Manor Makeover: Ghosts of the Past

In a couple of weeks, it will be nine years since I made the move from Philadelphia to Kroll Manor, in my hometown of Allentown, Pennsylvania. The reasons why are plentiful and somewhat wordy. Maybe that will be a future post. If not, you can certainly read about it in the memoir that I will never write.

The house that I moved into, widely known as the Hess Mansion, is locally historic. It was (mostly) built by Max Hess, Jr., a local department store magnate whose legend lives on. The lavish parties with Hollywood celebrities. The grandeur of the home. The kangaroos that reportedly hopped around in the backyard and occasionally escaped into the neighborhood. All of these stories linger even though he passed away before I was even born. To put it another way: there have been other people living in the house longer than he actually lived in the house.

People feel attached to the house. There were concerns before I bought the house that someone not from the area could swoop in, buy the property, and level the house. Or divide it into multiple parcels and add six new houses to the neighborhood. Folks were relieved when a “hometowner” became the new owner. But that hasn’t stopped people from… let’s call it weighing in on what they think should be done with the house.

A lot of people stormed the comments section of that Facebook post to set the original poster straight. Obviously, there wouldn’t be any flowers or garden beauty. It was December. In Pennsylvania! Windows had been replaced. Sidewalks replaced. Landscaping reimagined.

Oddly, making changes that the Facebook post alluded to comes with its own set of challenges. People want things changed, but not changed. Even previous owners have cringed when I’ve discussed that things need to be updated, renovated, or replaced. Parts of the house haven’t been updated in more than 50 years. Some bathrooms weren’t used regularly for decades.

There is a fine line between being a custodian of a “historic” home and living in your own home. To be clear, the house is not truly historic. It has no designation and, as such, doesn’t need any approval to be altered. But, I do respect the implied history of the home. Thought goes into every change. There is a bit of “What Would Max Do?” involved in my thinking, but more than anything — this is my home. I have to live here and I will not allow myself to be tethered by ghosts of the past. Dubbing the house Kroll Manor was an intentional way of letting people know that change was here.

It isn’t easy living under the watchful eye of so many people, but I suppose that I am already used to that because of my elevated profile as a television journalist/personality. For years I’ve had people ask why I changed things like the font of article headlines, or the buttons used to like posts on a message board. Being asked why I planted hyacinth bulbs in a certain location should be (flower) child’s play.

Speaking of hyacinths, the first big change I made was back in 2016 when the landscape in the front of the house was completely redone. The landscape had, in my opinion, been something that no one really thought about. An afterthought even. What might have looked good 20, 30, or 40 years ago have become overgrown. The house was hidden behind bushes and shrubs. There were few, if any, blooming flowers. That needed to change.

After that, it was time to focus on the back of the house. And boy… did I focus on that. But I am getting out of order here. I’ve wanted to chronicle the changes and challenges that have come living in Kroll Manor. Perhaps this will be the place that I do that. Maybe it will be saved for the memoir that I’ll probably never write. Who knows. But for now, this is the first part of a series of posts that will look behind the gates of Kroll Manor.