Post Office Mural: Eaton, Ohio

 

"Van Ausdal's Trading Post" by Roland Schwiensburg

This painting depicts the trading post owned by Cornelius Van Ausdal, originally of Virginia, trading with the Shawnee Chief, Tecumseh. The painting depicts the log cabin that Van Ausdal owned on East Main Street, prior to building a large brick structure in 1822.

Roland Schwiensburg, of Youngstown, was commissioned by the WPA to paint the mural and it was hung in the post office in September 1939. 

detail

 

Springfield, Ohio

East Main Street

As the National Road (US 40) winds its way west from Columbus, the next major population center is Springfield, Ohio in a rather flat region of the state. The home of the Shawnee prior to the American Revolutionary War, the city was a hub of manufacturing with several automobile companies located in the city in the early twentieth century. As manufacturing jobs disappeared, the city suffered a substantial population drop as well, losing a quarter of its population since 1960.

Today, US40 is lined with shops selling CBD oil, tattoo parlors and instant loan store fronts. An abandoned house, with a front picture window broken out and the rest bordered up, had sleeping bag, pillow, and assorted clothes strewn on a side porch. The porch devoid of its paint.

Former manufacturing office on Murray Street

A bowling alley, a place of entertainment and communal exchange in the bygone era of manufacturing, had a sign that indicated it was opened Fridays, Saturdays, and Sundays; but it was not. Several flyers were scattered on the stoop, and the derelict doors told a different story.

Nevertheless, the mood of the town is defiant according to signs and advertisements. Many express an impatience with a new economy. A dilapidated duplex on a side street had a wooden sign, usually made a local fairs and artisan shows, that simply read: “The Lord is My Shepherd”.

Guerra’s Krazy Taco (Springfield, OH)

Tucked on a side street of the post-industrial city of Springfield, Ohio, Guerra’s appears to be little more than a typical neighborhood bar with a cool mural painted along the side of the building. But upon entering, the assault of bright colors and delicious smells stands in stark contrast to the drab and dreariness of the city’s decaying center. An interesting selection of beers on tap supplement a wide variety of tacos, including shrimp verde and a fish taco made with salmon.

On a Friday evening, people began to file into the rather cramped dining area shortly after 5PM, often sharing tables when there were not enough chairs. A line at the bar, to order both tacos and drinks, moved efficiently and quickly. Patrons are trusted to pick up their own water and soft drinks from a nearby refrigerator. Servers navigated the tables and chair to deliver tacos and appetizers. The mood was festive and loud, virtually no one paid attention to the sports that were carried on multiple televisions screens.

Notes from a Forgotten Coast: 3 Food and Eating

Abandoned seafood processing house in Apalachicola

Eating along the Forgotten Coast can be an adventure; in a good way. Eastpoint, the small hamlet on the eastern shore of the Apalachicola River and the bay, is widely regarded for its oysters. A local Apalachicola resident told us when he was a young man, Eastpoint and Saint George Island were poor and underdeveloped. Oyster boats dotted the bay between the two towns, so thick he said, that “you could walk from boat to boat from the island to the mainland.” Perhaps a bit of hyperbole, but an indication of the thriving industry. Several restaurants cater to locals and tourist alike, touting the best oysters in the United States. We met a group of German university students who were thrilled to have a chance to try the local oysters, even if it was not their favorite new food. Seafood processors and canneries once lined the riverfront in Apalachicola. Declining oyster production in the Apalachicola Bay, because of both natural and human activities, has had a devastating effect on the local seafood economy. Today, the processing plants are closed; the buildings derelict or converted to other commercial enterprises focusing on entertainment and retail. Nevertheless, seafood remains a significant part of the local economy and heritage. 

In addition to oysters, several restaurants offer traditional foods not found in many restaurants in the United States: gumbo, alligator, conch, frog legs, among others. Richard and I had lunch at the Red Pirate in Eastpoint, an establishment that is frequented by the local population and includes miniature golf as a diversion. Having looked at the menu I noted, out loud, that Richard could enjoy a gator or frog leg basket for lunch. He chuckled and said that he had not had frog legs in about twenty years.

