Destruction to Reconstruction

AS AN ADOLESCENT, I was fascinated by all the new construction of highways, bridges, and buildings. Preceding much of this new construction was the destruction of the old. I spent many hours watching old stone, brick, and timber buildings being destroyed to make way for new shopping plazas, drive-in banks, carwashes, and fast-food chains. The most common way to destroy the old was with a crane wielding a wrecking ball or a clamshell bucket. With the sounds of tearing, splitting, crushing, and crashing down, and the resultant dust clouds, it was quite a spectacle — and watching was one of my favorite pastimes.

My father operated such a crane and was responsible for much destruction. A couple times I sat in his lap while he maneuvered that clamshell to tear open roofs, and a couple times he brought that lovely 1958 American Hoist & Derrick Co. truck crane home for me to play on. I learned quite a bit about how old buildings were built by seeing them torn asunder. It is too bad there was so much destruction, but it was the times. Old was bad, new was good! I guess as a society, we must lose some nice stuff before we realize that what is left is valuable. Oh, and there is some wonderful irony here: My dad tore down old timber-framed buildings with a crane when I was a child; I have spent my adult life repairing old timber-framed buildings and constructing new ones and raising them without a crane. Because he passed when I was a boy of 10, he wasn't around to witness my lifelong restitution for his acts of destruction.

excerpt from an article in

THE NORTH ADAMS TRANSCRIPT, MAY 1, 1965

EPITAPH FOR A BELOVED AND CHARMING BUILDING

BY GRIER HORNER

JOHN SOBON, the guy who pilots the 60-foot crane for David McNab Deans, swung into the cockpit, his cigar jammed into the side of his mouth, and started easing the levers back and forth skillfully. There are eight levers and two foot pedals and John worked them the same way he's been working them since 1940. Back on this one, forward on that one and the yellow iron jaws that he says go about 2,600 pounds swung into position. The cables on the orange crane's long neck slapped the steelwork and the jaws came crunching down.

In one gigantic metallic bite the six-apartment house that may be the city's oldest building opened up like a hollowed egg hit by a hammer. Bite by bite the brick and dried wood, the pegged hand-hewn beams, the bark covered logs that carried the roof were wrenched from the building in a cacophony of groaning splintering wood and a cloud of dust.

His forehead creased under his steel hat, John Sobon ran his hands over the levers worn down to the bare steel and polished by use.

The jaws arched side- ways and up in a fluid motion. Sobon brought them down smoothly over a second-story partition without touching the partition before the jaws locked on it. It pulled out whole and he dropped it into the truck.

And the walls put up in 1832 came tumbling down.

A Summer Job Becomes a Lifelong Pursuit

WHEN I LEFT FOR ARCHITECTURE SCHOOL in the city, my intent was to eventually live there and design high-rise buildings. Such were the dreams of a small-town boy, but five years of college life in the city and a fortuitous summer job sent my aspirations in nearly the opposite direction. In the summer of 1976 I worked for a contractor, Richard W. Babcock, who dismantled old unused barns, then repaired rotten timbers, replaced missing parts, and re-erected them and finished them off to become upscale homes. It was adaptive reuse of 200-year-old structures, and while a few other, widely scattered individuals were doing the same thing, Richard was on the forefront of this "barns to homes" concept.

DRAWING TO PRESERVE HISTORY

As part of my documenting process, I measured the buildings and created drawings that would be used whether the barn was simply repaired or relocated or it underwent a change of use. Drawings such as these are becoming increasingly important as historic records as countless barns are lost over time.

It was meant to be just a summer job, but my introduction to this archaic building system — a system that used wooden pins to hold together beams chopped out with an axe alone — became a fixation, a devotion, and a life-long quest. This summer stint ended up changing my architecture direction from high-rise urban structures to wooden, vernacular, and residential ones. It was indeed fortuitous!

In architecture, as in other design professions, school graduates are required to complete three years as an apprentice before they can sit for the four-day licensing exam. I stretched out that period a bit, as I wanted to work for Mr. Babcock as well as a regular architecture firm. I was fortunate to work with him on some very special projects. With our passion for these old barns, we were kindred spirits. We often went "barning" together, searching out the older, more unusual, more magnificent examples of Colonial craft. As we live on the western edge of New England, our barn excursions included much of New England and New York State. I feel quite fortunate to have seen during our travels so many barns, many of which are no longer standing.

Part of my job was documenting the barns by taking photos and measurements, and then drawing the timber frame. I also began designing homes from these barn frames. It is a challenge to adapt a building designed for crops and livestock to function as a home, but when it is done well it is a one-of-a-kind home cherished by its owner.

What started as a very small niche of people converting old barns to homes in the late '60s has blossomed into a nearly nationwide trend. As countless barns have succumbed to neglect or have been salvaged and reconfigured as houses, those remaining are ever more precious. Their old hewn frames are in big demand and often are moved hundreds or thousands of miles to be incorporated into rustic dwellings. Even if the building's frame is not reused intact, its parts can be salvaged to be used...