Goodbye Old Building, Hello Parking Lot!

It probably won't surprise anyone if I say I think that cars, more than any other single thing, have brought change to face of Chillicothe’s downtown area.

Of course, cars being cars, any actual change they bring is performed on their behalf by people.

As you can probably tell by the photos below, in this blog I’m focusing on the increasingly important – and singularly destructive – parking lot.

In Ohio in 1917, only about 1-in-12 people owned a car. In those days the downtown was the economic and entertainment hub of the city (and the county). It’s where people went to shop, to see movies, and to eat – if they didn’t want to cook at home. So as you might imagine, the downtown lots were much more useful and productive when there was a structure on them and that structure housed a thriving business. But after World War II that all changed. Thanks to the availability and affordability of the automobile, every family soon had one, and now-a-days most families own more than one. Thanks to the car, the development of the highway system, the growth of suburbs, and the invention of the shopping mall, the face of our downtown has changed forever – and in my opinion, not for the better.

I don’t know exactly when we began trading old buildings for parking lots, but it’s a trend that today still continues in Chillicothe.

But why wouldn’t it? After all, who in the world would want to walk an entire block to get to a store when you can go to a mall and park a short half-mile from the entrance? (Yes, that is sarcasm.)

Instead of ranting on about things like lazy Americans, or whether an “old building” qualifies as a “historic building” and is thus deserving of the same treatment (obviously they aren’t, but that doesn’t mean they don’t – especially in Ohio’s historic First Capital) let’s move on to the map below. (I apologize. For some reason the photos are not acting like they normally do, so as I've tried to increase its size this one has blurred a bit. Hopefully you get the point, and I will post it on Facebook with this link.) 

 

I stitched the above map together some time ago using either Google Earth or Bing Maps (can’t remember which) but as you can see it’s basically a recent satellite view of Chillicothe from Water St. on the north to Fourth Street on the south, and from Walnut Street on the west to Mulberry Street on the east. I believe this is basically the First Capital District, but that might also include Fifth Street. Honestly I can’t remember at the moment.  

What I’ve done is identified each parking lot and drive-thru in this area and put a red box around them. There are also three green boxes, which are green spaces, and even one blue box, which represents an empty lot on which a structure burned down.

What I tried to do was count the red boxes and compare these locations to the 1941 Sanborn Map of the same area.

If my identification and my count are correct (and this is far from a credible scientific study), then there are about 54 fewer buildings in this area today than there were just 72 short years ago, with most of them being replaced by a parking lot or a business drive-thru.

That my friends is just plain sad for a city that prides itself on its history.

I didn’t include parking locations that might exist behind the buildings along any of the alleys or buildings that might have been in an alley in 1941. I simply looked at street frontage.

I wanted to do a total count of structures in the historic district on that map and to compare the number to 2013, but it’s somewhat difficult on the Sanborn Maps. Addresses are noted, but nothing clearly indicates where one building ends and another begins (as far as I can tell anyway, but I’m not a trained map reader). Nonetheless, if you can find and look at the map from 1941 you can easily see that while there may be an empty lot or two, there are nowhere near 54.

And cars changed it all.

A prime example might be the Mulberry Street frontage on the east side, between E. Water and Second streets. I think the only building there today is that little one on the alley that was once an eye doctor’s office and may now be some sort of supply business. Otherwise it’s parking lots and empty lots. In 1941 it looks like there were at least six structures there. Ironically – and perhaps prophetically - it appears that three of the buildings housed either auto sales, repair, or service businesses, and one was a “filling station.”

Today, economically speaking, because of the parking/walking perceptions, we see more benefit from offering parking spaces than preserving an old building.

Of course, not all of the buildings that have been torn down could be strictly defined as “historic.” But in a city such as Chillicothe, if we don’t have old buildings doesn’t our “claim to fame” as a historic First Capital lose just a little bit of credibility? Do people from other parts of the state want to come to "The Historic First Capital" to see parking lots, drive-thrus, and sparkling new structures, or to see old buildings and imagine the history that abounds here?

Sadly, it looks to me as if it has become commonplace in Chillicothe to allow old buildings to fall into disrepair, and instead of fixing them up as repairs are needed, we let them sit and continue to decay. After one or two or three decades of negligence we can simply claim that it’s cheaper to tear a structure down than it is to fix it up and preserve it.

Obviously, when a building isn’t maintained, that approach does indeed make this way of thinking reality.

