Lost Akron

By Mark J. Price

From a prehistoric locale like the Big Falls of the Cuyahoga River to the cavernous 1970s majesty of the Coliseum, explore the places that have melted away in Akron's changing landscape. Remember M. O'Neil Company? Akron Times-Press? The North Hill Viaduct? WAKR-TV? Norka Soda? Rolling Acres Mall? These are icons that all defined the city and its people. For those who live in Akron, for those who have moved away and for those too young to remember the Rubber City's heyday, author Mark J. Price takes a fascinating look at fifty vanished landmarks from Akron's past.

• Language: English
• Publisher: The History Press
• Release date: Jul 20, 2015
• ISBN: 9781625851079

Mark J. Price

Mark J. Price is an award-winning journalist from Akron, Ohio. A 1981 graduate of Akron North High School, he earned his journalism degree from Kent State University in 1985. He has worked as a copy editor and staff writer for the Akron Beacon Journal since 1997. Before that, he worked as a copy editor, columnist and features editor at the Canton Repository. He is the author of The Rest Is History: True Tales from Akron's Vibrant Past (The University of Akron Press, 2012) and Lost Akron (The History Press, 2015). He and his wife, Susan, live in Hinckley, Ohio, with their puppy girl, Cinders, and bunny girl, Katie.

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INTRODUCTION

When you’re young, you think that everything will last forever. Everyone you know will always be there for you. Every place you visit will always be waiting for your return. The changes occur gradually, almost imperceptibly. A childhood friend moves away. An aging teacher retires. A favorite restaurant goes out of business. A memorable building is torn down. A doting grandparent passes away. Little by little, your world transforms.

The changes seem to quicken after a few decades. Everywhere you travel, something old is giving way to something new. Entire blocks are demolished. Streets are renamed. Modern buildings rise. It’s possible to live in the same town for most of your life and no longer recognize huge swaths of it.

Have you ever heard older residents give directions in Akron? You turn right at the Sohio station, just past the old Fazio’s store, and keep going until you reach the corner where Isaly’s used to be. If you see the former Red Barn, you’ve gone too far. It’s sometimes easier to navigate by old landmarks than to try to remember what’s standing there now.

Look around and appreciate what’s there. You never know when it might be gone.

Lost Akron provides a window into Summit County’s past. Here are fifty places and things that local folks once thought were permanent fixtures but disappeared over time. Through these pages, readers can revisit some old haunts or discover places they never knew existed. At the very least, they should be able to better understand those directions supplied by Akron’s older residents! Enjoy getting lost.

—MARK J. PRICE

Akron’s skyline climbs over the horizon in an 1878 view from Bates Hill (now called Cadillac Hill). Courtesy of the Summit County Historical Society of Akron, OH; housed at Akron–Summit County Public Library.

1

THE EARLY YEARS

THE BIG FALLS

One of the most scenic spots in Ohio took thousands of centuries to create and less than a year to destroy.

The Big Falls of the Cuyahoga River were a natural landmark of captivating beauty, an inviting habitat for American Indian tribes and a popular destination for Western Reserve pioneers and Victorian-era tourists. Water crashed against rock, swirling and cascading, endlessly streaming through a rugged landscape of jagged cliffs and towering trees. The picturesque setting was a product of cataclysmic change.

Mohawk Indians called it Cayagaga, meaning crooked river, a fitting name for an eighty-five-mile stream that begins in Geauga County, travels southwest through Portage and Summit Counties and then zigzags north toward Cleveland, where it empties into Lake Erie about thirty miles west of where it started.

As glaciers advanced and retreated in prehistoric times, a raging river and groaning ice mass carved the Gorge, a chasm that separates the modern-day cities of Akron and Cuyahoga Falls. According to Summit County historian Oscar Eugene Olin (1851–1933), This field of ice with its inconceivable weight acted as a great plane, and a great plough, shaving off the tops of hills and mountains, filling up valleys, scraping out new ones, changing the course of rivers, and heaping up great masses of earth and stone that form the gravel hills of our vicinity.

