Photography by Carmen Troesser
Tim Glastetter's “river house” lies just south of Union, in Franklin County, off a pocked gravel road. It’s set in some woods and perched above the Bourbeuse River, on a 9-acre parcel that Glastetter bought a decade and a half ago, when it was wildly overgrown; he wound up finding no fewer than 24 toilets, 100 tractor tires, countless feral chickens, a Virgin Mary statue (enshrined in an upended bathtub), three mobile homes, and other odd objects that he believes may’ve been part of an informal junkyard/flea market run by the previous owner. The property also held seven small bungalows, possibly the remnants of a Boy Scout camp. (He’s in the process of refurbishing some.)
Photography by Carmen Troesser
One of the bungalows on the property
But what intrigued Glastetter most was the main house—or, more accurately, his vision for the main house. Aside from being a decorative painter, Glastetter is someone with severe dyslexia and a knack for visualizing the reuse of used materials. “We look at things differently,” he says of those living with his condition.
Glastetter, who lives in nearby Washington and St. Louis, spent years decluttering the property. He kicked his project into overdrive in 2015, around the time of a divorce. He noticed near the front door a medallion boasting that the house was powered by electricity; the house dates back to the mid-’60s, he says. He found some pantry and closet doors and turned them into front shutters. Over on the side of the house lay a covered wooden porch; he constructed a new porch but used some of the recovered wood from the old one to erect an outdoor bar.
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Photography by Carmen Troesser
Tim Glastetter
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Photography by Carmen Troesser
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Photography by Carmen Troesser
Glastetter installed all new windows and doors, but inside, he retained the original hardwood flooring. To add rustic texture to the dining room walls, he lined them with wood siding from one of the bungalows. Many of his furniture pieces have quirky backstories. In the living room, for instance, stands a glass cabinet that Glastetter obtained from a convent near his childhood home. In the guest bedroom sits a wood bed frame that Glastetter bought for $5 when he was just 8 years old, attending an auction with his mother.
Photography by Carmen Troesser
He has used trampoline springs to hang a mirror and metal chains to hang paintings. Perhaps his most intriguing contraptions are the light fixtures throughout the house, fashioned almost entirely of salvaged material: Broom handles. Toilet connectors. An ampere gauge. Vacuum cords. Fan blades. Plumbing pipe. “People buy and use things and throw them away,” he says. “There’s so much great stuff being disposed of that you can use to create awesome things that people want.”
Humans aren’t the only beneficiaries of his ingenuity. Out in the yard, Glastetter’s built a multi-module complex for three guinea hens, complete with a working chandelier inside their laying room.
But humans do tend to gush over the place, he says, whether they’re guests at one of his big parties or just a family with kids looking to kayak or fish in the Bourbeuse’s sluggish muddy current. What they all appreciate is the simplicity of the place—the lazy rhythms of book-reading on the deck, of board games, of kicking around through super-oxygenated air, of stumbling across yet another of his vintage creations. Go down the hill near the riverbank, and you’ll notice the old sink with verdant leaves spilling out, or that pair of old shoes, nailed to a tree, that now serves as a planter. Such is the vibe here: Out of old things, a freshness.
Check out more of Glastetter's work here.