Need proof? Take a drive along W. Water St. (between Walnut and the alley) and you’ll see at least one building whose façade is crumbling and shows obvious problems – obvious apparently to everyone but the owner and the city engineers/safety people that is. Likewise, there’s a set of three buildings on E. Water between the alley and Mulberry St. (most people think it’s one structure, but it is three) that look like they should be condemned any day now. On N. Paint St. not far south of Water St., in the middle of the block on the east side of the street, there’s a building whose windows have been boarded over and painted black, and they’ve been that way for years. Someone told me that one of the floors of that building was collapsing down into the level below it. Whether that’s true or not, I don’t personally know.

I thought the practice of boarding windows up was illegal per Design Review Board codes, but apparently not, since the building on the NE corner of Paint and Fourth streets has also boarded their windows up as well. Quite a trend we've got going on!

While property owners should get most of the blame, our city government and our city leaders deserve some as well.

There may be minimum maintenance codes or laws on the books, but they’re seldom, if ever, enforced. Buildings are allowed to deteriorate and to sit, often unused and almost always unrepaired, as pieces of them fall to the sidewalk below, further enforcing the notion that these neglected old structures need to come down.

This shouldn’t be surprising, since this city allowed its grand and beautiful City Hall to fall into such disrepair that the state condemned it. The city’s answer was to remodel to such an extent that the ugly little building we have now is a pale comparison to its original elegance.

People often comment that the buildings in Europe are many hundreds, if not a thousand, years old, and they wonder why our buildings can’t survive a mere 200 years (less really). Perhaps it correlates more with the maintenance and care given to them than it does to the craftsmanship involved in their construction.

Structures that fall victim to arsonists or accidental fire (and there are far too many of those in this town) are either demolished very quickly (i.e., the railroad depot, the Second Street buildings just west of the Majestic) or they’re left to stand, exposed to time and to the elements until demolition is the lone option (Let’s see… that building smack-dab in the middle of downtown comes to mind. What’s it called? The Carlisle or something like that…).

Chillicothe “is” history, although much of what remains is at-risk of “becoming” history.

If a town lays claim to being historic, shouldn’t maintaining that history be a priority?

The blame-game is easy to play, but we all must share blame for the loss that has occurred here. Many of our downtown churches, while they should be given their due for what they provide to our people, have been particularly destructive. After all, Sunday morning church-goers can’t be expected to walk a block any more than shoppers can.

Well, I think I’ve whined enough and probably offended enough people along the way.

Fifty-four structures (give or take a few) lost in less than 75 years. That’s more than one every other year falling victim to the wrecking ball.

Just as a side note, since they weren’t razed specifically to create parking spaces I didn’t include the buildings that were torn down to widen Water Street (Sherman, Wintergarden, etc.). Neither did I mention the dozens of structures that were razed along Riverside St. to build the floodwall. I think if all of these were included there would probably be nearly 100 fewer buildings in the downtown area today than there were in decades past.

But alas! Considering the condition of many of our downtown buildings today, I think the total will only continue to grow.

Photographic examples:

 

 

Above is the northeast corner of Main and Paint. This was often called Huntington Row, although that had nothing to do with Huntington Bank. The building on the corner was razed ca. 1907 to build the building that is there today (and home to Huntington Bank). Below is a view after the bank building was built. In the photo at the top you can see three buildings between Paint St. and the alley that are gone and now either parking lots or a drive thru. In the photo below the two buildings behind the bank along Main St. are now part drive-thru and part parking lot. So in these two photos you have at least a minus five in terms of buildings 1941 vs. 2013.  

 

 

Below is E. Main St., ca. 1918. The Masonic Temple remains, and to its left (west) is a small structure that was razed but replaced. The two lovely and architecturally interesting buildings to the right (east) of the Masonic Temple were torn down specifically to make room for a parking lot. Minus 2, 1941 vs. 2013.

 

 

 

 

Above is N. Paint between Second and Main. None of the buildings on Paint between Second and the alley remain. The Law Complex is on this spot today. The Hotel Carson at the alley = Gone. The Ross County Bank Building at the corner of Second and Paint = Gone. The two little buildings between them = Gone. That's four buildings in 1941-ish, and one in 2013. Below is this same block but looking down W. Second. The building on the corner was replaced in 1882 by the Ross County Bank Building (shown above). The two or three others that can be seen along the south side of W. Second St. are gone, with the Elks remaining on the alley. All in all, 1941 vs. 2013, this is at least a minus 5, give or take one.  

