McBigger

"McMansion" has become increasingly common in our vocabulary as traditional homes consistent with the local architectural style are torn down and replaced by hotel-sized, out-of-place dwellings. The term McMansion, coined for comparisons to McDonald's restaurants for their ubiquity and mass-produced style, seems even more appropriate considering statistics cited in two major newspaper articles:
From the Los Angeles Times last July, "Leveling Restrictions on McMansions," by Nicholas Riccardi: "In 1973, the median size of a new American home was 1,525 square feet; in 2006, it was 2,248 square feet." And from 2002, the Washington Post's Shannon Brownlee wrote in "Portion Distortion—You Don't Know the Half of It:" "As early as 1972, for example, McDonald's introduced its large-size fries (large being a relative term, since at 3.5 ounces the '72 "large" was smaller than a medium serving today)... But price competition had grown so fierce that the only way to keep profits up was to offer bigger and bigger portions. By 1988, McDonald's had introduced a 32-ounce 'super size' soda and 'super size' fries."
Both articles point to the fact that McBigger isn't always McBetter.

Cents and Sensibilities

Older homes in designated historic districts are drawing attention like never before. Residents not only appreciate these mature neighborhoods and the qualities that make them special, they also appreciate their - well, appreciation.

To answer the often-asked question about the economic impact of designating residential districts as historic, the Los Angeles Conservancy reviewed several studies of historic districts in Texas, Indiana, Georgia and Virginia that found that neighborhoods bearing the "historic" designation appreciated faster over the two decades from the early 1970s to the early 1990s than similar neighborhoods that lacked the designation. Although the data are now somewhat dated, they end to confirm what other researchers have since found regarding the impact of historic designation on property values.

In Galveston, Texas, it was determined that "between 1975 and 1991, prices increased an average of 440% in the East End Historic District and by 165% in the Silk Stocking Historic District. By comparison, the prices in other neighborhoods over the same time period increased an average 80%."

In Elkhart, Ind., the rate of appreciation of properties in a particularly depressed historic residential area mirrored the rate of appreciation of the entire Elkhart market, and in Evansville, appreciation in one designated area outpaced that both in an adjacent undesignated area of the same vintage and residential style and in the overall Evansville market.

In Indianapolis, "property values in the local historic [residential] distric increased at a rate [that] exceeded the rate of both an adjacent, highly similar and unregulated neighborhood and the larger area of Indianapolis."

Other findings pointed to more consistent home ownership in Indianapolic historic districts. "In almost identical Indianapolis neighborhoods, the 1980 ratio of home-owners to renters was close: 34% of residents in Fletcher Place were owners and 29% in Holy Rosary - Danish Church. By 1990, while homeowners increased to 38% in Holy Rosary-Danish Church, the ratio of owners to renters had nearly doubled in Fletcher Place, rising to 66%.

In Rome, GA., the Athens-Clarke County Planning Department found that "between 1980 and 1996, designated properties increased in value 10% more than non-designted properties and locally designated properties increased in value almost 80% more than those only nationally designated."

Virginia cities confirmed the same trend. In Richmond, the value of properties within a designated district, Shockoe Slip, inceased at a steep rate compared to the rest of the city. Between 1980 and 1990, the total assessed valuation rose by 245%, from $23,135,886 to $56,761,000. Citywide, the increase was only 8.9%.

A study of Fredericksburg found that properties in the city's designted historic district gained appreciably more in value over the past 20 years than properties located elsewhere in the city. Between 1971 and 1990, residential properties in the historic district increased in value by an average 674%, while residential properties located elsewhere in the city increased in value by an average of 440%. In 1971, the average residentia property value was $17,920 in the historic district and $17,060 in the rest of the City. By 1990, average values had risen to $138,697 in the historic district and $87,011 outside the district.

It's little wonder that interest in historical districts is on the rise. Ken Bernstein, manager of the Los Angeles city planning department's Office of Historic Resources, told the Los Angeles Times recently that "the success of the Historic Preservation Overlay zones, or HPOZs, has caused an explosion of interest in the last decade." Until ten years ago, there were only eight zones in the city. Today there are 22, and designations are pending in another 16.

From American Bungalow , issue 57, spring 2008, page 125 - 126.