After our orders had been placed and we were settled, I told Richard about a famous family story. Growing up in Louisville, one of the most popular places to eat after church on Sundays was KingFish, a small local chain that began in the late 1940s. I still fondly long for a fish sandwich from KingFish from time to time. A number of fellow Louisvillians would disagree with my assessment of KingFish, claiming that the best fish sandwich in town is Moby Dick’s (“A Whale of a Sandwich,” the advertisements suggest), but I digress. On a particular Sunday, when my brother would eat only chicken, he wanted to order a second helping of chicken from the kid’s menu. My cost-conscious parents tried to provide him with food from their meals, but he adamantly refused seafood of any sort. My dad eventually offered my brother the “chicken” from his sampler platter, which he happily devoured in a matter of a few minutes. Dad asked how he liked the chicken, to which my brother expressed satisfaction. Dad then confessed that my brother had just ate the frog legs; my brother was sullen and horrified. Richard laughed, thinking that it was a good story.

Richard then told me about a restaurant in Montezuma, Ohio, the next town east of Coldwater. That restaurant, which was little more than a house converted into a small dining room, in the 1940s served frog legs and turtle soup. He remembered that the restaurant paid high school boys to take flashlights at night and hunt frogs. Some of the legs, he claimed, were as big as chicken legs. Richard mentioned that no one eats turtle soup anymore and pondered why. I mentioned that several turtle species were protected, and it was illegal to harvest. He smiled and remembered that his father, who wintered in the Tampa area after retirement, could never pass up a bargain. One winter he went to a grocery supply store and bought two cases of canned turtle soup because it was a good bargain. He brought them back to Coldwater, and everyone in the family ate turtle soup for a long time. When they cleaned out the house, years later, after his mother died, they still found cans of turtle soup in the basement.

In a society where there is an astounding homogeneity of food choices, simultaneously with a desire for diverse food tastes and experiences, the decline in turtle consumption might have portended the decline in oyster production. The reason why turtles are not widely consumed in the United States today is largely because of overconsumption in the past, not because of changing culinary habits. Green sea turtles were hunted to the brink of extinction; governments banned the production of turtle soups. Today, even some of those in the oyster industry have called for radical solutions to save a heritage industry. One wonders what people fifty to a hundred years from now will think about oysters as a part of our diet.  

Dickens, Cambridge (OH), and Christmas

The works of Charles Dickens elicit strong responses. There are those who take great umbrage about the place in Dickens occupies in literary canons. His contemporaries often found that his work was wordy and tedious; some modern critics find him too didactic and overly committed to idealized characters rather than real-life people.[1] Yet, many of his works are considered classics, stories that continue to be read in high schools and inspire films, plays, musicals and other works. More so than any other, Dickens has become synonymous with the proper way to celebrate Christmas. The emphasis on traditional meals, caroling, and gift-giving can be traced to A Christmas Carol, even if most people are unfamiliar with the underlying social and political commentary that accompanies the novella.

In Cambridge, Ohio during the holiday season, I found evidence of this connection between the public imagination and Charles Dicken. Each year, along Wheeling Avenue, this small town erects nearly one hundred displays as a part of the annual “Dicken’s Victorian Village,” recreating London Victorian Christmases of the 1850s.  Up and down the sidewalks, in shop windows, and even upon some second stories, mannequins display scenes from a holiday season from our collective imagination. The displays attempt to balance the idealized Christmas with the poverty and deprivation Dickens wrote about. For example, a female mannequin is seated, exhausted, because she has no days off during the holiday season and is expected to be constantly available to provide her service. Another display shows an elderly woman begging from an upper-class man. The accompanying sign from this display notes that there were few respectable remunerative opportunities for females in the London of the 1850s. Yet, most others describe decorating trees, depict Tiny Tim and Bob Cratchit, and details of Dickens the man and his family. These are scenes that prompt nostalgia for days gone by; an imagined simpler time. But juxtaposed are the signs and symbols of the holiday season of the present, with more prosaic advertisements. For example, a used car lot, not too far from Wheeling Avenue, beckons potential customers with a sign that reads: “Naughty or Nice / Get a new car for your wife.”

