Remaking the Steeple
by Cynthia Owen Philip

Once in a great while luck strikes when I least expect it. One overcast morning in late June I was idly sipping a coffee in the window of Samuels in Rhinebeck, when the young man presiding over the shop casually remarked that the Dutch Reformed church around the corner was replacing its restored steeple. Suddenly awakened from creating nonsensical stories about sidewalk amblers, I sped to the corner of Mill and South Streets. There unfolded what I now believe was the most magical event I have witnessed in the 30 years I’ve lived in the town.

Every eye in the large crowd assembled outside the yellow cordon line protecting the work site was trained on a huge square of wood with a toothed circle cut out of its center working its way high above the tree tops towards the staging area beneath the steeple’s base. Black and gray clouds rolled across the sky and great gusts of wind buffeted it from side to side. It did not seem possible that the thin cable guiding it would hold. But it did and, as it approached, three young men—they looked like little boys at that height—began dashing around the staging as they attempted to catch the tag line attached to its lower edge. It was as if they were trying to retrieve an escaped kite. Finally, they secured it. Then, with all the calm of accomplished presti-digitators, they whipped out a level and tape measure and, after some jiggering, adroitly fitted it over one of the clock faces. They had looked to me like a pack of boys sporting in a play fortress; they now became perfectly coordinated precisionists, totally focused on the work at hand.

This impression was reinforced when I shifted my eyes down to the street, where the 70-ton crane was preparing to hoist another side of the clock tower. A deceptively simple rig, its immensely long gray metal boom had been extended by the addition a white enameled tip. A cable ran from the crane’s cab along the boom, then dropped straight down to a large hook to which the objects being raised were attached. Four and a half tons of steel had been stacked behind the crane’s cab as a counterbalance to the loads. The crane’s operator, a large bearded man, was as cool as they come. When not at work he relaxed into an absorbing book, but every muscle was alert as he steered the wide array of shapes over the power and telephone lines and through the tree tops to the staging. I shall never forget the antic ascent of the louvered panels that would surround the octagonal belfry. They leapt and plummeted, spiraled and floated. The crowd held its collective breath in awed suspense until, at last, they were caught and tamed.

Throughout that momentous day, the crew raced against dreaded rain to lift to the staging every part of the restored steeple that could not later be raised by their pulley. (A rumor flying through the crowd was that the crane and its operator cost $400 an hour, hence the hurry.) The last item hoisted was the noble copper-clad dome topped by a thin spire bearing a gold-leafed weather vane. It was early evening and the wind dropped—as it often does then—just as the sun penetrated the streaky clouds, bathing the whole neighborhood in a aura of golden light. The dome went straight up, aglitter in the setting sun. Although it took some nudging, it dropped serenely into place. The crowd dispersed, stiff necked from constant looking up and spiritually fatigued from having endured continuous suspense. But exhilarated by having participated in what had been achieved—if only as audience—they were jubilant. The crane made its stately exit. The steeplejacks who had worked half again as long as routine—seven o’clock in the morning until well after seven in the evening—were mentally and physically exhausted, but thoroughly satisfied by what they had accomplished under pressure.

Above (clockwise from top left): Cupola on truckbed; onlookers watch the reassembly (from the left: Neil Boehm, author Cynthia owen Philip, Bud Rogers, and an unidentified Rhinebeck villager); Crane lowers parts of the belfry; Cupola descends into place.

Choosing a Contractor
Euphoric from having spent the day watching all those multiple skills meshing so expertly, I became curious about how such a grand project came to be. The current brick and stone church dates from 1809, but the congregation could not afford to build the steeple until 1822. That it has stood straight and true for 186 years is proof of work well done. Nevertheless, accumulating ravages of wind, winter icing and time finally caught up with it. Today’s restoration project began with a leak that caused a small patch of plaster to fall from the barrel vault ceiling of the newly painted church sanctuary. Savvy members of the congregation waited for a rainy day to climb the stairs inside the tower on a tour of inspection. Their hearts fell when they were greeted by a cascade of water flowing from the platform on which the cupola stood and engulfing the great bell. At first they hoped a simple repair of the cupola would fix it. But further inspections revealed rotting wood, missing supports and flashing that consisted of puttied-over rags.

A makeshift solution was discarded as an inevitable ongoing nightmare. But losing this irreplaceable landmark building was unthinkable. So, bracing themselves for a long haul, the congregation formed a committee to find and vet companies that specialized in architectural restoration. The companies’ various presentations revealed a host of additional problems, and convinced almost everyone that the most complete restoration would, in the end, be the best restoration. The final choice was Southgate Steeplejacks of Barre, Vermont. It turned out to be a relationship made in heaven.

The Southgate Steeplejacks Company
Work on the steeple started in the fall of 2008 when Southgate Steeplejack’s crew dismantled it piece by piece and took it to their Vermont workshops, having wrapped the sound stub that remained in strong winter-proof plastic. The first order of business in Barre was to take apart and carefully examine each section to determine what needed to be restored and what rebuilt. The church’s project overseers traveled there several times to check on progress. Each time they returned more impressed with the company’s separate wood and metal-working shops and by the quality of work accomplished.

I asked Jay Southgate how he had acquired such a high level of skill in the myriad crafts demanded by his work. “Experience,” he shot back. After high school he took a job in construction and over the years has taken advantage of learning directly from masters of their trades. The secret of his own as well as his crew’s success is that they are all agile renaissance men, jacks of all trades, masters of many, and happy to apply lessons learned on the job to new challenges.

Work on the Reformed Dutch church’s steeple is now drawing to a close. The remaining knotty problem is how to make absolutely watertight the clock faces that have always been prone to tiny leaks. I don’t quite understand its complexities, but I have total faith that a solution will be found.

On September 27 the church will dedicate its bright, copper-clad steeple. Come one, come all to give thanks not only for its restoration but how it was done, both by the steeplejacks and by the congregation. As the pastor Reverend Luis Perez says: the steeple is the high point of the church. Reaching heavenward towards God, whose support it always present, it is a symbol of hope to all who look upon it.

Cynthia Philip’s most recent book is Rhinecliff: A Hudson River History, published by Black Dome Press.