Wonderful Article on Miami

Here is our favorite quote from the article:
"With the pressures of development, however, we are not only losing a significant part of our cultural heritage, but as those families are forced to move out, those neighborhoods are irretrievably losing their distinctiveness. In the words of historian George, "[As] we continue to lose our older buildings we lose more of our collective historical memory, our sense of place, our awareness of the rich past of our community. And we lose a vital source of enrichment in our lives.""
Sounds very familiar.
http://www.americanbungalow.com/AmBungalow/miamifeature.html


Miami's Bungalows: Orphans of Perpetual Boom
by Jose Vasquez

"Ninety years ago Miami didn't exist," wrote T. D. Allman in his 1978 book Miami: City of the Future. "[Yet] the Miami experience has recapitulated the experience of America-the dream that if only people pushed far enough into the uncharted vastness, they could escape the cold and corruption of the past and build for themselves a sunny and virtuous new world."
Miami is one of America's youngest cities. It was incorporated in 1896 on a three-mile-wide strip of land along the Miami River between Biscayne Bay and the eastern edge of the Everglades. Serious development began a decade later, when the influx of new residents and the expansion of residential and commercial settlement prompted the dredging of the first canals to drain water from the swamps on the city's western edge. By the early teens the city was growing in earnest. By 1920 the population had quadrupled.
That growth spurt, however, was just the ignition phase of what came to be known as the Florida Boom. Over the next five years, the city ballooned to 10,000 acres as South Florida became the nation's winter playground and the scene of frenzied real estate speculation. "The great boom did not just happen," wrote historian Arva Moore Parks. "[It] was created by Miami's incomparable climate, an abundance of available land and an extremely clever group of promoters" who tried to impress investors with "promises of an earthly paradise." It was not long before South Florida fell prey to this speculative real estate market. By 1925 the skyrocketing cost of living had created a severe housing crisis. The only railroad operating in South Florida, overwhelmed by the sheer volume of construction materials being shipped to Miami, imposed a temporary shipment restriction that limited cargo to fuel and sustenance goods. The following year a powerful hurricane laid waste to vast expanses of Miami and hastened the collapse of the teetering real estate market.
Unsung Treasures
Although South Florida has seen several booms since that first one, a primary legacy of that era was a belt of bungalow communities stretching along South Florida's east coast from Broward County in the north, covering Miami-Dade County and reaching south almost to the Florida Keys. These Florida bungalows have proven to be extremely resilient. For nearly 80 years, they have endured the region's humid, unforgiving climate and the assaults of countless tropical storms and hurricanes.
When I moved to Miami nine years ago I was struck by these highly idiosyncratic homes. In all of metropolitan Miami I could not find two that were exactly alike. Promoted as a "home of marked singularity," the bungalow was distinguished not only by an efficient plan and the use of the latest modern conveniences, but also by a meticulous attention to construction details. Multiple roof profiles, wide overhangs and flexible and efficient interior organization were prominent architectural features. Designers lavished special attention on their deep front porches. The use of such architectural elements as wood sideboards, trim, cornices and columns succeeded in making the textural and sculptural qualities of the structures stand out in the bright tropical sunlight. Today, although many of Miami's historic bungalows remain intact- a conservative estimate would place the number between 800 and 1,500, although thousands more may stand concealed beneath heavily altered exteriors- they are being systematically demolished or left to decay in the superheated real estate market that has dominated Miami in recent years. The loss is most evident in the area once known as the Edgewater subdivision, an eclectic neighborhood of California and Spanish Mediterranean bungalows that was developed north of downtown during the 1920s. During the past five years I have witnessed many instances in which whole groups of bungalows have been demolished over a weekend. Of several hundred that stood in the area five years ago, only a few dozen remain.
Tropical Domestication
The earliest reference to the bungalow in Miami, specifically the "Belvedere" type (so named for the often cross-gabled upper story, which was opened up to serve as a sleeping porch during the warmest months), can be found in a series of articles published beginning in 1916 in Tropic Magazine. The author praised the airplane Belvedere bungalow as highly suitable and adaptable to Miami's subtropical conditions. By the early 1920s the homes figured prominently in local real estate ads. Leafing through newspapers, one could find countless advertisements and articles extolling their virtues and the advantages of homeownership. "The word, Home, would bring up the whole history of our lives," wrote J. S. Andrews. "We want that little word to stand as a symbol of creative life and constructive happiness. We want the word 'Belvedere' to mean a Florida home, a Miami home."
The new developments consisted mostly of bungalow types clad in different styles, ranging from the popular California Craftsman to Spanish Mediterranean and Mission. Many Miami bungalow designs were indigenous re-interpretations of the California bungalow. Many of those models were sold as kits by Sears, Roebuck and the Aladdin Company throughout South Florida. Others were adapted by individual builders from designs in popular plan books of the time.
