[Times photos: Ken Helle] Old Ybor meets new as a historic double shotgun house moves between rows of apartments on its way to a new location. Dick Knapp, left, owner of Masonry Movers, helps make sure the road is clear ahead of the tractor.

By JEFF KLINKENBERG, Times Staff Writer
© St. Petersburg Times published December 9, 2002

Old Ybor City houses - in the path of progress - have to go, but some of them aren't going far. Crews are moving them to a new future.

YBOR CITY -- Humma humma.

In Ybor City, that's the sound of history moving.

A portly guy flicks a switch, and his payloader tractor roars to life. As the wheels roll, as the gears creak, the payloader groans with effort. It's towing a 60,000-pound antique house out of harm's way.

Interstate 4 is expanding. Historic houses, built in the late 19th century during Ybor's cigar heyday, are in the way. Ones nearest the interstate corridor are being knocked down. But others are being moved to new locations. Humma humma.

The king of humma humma is an intense, bearded man named Kim Brownie. He owns Brownie and Sons, one of the nation's oldest companies that specializes in moving buildings. He usually spends his time on Florida's east coast near his Port St. Lucie corporate headquarters. But he's helping Dick Knapp move houses in Ybor. Knapp, 77, will retire in a few weeks. When he does, he's selling his four-decade-old company, Masonry Movers, to Brownie. Moving Ybor is, at least for a little while longer, a team effort.

Kim Brownie (center, behind wheels) works with Rubin Butler, left, to get the house into the right position on its new lot. Brownie and Sons is one of the nation's oldest building moving companies.

When the original I-4 was built through Tampa four decades ago, nobody gave much thought to the potential negative impact on the working-class neighborhood. The highway cut Ybor in half, keeping north side residents away from their friends, and the stores, on the south side. Some residents were so innocent about traffic they tried crossing I-4 on foot.

Next year the highway will be widened to eight lanes, at a cost of $247-million. But now historic preservation is considered important. About $8-million is being spent to move and restore 32 homes to former glory. It's a project involving the Federal Highway Administration, the Florida Department of Transportation, the city of Tampa, preservationists, architects and historians. Not to mention a little humma humma.

Moving a historic building in Ybor can be a $25,000 job or a $250,000 one. It depends on size, difficulty and distance. Moving a house is what might be called a labor-intensive activity. In 1923, when Kim Brownie's grandpa started the business, he used mules to move shacks. Now Brownies use heavy machinery. But old rules still apply: Do no harm.

"You don't want to break the house you're moving," he says.

"The houses are sturdy but old", says Jo-Anne Peck, an architect for Preservation Resource Inc., left, walking through the house after the move with Ybor City State Museum park ranger Patti Cross.

Especially the old houses of Ybor. Known as La Casitas, the small houses were built by the hundreds after Vicente Martinez Ybor moved his cigar operations from Key West to Tampa in 1886. As other factories arrived, up went the little houses known as shotgun shacks because a pellet load supposedly fired through the front door would go straight out the back.

They were basic but nice. A La Casita had tall ceilings and big windows, which helped new Floridians cope with a Tampa summer in the days before air conditioning. Houses featured glass doorknobs and gingerbread trim. Grouped close together, the houses included front porches to foster community. Babies were born in the houses, and old people died there. Meals were cooked, clothes were patched together and young black-haired men sat on stoops strumming guitars to attract senoritas. Come morning, most of the men headed for factories to roll cigars by hand.

That Ybor is practically gone now. But away from the Bourbon Street glitz of today's Seventh Avenue, there are at least some people who take their glorious history seriously. So let the interstate come. But save some houses first.

Kim Brownie whistles through his fingers, and the payloader tractor starts rumbling again.

Every job has its challenges

The house is at 1209 E 13th Ave. It's on the south side of I-4 in an old neighborhood. It's an unusual house, built around 1910, a double shotgun with a second story.

It's going to be moved about a mile to a special location. Its new home will be at the Ybor City State Museum at 1808 E Ninth Ave. After it's prettied up with new wood and paint -- but not prettied enough to look modern -- it likely will become a gift shop.

But that's months away. First it has to arrive intact. Easier said than done.

Kim Brownie wasn't born yesterday. In fact, he was born about a half-century ago and grew up learning the moving trade in New York from his granddad and later his father. How many houses, how many buildings, has he moved?

"I wouldn't know where to begin."

He has moved everything from shacks to mansions. Once, in Boca Raton, his crew loaded an 1,100-ton, 14,000-square-foot palace on a barge and shipped it up the Intracoastal Waterway to Fort Pierce. It took three months and more money than he'll say.

Another time he moved a 575-ton building, a historical landmark, in Palm Beach. "That was a tough one," he admits. "It was on the sand. We had to dig under it."

But that doesn't make an old 30-ton house in Ybor small potatoes.

"Every job is different," he says, "and every job has its challenges. The whole thing is about anticipating problems."

He has a six-person crew. They include men, only men, both burly and wiry. The burly guys do heavy lifting. The wiry guys crawl under houses and strap equipment to fragile structures. Brownie also usually has at least one crewman who must be part bird. He climbs to the top of the house with a chain saw. Leaning precariously from the roof, he cuts tree limbs from the house's path.

Pretend you didn't read that sentence about cutting inconvenient trees. Yes, all permits are in place. But old-timey house movers hate bureaucracy. When Brownie and Dick Knapp get together, the subject always comes up.

"The bureaucrats request a fax. You send them the fax," Knapp says. "Then the next day they call you and ask you to send the same fax. They've lost it."

