Observations on the House’s Appearance
Looking past the stop sign, the red brick house on the opposite corner appears very similar to my own, built in 1879-80, same red brick, same arched porch trim, same bay windows, and same dental mould. The interior trim seems a little later, maybe mid-1890s, but the paperwork always says, “don’t take things at face value.”
Historical Ownership and Early Years
Charles Love stated the home was built by Lee Woodard in 1897, on property where Marion Woodard (Dr. F.M. Woodard) once lived.
Relocation of the Old House
The old house was moved back to a lot on the north side of Third Avenue, it being the third place from Main Street.
The Woodard Family
Lee and wife Ellen had three children:
- R. L. (Bob) – a doctor who moved to Hopkinsville, KY
- Charlie – a dentist in Springfield
- Winnie – who lived at home with her parents until Lee’s death in 1924
Mother and daughter then moved to Hopkinsville. Winnie later returned to Springfield to live. The house was sold to Clarence Barbee.
Verifying the Timeline
All of this was proven to be true by other sources except for the date the house was built. The deeds show Dr. F. M. Woodard buying the property in 1855, a three-acre tract with a dwelling built by W. B. Adams. Dr. Woodard died in 1878, and the property was willed to five different heirs. The heirs sold the property to John W. Stark in 1899.
The Lee Woodard House
215 North Main Street
Stark subdivided the acreage, selling the house and lot to Lee Woodard in July of 1901.
Later Years and Current Status
The tax records, Sanborn Maps, and census reports all concur with the 1901 date.
After 1924, the house stayed in the Barbee family until 2008, when it was auctioned and sold to Charles Russell from Michigan. Men will come from Michigan a couple of times a year for a week or two to work on the old Lee Woodard House, but the rest of the time it remains vacant.
The sense of emptiness surrounding these once-lively homes is captured well in the following poem:
“Vacancy”
by David C. Allen
There are two houses,
across the street,
old and vacant,
two other houses,
separate them,
their owners barely,
keep them going.
I like to think the white frame,
with the big columns,
might be male,
and the tall red brick,
in the fancy trim,
female.
They stand apart,
and alone,
in cold silence,
empty arms,
stretched to the street,
like winter trees,
needing the sound,
of voices,
and someone to flip on
a light inside them,
as we all do.