New Owners Revive Historic Kirkwood Landmark

For 168 years, the Marquitz-Garesche House has stood as a silent witness to the evolution of Kirkwood, a leafy suburb of St. Louis. This elegant white clapboard home, constructed in 1858—three years before the outbreak of the American Civil War—has long been a symbol of architectural grandeur. Its presence as the oldest house in the North Taylor neighborhood played a pivotal role in the entire area being designated a historic site, earning its place on the National Register of Historic Places in 1982. When Harlee Sorkin, 52, a CEO of a heart health startup, and his wife, Annelle, 51, a Pilates instructor, purchased the property for $635,000 last February, many in the community viewed it as a promising chapter for the home's future. Former owner Mary Glen, who resided there for nearly half a century, expressed optimism that the Sorkins would honor the house's legacy. But that optimism has now turned to dismay as the couple's plans to demolish the structure have ignited a firestorm of controversy.

The Sorkins' vision for the property, revealed through a rendering obtained by the Daily Mail, is nothing short of jarring. Their proposal includes tearing down the 19th-century home and replacing it with a larger, modern structure clad in stone and featuring ultra-modern black window frames, a design reminiscent of the work of Chip and Joanna Gaines. The proposed home bears striking similarities to the $1.4 million mansion where the Sorkins currently live in the affluent Topping Estates neighborhood. While the Marquitz-Garesche House is officially designated a local landmark since 1982, there are no local ordinances explicitly prohibiting its demolition. Glen and other residents have repeatedly attempted to intervene, but the Sorkins remain undeterred.

Mary Glen, who lived in the house from 1976 until 2025 with her late husband, has become a vocal opponent of the demolition. In a letter to her local newspaper, she expressed her outrage, calling the Sorkins' plans a betrayal of the home's history. Glen spent $1.3 million maintaining the property over the decades, ensuring its preservation despite the challenges of aging infrastructure. She insists that the Sorkins' claims about the home's condition are either false or based on a lack of due diligence. "I conveyed this information to the Sorkins," she said, referring to her prior testing of the attic insulation, which found no asbestos. She also pointed out that the staircase the Sorkins described as "narrow" is a historic feature and structurally sound.

Harlee Sorkin, in a public hearing last July, claimed the couple initially intended to preserve the home. He stated they hired an architect and builder to restore it but ultimately concluded the scale of renovations required would compromise its historic character. "Nobody looks at a historic house and says, 'I want to tear this down,'" Sorkin said, emphasizing that their decision was not made lightly. However, Glen and others in the community argue that the home is not beyond saving. They contend that the Sorkins' concerns—such as lead paint, narrow stairs, and outdated plumbing—are not insurmountable obstacles. Glen noted that the home has been repainted with unleaded paint, its lead pipes replaced with copper, and its wiring and roof updated.

The Sorkins' proposal has divided Kirkwood. Some residents see it as an opportunity for a modern home to rise where a historic one once stood, while others view it as a tragic loss of a cultural treasure. The Marquitz-Garesche House, with its intricate clapboard design and storied past, represents more than just a building—it is a piece of living history. As the debate continues, the community waits to see whether the Sorkins' vision will reshape Kirkwood's landscape or whether a last-minute effort will succeed in halting the demolition. For now, the house stands as both a monument to the past and a battleground for the future.

The Sorkins' rendering of the replacement home, unveiled last July, has drawn comparisons to their current residence in Topping Estates. The proposed structure, with its stone-clad exterior and stark black windows, contrasts sharply with the white clapboard original. While the Sorkins argue that the home's condition necessitates such drastic changes, Glen and other neighbors insist that the house can be preserved with careful restoration. The conflict highlights a broader tension between modernization and heritage conservation, one that continues to play out in neighborhoods across the country. As the final days of the Marquitz-Garesche House approach, its fate remains uncertain—a poignant reminder of the delicate balance between progress and preservation.

When the Sorkins first moved into the Marquitz-Garesche House in Kirkwood, they made it clear from the start that their vision for the property was not one of preservation. "There was no expectation that we would live in it as is," Harlee Sorkin later explained. The challenge, he said, lay in figuring out what it would take to make the 1858 home functional for modern living. But after months of deliberation, the couple concluded that the task was insurmountable. "We ultimately determined it would be a challenge due to loss of historical integrity, incompatibility of modern living standards and, ultimately, safety," they wrote in their application to the Kirkwood Landmarks Commission.

The decision to seek demolition permits sparked immediate backlash from neighbors. In May of last year, just three months after purchasing the home, the Sorkins submitted their request to tear down the structure. Word of the plan spread quickly, prompting Erin Mariscal, a local dentist and longtime resident, to launch a Change.org petition to stop the demolition. The effort has since amassed 1,500 signatures, but Mariscal insists the Sorkins' intentions were never about restoration. "There was clearly no intent to restore this property," she said. "The new owners' lack of due diligence should not result in our community losing a landmark."