It is interesting to speculate how Dickens might feel about the linkage between him and Christmas today. I am sure that he would be flattered to think that his works, specifically A Christmas Carol, nearly 175-years old, continues to be relevant and beloved. But in one of his lesser known works, The Chimes, written a year after A Christmas Carol, Dickens is particularly suspicious of nostalgia and believing that there were “good old days.” The primary protagonist in this novella is Toby Veck, who opens the story with a prayer, muttered to himself, “I don’t know what we poor people are coming to. Lord send we may be coming to something better in the New Year nigh upon us!” Although it is frequently pointed out that Dickens was concerned about the plight of the poor, the collective remembrance of A Christmas Carol tends to focus on the spirit of Christmas and holiday traditions. But Dickens was also concerned about how recounting the “good old times,” as he called it in The Chimes, served to discount the lives of the poor. In remembering the “good old times,” no one ever talks about poverty and deprivation. Toby comes to believe, because of the persistent nostalgia for an undefined previous romanticized era, that the poor must accept sole blame for their plight and are “born bad.” This relieves the intelligentsia and upper-classes from any responsibility for the system, the alleviation of poverty, or supporting the public tools, such as education, to help the poor escape the situation. Surely, a lesson for the modern world as well.

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[1] In an editorial written in the Wall Street Journal, playwright David Mamet wrote that the author’s work made him “vomit.” Mamet admits, however, that A Tale of Two Cities and A Christmas Carol are classics of English language literature. David Mamet, “Charles Dickens Makes Me Want to Throw Up,” Wall Street Journal, 22 July 2017. 

Signs

I know that the landscape is flat in western Ohio, but sometimes signs are seemingly redundant. Hills are a matter of perspective: in Ohio a slight rise constitutes a hill; in Pennsylvania, hills rival mountains in size. I chuckled when, while driving on Shrine Road in Miami County, Ohio, I came across a sign that told drivers that the “hills blocks view.” It reminded me of one of my grandmother’s favorite sayings, often used while she was watching television, “You’re a pain, but I cannot see through you.” I appreciate the sentiment that the sign was placed to caution drivers about obstructed views, but could not resist thinking, “How could the hill be so mean?” 

Bird Watching 2015

Anhinga (Wakulla, FL, Feb 2015)

I do not like to admit it; and, I usually qualify the description of my habits. I do not consider myself a birder, but I increasingly find myself drawn to these interesting creatures. The opportunity to photograph birds provides an excuse and motivation to go out, observe and explore. There is something about birds, in a world dominated by humans, who are able to survive and adapt. They are small and hardly noticeable at times, blending into the background for those who are unwilling to pay attention.

Martha (Smithsonian,
Nov 2015)

I have been particularly interested in the declining number of bird species. A display at the Rathlin Island Museum illustrated the history of the Great Auk; however, the bird that continues to fascinate me is the extinct passenger pigeon. James Audubon’s description of a flock of passenger pigeon blocking the sun while traveling to Louisville is an evocative piece of writing. To think that the number of passenger pigeons, the most numerous bird in North America, went from approximately three billion birds in the 1830s to the last known specimen dying in 1914 is stunning. That last specimen, a female known as Martha, died at the Cincinnati Zoo and her body was placed on ice and has been in possession of the Smithsonian Museum since then. During 2014 and 2015, her taxidermy body has been on display at the Natural History Museum as part of the commemoration of the 100th anniversary of her death.

Bald Eagle (Manteo, NC, July 2015)

It makes me feel old to say that I regularly scan trees and vistas for interesting birds. As I do, inevitably, I think of Dick Davenport’s death in the comic strip “Doonesbury” whilst photography a rare Bachman warbler. There is a certain aspect of sport to the birdwatching: It is, in fact, going out to see something you have not seen before. It is yet another thing to ponder, to study and see while traveling.