 

 

Below is the Knecht Brewery on the north side of E. Water, between the park entrance (N. Paint) and Mulberry (with some Riverside St. in the back). I'm pretty sure anything you can see here is gone in 2013 = So minus 3-4.

 

 

Below is the Clinton House on W. Water at Walnut. The Clinton is gone (replaced by a medical building and associated park lot), as is the building you can see beside it (west). Perhaps one other was lost west of there too. (Certainly one west of the lone building standing there today was lost.) You can't see it in this photo, but there was a building to the south of the Clinton along Walnut that was lost as well. More or less, 1941 vs. 2013, we have a minus 4.

 

 

Below is an empty lot on W. Second St. where there once sat at least one (if not two) little land offices dating to the early 19th century. At the left of the empty lot (east) is a parking lot where once sat a building. So 1941 vs. 2013 is at least a minus 3,

 

 

Below is the south side of W. Main St., between Walnut and the alley. Looks like at least two buildings here (the Nelson Hotel. It might just be one building. I'm not sure). Today there's an expanded church structure, some green space, and a parking lot (and plenty of parking along Walnut behind this area).

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Ross County Infirmary

Ross County "Home" ca. 1900

I wanted to write a blog about the old Ross County Infirmary, so I did what most would-be historians tend to do and dove into some research. After finding what I could find, I took the next logical step and wrote about what I had found.

Simple enough, right?

But when I was finished I realized that what I had written was rather long-winded and it was filled with lots of dull details, which in other words means it could be considered kinda boring. So I apologize in advance for the long-windedness and hope that as you read, you might glean a few useful facts along the way.

And now the blog:

Jesus himself said that the poor would always be among us. He lectured us, saying that those of us who are more fortunate should help our less fortunate brethren.

For many centuries help has been given to the poor in a variety of ways: by individuals, through churches and other organizations, and by governments. In the early 19^th century one of the prevailing thoughts in the United States was that “poorhouses” were a better, more economical way to address the problem and to provide care to those who couldn’t care for themselves. So, like every other county in Ohio, Ross County established its own poorhouse in 1820. (Around 1850 “poorhouse” would legally become “infirmary” in an effort to reflect their true purpose. Another name change occurred ca. 1919, when “county home” was the more elegant term. For the sake of simplicity, I’ll use infirmary.)

In March 1872, a Scioto Gazette article described the building being used by the county at that time as “a monument of disgrace.” Not long after this article appeared, a contract in the amount of $76,666 was awarded to Hersheiser, Adams, & Co. of Columbus for the construction of a new poorhouse. It did not however include site excavation, bricks, and a few other things, which the county would handle itself. The company agreed to have the facility finished by Jan. 1, 1875.

The new Ross County Infirmary was located about a half-mile east of the Clarksburg Pike (Ohio 104), five miles or so north of Chillicothe, along what is today Fairgrounds Road (about where the Engineer’s Office is and facing toward Clarksburg Pike). The 1872 Gazette article puts the old 1820 poorhouse in a spot “near” the location that a new one was to be built.

The infirmary was designed and the work overseen by well-known local architect John Cook (who also designed Chillicothe’s first City Hall – more on that in a previous blog). In an article from November 1874 the Gazette questioned the cost of the new infirmary, which would eventually amount to somewhere in the neighborhood of $100,000.

Ross County Infirmary ca. 1905

 

“We do not feel that the county was justified in going to such an expense of erecting such a magnificent building for the small number of paupers we have to support…” The Gazette wrote.

 

However, the newspaper praised Cook’s “management and control” of the “stupendous affair.” It would seem that Cook did the county a favor on the project. He was paid only $1,300 for the eight month project, $800 of which went to an assistant.

 

The Gazette questioned Cook’s willingness to work “per diem,” which in the end amounted to $5 a day. “Probably no other architect in the country would have engaged in work at per diem pay.” The Gazette went as far as to say that it was “almost a disgrace to the county.” Had Cook been paid six percent of the total project (apparently the going rate in 1874) he would’ve made $6,000. “We never had any doubt of Mr. Cook’s judgment until we learned of his contract for the new infirmary,” they wrote, “then we began to doubt his not only his judgment, but his sanity.”

 

The infirmary, which the Gazette reported could be seen from three miles away, was turned over to the county commissioners early, on Nov. 19.

 

The Gazette had gotten a tour of the new facility on Nov. 11, and the descriptions that follow come from that tour.

