Light Shines on the Memorial Green

By Joe Kelly

On Monday, Nov. 11, Veterans Day, a crowd of about 100 gathered for the rededication of Norfolk’s World War 1 memorial, artfully restored under the auspices of the Norfolk Community Association. It was sunny. Temperatures in the low ‘60’s. Another day of no rain. Everyone talked about the strange, dry weather. 

In brief remarks, Norfolk’s Town Historian, Richard Byrne (U.S. Navy veteran), welcomed the crowd. Barry Webber of Norfolk Historical Society and Community Association described the restoration. Norfolk’s oldest veterans—Ted Marolda Sr., age 101, and John Garret Thew, age 96—recalled their service. Sarah and John Allyn played taps. The Rev. Erick Olsen offered a prayer. The voices, words and trumpets all resonated with deep notes of humility. The World War I memorial commemorates the 79 men and one woman from Norfolk who served in the war, and the eight who gave their lives. But it’s also a silent witness to the challenge of honoring heroic sacrifice in an age of mechanized slaughter. After the scale of death and destruction in World War I, the traditional memorial—the triumphal arch, the soldiers poised on rearing horses, the religious icons—seemed inadequate.

To create a memorial Norfolk turned to the architect Alfredo G. Taylor. Born in 1872 in Florence, Italy, Taylor was raised and educated in the U.S. and came to Norfolk in 1902 by way of his wife’s parents, launching a decades-long career. Norfolk was shedding large pieces of its farming and manufacturing past, leading to fears it would “go the way of Lenox” and become just a summer playground for wealthy urbanites. 

Taylor thrived in this changing milieu, catering to a rich clientele, but following an eclectic often eccentric artistic vision. As described in Ann Havemeyer’s “An Architect of Place and the Village Beautiful: Alfredo Taylor in Norfolk, Connecticut,” Taylor stood apart from many of his Beaux-Arts contemporaries by prioritizing the use of primitive materials such as stone and hand-hewn wood beams to create natural, authentic environments. This was the case with the World War I memorial.

According to Havemeyer, the town gave Taylor precise directions: design something large enough to express the forces of war, yet simple enough that the fathers and brothers of those who died could have built it. Use local materials. Avoid sculptural decoration. Make space for a replica of the liberty bell, to be donated by Mary Eldridge and tolled in honor of the dead.

The monument Taylor designed sits on a triangular base of cut granite, the stones creating low, horizontal spaces for seating as well as vertical surfaces to hold bronze plaques listing the names of those who served and those who died. More stone ascends from the base in arched strands, curving outward to encircle the bell before coming together again at the top. It was dedicated on
Nov. 11, 1921, then called Armistice Day, three years after the war’s end.

At the rededication ceremony—as at the service each year on Memorial Day—we face the memorial looking west with our backs to the Catholic Church. But to better appreciate Taylor’s vision it’s best to view the memorial looking east from Rte. 44, as in the picture that appears in Norfolk Then… on page 24. 

There you can see the stone memorial in assemblage with the looming tower of the church, the arched bridge and stone embankment containing the creek, the dam (not visible) that pools the creek water into a pond, and the eight trees planted in honor of those who gave their lives. 

It’s a picturesque, inviting visitors to stroll, picnic, honor and mourn, countering the forces that threaten us—war and wealth—by refreshing our connection to nature and the bonds that sustained us in the past as villagers. 

The new lighting makes the memorial visible at night and engages us in new ways. It remains part of Taylor’s idyllic landscape, but also stands apart as a beacon that calls us near then sends us on our way. The lights invite us to read the names and hear the bell, as Taylor intended, but silently acknowledge that we rarely if ever will. We’re more likely to keep driving past. In 2024, just as in 1921, we do our best to honor the sacrifices of war, but we are as inadequate to the task today as we were back then.