For many in Kirkwood, the Marquitz-Garesche House is more than just a building—it's a piece of history. Former owner Mary Glen, who lived in the home for 49 years and invested $1.3 million in repairs, called the Sorkins' plans "outrageous." She described the house as one of the "crown jewels" of the neighborhood, a structure that embodies the area's architectural legacy. "What makes these homes old and unique is why they are landmarks," Glen said, echoing the sentiments of others who argue that modernizing the house would erase its historical value.

Neighbors like Reba Luhrs, who has lived in Kirkwood since 1994, voiced their frustration directly. Luhrs, who displays a "Protect Historic Kirkwood" yard sign, claimed the Sorkins had no intention of living in the home from the start. "He [Harlee Sorkin] claimed he bought the house then found out it was unlivable," she said. "He had no intentions of living in it, he just wanted to demolish it." When shown renderings of the proposed new build, Luhrs dismissed the design as incompatible with the neighborhood's character. "Those people can find another lot, but we can't find another house that was built in 1858," she said. "It's just selfish."

The controversy escalated when the Kirkwood Landmarks Commission initially withheld approval of the demolition plan for the maximum allowed time—270 days. The delay was intended to give the Sorkins and the community an opportunity to explore alternatives, but no viable preservation plan emerged. With the window closing, the Sorkins were left free to proceed with demolition. A group of residents, including four immediate neighbors, then filed a lawsuit to block the project. The effort collapsed last Friday when St. Louis County Circuit Court Judge John N. Borbonus ruled that opponents lacked the legal standing to halt the demolition.

Lawyers for the Sorkins defended their actions, emphasizing that the couple had followed all city regulations and done nothing illegal. "They had consistently stuck to the City of Kirkwood's own rules," their legal team stated. The Sorkins, however, declined further comment when approached by the Daily Mail. Meanwhile, the timeline for demolition remains uncertain, leaving residents in limbo.

As the debate continues, the Sorkins have remained largely out of sight, residing in their sprawling Topping Estates mansion. It's unclear whether they plan to move into the Kirkwood home themselves or if they'll sell their current estate. Earlier this week, Annelle Sorkin was spotted driving her black Porsche Cayenne to a Pilates studio where she teaches classes. For now, the Marquitz-Garesche House stands as a symbol of a divided community—one caught between progress and preservation, with no clear resolution in sight.

The move to this unfamiliar town was supposed to be a fresh start—a chance to rebuild, to escape the shadows of past failures. Instead, it has become a crucible of tension, where every glance from a passing stranger feels like a judgment, and every local interaction is laced with unspoken hostility. For the couple, the stress of this transition is no longer just a personal burden; it is a daily battle against a community that seems determined to make them feel like outsiders. What happens when a family's dream collides with the entrenched prejudices of a place that refuses to welcome them?

The roots of this animosity run deep, entangled in a web of historical grievances and cultural divides. Some locals whisper that the couple's presence is a threat to the town's identity, a slow erosion of traditions that have defined generations. Others speak of economic fears, of jobs lost to outside interests, of a distrust that has festered over decades. Yet, for the couple, these are not abstract fears—they are the weight of every closed door, every cold shoulder, every unreturned greeting. How does one mend the fabric of a community when the threads have been frayed by years of misunderstanding?

They have tried, of course. They've attended town meetings, offered kindness to neighbors, even participated in local events. But the goodwill they extend is often met with suspicion. A child's laughter at a park might turn to silence when the couple walks by. A shopkeeper's smile falters when asked for directions. It is a silent war of exclusion, fought not with weapons, but with the slow, deliberate erasure of belonging. Is it possible to plant a garden in soil that has been poisoned by resentment?

The couple's resilience is admirable, but it is not infinite. The strain of constant vigilance—the need to prove themselves over and over again—has begun to take its toll. Sleepless nights are spent debating whether to stay or flee, whether to fight for acceptance or retreat to the safety of familiarity. Their children, too young to understand the full weight of the hostility, sense the tension in the air, the way their parents' shoulders sag when they leave the house. What kind of future can a child build in a place where their parents are already marked as outsiders?

And yet, there are moments of hope. A few neighbors, though hesitant, have reached out with cautious kindness. A local teacher has invited the children to a school event, a farmer has offered to share produce from his fields. These gestures are fragile, but they are not insignificant. They are the first steps in a long, uncertain journey toward reconciliation. Can a community, so steeped in division, learn to see not just the threat in an outsider, but the humanity?

For now, the couple clings to these small acts of compassion, hoping they might be enough to weather the storm. But the question lingers: how long can a family endure when the world around them is determined to push them away?