Antoinette May

Kevin had grown up in one of the Gold Country’s oldest and most historic homes. The house, built in 1852 when Mokelumne Hill was a contender for the state capital, could have been the gubernatorial mansion.

But, by 2003, the Gothic Revival home had stood empty for many years and was falling to ruin. Kevin, feeling a strong sense of personal history, mourned his family home. “My five brothers and I had grown up there,” he says, “you can’t imagine the happy memories.”

Debbie, whose maiden name was Garamendi, is part of a pioneer tradition in the foothills. Her thoughts extended beyond the family. “The house is part of the Gold Rush heritage,” she feels. “It’s a legacy that belongs to the town, the county, the state. We felt an obligation to do something about that.”

The six McCartney brothers had inherited the house together, but as the family discussed the renovation project, it became clear that Kevin and Debbie were the ones to take it on. That was the easy part. Knowing that the couple had no plans to turn the house into a B & B, the other five brothers were happy to sell their shares. Everyone was excited at the prospect of their family home coming back to life.

The search was on for a contractor. The couple lives in Placerville. Kevin works with the Boys and Girls Clubs of America, Debbie with the New Morning, a non-profit organization that provides support and counseling to battered wives and children. The house is conceived as a frequent vacation place now, a retirement home later. In the meantime they needed a local builder they could trust.

The hard part was finding someone who shared their vision. Any number of fine contractors wanted to tear the old building down and replace it with a modern showplace. The McCartneys were adamant. Restore the old place or nothing.

Fantasy collided with destiny when they met Jan Schmidiger. By January 2004, Schmidiger was making a name for herself with historic renovations.

The restoration the McCartneys wanted was one giant step beyond that but Schmidiger was ready.

In order to put in heating/air conditioning and plumbing, the old floor had to come out. The whole family pitched in with that. “We thought we might find Gold Rush relics,” Kevin confided. “All we turned up was my brother Vince’s grammar school report card.”

With the painstaking dedication of archaeologists, family members and workmen carefully removed the old boards. Each was numbered so it can eventually be put back. Once the bare bones had been uncovered, the project’s first major obstacle was apparent.

Perhaps Schmidiger hadn’t signed on to be an engineer but that’s what she was to became. Termites had made a salad bar of the foundation. A new one would have to be built. The house couldn’t be raised without sacrificing its 150-year old chimneys, so the rocky ground beneath it had to be excavated 18 inches.

“It was amazing the amount of rock that had to be removed,” Schmidiger says. “This was further complicated by the difficulty of getting equipment and material up the steep hill and around the sharp corners. But that was only one problem we faced—and not the worst.”

While Schmidiger might have anticipated construction problems, she never expected a battle with city hall. “The Calaveras County permit process was tougher than excavating the house,” she admits. “I thought they’d be more supportive to the historic process. After 24 ‘talks,’ we realized that wasn’t the case.”

Judith Marvin, an architectural historian residing in Sheep Ranch, might have advised her otherwise. Having just returned from the California Preservation Foundation conference in Riverside, Marvin is in a position to make comparisons. “Many counties make concerted efforts to preserve historic structures,

Calaveras isn’t one of them,” she says. “You could burn down Monticello and no one would care.”

Jan Schmidiger, a woman doing well in the so-called man’s world of construction, decided to fight city hall. Hearing of a class offered in Sacramento in the use of the state historic building code, she enrolled and subsequently learned of an existing state code that exempts historic houses from rigid modern requirements.

That still wasn’t enough for some county members who insisted that the state had no right to tell the county how to run its business. Once again, Schmidiger was able to produce evidence to the contrary. The McCartney house had been listed in the Mokelumne Hill Community Plan compiled Judith Marvin and other historians as a structure holding special historic and architectural significance.

“Historic preservation is the way the world is going,” Schmidiger says, “the way the wind’s blowing. Anyone who doesn’t like it might as well set sail and find a new port.”

One county official who has no intention of setting sail is Supervisor Steve Wilensky. Wilensky, like the McCartneys and Schmidiger, views historic structures as the soul of the community. “If we value our soul, we must protect our heritage. More than mere nostalgia should make us take this seriously. The wonderful old houses are what makes the Gold Country special—that’s why people come here.

“It takes a big effort for people like the McCartneys to preserve the authenticity of an ancient structure. I hope in the future the county will do everything in its power to facilitate the process rather than impede it. Its in the public interest to do so.

“Consideration of individual circumstances doesn’t necessarily come naturally, but I intend to use my office to make this happen. The living embodiment of Mok Hill is in the spirit lies in its buildings. We are stewards of its trust. What will our children see when they come here?”

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