Unrecognized History

I am often amused, when told by students, one of the reasons they love being in Europe is because there is so much history. Actually what they mean is that there is so much recorded and recognized history. North America is full of history that predates the American Revolutionary War; however, the public’s grasp of it is tenuous at best. We tend not to remember the history of North American that was not English-speaking or dominant. Nor do we remember those who lost or fought for noble causes whose efforts were against the mainstream.

While growing up our family visited Roanoke Island, in the Outer Banks of North Carolina, several times. One of the things we did that made a huge impression was attending “The Lost Colony” musical play. The play, which was written by Paul Green and premiered in 1937, recounts the trials, tribulations and ultimate mystery of the first permanent English settlement in North America. The musical is performed in an outdoor pavilion on the same spot where the colonists came ashore in July 1587. The play takes liberties with history, but establishes the basic facts about the colony and its disappearance.

The story of the Roanoke colony is compelling. English colonists, ill-prepared to start a thriving community on the barrier islands of North Carolina, arrived in the middle of the summer. They were accompanied by two natives who had visited England, Manteo and Wanchese, and were returning home. Arriving midsummer, the colony would have to wait until the following spring to plant food. Meanwhile, political events on Roanoke had shifted and found Manteo and Wanchese on opposite sides of a political struggle that centered on the role of the newcomers. A month after landing, Eleanor Dare gave birth to a daughter, Virginia, making her the first English child to be born in North America. We know this because John White, Virginia’s grandfather, departed ten days later to return to England for supplies. His return to North Carolina would be delayed because of war between England and Spain. When White managed to return on his granddaughter’s third birthday, he found the colony plundered and abandoned. On the walls of the fort, the word “CROATOAN” carved; on a nearby tree, the letters CRO were found. This was understood to mean that the remaining colonist had taken refuge with Manteo’s tribe at Croatoan, on Hatteras Island. Despite repeated searches no trace of the colonists was ever found.

Legends and hoaxes about the fate of the Roanoke colony flourished. Speculation about the fate of the Lost Colony is a favorite pastime for some. While browsing at the library at Manteo I came across a book arguing that the colonist linked up with the Lumbee Indians and traveled south after they left Roanoke. Over time, according to the legend, the colonists integrated with the tribe. The appearance of the Lumbee suggests that there was some interbreeding with other ethnic groups. Hence, the appearance of Lumbee Indians with European features suggested intermingling between the Lumbees and the English colonists. This theory has been largely discredited. Shortly after our visit in the summer of 2015, an article in the New York Times offered some evidence that, more than three years after its disappearance, the colony might have moved to the mainland. 

Coast of North Carolina: the bay side of Hatteras

Despite the intriguing nature of the mystery, there are other aspects of the story that I find interesting as well. The coast of North Carolina, when seen without hotels, shops and amusements, can be foreboding. The mixture of brackish water, thick swamp forests and relentless insects, especially mosquitoes, doubtlessly made life difficult for anyone in the sixteenth century. It was probably even more difficult for a group of inexperienced English colonists who had no experience on the North American continent. The idea that a group of individuals who were ill prepared for farming and building a colony in the wilderness is startling.

Today, it is fascinating to observe how the “lost colonists” are commemorated and memorialized. Streets in Manteo (named for the young man who traveled to England and befriended the colonists) are named after colonists and friendly Native Americans. The county in which Roanoke sits is named Dare County, after the young girl born just a couple of weeks after the arrival of the colonists. Virginia Dare has many things named after her and yet we know nothing about her past her tenth day. Perhaps one of the most intriguing is a statue in the Elizabethan Gardens is of Virginia as a grown woman. The optimism that Virginia would have survived and thrived in the harsh North Carolina bush is telling. For all the interest and memorializing heaped on Virginia, one cannot help but feel a modicum of sympathy for the child of Margery Harvie, another colonist, who bore a child a few days after Virginia’s birth. While the Dare offspring garners most of the attention through the timing of her birth, history does not even record the name of the poor Harvie child. Given that the Dares were considered leaders of expedition, and were among the political elites of the colony, it would be interesting to know what would have happened if Virginia had been born second. If Margery Harvie, who held a lower social status than Eleanor Dare, had given birth to the first English child born in North America would he/she have been celebrated as much?