Miami's bungalows were the first widely built residential structures to embrace South Florida's early vernacular building traditions, making use of passive climate-control solutions such as raised floors, projecting overhangs and cross ventilation and incorporating indigenous materials-pine for the buildings themselves and oolitic limestone or "coraline" for foundations, chimneys and porches. Windows and porches were often shielded by canvas awnings or wire-mesh screens, giving rise to what eventually would become known as the "Florida room" and an aesthetic centered on a new, healthy lifestyle in which subtropical conditions were domesticated.In many respects we can see in these bungalows the early introduction of concepts and spatial themes that were to be refined and developed in the Miami Modern (MiMo) tropical home. Yet Miami Bungalows are still the most undocumented, overlooked and unprotected historic building type in South Florida. As Miami Herald architecture critic Beth Dunlop has recognized, "They are the unsung treasure of Miami's architectural lexicon and probably the least understood."
Preservation Changes
Many American cities- and many more neighborhoods in cities and towns across the country- have placed individual homes and entire communities of older bungalows under the protection of historic preservation ordinances and zoning restrictions. Owners have been encouraged by state and local tax incentives to make long-term commitments to restore and maintain their properties. Several Florida cities, including Tampa, St. Petersburg and Lakeland, are home to bungalow preservation associations that have worked with municipal governments to create bungalow historic districts. Unfortunately, Miami has no bungalow preservation association, and no historic district protecting any of its heritage bungalows.
In the 1980s, Miami-Dade County and the city both created historic preservation boards, which have had successes in such places as South Beach and the Art Deco district. In the old bungalow communities, in the opinion of South Florida historian Dr. Paul George, "preservation efforts haven't been a priority for large numbers of new arrivals trying to "make it." [And] the rising value of land makes it difficult for investors and developers to justify preserving the old when they can make more money by building anew-and vertically- on a site."
Many bungalows in more affluent neighborhoods have been lovingly restored and maintained, but these are exceptional cases. The only bungalow that is officially protected, the J. Jacob Hubbard House, a perfect example of a California Belvedere bungalow located in the area now known as Little Havana, was bought by the state several years ago and is now in the care of the Dade Heritage Trust. The trust has made plans for the restoration of this historical structure with the aim of revitalizing the surrounding neighborhood. It is hoped that its rehabilitation will inspire a renewed sense of pride among the community and encourage residents to reclaim their historic housing legacy through the promotion of the collective benefits of home ownership.
Whether any of this will happen is very much an open question. The challenges facing the preservation of Miami's bungalow legacy are nowhere more evident than in Little Havana, an area surrounding Southwest Eighth Street that can claim to have the highest concentration of 1920s bungalows in the city.
The dynamic commercial strip along Eighth Street, more famously known as Calle Ocho, is the centerpiece of the city's most vibrant and ethnically diverse residential district. The annual Calle Ocho festival, held over two weekends in March, draws close to a million people from around the world. There is a tangible sense of pride among the residents, who represent the coalescence of two cultures-that of traditional middle America and that of mostly Spanish-speaking Cuban emigres who arrived in the 1960s and more recent arrivals from Central America. Hispanics comprise just over 90 percent of the population.
Within this culturally integrated population, however, there exist stark socioeconomic disparities between those who live south and north of Eighth Street. In the blocks south of Eighth, more than 45 percent of the homes are owner occupied; they are thoughtfully painted, their lawns and gardens perfectly kept. The average home is valued at $350,000.
Northeast of Eighth, in the area directly abutting downtown known historically as Riverside, a predominantly low-income population lives in a mixture of single-family homes, duplexes and apartment buildings where fewer than 10 percent of households are owners. In this once exclusive development there are increasing numbers of empty lots among new apartment towers. The modest bungalows that remain, some among the oldest in the city, have been converted into shops or partitioned into cramped rental units.
Of these two areas, Riverside has experienced the more aggressive redevelopment in the last three years and appears to be at far greater risk historically. As property values have risen, renters have been forced out in greater and greater numbers, confronting the city with a crisis in affordable housing.
Despite the sense of foreboding one can read into this situation, the neighborhood is still a lively and colorful community that hundreds of families call home. As I stroll along the tree-lined streets, I do not sense among the residents an overwhelming sense of nostalgia. In this place-this community-the idea of the bungalow as "all-American" home is still alive. It is not the mid-century home of perfect manicured lawns, sheltered back patios and hidden family life. This is a community in which the streetscape, as seen and heard from the ubiquitous bungalow porch, plays a significant role in domestic life.
With the pressures of development, however, we are not only losing a significant part of our cultural heritage, but as those families are forced to move out, those neighborhoods are irretrievably losing their distinctiveness. In the words of historian George, "[As] we continue to lose our older buildings we lose more of our collective historical memory, our sense of place, our awareness of the rich past of our community. And we lose a vital source of enrichment in our lives."
As a professor of architecture at Miami Dade College, I have made a practice of involving my students in architectural documentation projects that broaden the scope of their architectural education. Last year, the Historical Museum of Southern Florida, located in downtown Miami, accepted my proposal to organize a documentary exhibition on Miami's bungalows as a way of helping to increase public awareness and understanding of this endangered architectural legacy. The exhibition was well attended and drew gratifying coverage from the local press. My students and I were proud of this work. Whether the exhibition changed anything remains to be seen.