 

The building was 237 feet long (51x100 foot center section; two wings 43x113 feet; and two 50x28 foot sections that connected the center and the wings). It was three stories tall and 50 feet high at the central tower. The tower included windows for natural lighting (6’ plate of glass 1” thick in each floor to light the stairway, the landings, and the main floor, and for ventilation also, as well as architectural beauty). There were shorter towers at either end (or wing) of the building.

 

The central part of the building protruded out 28 feet from the rest of the structure. It was stone with a gabled front/roof. The wings were hip roofed and slate was used for roofing.

 

Over the main entrance was a handsome stone portico, surmounted by a bay window that went all the way up to the base of the third story, which helped add architectural beauty and symmetry.

 

Stone steps went up to the main entrance hall, which itself led back to the grand staircase, from where the rest of the building could be accessed. To the right and left of the main hall were rooms to be used by the warden and his family (seven total, with three on 1^st floor and four on the 2^nd, and they were connected by a private staircase. These rooms were completely “disconnected” from the rooms to be used by the “inmates.” A private stairway led from the warden’s rooms on the second floor to the 3^rd floor, where there was a surgery room, dispensary, and a room for a nurse to use in caring for inmates. Also on the 3^rd floor were rooms for isolating people infected with a contagious disease.

 

At the back of the main entrance hall, past the main staircase was a vestibule. From there a hallway led both left and right into the wings. Down the hallway to the right was a large dining room, with seating for up to 150 people. It was for men only, as the genders were divided into different wings. The ceilings were 12 feet, 8 inches in height, “lending an air of grandeur … out of place for what this building is to be used for.” The dining area was heated by “direct radiation” while the dorm rooms were heated by “indirect radiation.” The building had steam heat throughout. However, there were no above floor radiators in the dorm rooms. Instead a register would introduce heat into those rooms, while vents were located on the walls at the floor, which allowed air to move through the room. The vents higher up could be opened if it got too hot.

 

A kitchen was located next to the dining room. It was “capacious and supplied with every convenience” with “a large range being the main object of interest, while sinks and all those other little additions, which are so attractive to females domestically inclined, stand around in blissful protrusion.” The kitchen included a large water pipe, to which a hose could be connected in the event of a fire. Openings led up to the roof, connecting to other flues as they went.

 

All the dorm rooms had pivot transoms at 11 feet. Doors and sashes were white pine while the rest of the woodwork was poplar. Windows were 12-light box frames. Those on the 1^st and 2^nd floors had a segmented head, while those on the 3^rd floor had a half circle, all made out of brick.

 

For the walls alone some 2.5 million bricks were used.

 

The front and wings were surrounded by three ranges of “free stone belts,” one at each story (the limestone used came from Columbus and Greenfield, while the range and belt stone was from Portsmouth). The cornice was of galvanized iron (from a Chillicothe foundry), and included a 26 inch projection with brackets all around.

 

The basement walls were stone (limestone?), each being four feet wide and 26 inches thick. The center section of the basement held a laundry, wash rooms, bakery, and a mortuary, as well as a room for the warden’s use. The ceilings in that section were nine feet. Under the wings the basement housed workshops, while the basements in the connecting buildings were for lounging (one each for male and for female residents).

 

Dorm rooms were 16 feet square and designed for two people. There were 73 dorm rooms total, including some on the 3^rd floor. It was estimated that the facility could house up to 300 people.

 

A hallway crossed each wing about in the middle. To one side was a stairway to the floors above and to the other side were wash rooms “and other conveniences.” There were two restrooms per ward and they had hot and cold running water. So, the Gazette writer noted, “… if Ross County paupers fail hereafter to keep themselves clean it is not because they are lacking in conveniences for so doing.”

 

From the 3^rd floor there was access to a portion of the attic, where two water tanks were located. They were to the right and the left of the “stacks” (large brick chimneys, 6-8 feet square). Water was pumped up to them by a “Doctor engine” located in the engine room, from two in-ground cisterns (each of which could hold 600 barrels of water). The tanks could hold 8,000 gallons of water each, and the water was gravity fed down through pipes from these tanks to the rest of the building.

 

All of the air ducts fed into the main stacks. The ducts were actually two foot square wooden boxes that ran the length of the floors. Vents in the dorm rooms fed into these ducts and air was carried away.

 

In back of the main central building was a 28’x37’ room with two boilers, (4’x26’) and pipes leading to the entire structure.

 

The Gazette felt that sewage was a problem, since it was emptied directly into a ditch 100-200 yards behind the building.