Enon Mound (Enon, OH)

We tend to look at history filter through own lens and culture. The Ohio Historical Society has identified 42,682 prehistoric sites in the state. Yet, we do not see this as our history. The Enon Mound (alternatively known as the Knob Prarie Mound) is at least 2,000 years old, meaning that, more than likely, it predates the Roman Empire. Located in the middle of a circular road, appropriately named Mound Circle, in Enon, Ohio, the mound is the second largest conical Indian mound in Ohio. Students travel to Europe to “see” history; however, virtually no one in North America recognizes these artifacts of long vanished civilizations. In many ways these objects have been appropriated. The Enon Mound was reportedly used as an observation post by General George Rogers Clark during the battle at Piqua with Shawnee Indians on 8 August 1780 and, during the 1940s, a cross was planted atop the mound each Easter.

Seip Earthwork Mound (Bainbridge, OH) 

I once again visited the Seip Earthwork Mound, outside of Bainbridge, Ohio, this summer. The mound, which is one of my favorites, sits on a small piece of land with a picnic area and extremely limited facilities. Much like when I first visited the site in the mid-1980s, I had this small park site to myself. When the mound was excavated it was found to contain the bodies of 122 people (men, women and children) with many artifacts and treasures. As part of the Hopewell Culture, Seip Mound was built sometime between 100BC to 700 AD. Thus, while England was under Roman occupation or the confusion that followed, Hopewell people had a flourishing culture in Southcentral Ohio.

Monarch Butterfly near Seip Mound

Trying to imagine what it would have been like to have lived during the Hopewell period, I walked through the small park and watched butterflies frolicked in the tall grass and wild flowers that grow on the mound. Monarchs and swallowtails were in abundance. It was mid-August, warm and humid, and cicadas provided a natural soundtrack as I walked from the primary mound to Paint Creek. As I walked through the grassland, it struck me that while many things had changed, a person walking the same land centuries ago would have seen the same kind of butterflies and birds and would have been pestered by mosquitoes just like me. Whether North Carolina or Ohio, we pretend that we are far removed from the people that inhabited our lands centuries ago. Yet, in many ways, we are the same and it is unfortunate we do not recognize this part of our history. 

Culinary Delights of Rural Western Ohio

Display in the window of Home Bakery

It was a rainy, cold early December Saturday, but the comfort foods of small town Ohio are an excellent remedy for nostalgia and loss. Early in the morning, I stopped by the Home Bakery in Coldwater, Ohio. This old, independent bakery on Main Street, which dates from at least the 1930s, has real homemade break and pastries. When I was there, about 8AM, the place was hopping. There were four customers ahead of me; two guys who were probably going to work, buying a quick breakfast and two other customers who ordered a dozen and a half dozen of doughnuts, respectively. While I was waiting, a kindly father brought three young daughters into the store, roughly aged from 3 to 6 years old. When he asked the girls what kind of doughnuts they would like to have, the middle child spoke up emphatically, “sprinkles!” As for me, it was a simple order: a loaf of white bread (a family-loved item), a pumpkin doughnut and a large cup of coffee to take the edge off a bitter rainy day. The bake goods are fresh and light; it is good I do not live in the vicinity. If I did, I would be 40 pounds heavier. But this is the real thing, no preservatives and made by local people. The total cost of my purchase was less than I would spend for a cup of coffee later in the day.

There is nothing quite like Maid-Rite Sandwich Shoppe in Greenville, Ohio. It is an old diner-style restaurant dating from 1934. There is a franchise of the same name that was founded in the 1920s and has stores sprinkled across the Midwest. Although those stores have the same name and virtually the same products, there appears to be no present link between the Greenville Shoppe and the current Maid-Rite franchise.