Rockaway Beach in Peril

Known as the poor man's Riviera, Rockaway Beach—a thin 7.5-mile snake of sand that hugs the coastline of Queens and Brooklyn in New York City—was once the summer home of the Vanderbilts, the Longfellows and the Astors. In the 1920s, many of these grand estates were divided and sold to developers, who built small communities in the popular architectural style of the time, and the bungalow colonies of Far Rockaway, N.Y., were born.
Now those beachfront bungalows and their public waterfronts are endangered: Only 100 of the 300 original houses remain. Dwarfed by massive new buildings—80 percent of all Queens nursing homes reside in Far Rockaway, and sprawling housing projects continue to grow, despite public easements—and unprotected by landmark status, the fate of these last bungalows is still up in the air. Though both national and New York City legislation mandates preservation and compatible development, the laws don't work unless someone enforces them.
Richard George in his bungalow, with high-rises in his back yard (Tim Davis)
That is precisely why Richard George, president of the Beachside Bungalow Preservation Association of Far Rockaway, Inc. (BBPA) is suing New York City's planning department and department of buildings, claiming they have violated their own initiatives. Founded 20 years ago, the association has tried a number of tactics to promote preservation. "Once I had to come and stand right in front of a bulldozer," George says. That was in 2001, and until last year, the city was still approving demolition permits. So George's group is taking the fight off the construction site and into the courtroom to protect the integrity of this humble neighborhood.
Rockaway Beach's six-mile boardwalk (the country's second longest, after Atlantic City, N.J.,) was once adorned with bathhouses and brothels, amusement parks and luxury hotels, which bloomed to life in the summer and were left sleeping for the winter. But during post-World War II expansion, Rockaway experienced the same decline that faced nearby places like the Bronx or Jersey City: Suburban settlements bypassed areas directly outside the metropolitan center, leaving boroughs subject to blight.
Their location, 20 miles from Manhattan, makes the bungalows particularly difficult to protect. Anthony C. Wood, longtime New York preservation activist, supports Richard George and his heroic efforts to save the houses. "These bungalows are really diamonds in the rough," he says. "Part of getting people on board is to get them to see the buildings, to fall in love with them. But the fact that they are so physically remote makes it hard. If they were in Manhattan, there'd be an army to protect them."
Dwarfed in Rockaway Beach (Tim Davis)
Many of the bungalows in this neighborhood—stretching from Beach 24th St. to Beach 27th St. between Seagirt Boulevand and the boardwalk in the Wavecrest area of Far Rockaway—were designed as soldier's housing in nearby Gravesend, then hauled by barge around the bay after World War I. The colony, built 80 years ago on the site of what was once the Dickerson estate, served as a humble summer retreat until its comeback in the mid-1980s.
The Beachside Bungalow Preservation Association was established in 1984, when year-round residents started to trickle into Rockaway Beach. But at the same time that the houses were at last owned instead of rented, and properly tended, development sprouted all around them. The 1918 deed from the four-acre Dickerson estate clearly affirms that an easement—guaranteeing public access to the waterfront—be preserved, but it wasn't until bungalows were demolished and easements violated that the association sprung into action.
In 1988, property owner Zion Halilli sold off his one-acre waterfront parcel to developers, who razed more than 50 bungalows on three city blocks. "They did it in the winter, when most of us weren't around," George says. "By the time we got back in the spring, they were gone." Yet the lot remained empty until 1998.