 

Schoolrooms for the children were located in the women’s wing. There were gardens where residents grew vegetables and a seamstress made and repaired clothing for them. There was also a cemetery, where residents who died could be buried. Unfortunately, it was either in the flood plain or too close to it, and during the Great Flood of 1913 some or all of the graves were submerged and a number of bodies surfaced and were washed downstream.

 

The infirmary was used to house a variety of paupers. There were the poor and unemployed; widowed and single mothers; people who were sick and had no one to take care of them; undoubtedly some people with mental health issues; and at times entire families. During World War I and the days of Camp Sherman, women with sexually transmitted diseases were guests (inmates might be the more accurate term) in the infirmary in an effort to keep them away from the soldiers until their condition could be successfully treated.

 

During the 1930s and 1940s and the presidency of Franklin D. Roosevelt, policies on social programming began to change. Unemployment compensation, aid to dependent children, social security and more contributed to the disuse of the infirmary (county home by that time). Few records exist today, but a 1939 survey found that it had just 75 residents, and that the cost per resident had risen by 69 percent since 1934. By the 1950s it was little used and in disrepair. In 1957 it was condemned. No one seems clear on exactly when it was torn down, but the mid-1970s might be an accurate guess.

 

Today different methods are used to care for those who can’t care for themselves and instead of institutionalizing them, a place of their own is usually provided for them, as well as someone to care for them there. The county still provides for its less fortunate residents, just in a different way.

 

Infirmaries are no longer used. Most have fallen victim to the ferocity of time and to the might of the wrecking ball. Our infirmary was by all accounts a beautiful and unique structure – if not excessively so - and it’s too bad that it’s gone.

 

However, when it comes to our city and our county, and to their preservation record on old buildings, it’s not really surprising.

 

 



 

Ross County Infirmary ca. 1951, with main tower gone.

 

 

 

 

 

Chillicothe's City Hall

City Hall undergoing renovations in 1956. This photo includes a white outline of the current City Hall.

(I wrote this a while back, but never posted it. Now that City Council is talking about options for City Hall, I thought I should go ahead and post it. I apologize for the photo quality. I took them with my phone from pages in the actual newspaper.)

Chillicothe is one of the oldest and most historic cities in Ohio, serving two terms as the state capital. And that makes some of the decisions that have been made here very perplexing.

In this blog Chillicothe’s City Hall will serve as an example of what I’m referring to.

 Laid out in 1796, by 1803 Chillicothe was the capital of Ohio – the 17^th state of the United States. It was a place of high importance in state government. Ross County had a courthouse, which sat on the county-owned Public Square (pretty much the same location of today’s Ross County Courthouse). When Ohio became a state and Chillicothe its capital, the little county courthouse became the State Capital Building. That nice little stone building was torn down after the capital was moved to Columbus (See what I mean about decisions? Who really thought that was a good idea?).

Chillicothe, however, despite having been a city for some time, never had a true “city hall.” The only structures the city owned were a firehouse or two. Instead of shelling out the money for their own building, city government would either use space at the firehouse, or simply rent a room or two somewhere for the mayor and the solicitor - rooms that when needed would also serve as City Council Chambers.

That finally changed in 1875.

 

 

In 1874, Mayor E.K. Mick wrote a letter to City Council and recommended that the city finally break down and fund construction of an actual City Hall. He suggested that the lot being used as the city’s Public Market would fit the bill, and that perhaps some of the market’s existing structure could be used. It was, he said, an “eye-sore” and was “seldom used.” The Public Market was located on the west side of South Paint Street, where City Hall is today.

Unfortunately the land on which the Public Market was located had been deeded for use by the city by a local family, with the stipulation that it be used as a public market. The city decided it had the right to construct a city hall there, and there was some legal back and forth. The descendants of the family that had originally donated the land refused to settle for less than the $2,200 penalty that was attached to a violation of the deed.   

The Scioto Gazette backed the idea of a city hall.

“Thank Heaven some good can come out of Nazareth. If the present council will but manage to secure for our city as desirable a change as this, we will not promise to forgive them all their shortcomings, but will agree to be very charitable in our conclusions as regards their actions.”

Ouch! It seems that 138 years ago the Gazette was a little harder on city government than they are now.

The Gazette also wrote that the “den” currently being used as council chambers and the mayor’s office was better suited for a “barber shop” and would be “a disgrace to a town of (just) 500 (people).” In their opinion it was “unsightly” and “miserable” and, they wrote, if just six people showed up for a meeting it was a “packed house.” If the mayor chose to attend a council meeting, then he was “compelled to occupy the ante-room and stick his head through the intervening doorway.”