Long before you walk inside, there is no doubt that Maid-Rite in Greenville is a unique place. Often there is a line so long at the drive-in window that it spills out onto North Broadway where the right hand lane is a line of cars waiting patiently to order. The outside of the small brick building is adorned with used pieces of chewing gum creating culinary piece of art of questionable taste.  The specialty is the Maid-Rite, a loose meat sandwich of pure beef and spices, which seems to be primarily salt and pepper but seems to have a hint of ground mustard. Ordering the Maid-Rite with everything, the most common form, means that it comes with mustard, pickles and onions. Part of the allure of the sandwich, I think, is that the buns are steamed making the entire sandwich warm.

The interior is a rather plain and simple. There is a counter, where swivel seats invite patrons to have a quick bite to eat. Behind the counter a team of five to six high school/college age employees take orders, cook the meat and assemble sandwiches. There are usually a couple of older people who supervise as well. Sitting at the counter means that you can watch the food being prepared. Huge blocks of ground beef, about five pounds at a time, are dropped into one of the two wells that have a hot plate on the bottom. One of the employees mixes and stirs the beef until it is cooked to a golden brown, gradually added the requisite spice. The same employee will pull out steamed buns, place meat in it, and hand the sandwich to their partner standing adjacent, who will add pickles, onions and mustard, optional cheese and wrap the Maid-Rite in wax paper. While an incredibly simple sandwich, its popularity and taste defy explanation.

Gum on the wall of Maid-Rite

For many people who grew up in western Ohio, and others of us who have connections, places like Home Bakery and Maid-Rite are distinct reminders of home or family. It is funny how we have abandoned these places, only to try to create chain restaurants and coffee shops to remind us of those places we have left behind. Perhaps this is a sign of our increasingly mobile society where when we move to new places we default to the chain we know, rather than the local place we do not. Either way, each time one of these classic places go out of business a little bit of our identity, our heritage and our past fades away too.

Sports in Massillon and beyond

Even the unobservant traveler will notice that Massillon has an affinity for football, in fact football legend Paul Brown was born here. Football is inescapable as one walks around town. There is a mural on the side of a building along Lincoln Way that treats football as akin to Greek mythology; its greats as gods. At the bottom of the mural is a poem:

Mural on Lincoln Way, Massillon, OH

“In the Beginning when the great creator was drawing plans for this world of ours, he decided there should be something for everyone. He gave us mountains that reach to the sky, deep blue seas, green forests, dry deserts, gorgeous flowers, and gigantic trees. Then he decided there should be football, and he gave us Massillon. He created only one Massillon, he knew that would be enough.”

Virtually every business in town has a sign in the window exhorting the local high school football team to do well. The woman working the breakfast this morning in my hotel wore a t-shirt that read: “One team, one town, one goal.” While at first glance this source of civic pride is admirable. Yet I find some of the aspects of this as troubling. High school football players adorn the flags along the main street of town (Lincoln Way) posed in their uniforms, like football players outside a NFL stadium. Pictures of the town’s cheerleaders are found in the windows of many businesses in Massillon, exhorting the team to greatest. The implicit message is: “This is as good as it gets.” High school is the apex of one’s life and our heroes are the 15-18 year olds who represent our town each weekend.

My trip to Massillon coincided with a number of articles and book releases that caught my eye. The emphasis on sports, particularly football is the subject of Amanda Ripley’s article in The Atlantic. The author examines the amount of money that is spent on high school athletics in the United States, much of it hidden and compares it with the money spent on scholastic programs. Rarely do people calculate coaches’ salaries, bus rides, and equipment refurbishment. There are stunning figures to make high school sports happen and it is not recouped through ticket sales. It probably goes without saying that the most expensive sport is football; however, in the Pacific Northwest one school was spending $328 per student for math instruction while at the same time spending $1348 per cheerleader. While most arguments that favor sports in high school point to keeping marginal students in school, this segment of the student population is small. Yet the emphasis on sports keeps resources from making classes interesting and innovative with fully qualified teachers.