"We're the old generation," Brownie says. "We grew up knowing how to get work done and liking to work hard. These days you're pleasantly surprised if everybody reports for work on time."

When they arrive, Brownie is waiting. To his crew, he is bad cop and good cop, a father figure and a butt-kicking authority. When he whistles, and he whistles a lot, heads snap to attention.

Tampa police officers are ready to stop traffic if need be as an old Ybor house creeps toward the Ybor City State Museum, where it will probably become a gift shop.

Sometimes they snap to attention during the wee hours of the morning, when much work is done to minimize stopping traffic. Over on Seventh Avenue, folks are leaving the clubs and staggering to their cars.

But sometimes a man gets lucky.

"You'd think I'd get used to night moves," Brownie says. "But I never have. It takes me three days to catch up on my sleep. When I found out I was going to move this house during the day, I rejoiced."

House moves start only one way. Somebody crawls under the house and figures out how to do it. La Casitas are easy in one respect. All stand on piers about 4 feet off the ground. Not much digging required.

Okay. Go under the house. Do a little digging to give yourself more room. Then attach heavy steel beams to the bottom of the floor. Bring in heavy wooden ties and stack them from the ground to just under the floor. Now bring in the air-powered jacks and put them on the wooden ties and lift the house -- to some ears the lifting sounds like a creaking door in a haunted house -- just high enough to attach wheels. Don't think of car wheels. Think of the wheels you'd see on jet airliners. A 30-ton house requires 24 wheels.

What you just read might sound simple. But it's not. A lot of sweat is involved, and swearing and head bumping and constant adjustments. Innocent bystanders watch in trepidation. What if a jack fails? Well, the jacks don't fail -- the air-powered jacks Brownie brings with him look like they could lift the Columbia restaurant if needed.

So on a cool Tuesday morning, there's a house on wheels sitting at the end of E 13th. There are also police, to hold back traffic. There are telephone, cable and power company linemen to move wires out of the way. A bunch of people just rubberneck nervously, probably because they are hopped up on Cuban coffee from La Tropicana.

An old house on wheels

Preparing a house for relocation [Times art: Michael G. Cothran] To be considered for relocation, a house must be sturdy enough to survive the move. In preparation for the move, windows and doors are covered. Space is cleared below the house to create more room for the crew to work. Steel beams are attached to the bottom of the house to create a rigid platform that will allow the structure to be moved without being damaged. Stacked wooden beams support the weight of the house once the remaining pieces of the foundation have been removed. Air-powered jacks lift the house to allow large dollies to be attached to the steel beams. Each jack is capable of lifting thousands of pounds. Once all the wheels are in place, the wooden supports are removed. The house is ready to be transported.

If things can go wrong, of course they do. She spent years with historians trying to identify houses for relocation. She worked with the DOT to get money. Then the house would burn down. Or maybe somebody would sneak in and steal the nice glass doorknobs that made the house so special. The DOT welded doors shut. But thieves figured a way in: through the floor. The process to find worthy houses would begin again.

"The houses are sturdy but old," says Jo-Anne Peck, an architect for Preservation Resource Inc. Her husband and business partner, Craig Deroin, has spent a lot of time in the dark, crawling under the old Ybor houses or knocking on walls. "Some of the walls have so many termites they sound like one of those rainsticks from the Amazon. But basically, the houses we pick are okay."

They're okay, but intimidating. "When you first go into one of these old dilapidated houses, you're overwhelmed," says building contractor Tim Smith, who has restored a few of the old Ybor buildings. "They're in such rough shape. Yet there's nothing like one of these old, basic yellow pine houses. You take it apart, get rid of the termite wood, and put everything back together again. It's fine. They knew how to build houses in the old days."

Illes, the transportation planner, is cheered by such words. She is also cheered by the sight of a house on wheels actually moving in a timely manner toward its final destination.

Humma humma.

Brownie whistles; Payloader stops

Sometimes Kim Brownie climbs behind the wheel of the tractor -- officially it's a rubber-tire Clark Model 55 Payloader with a Detroit diesel -- and tows the house. Just as often it might be Todd Schutz. He's 24, blond and muscular. When he's behind the wheel, he keeps one eye on the road and one eye on Brownie. Brownie whistles. Payloader stops.

It's a curb. Out come wood blocks and steel slats. The bump is neutralized. Humma humma. Stop. Watch out for that street sign! Brownie's workers lean on the sign until it bends out of the way. House passes safely.

Brownie whistles. Stop! Power lines. Tampa Electric Co. worker shuts power off and lifts line with a pole. House passes beneath.

An adjustment under the house. Brownie whistles fiercely at one of his crew. "Take off your sunglasses so I can make good eye contact," he yowls.

Okay. Now the payloader makes a right turn on 18th. Stop! The guy on the roof cranks up his chain saw. Oak limbs fall like confetti. House can pass. The old building sails like a rusty ocean freighter between a line of shiny apartments. Old Ybor, meet new.

Payloader picks up speed. It's going about a mile an hour now. When driver Schutz gets off work, he climbs into his Dodge pickup and steps on the gas. He admits he has received more than one speeding ticket in his life.

Historians pour out of the Ybor City State Museum as their house arrives. More tree cutting. More busy work under the house. Brownie takes command of the payloader and pushes the house into place.

It's taken four hours to move a mile. Anything broken? Nope. Are you sure? Everything is fine. It's over.

"Piece of cake," Kim Brownie says. "Almost like a day off."

History moved.

Humma humma.

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