Well, lads, we went and it was AWESOME.
The house is surprisingly small, there are two floors [used to be 3, I believe the 3rd floor was added after Mr. Armstrong's death by Mrs. Armstrong, but it was later torn down. The whole house is not more than 2000 sq.ft. or so.
Photography is prohibited inside the house, but I made a couple of shots outside.
The house was purchased by Mrs. A in 1943 while Mr. A was touring and he didn't get to see it till some time later. At that time Corona used to be an Irish-Italian neighborhood, but now is mainly Hispanic and African-American.
Mrs. A had called him up to tell him she’d bought a house and gave him the address over the phone. When he got in town he told a cab driver to take him to the address on the scrap of paper and when they got there he didn’t want to go in, thinking it was some mistake, that the house was too nice to be his and that he wrote the address wrong.
He was in his mid-forties when they bought the place, his first home, and his last.
Anyway, the ticket office and the gift shop are on the left, in what used to be the garage. Behind the brick wall is a Japanese garden that the Armstrongs made out of an empty lot they purchased for $10,000 some years after they moved in. I think the house itself cost $3,500.
The building is immaculately preserved both outside and inside. Shortly before her death Mrs. A had hired a lady by the name of Bessie Smith[!] who, even 20 years after Mrs. A's death used to come 2-3 times/week and dusted and mopped the place.
It's just a very warm, cozy place, nothing flashy except for the 360* mirrored bathroom on the first floor. Gold fixtures, marble basin; that’s how the man wanted it. And it looks good. There are even some bottles of his cologne on the shelves.
It's amazing, but the feeling I got was that he just stepped out for a pack of smokes. His hand-written notes are on the desk in his study, next to his reading glasses. It's well-known that he used to record reel-to-reel tapes of everything that he found to be of interest, even phone conversations with friends. Over 600 of his tapes are stored in Queens College archives.
I'm plannning to read a good bio of his, but seeing the house was more than enough to tell me - he was not a tragic persona. I was wrong. The feeling I got was that he was quite happy, actually.
Above the first floor window is a terrace from which he used to trumpet-call the neighborhood children, letting them know he was back in town.
Don't tell anybody, but they let me ring the door bell.