By Jim Hunt for the News and Journal
I spent the past week painting my grandfather’s old house in Clarksburg, and the job turned into a stroll down memory lane. It had been several years since I last painted it, and after enduring several harsh winters, I worried the place might not survive another without some serious damage. The earliest records indicate that the house was originally sold in 1888, and my grandparents purchased it in 1941. From time to time, people ask if I’d consider selling it, and as I get older, the thought does cross my mind. But as I power washed the front porch, I thought about the role this house has played in my life and realized I’m not ready to part with it just yet.
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My grandfather, Andy Husovsky, came to America after his mother died during childbirth for twins that did not survive. He was eighteen or nineteen when, he left Slovakia to venture out into the world. He ended up in London for a short time working in the shipyards. The talk among the workers often turned to the promise of America, and before long Andy boarded a steamer bound for Ellis Island. He first settled in Homestead, Pennsylvania, where relatives had already made a home. Soon he heard about a tin plating mill hiring in Clarksburg, West Virginia, and headed south. There he met Magdalena Karkoska, a young woman who worked as a domestic for families in the city. They married and began building a life together.
Andy was a hard worker and soon purchased a home in the Montpelier section of Clarksburg. As his family grew, he decided to invest in another property. He found a modest two-story frame house for sale across from Holy Rosary Catholic Church, founded by the growing Slovak community. For Andy, the house represented stability and security. Over the years, it sheltered several generations of our family. His daughter Margaret moved in when her husband, Elmer, shipped off to World War II, staying until his return. Later, his youngest daughter, my mother, married and, with my father, started their family in the same little house. In November 1950, I was brought home from St. Mary’s Hospital to begin my life there. After many Christmases, birthdays, adventures in the small, fenced yard, and memories too numerous to count, our family eventually outgrew the house and moved across the bridge to a larger home.
When my grandmother passed away, my grandfather moved into the house on Pike Street and became our after-school babysitter and family chef. My sister and I attended Linden Grade School, just down the alley, and we would come home each day for lunch. Granddad would don an apron and serve Campbell’s Tomato Soup with saltines before shooing us back to class. He also delivered constant lectures about wasting toilet paper—until one day we came home to find ten tiny squares folded neatly where the roll had been. Lesson learned.
The house stayed in the family for decades, providing shelter for both of my sisters at different times. After my dad passed away, it sat empty for years, serving mainly as a storage place until my mother passed it on to me. I didn’t really “need” it, but I couldn’t stand the thought of anyone else owning this piece of our family’s history. With a new roof, a little cleanup and repair, it became a quiet retreat, a place where I could write, record podcasts, and, at times, feel the presence of my grandfather in the very spot where he once kept his bed.
Andy Husovsky’s dream of owning that property was symbolic of his journey to America—the land where, in his eyes, the streets were paved with gold. His entrepreneurial spirit still lingers in those walls. And so, even after a long week of scraping, painting, and cleaning, I finished the job with a smile. Each brush stroke reminded me that this little house is more than lumber and nails—it is a family heirloom and a living reminder of the history that shaped my life.