It is difficult to think about America, or its popular culture, without its emphasis on sports. No doubt I am one who enjoys the history and lore of sports. One of my favorite films of the 1980s is Hoosiers, a semi-fictional story based upon the real team of Milan, which won the 1954 Indiana High School Basketball Championship. The swelling music and compelling visuals celebrate a romantic notion of small-town America. The love of high school sports is woven into the fabric of America. My high school, duPont Manual was one of the principals for the legendary Male-Manual rivalry, touted as the nation’s oldest high school rivalry and I know plenty of people who either attend or intend to attend the game each year. I even co-authored a history of the rivalry for my high school newspaper.

In the closing sequence of Hoosiers, a photograph of the winning team adorns the wall of the high school gymnasium. As Ripley points out, in 1961 sociologist James Coleman wrote that where one interested a high school you are confronted with trophy cases that celebrate athletic, not scholastic, achievements. Nowhere in Massillon are there pictures of students who so well in things other than football and cheerleading. Nevertheless, education is supposed to be a school’s raison d’etre.

We little realize how much high school sports dictate high school academics. I have long known that a later starting time could greatly improve students’ lives and learning. In fact, research demonstrates that a later starting time results in improved student performance; however, most schools have early morning starts to facilitate afternoon daylight sports practices.

Two other articles in The Atlantic tangentially deal with similar themes. One piece by Karl Taro Greenfeld smartly and amusingly examines how much homework students do each night. Greenfeld spent a week doing the same homework assignments as his daughter and found that the assignments tended to be unrealistic and inane. Read in context with Ripley’s piece, one comes to the conclusion that the problems of American education are not simply about one issue. Another article in the same issue examines the amount of money taxpayers give to one of the richest and most profitable organizations in the United States – the NFL. Yet another indication of the power and importance of sports in the United States. 

Nostalgia in Massillon

Massillon, Ohio, alternatively known as Tiger Town and City of Champions, is one of those towns that has fallen on hard times, but the history, architecture and charms continues to shine. Although not born here, silent film star Lillian Gish spent a great deal of her childhood in the city and is claimed by the city. I fear that my reason for coming to Massillon is at an end. (Just as I was getting comfortable spelling the name of the city.)

One of the nice things about walking through town is examining the old buildings and connecting it with local history. The remnants of a local confectionery are still visible. The Sugar Bowl, which was established in 1902 and was a tradition in the city, is no more. The entrance reveals a vacant storefront; however, this painted wall, which faces Diamond Court, is a reminder of a business that lasted nearly a century in Massillon. It was a place where local people gather after games and dances, for dates, and when being social with one another. An even older business is the Liebermann Bakery, opened in 1882, and still making delicious treats and breads today. Although I tried to avoid such delights as a rule, I stopped in for a Boston cream doughnut and a cup of coffee while in town. It was nice to stand in a small shop where you could see the people working, making bread and cakes, and local people were there for a weekend ritual. It is difficult to say why the tactile pleasure of warm baked goods and hot coffee, the experience of walking into a bakery and selecting from a multitude of choices, smelling fresh bread and speaking to those responsible for these delights is so satisfying. I walked by later in the day and the smells of baked good wafted onto the street, which only served to enhance my feelings for Liebermann. All I know is that this is not an experience one has at a megastores.

Of course many more buildings stand without the original tenants. Many buildings in the center of Massillon remain empty or under-utilized. One of the first buildings that stood out for me was the Bloomfield building on South Erie. It was the home of Bloomfield’s Furniture and its showroom was located in the building during the 1930s. During the post-World War II period it had moved to Lincoln Way (old US 30).

Outside Salem, Ohio

It is not easy to explain what compels me to stop while driving along back road. I am not always sure what I am seeing, but in this case the building just looked fascinating. Along the side of the road, near Salem, Ohio, the front plate of this brick building caught my eye. The inscription reads: “1908 / Dist No 4 / Green TP.” My best guess is that it is a former school house, but it has been difficult to track down any information so far.