The Gazette appears to have been correct: A Dr. Lansing refused re-nomination to council, on the advice of his personal doctor, who claimed that his life would be in danger if he was forced to sit through a two hour meeting in the current council chambers.

Throughout the summer of 1874 a newly created standing committee (Public Buildings and Parks), with the help of the city solicitor and engineer, laid plans and solicited bids. As an aside, Councilman Poland insisted the structure include space for a public library.

By late August work began with the removal of the front part of the Public Market. The cornerstone for City Hall was laid in September.

The contract – in the amount of $18,003 – was awarded to Wm. H. McCoy of Marietta, while the design was by local architect John Cook.

According to a Gazette article dated May 19, 1875, the building itself was 45 feet wide and 100 feet long, and had two front entrances – one to the north and one to the south. The Mayor’s office (a spacious 21 feet wide and 45 feet long) was on lower floor in the right front corner (north). Police HQ occupied the entire back (west) end of the building. An addition/extension at the rear of the building was to be used as the city jail. Also at the rear along the alley another part of the skeleton of the market house was roofed and closed in for storage, and would also house the city’s scales. On the 2^nd floor above mayor’s office was the City Library. It had 18 foot ceilings and black walnut shelving for its 5,500 books. There were tables, chairs, and even spittoons. Council Chambers were also on second floor, on the west end (behind the library).

The first City Hall was a beautiful, magnificent building, with class and character. Each floor (or story) was 20 feet high and there was also a 16 foot unfinished attic. Topping the structure off was a bell tower, in which hung the old city bell. Sadly (but perhaps not surprisingly), it was poorly maintained and by the mid-1950s, just 80 years after it was constructed, parts of it were crumbling.

On May 21, 1954 – a month after some gutter, slate, and sheet metal fell onto the sidewalk below - the Municipal Court part of City Hall was condemned by the state building inspector and the state’s deputy fire marshal. However, for nearly two years nothing came of the condemnation.

The court was finally padlocked on February 11, 1956, and space for the court was rented in the Carlisle Building. It operated there until the remodel of City Hall was completed.

Council was originally told that $60,000 would cover the remodel, which included a westerly expansion, relocation of stairs, some fireproofing, new heat and air, and the overall lowering of the structure. As a matter of fact today’s City Hall is some 30 feet shorter than it was before being remodeled. Amazingly, the total height of the current structure barely reaches the top of the original second floor windows. The attic was completely removed, and the height of both the first and second floors was lowered.

The remodeled City Hall was supposed to include a “copper topped” bell tower for the old city bell. However, not only is there not a copper topped bell tower, but the old city bell was never installed and at some point in time it went missing. The bell was originally in the Second Presbyterian Church at the NE corner of S. Paint and Fifth streets. The church folded in 1875 and became the Clough Opera House, which burned on Easter Sunday in 1890.   

The original $60,000 estimate increased steadily and by the time the contract was awarded it was over $100,000, making it a remodel that cost at least five times the original cost of construction, for a significantly smaller and plainer structure. In the end the city would get less and it would cost taxpayers more.

Despite the fact that there was some debris that did fall from the cupola (bell tower), the original structure might not have been in as bad a shape as it was thought. One of the reasons the Municipal Courtroom was condemned by the state was that the floor appeared to be sagging. However, during the remodel, when the floor was exposed, it was found that the timbers were still in excellent shape (as solid as the day they were put in, according to workmen). As a matter of fact, the timbers were cut out and sold to a builder in Athens for use in a commercial building there. Perhaps with a few small structural improvements the magnificent old City Hall didn’t need such a drastic remodel after all.

But it’s too late for that now. Now we can only wonder what this version of City Council will manage to do with the City Hall we have.

The photo above is of city officials in the original council chambers, looking at items in the building that were deemed necessary to save. A representative from the Ross County Historical Society led the tour and identified items of historical importance.

 

A “75 year dream” was realized in Chillicothe on October 7, 1961, when the East Main Street Overpass was dedicated and officially opened for traffic.

More than 5,000 people were on-hand that day for the dedication of what has affectionately become known to residents of Chillicothe and Ross County simply as “The Overpass.”

As early as the 1920s city officials and residents began to dream of ways to eliminate the delays, and the dangers, caused by long, heavily laden trains moving slowly across the city's streets. It was even more of a burden when the trains held up traffic on one of the busiest streets in town. As the photo above shows, years ago there were not only a lot more trains using the tracks, but there were a few more sets of tracks and rail lines than there are today.

