"Missed the Bridge" in Over-the-Rhine

Old news is not new to this writer.

“A lot of bad things happened in that house.”

That wasn’t a sentence from a Stephen King thriller. The line was delivered by the great-granddaughter of the original owner of our Over-the-Rhine home, built in 1875.

Those words were not a cautionary tale to us. My husband and I have talked a great deal about how we’ve grown as humans living in the city center. However, when folks lived in the city by necessity and not choice (and still is, for some), many did not thrive.

A personal project for our home, where I planned to exhibit more history of the home, sent to me digging into newspapers.com. There, I discovered stark reminders of how the distance between living in Over-the-Rhine for the first century and a quarter of the home’s existence in the late 1800s through the early 2000s before our home was renovated, and living here the last ten years, wasn’t that far apart.

While many issues have changed, the messiness remained.

The Early 1900s

What did the great-granddaughter speak of? It’s doubtful she referred to one of her great-uncles, Dr. Oscar, who was raised in our home. In the early 1900s, Oscar was an occupant in a car where a driver claimed in court, he felt a jar when the accident occurred and heard the glass break on the windshield but did not stop his machine. He did not know what to do and just kept going. Dr. Oscar testified at the trial where the driver, Fred H., was accused of hit and run.

Oscar gave witness that he wasn’t certain a man had been struck until the machine reached the center of the city. But THE GLASS WINDSHIELD BROKE. Today, drivers hitting pedestrians is an equally common occurrence, as I can attest to the four-year anniversary of being hit by the driver of a car. I hope Fred’s punishment was commensurate with his inane claim.

Below that news item, a succinct passage better exemplified the dangers in Over-the-Rhine. Frank S. walked about Vine Street, crossing into Over-the-Rhine, which meant over the canal. A large crowd witnessed the rescue of Frank, who, when walking, MISSED THE BRIDGE. Thankfully, we no longer must worry about such things. I miss the idea of a canal, but not the notion of falling in, with sewage and mosquitos swirling about.

The 1920s-30s

In the 1920s, as the original family prepared to move out, they advertised a fine condition Hoover electric sweeper available for $75. The original owners held a certain privilege in the city. They also sold marble slabs (that’s where the bathroom marble walls went), and a square piano, ebony, good condition. But one could only call between the hours of 10 – 3 p.m.

That German family moved out. The Italians moved in. And rented rooms in our home, many for a solid thirty years. Ettore Sierra obtained his U.S. citizenship (a lot quicker I’ll get my Italian one). The U.S. also welcomed Carmino Mazzie, a tailor, and Raimundo Minnini. Over-the-Rhine quickly filled up with Italians and their wine, after the Germans had their fill of too much beer.

Sadly, while the U.S. courts busily welcomed industrious Italians, local courts were occupied with other Italians who found their way to crime. Joe R. was convicted of murdering his wife somewhere along 14th and Race. His wife resided on Race Street at a different address. However, her companion that night, Overte Starido, a member of the symphony orchestra, resided in our home. During the trial, an Italian interpreter was sworn in, as many Italians were called to testify.

By 1930, the roof of our home was lifted off by strong winter winds according to new owner Vincent D. The tin roof on the two-story building (that’s three to you and I), half blown to one side, half blown to the other. Temperatures had dipped from 49 degrees to near zero in one afternoon, sort of like the Bengal’s fortunes after signing Joe Borrow.

In 1938, another strange connection to our home occurred. Oscar J. Mueller, a son of the original owner of our home, Charles Mueller, was a druggist in the family store at 1429 Race and lived in Clifton. One day, while seated at work behind the counter, Oscar was shot by a robber in front of his wife, who screamed, “You never gave him a chance.” He died 3 months later.

Later in the decade, two men, one of them renters in our home, were evicted from a local restaurant for their boisterousness. They were said to have fallen through a plate glass window of a furniture company. Sad to say, one of them was Italian. I wonder if these guys knew the man who missed the bridge.

In 1939, the same owners whose roof blew off held a wedding reception for their daughter where she and her husband were honored at the Friars Club, after a marriage ceremony at Sacred Heart Church on Broadway near Sixth, before the Italians were run out of there. Ironically, the maid of honor was related to one of my husband’s current co-workers.

1940s-50s

Soon, the illustrious Dr. Donisi moved his offices into our building and maintained a presence there until 1957.

Alas, more mischief moved in: an individual who resided here wrecked a café, causing $350 in damage, a six-year-old boy was hit and killed when he darted between parked cars in front of the house, and Edward of Elm Street was slugged and robbed $30 by a pair of robbers, accosted in front of our Race Street home.

That level of violence hasn’t hit in front of our home, but we’ve not been without our own experiences. I was once stalked midday, and one of the neighborhood guys ran after and chased off my stalker. Pleased by my new angel begonias, on two occasions, someone stole my plants. Porch pirates have had their day too, walking off with packages in broad daylight on camera. And one day, a pair of young drunks sideswiped one of my flower pots. The pot broke in pieces on the ground. It was a Friday, which we call amateur night, based on the energy in the air predicting when high jinks will occur. I’m not sure why the police don’t have the same radar we all do living here.

I was most happy to find a shoe store, managed by Harold C., existed right below where I work now.  His family met an unfortunate end. Both his children drowned in an icy Jordan River in Salt Lake City. He was quoted and photographed while saying, “C’mon baby,” to no avail.

