Why We Show Up for Old Houses

My name is Yvette Paris, and together with my husband, James, I am a co-founder of Riverbend Renewal. Long before there was a nonprofit or a formal mission, there was simply a shared belief that the places we live in matter — and that caring for historic buildings, large and small, is one of the most meaningful ways to care for a community.

I’ve always been drawn to historic places. Even early in my career, long before Riverbend Renewal existed, I was far more interested in buildings with stories than in blank slates. As a registered interior designer, I’ve spent nearly two decades working in the built environment, and that experience has shaped how I see preservation. I believe deeply that architectural integrity — whether in a grand landmark or a modest worker’s cottage — is what gives a place its character. When those details are lost, something essential about a neighborhood disappears with them.

James brings a different but equally critical perspective. He is a passionate historical researcher by profession, with a career rooted in military history, and an avid genealogist with a rare gift for uncovering records and piecing together stories that are nearly lost to time. Where I tend to focus on materials, proportion, and design intent, James looks for the human narrative — who lived here, how they worked, and why a place mattered in its moment. Together, those perspectives have shaped how we approach preservation: as both a physical and cultural responsibility.

We didn’t begin this journey as experts. When we purchased our historic home in Alton more than a decade ago, we were enthusiastic, optimistic, and largely unprepared for what stewardship truly requires. Like many old-house owners, we were captivated by the charm and craftsmanship and underestimated the commitment behind it. What followed was years of learning — some of it graceful, much of it humbling.

Living in a historic home changes you. No project is ever really finished. There are always repairs to make, systems to understand, tools to acquire, and new challenges to solve. Over time, we moved from being well-meaning, slightly naive homeowners to what we now consider ourselves: seasoned historic house people. We don’t pretend to know everything, but we’ve had our hands on enough projects — inside and out — to understand the patience, persistence, and care these buildings demand.

Alton itself played a profound role in shaping this perspective. It’s a river town rich with architectural character and layered history — brick streets, original storefronts, houses built with intention rather than speed. These buildings don’t just line our streets; they hold our neighborhoods together. But like many communities across the country, Alton has also seen too many historic homes fall into disrepair or face demolition. That loss isn’t just physical. It’s cultural. It’s economic. And it’s deeply personal.

That reality came into sharper focus when we took on a small, long-neglected house on Union Street. The house itself wasn’t grand. It had been sitting empty for years, quietly fading into the background. But as we began cleaning it up, repairing what we could, and simply showing consistent care, something unexpected happened.

People noticed.

A cleaned-up yard. A repaired porch. An American flag hung with intention. A wreath on the door. These were small gestures, but they sent a clear message: this house mattered. And when a house matters, the block feels different. Neighbors stopped to talk. Passersby slowed down. A sense of pride — and possibility — returned.

That experience reshaped how we think about preservation. Historic homes are not just individual projects; they are anchors. When they are neglected or lost, something intangible disappears along with them. When they are cared for — even in modest ways — the impact ripples outward, strengthening the fabric of a neighborhood one small improvement at a time.

As our involvement deepened, we began showing up in other ways: researching properties at risk of demolition, digging into historic records, preparing landmark nominations, attending historic commission meetings, and collaborating with preservation professionals across Illinois. What we learned quickly is that these situations are complicated. Ownership structures are tangled. Bureaucracy is real. There are no easy answers.

But what matters most is that someone is paying attention.

Riverbend Renewal grew from that realization. James and I founded the organization to support the people who care — homeowners, neighbors, tradespeople, advocates — and to make preservation feel less intimidating and more attainable. We believe meaningful change doesn’t have to begin with sweeping plans or large-scale intervention. It begins with showing up, learning together, and making small, visible investments in the places that give our communities their character.

One house. One skill. One act of care at a time.