One Man’s Trash . . .

By Lindsey Pizzica Rotolo

Last week, we gutted the final section of our 255-year-old home that we have been in the process of renovating on and off for the last 11 years. In 2005, I was thrilled to be living in a house with that much history and marveled at all the treasures we would uncover as we slowly but surely brought the house back to its previous glory. I assumed that simply because of the age of the home, every section of flooring pulled up and wall knocked down would reveal some historical treasure.

During the first phase of major renovations, in 2007, I came home one day to Blade Brokaw grinning from ear to ear. “Hey Lindsey, we found a time capsule.” My heart leapt—for three seconds. He handed me a time capsule from 1986 that the previous owner had placed in a recess of the west wall of the living room. It contained a copy of the New York Times and a letter about his family. From that point on, my excitement over the possible discovery of “treasure” was greatly diminished.

Which isn’t to say that some “treasure” didn’t eventually reveal itself. When we renovated the second floor in 2010, Gerry McMahon found a spindle and a die (as in the singular of dice) that most likely dated back to the mid-1850’s. Kind of cool, but not exactly what I was envisioning back in 2005. When they started working on the ell last January, I came home one afternoon to a pile of bones resting on top of the fireplace. They looked decidedly human—the responding state trooper agreed. Three hours, and four different state trooper visits later, the state archaeologist confirmed, by email, that they were actually cow bones consistent with 19th century slaughtering techniques.

The wind was officially out of my sails, so when the demolition crew started work last week on the old kitchen, I didn’t waste a second of thought hoping they would uncover something amazing. And then they found… an old shoe. A really old shoe. And it was resting, as if placed purposefully, on the lip of the back wall of the center chimney. I took a quick look at it, and confirmed that yes, it was extremely old—a primitive, small, handmade leather shoe, with not much of a sole, hand stitched and patched in many places. I put it in my truck, not really sure what I was going to do with it.

The next day, one of the guys on the construction crew gave me a printout on “Concealed Shoes” from Wikipedia. His excitement was palpable, just as intense as another member of the crew’s exhilaration over killing a copperhead snake that was slithering along the wiring of the kitchen ceiling that morning.

According to Wikipedia, “Concealed shoes hidden in the fabric of a building have been discovered in many European countries, as well as in other parts of the world, since at least the early modern period.”

Independent researcher Brian Hoggard, whoever he may be, “has observed that the locations in which these shoes are typically found—in chimneys, under floors, above ceilings, around doors and windows, in the roof—suggest that some may have been concealed as magical charms to protect the occupants of the building against evil influences such as demons, ghosts and witches. Others may have been intended to bestow fertility on a female member of the household, or been an offering to a household deity.”

The Wikipedia entry goes on to say that concealed shoes are usually well-worn, most showing signs of having been repaired and overwhelmingly are single-shoe discoveries. Although concealed shoes have been found all over the United States, it is most common in New England. The most popular location homeowners report finding them is around the chimney.

I think I’ll put the old shoe right back where we found it. Perhaps I’ll place one of my husband’s size-14, well-worn New Balance sneakers alongside it, and drape the copperhead’s skin on top—now that is some serious treasure.