By late 1959, our home was for sale. All the time. Various agents attempted to sell the home, once for $17K for 13 rooms. When we sell, we won’t be dropping the price.

1960s-70s

The home was also attractive place for residents who gave a false name to “obtain paregoric at a drugstore.”  Paregorics are used to relieve diarrhea. And decreases stomach and intestinal movement in the digestive system. If I had a runny stool, I’d be inclined to use a false name too.

In 1964, another unfortunate resident of our home was struck as a pedestrian in 1964. This news appeared alongside dresses for sale at Shilitos, and famous maker handbags for only $5.87.

As if the above trouble wasn’t enough, this same gentleman was also implicated in a fire in our home that began in a third-floor apartment. He was one of two residents trapped, while eight others fled.

Sadly, one resident died in a separate apartment fire due to careless smoking. The fire, originating on the third floor, around 3:56 a.m., caused $3000 in damages. My father always said nothing good happened after 2 a.m. He was right.

Recently, my HVAC repairman, a Jesus-looking kind of guy, and I chatted about old homes and how many deaths might have occurred at part of its history. I counted 3 or 4, depending on what qualified, inside or out. However, one’s home did not have to attain a certain age. Two years after I moved to Loveland, my first husband died at home, under the care of hospice. The home was only two years old.

By 1977, the community lost an icon. A resident in our home, Annabelle Thompson, a community leader, and mother of the year. Operated the El Patio Restaurant in the West End and sold custom made flower arrangements for more than 40 years. She produced 4 great-great grandchildren, dying at the age of 77.

1980s-90s

The 1980s were boring in Over-the-Rhine, only as it related to news articles about the building. At some point, our home was listed for zoning violations following a crackdown by the city, requested by the Chamber of Commerce. Boarded windows, trash bags out front, roof damage. Kudos to the persons in charge for holding the city accountable. It’s a constant battle for all.

By 1994, our home was on the market for a $1 by the city’s Neighborhood Housing Conservation. RFPs included description, proforma, individuals involved, schedule, marketing information, anticipated market. In that same year, I married my first husband and moved from Oakley to Loveland. The realtors could not have anticipated waiting for me to move to Oregon, birth a son, return to Cincinnati, mourn a husband, remarry with four children, and buy this property and move to Over-the-Rhine. Who could have anticipated so many lifetimes in a single score?

Requests for proposals continued into the next year. The advertising for them was juxtaposed with an ad from Ryan Homes to get off at Fields Ertel, drive toward Mason. “Stop by this master-planned community today.”

I’ve been part of that before, belonging to various communities with HOAs, while, back in the 1960s, there were classifieds for buildings in Over-the-Rhine that were designated as ‘white” or “colored.” That thought makes me tired, and sad.

2000s-present

By 2011-12, we had signed a deal to purchase our home. We located the great-granddaughter of Charles M., who confided about bad things that had happened in the home.

And now, we’ve come to the final death in this retelling, the first in the home.

One night, dear Charles, Jr., son of Charles M., fled from his home in Hyde Park to that of his parents’ in Over-the-Rhine. What had first been reported as a case of insomnia by the younger Charles over his wife’s severe illness while she lay in a hospital bed at Good Sam, became a larger news story. After Charles arrived at his mother’s home, she directed him upstairs for a nap. Charles Jr. proceeded to do so. And shot himself. It was also reported a woman in the vicinity of the parents’ home, Mrs. Miller, an acquaintance of Charles Jr., hysterically cried out that she and Charles Jr. secured a suicide pact. A gun was later discovered in Mrs. Miller’s belongings as well.

In reading the accounts, one might suspect there was an air of impropriety involved between the husband and the acquaintance, and an air of truth to the insomnia account.

None of this is to make light of circumstances beyond our control. Either way, bad things happened here. Most days, we try to re-energize the home with good.

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There are some great opportunities happening this fall. Stay tuned for a foodie related one coming soon!

October

During the week of October 16th, I’ll be presenting I’ll Have Some of Yours (the long-delayed book tour has begun) at various Promedica/Arden Courts locations around Cleveland. Visit my website for specific locations.

October 21

REGISTER NOW. Limited seating. The Italian American Museum in Little Italy, Cleveland, will host Waking the Ancestors (through story), a two-hour writing workshop to explore our Italian American ancestry that has informed and inspired who we are. If you have a writer in the family in the area, encourage them to sign up.

October 21

The Mercantile Library presents one of my favorite authors, Erik Larson, for its annual Niehoff Lecture. You might recall Erik from one of my earliest COVID blogs, inspired by mantelpieces and pansies. Read more here.

November 4 - Confluence of Craft Workshop

Join me, along with my writing partner, Tina Neyer, as we co-lead a day of filled with lectures, exercises and time devoted to the craft of writing. Our location overlooks a beautiful bend of the Ohio, just enough to stretch your imagination. Time: 9 - 5 p.m. Cost $200.00. Email amjwick@gmail.com or tina.neyer@gmail.com for details and sign up information.

Nov 8

Pauletta Hansel and I again are offering our quarterly FREE, virtual caregiver writing experiences, through Giving Voice Foundation. Next up, Nov 8 from 10-12 p.m. Learn more or register here.

2024

So much is already in motion for next year! Here are a few fun things:

Italian America Magazine

My take on their Sunday Lunch series, Sunday Brunch, will be featured in the Spring.

Fotofocus

October, 2024. Next year’s theme: backstories. As a writer, what’s not to love about that? I’ll be presenting on the topic of Memoir: It’s All Backstory.