That's when the New York State Housing Trust Fund Corporation received an application from the Queens-based Margert Community Corporation to erect a multi-story apartment building there called Wavecrest II, despite the colony's easement. Magert originally promised garden apartments but later decided the building would contain 122 units of low-income housing.
"If public easements are ignored, it paves the way for the place to be chopped up, for further erosion," Wood says. "The sense of place is kind of what hangs in the balance."
Built on the site of 50 demolished bungalows, Wavecrest II looms above a modest bungalow. (Tim Davis)
Although the association challenged the application on the grounds that it would illegally usurp public access to the waterfront and violate federal and city laws, it was too late. Many Queens political heavy hitters, including former Borough President Claire Shulman and Assemblywoman Audrey Pheffer, supported the Wavecrest II application.
No one seemed concerned with the impact a six-story building would have on the modest neighborhood of one-and-a-half story, single-family homes—or with the legal clause that requires appropriate development. Neither did officials consider the easement, the right to ease, accommodation, and privilege to use land owned by another person. Both Margert and the city's planning department refused to comment for this story.
According to the Coastal Zone Management Act, which Congress passed in 1972, one section, Title 16, Chapter 33, Sec. 1452, states should give "full consideration to ecological, cultural, historic, and esthetic values as well as the needs for compatible economic development" and maintain "public access to the coasts for recreation purposes" while assisting "in the redevelopment of deteriorating urban waterfronts and ports, and sensitive preservation and restoration of historic, cultural, and esthetic coastal features."
Rockaway Beach juxtaposition (Tim Davis)
The New York City Waterfront Revitalization Program (WRP), adopted in 1982 and revised in 1999, is the city's own version of the Coastal Zone Management Act, intended to locally enforce the national act. In its own charter, the program states, "The guiding principal of the WRP is to maximize the benefits derived from economic development, environmental preservation, and public use of the waterfront, while minimizing the conflicts among these objectives. Through individual project review, the WRP aims to promote activities appropriate to various waterfront locations."
But if compatible development balanced with aesthetic values is the goal of the law, the reality is quite different. Today Wavecrest II hovers over the bungalows, violating their easements and spreading its pink brick wings across Beach 14th Street. Yet if the BBPA has its way, that will all change.
"They built private property on a public easement," George says. "The Coastal Zone Management Act says development has to be compatible with the character of the neighborhood, and they did not properly conduct a detailed environmental impact study. So the project is null and void." The association wants the city to restore the easements, perhaps even removing developments like Wavecrest, and protect the bungalows from future demolition. It hopes to require the city to review past applications and reverse inappropriate and illegal development.
"There are precedents for this sort of action," Wood says. He's referring to the "too-tall" tower at 108 East 96th Street that, due to a zoning error by the department of buildings, was forced to demolish its top 12 floors.
It could be months, even years, before the lawsuit is decided. But in the meantime, development on public easements and demolition of bungalows has temporarily come to a halt. Key city players are now behind his association, George says. "We even had the Astors come out here and give us support," he says. "Just like in the old days."

What does listing on national historic register really mean?