By the time City Council approved the “0-5” plan for the overpass, they already had access to $150,000 of voter approved money with which to cover the city’s portion of what would end up being a $1.359 million project. (An approval of the “0-4” plan would’ve had the central span of the overpass swing slightly north.)

Visintine & Co. out of Columbus came in with the lowest bid, winning the construction contract. Federal dollars amounting to $1.106 million paid for the majority of the project. In addition to the city’s share, which ended up being only $123,000, the Baltimore and Ohio Railroad (B&O) paid $65,000, as did the Norfolk and Western (N&W). The N&W also agreed to relocate at least one set of tracks to accommodate the overpass, and at least one railroad building was torn down and rebuilt in another spot.

The overpass itself ended up being 650 feet long (and is made up of 15 “spans”); it is 57 feet wide, meant to accommodate a six-foot sidewalk, two-foot medium, and 27-inch safety curb (and four lanes of traffic of course). It was also designed to be a minimum of 23 feet above the railroad tracks.

Before the groundbreaking even took place (which was on July 16, 1960) 44 property owners had made damage claims amounting to $1.15 million, and lawsuits followed the construction. Detours began to go up on July 7, 1960 and parking bans were imposed. Both the detours and the parking bans inconvenienced residents, and while some grumbled, most took it in stride.

Officials invited the public to attend the groundbreaking, and even allowed them to take part – as long as they brought their own shovel. Everyone who attended was to receive a souvenir sticker.

Despite the damage claims and any lawsuits, no one denied the need for an alternative to the daily traffic delays. A study cited in the Chillicothe Gazette on July 7, 1960 found that there were 7,826 “car crossings” of those E. Main Street tracks in the 24 hour period surveyed, as well as 138 “train movements” during that same time period. Wow! 138 train movements! I’m not sure how many there are today but there can’t be more than, what, a couple dozen a day? One thing though that is for certain is that there are certainly more “car crossings” now.

On July 26, 1960, crews digging a 100 foot long, 7 foot deep, 12 foot wide trench uncovered two small sandstone grave markers. The markers belonged to a sister and brother: Eliza Ann Dunlap, who had died August 16, 1823 at just nine months and 18 days; and Joseph Benson Dunlap, who died less than a year later, May 22, 1824, at just eight months of age. Both were children of Joseph and Margaret Dunlap. It was reported that the carving in the headstones was still quite clear, even though the burials were 137 years old.

That area of course had once served as the “Old” Presbyterian Cemetery (one of two original Presbyterian Cemeteries, the other and probably older one being near the modern intersection of Bridge and Riverside streets – too close to the river to have been a good idea). The old cemetery land had been purchased in 1870 by the Scioto Valley Railroad (which later became part of N&W). The graves were dug up, and their occupants moved to either Greenlawn or Grandview.

After nearly 52 years “The Overpass” has done its job quite well. Now that travel and trade by rail are both significantly less than they were 50 years ago, some people talk about bringing the concrete mountain down. I don’t think it will happen – unless for some reason the cost of repairing or maintaining it is more than the cost of tearing it down. But then those same people who complain about it being there would likely complain the most about having to wait once in a while for a train to pass, or scream the loudest about the dangers when some careless driver or pedestrian ended up being hit by a train.

Can you imagine the size of the potential backups at the Main and Bridge street intersection when a nice long train crawled its way across the tracks at rush hour?

For what it’s worth, I for one hope that someday trains make a comeback. I hate sharing my highways with so many 18-wheelers, and I think if we’re ever going to decrease our dependence on foreign oil, using trains instead of semis to move goods is a great place to start.

So for now let’s keep our ugly concrete mountain right where it is… just in case.

In a continuing effort to write something interesting and something that people might actually want to read, I thought I’d try a “photo blog” with a local history theme. The concept is simple: Find an old photo of Chillicothe or Ross County (I have acquired lots of them over the last few years – though perhaps not always legally in the Internet age…) and hopefully point out some interesting facts about said photo.

This blog is my first effort.

Hopefully, there’s an old photograph for you to look at above these words. If there’s not, I’ve failed already.

The picture you see is an aerial photograph, dated 1955. It was the property of the Columbus Citizen Journal, and I believe the newsworthy event may have been changes to US 23 south, perhaps in conjunction with the construction of a plant a few miles south of Chillicothe that could enrich uranium for atomic bombs.

