Even if you've never heard Esley Hamilton's name, chances are you've encountered his work.

You've probably driven on the highway he helped reroute, or walked through a park he helped renovate, or passed a historic building his efforts spared.

Now Hamilton, the county's preservation historian, is caught between a renowned past and a precarious future — much like the architectural treasures he has worked 30 years to preserve.

He faces a forced retirement because of cuts to the county's parks department.

Hamilton, 66, has actually been trying to retire for the past year, but his work won't let go of him. In recent months, he has led efforts to save a historic blacksmith shop in Spanish Lake, a Presbyterian church dating to 1839 in Rock Hill and, unsuccessfully, the Brownhurst Mansion in Kirkwood, built in 1892.

He has yet to step down, mostly for lack of a successor. He said he asked his bosses last year who might replace him. Their answer: no one.

"The stumbling block has been for the past year that if I retire, it will be the end of the position," Hamilton said.

Last month, County Executive Charlie A. Dooley proposed dire cuts to next year's parks budget. Hamilton's supervisor pulled him out of his tiny office on the seventh floor of the county's administration building and told him his retirement was no longer optional. His position, and about 35 other full-time jobs in the department, would be eliminated.

Parks Director Lindsey Swanick said Hamilton would have the option to work part time — about 20 hours a week.

"We don't offer that to everyone," she said.

Anything above 20 hours would be voluntary.

"I'll tell you, he volunteers now," she said.

Hundreds of people have turned out to protest the cuts, mostly because they could include the closing of 23 county parks. Some County Council members have promised to fight Dooley's proposed budget.

Lost in the debate is how that budget might affect future preservation efforts.

"Nobody in St. Louis can function without that man," said Jane Gleason, chairwoman of the county's Historic Buildings Commission. "We've all allowed ourselves to lean on him so much that the idea of losing him completely upsets the apple cart."

THE PATH TO ST. LOUIS

Hamilton credits his parents with instilling in him a love of history.

He grew up an only child in the suburbs of Washington, D.C. The family spent free time touring the country, and Hamilton helped plan their itineraries.

He came to St. Louis in 1968 as an intern in the federally funded Model Cities program in East St. Louis. The program was designed to clean up urban areas.

He returned to graduate school at the University of Wisconsin and might never have made it back to the area if not for the Vietnam War. In 1969, Hamilton was drafted. But he could qualify for a deferment if Model Cities hired him. So he asked for a job.

A few years later, he was studying architecture at Washington University when St. Louis County advertised for someone to write three nominations to the National Historic Register. Hamilton applied.

His first nomination was the 1894 Lyceum Building, a former theater, soda fountain, produce shop and hardware store on Manchester Road. About the time Hamilton prepared the nomination, the city of Manchester bought the building to convert to its city hall.

For Hamilton, it remains a perfect example of "adaptive reuse." He believes repurposing a building is the best way to preserve it.

Shortly thereafter, the county hired him full time, and the Historic Buildings Commission charged him with surveying the county's historic structures. The research he created has proved a critical tool for preservation throughout the county.

Eight years ago, the Missouri Department of Transportation was set to demolish three houses in Richmond Heights. The modest homes stood in the way of rebuilding Highway 40. Hamilton and his architecture students at Washington U. studied the area and uncovered the story of one of the first African-American settlements in the county. Because of the research, MoDOT agreed to reroute the highway.

Hamilton has had his disappointments. Chief among them was the 1941 Art Deco-style Coral Court Motel on Watson Road, the old Route 66. In 1995, Hamilton praised it as "one of the foremost examples of streamline modern architecture of the 1930s and 1940s." But the motel — or no-tell as it was called at the time — had become known for its hourly rates. The complex in the village of Marlborough was demolished to make room for a subdivision.

"Over the years, we've lost a lot of buildings that I cared very deeply about," he said. "You have to be sort of fatalistic about it. You aren't going to be able to save everything."

SHARING WITH OTHERS

As Hamilton's influence grew, he earned the nickname the "Answer Man."

It's easy to see why.

On a recent Saturday, he walked through Bellefontaine Cemetery in north St. Louis, giving a private tour.

For hours, he explained the architectural nuances of the granite mausoleums. He traced the history of the city through the influential characters buried there — from beer baron Adolphus Busch to tobacco scion John Edmund Liggett.

His most striking feature may be his voice — a high-pitched version of Mr. Rogers. His thinning gray hair is turning white. He wears his trademark glasses, thin-rimmed and a little too big for his face.

Hamilton, who is single, shuns modern consumer culture. When he opens the newspaper, the first thing he does is toss away the ads.

"I want things I can share with other people," he said. "I'm not acquisitive."

Until two months ago, he drove a 1998 green Chrysler Cirrus he inherited from his father.

The car recently broke down, and he replaced it with a new, bright red Ford Focus. Bob Burns, a lifelong friend, said Hamilton fretted over the gaudy color and only bought it because the dealer didn't have any others in stock.

Burns, a writer and editor for the local Jesuit Bulletin, said he once tried to buy Hamilton a Brooks Brothers shirt as a gift.

"He just looked at it funny," Burns said. "Then he took it back. ... He said, 'I don't take my shirts to the cleaners.'"

Hamilton doesn't own a TV, or computer. He says he doesn't know how to use his cellphone. He lives in a University City duplex he bought in 1988.

He spends money on travel and has friends all over the world.

"Once he makes a friend, it's a friend for life," said Melanie Fatham, another friend. "He remembers things about people that make them feel like he's connecting with them."

Burns said that Hamilton's work is all-consuming. "When I call him in the evening, I call him at work, not at home," he said.

In a way, Hamilton's passion for the past has made him an indelible part of it. For him, the question seems to be not if he will retire, but can he?

He chuckled in response, then offered: "I don't know."