It only took one bulldozer to quickly reduce a nearly 200-year-old house on a busy thoroughfare outside Albany, N.Y., to a pile of rubble this past May. Built in 1805, the timber-frame property had been one of the last remnants of the days when working farms, not shopping centers, strip malls, or housing developments, dominated the city's suburbs.
The John Wolf Kemp House was one of some 77,000 listings on the National Register of Historic Places, which the National Park Service—not the National Trust—administers. But that designation couldn't stop the building's owner from razing it to make way for a $12 million extended-stay hotel.
The belief that inclusion on the register renders historic structures or sites impervious to demolition or change is a widely-held misconception, as is the idea that owners are restricted from making alterations to properties once they're listed. Such myths can prevent the register from being as effective as it might be in bringing acclaim to historic properties and offering a measure of protection through mandated review to significant buildings and landscapes that stand in the way of federally funded projects, experts say.
"The register really exists to protect historic property owners from a government action that would impede or devalue the nature of their property," says New York State Parks Commissioner Bernadette Castro, who is a member of the federal Advisory Council on Historic Preservation, which comments on projects that would affect National Register-listed properties. "But there is confusion, and it is unfortunate. If your property is on the National Register, it does not mean you cannot paint your house any color you'd like," Castro continued. "It does not in any way mean you can't sell your property or pass it on to your heirs. Some people even think they have to let the public into their house once it's on the register. We get that question all the time."
In fact, properties that are deemed eligible for the register but not formally listed on it still receive the same consideration from the Advisory Council. So in the case of nervous owners, anxiety is unwarranted: Whether they agree to have their property listed or not, the limited protection that the register affords will be extended to them.
In the past five years, 272 properties have been removed from the register, but not necessarily because they were demolished. The Park Service subtracts buildings from the register not only when they are destroyed but when they're dramatically changed or moved from their original location. However, since sites are only taken off if a change in their status is brought to the Park Service's attention, there are no exact figures of how many register properties are lost annually.
Authorized under the National Historic Preservation Act of 1966, the National Register exists to assist in public and private efforts to identify, evaluate, and protect historic and archaeological resources, according to its official Web site. Properties listed on the register include districts, sites, buildings, structures, and objects that are significant in American history, architecture, archaeology, engineering, and culture.
To be eligible for the National Register, a structure or site should be associated with significant historic events or people or embody distinctive architectural characteristics of a specific period. Generally, the candidates must have achieved significance more than 50 years ago to be considered for inclusion. Historic buildings that have been relocated or reconstructed are generally not eligible.
Listing on the register gives a property special consideration by the Advisory Council on Historic Preservation if it would be in any way affected by projects that the federal government—or those that would use federal funding or require federal licensing—undertake. The council does not have the power to prohibit changes to a register property, but it does ensure that historic values are considered in the federal planning process. In addition, the council can suggest mitigation, such as documentation of a building or landscaping around a new development, prior to changes taking place.
Being on the register also makes owners of commercial property—including rental property—eligible for federal tax credits and qualifies them for federal assistance funds for preservation, when money is available. Most states have set up a parallel state-level register to which properties listed on the National Register are automatically added and the same oversight standards apply.
When the National Register was created, the nation was booming, and Americans were paying little attention to the potential value of historic properties. Urban renewal—which usually meant widespread demolition—and the federal highway program were in full swing, so the National Historic Preservation Act and the subsequent creation of the National Register were significant breakthroughs for preservationists.
"It created a check-and-balance system that we never had in this country before," says William J. Murtagh, who was the register's inaugural "keeper," a position he held for 14 years. "Before, preservationists had no legal part of the planning dialogue. Now, preservation is no longer the purview of a volunteer constituency; it's a formal part of the planning process."
At its inception, says Murtagh, the register "was never considered to be anything but a restriction of what the federal government could do to us and our property using tax dollars. It has absolutely no restriction on what the private individual does with his property."
Listing a property on the National Register can provide owners with intangible benefits as well, supporters say. It draws attention to a site, giving it a cache that could increase its value, or, in the case of an historic hotel or landmark, attract more visitors and boost business.
"We think the recognition is the most important incentive" for owners to list their properties on the National Register, says Carol Shull, its current keeper. "The recognition of the register can bring people to a community because they know the buildings there have historical integrity," she says. "It also can change the way communities view themselves by getting local people to support and preserve significant structures and landscapes."
In the end, it is local officials, not the federal or state governments, that wield the real power over the future of historic buildings and sites through zoning laws and historic districts, which sometimes set up strict guidelines about what owners can and cannot do with their properties—from restrictions on everything from paint color to windows.
"You can put a building on the National Register one day and demolish it the next," says Frank Quinn, director of Historic Preservation for Heritage Ohio. "It's the local listing, through a review board or district commission, that really maintains the physical appearance of a building."