It’s a fantastic photo that scanned in beautifully for whoever scanned it, and saved very nicely for me, as I borrowed it from the Internet (www.photohio.org).

 There are lots of things to see here, but I have only enough space to point out a few of them.

Let’s start in the very middle of the photo. That’s of course Bridge Street (US 23) snaking its way from north to south (or bottom to top, whichever you prefer). There’s a fairly new bridge to see, but also notice down at the intersection of Bridge and Main, that the color of the actual street seems to change, from a light gray to an almost white color. That’s because Bridge Street south of Main is a pretty new roadway in 1953. Up until 1951 Bridge ended at Main. If this photo were a few years older Bridge Street would stop at Main and if you were sitting in your car on Bridge looking south, you’d be facing a row of buildings (including an aptly named restaurant, Bridge End). Fourth, Fifth and the rest of the “number” streets that today dead-end into, or cross S. Bridge would not have done so, but would simply continue there without an intersection or a dead-end.

Since we’re on Bridge Street, also notice Eastern School, which is the big building standing at the northwest corner of Bridge and Main. The school was built there in 1870, abandoned in 1951, and today that area is occupied by a gas station, a motel, and a McDonalds.

Moving to the bottom of the photo (and the thing I find most the most interesting of all) are all of the buildings that line the Scioto River along Riverside Street (both east and west of Bridge). In 1953 there was no floodwall (thus the big floods of 1913 and 1959). Of course, in 2012 those buildings are all gone: they were bought up one-by-one over the years, until 1977, when they were torn down and work on the floodwall began. What amazes me is that all of those structures “fit” between the river and the street – especially to the west of Bridge. It just doesn’t seem wide enough to have once held all of these homes and businesses, and to me it even looks like they moved Riverside a few feet further south, so it would match up with the intersection of Riverside east of Bridge (there’s a little bend now in Riverside at Hickory that doesn’t appear to be there in this photo). 

  In the lower left quarter of the photo are Hirn Street, Scioto Avenue, and N. Sugar Street. What catches my eye in this aerial view is how nice, wide, and tree-lined Hirn Street looks. A drive down there today reveals a street that looks nothing like this photo indicates it might have looked six decades ago.

Moving south (up in the photo to the top left quarter) we find Chillicothe’s railroad “station.” How amazing is it that almost every one of those buildings is now gone, just 60 short years later? The mass production of automobiles for travel, the preference for using tractor trailers to haul goods, combined with the expansion and improvement of the U.S. highway and interstate system following World War II, nearly made the use of rails extinct (and the automobile has contributed significantly to the loss of many of old structures in Historic Chillicothe for parking lots – again, more on that in a future blog). In the photo you can see Union Station, the “U” shaped roundabout, and other buildings, including the railroad offices along E. Main. One thing you can’t see though in this photo is the “Overpass,” which wasn’t completed until 1961 (again, more on that I think in a future blog).

At the top (or far south) of the photo you can see the paper mill (or mills if you prefer). What’s interesting is how well you can see Hickory Street running south and straight into the Mead side of the mill. Over the years many of the streets and homes down there were purchased by the paper giant, the structures torn down, and those areas – that were once city blocks – became part of the mill. In some spots you can still make out the streets.

Moving to N. Hickory Street and the lower right side of the photo there stands a building that most recently housed Craftsman Printing (if memory serves). The business is long gone, but the building still stands (for now). I don’t know exactly what its original use was but I’m sure it had something to do with the railroad, which ran right beside it (I believe that would’ve been the N&W line, which ran east-to-west through the city, while the B&O went north-to-south and can be seen in the photo leaving the city and heading south along US 23) The north-south rail line is still in use of course, and is today CSX (from a merger of Baltimore and Ohio with the Chesapeake and Ohio line).

In almost the exact center of the photo, just east (left) of Main Street and in the middle of the block between Water and Second streets, is another large building situated along the N&W line. I haven’t done the research to try and find out what business may have been there in 1953 or when the structure was torn down, but today it’s an empty lot (Google Maps/Earth shows it clearly, as does a drive down there).

There’s a lot more to see in this photo, but I’m tired of writing and I’m sure you’re finished reading, so we’ll stop there.

I hope to find other interesting old photos to blog about on a semi-regular basis. And I hope a few people actually read this, otherwise it’s not worth much. But enjoy, and feel free to correct my mistakes (I’m a little concerned about getting the railroads right), or add comments and share even more of our local history with others.

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!