MARCH 6, 2023 – (Cont.) It was known as the “McCauley Mansion,” built by a member of the McCauley clan, who’d made tidy money during the early days of the lumbering town. But all had gone to wreck and ruin by the time Harriet McCauley, inheritor of the home, had reached her 50s. By 1960, she and her herd of cats had moved to a shabby dwelling around the corner and across the alley from the haunted house. We kids often ran into her at Matheny’s. Her hair was dyed a disturbing version of pink and off-yellow, and invariably, a mid-length cigarette dangled off her lower lip. If the old family mansion was from “central set design,” Harriet was from “central casting.” The rumor among us kids was that she was fond of the bottle.
In the late 1960s, the town finally condemned the once elegant home. No dumpster was involved. The fire department simply used a match and gasoline and turned the resulting bonfire into a training operation. Just before the firefighters got to play with gas and matches, however, the public was allowed to tour the premises and even walk off with detachable curios. Against modern standards, I find this astonishingly crazy: the place was the very definition of an attractive nuisance and a liability magnet; a veritable Halloween house of dangers. Nevertheless, our mother was as curious as her kids and led us on a self-directed tour of the place as a lackey from the town building department provided nominal oversight.
Instead of being carried off to the local landfill, a lot of stories (there had to be!) went up in smoke and flame.
* * *
Now back to the abandoned house in our present day neighborhood . . .
A neighbor commented that he too had been curious about the house. Online he checked the tax status. Not surprisingly, the real estate taxes are seriously delinquent.
I wasn’t surprised that the property was heading toward forfeiture for unpaid taxes. I say “heading toward,” because in Minnesota, the law grants delinquent property owners so many bites at the apple after taxes go unpaid, the fruit is down to a skinny core by the time property is legally, irredeemably forfeited. This doesn’t mean, however, that in the meantime property can’t be condemned, which would allow the city to demolish the house and levy an assessment for demolition costs.
Yesterday, I noticed that both doors to the house were wide open. As I approached, a drawer, a cabinet and splintered wood flew in quick succession out the side doorway. Parked outside was a faded SUV—not the beat-up pickup or time-worn van belonging to Friday’s work crew. Plus, yesterday was Sunday. I concluded that someone with a legal interest in the house was taking some weekend DIY initiative—finally.
The most notable sign of such owner-initiative was a large flag hanging next to the front doorway. Flags in this neighborhood are extremely rare. Certainly no one would display a black-and-white American flag with the blue stripe. Originally the symbol of support for law enforcement, this version has long since been adopted by white supremacists. No hired help would have the audacity—at least in this overwhelmingly Democratic part of the community—to advertise rightwing political sentiments in such a bold fashion. The white supremacist, if that’s a fair assumption, had to be an owner-heir, but glaringly out of synch with local, overwhelmingly predominant sentiments.
Now I’m even more intrigued by the saga contained in the piled-high dumpster. Just as in the case of the McCauley tale, what, when and how did things go off the rails?
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© 2023 by Eric Nilsson