You can be green and historic

Thom Day and Dennis Scott knew instantly that their Chicago bungalow was meant for them the moment crossed the threshold during a house tour last summer. They loved the vintage trim, wood floors, windows, and, in the attic, denim scraps used as insulation. Built in the 1920s, the house had been renovated as a "green bungalow" as part a project the city of Chicago launched last year.
Defined as cottages with a low-profile roof and single attic dormer, bungalows account for about a third of Chicago's single-family houses. Most of the city's 80,000 bungalows were constructed between 1900 and 1940.
"Energy efficiency wasn't around when the bungalows were built," says Charles Shanabruch, executive director of the Historic Chicago Bungalow Association. "This is a great idea. The project gives people new ideas, directions, products, and materials to work with."
Day and Scott paid $143,000 for the house and moved in last September. They live in Chicago's Marquette Park on the same block as three other previously vacant bungalows that were restored in a way that conserves energy and materials. The "green bungalow" project is part of Mayor Richard Daley's strategy to make the Windy City known as an environmentally friendly place.
"We wanted to take these historic buildings and develop the green technology without destroying historic details," explains David Reynolds, the deputy commissioner of the city's department of environment. To restore the bungalows, the city's housing and energy departments worked with the Neighborhood Housing Services of Chicago, the Southwest Home Equity Assurance Program, the Greater Southwest Development Corp., and the Historic Chicago Bungalow Association. "Each of the not-for-profits bring their own expertise and strengths," Reynolds says.
All of the four houses had been foreclosed about five years ago and were boarded up when they were chosen for the program in 2001. Each was to be developed according to a theme: handicapped-accessible, home office, young professional's home, and a classic bungalow.
"Everyone who worked on the project tried to ensure that materials were shipped from local suppliers to conserve resources," says Nate Kipnis, one of the project architects. "It's fine and dandy to say we're using marble, but if it's marble shipped from Italy, it kind of defeats the purpose of energy efficiency."
Denim scraps insulate the attic of Day and Scott's classic bungalow, the one model where all the interior trim was saved and reused. The original water boiler stayed in the basement as an example of how bungalows were heated, but the house now uses a tankless water heater. Popular in Europe, the small, energy-efficient unit heats water on demand in seconds, while older models keep water warm all day, driving up gas bills.
In the handicapped-accessible bungalow, workers widened all the doorways, added a wheelchair lift to the side of the house, and planted gardens at wheelchair level. A cork floor conserves heat during the winter, and old newspapers and phonebooks insulate the attic. The kitchen countertops are lowered to wheelchair height, but overhead cabinets make the kitchen useful to non-handicapped owners. Geothermal energy, a system that saves hundreds of dollars annually, heats and cools the house via three 150-feet deep holes in the back yard.
The office bungalow's floor tiles are made of recycled tires, and it's insulated with rock wool, popular in the early 20th-century. Kipnis prefers it to other types of insulation because it's non-flammable and non-allergenic. Radiant floor heat and slate flooring keep the house warm in the winter: It's heated by a system that works as both a furnace and hot-water heater, circulating hot water through coils while a fan blows warm air generated by the hot water. The system draws outside air for combustion and can hold up to 40 gallons of hot water.
The roof of the young professional's bungalow has air-flow panels to keep the deck from rotting and solar panels that provide electricity. Windows are made from aluminum, and the trim from recycled wood. A special heating system saves money, since more heat is provided incrementally as winter sets in.
When spring arrives, the bungalows' landscaped gardens will bloom in an environmentally friendly way. In each garden, French drains recycle rainwater to maintain hardy native plants. The city selected varieties that don't need as much water as other exotic species.
Perhaps the bungalows' biggest contribution to the environment is their impact on their immediate surroundings on Fairfield Street. After all, the four previously forgotten houses have been sold to new owners (the most expensive bungalow was the young professional's model, which sold for $155,000). And, the city says, the green bungalows have inspired others to undertake similar renovations on bungalows in the up-and-coming Chicago Lawn and Marquette Park neighborhoods.

Why would I want my property included in a historic district?

From Portland Oregon http://www.portlandlandmarks.org/historic_district.shtml

Local historic districts are created to protect historic areas or groups of historic structures against loss of historic fabric and features and to prevent insensitive changes. The properties within a historic district are a source of community pride. The National Trust for Historic Preservation has found that local historic districts provide the following benefits to their communities:
-local districts protect the investment of owners and residents of historic properties;
-local districts encourage better quality design;
-local districts help the environment by contributing to the revitalization of neighborhoods and conserving the resources they contain;
-historic districts provide a tangible link to the past, a way to bring meaning to history and people's lives;
-a local district can result in a positive economic impact;
-local districts enhance business recruitment potential;
-local districts provide social and psychological benefits.