The Big Falls of the Cuyahoga River swirl between Cuyahoga Falls and Akron in 1873. A dam was built atop the falls in 1913. Courtesy of the Akron–Summit County Public Library, General Photograph Collection.

During the Ice Age, a glacial dam forced the Cuyahoga to alter its path and reshape the earth. It was not then the quiet river of today but a rushing, roaring torrent that for years and years tore away at the ledges of rock till it had cut its way down about 300 feet and had found its old valley again on the way to Lake Erie, Olin explained.

In the process, it left behind two miles of continuous rapids and waterfalls, including three perpendicular drops measuring twelve feet, sixteen feet and twenty-two feet, according to General Lucius V. Bierce (1801–1870), a former Akron mayor, who praised the Gorge for having the most sublime scenery in Northern Ohio. The third and longest drop was the Big Falls, which Indians called Coppacaw, meaning shedding tears.

In the early eighteenth century, Iroquois Indians lived in a village on the south bank of the Big Falls. About 1756, Delaware Indians built a village on the opposite bank near a cliff overhang later known as Old Maid’s Kitchen. In 1935, the rock shelter was renamed Mary Campbell Cave in honor of a Pennsylvania girl who was abducted by Delaware Indians about 1758 and brought to Ohio. According to local lore, the girl known as the first white child on the Western Reserve lived briefly in the shelter with Indian women.

Founded in 1812, Cuyahoga Falls originally was called Manchester, but the community’s name was so common that townsfolk looked into the Gorge for inspiration. Settlers harnessed the river for power to run mills and factories, a practice that eventually doomed the Big Falls.

The Gorge and the upstream Glens, a narrow valley with steep cliffs and giant rock formations, were a constant source of fascination. Sightseers flocked to the river and became enchanted with its natural wonders. The summer resort High Bridge Glens, which featured a dance pavilion, a dining hall, scenic overlooks and caverns, attracted more than eight thousand visitors per day during its heyday in the late 1800s.

New York civil engineer James L. Greenleaf (1857–1933), an instructor at Columbia College, filed this report about the Gorge in 1880 while visiting Summit County as a special agent for the U.S. census:

From the overhanging eastern cliffs 100 feet above, springs of clear sparkling water trickle over in drops which fall like the first drops of a shower into the still, dark basin below; lighted by the afternoon sun they glisten like diamonds. Standing on the hill opposite the bend of the river, a beautiful view is obtained down the valley of the hills wooded from the top to where they meet the river, while up the river is the glen, and the opposite bank is darkened by the heavy hemlock foliage.

Local historian William B. Doyle (1868–1943), a former Akron mayor, also provided a vivid account:

On both sides the land stretches away in level fashion, and the traveler approaches without any warning from Nature that a great chasm yawns in front of him. Suddenly he stands on the edge of the precipice, and through the interwoven branches of the hemlocks sees the foaming, tossing water far below him, in the cool depths of the Glens. About halfway down the Gorge the river tumbles over a ledge of harder sandstone and makes a very pretty cascade known by the prosaic name Big Falls. It is a pity that so charming a spot should be called by so commonplace, if not ugly, name.

In 1911, the Big Falls fell unnaturally silent. Akron’s Northern Ohio Traction & Light, which owned 216 miles of trolley track, built a power plant a half mile away on the north bank. Needing a pond for cooling water, the utility constructed a concrete dam 60 feet tall and 420 feet wide on top of the Big Falls. The natural landmark disappeared beneath the pond, replaced by a man-made spillway.

You, who have stood at the miniature Niagara, the big falls, in utter awe at its power, will soon witness man’s transformation of this gorgeous view into a monster agency for power utilization, the Cuyahoga Falls Reporter noted. The gigantic dam, causing the former scenic surroundings to lose its beauty, is being constructed of concrete and masonry, founded on piling driven some twenty feet into the ground.

Although the utility took away a natural landmark, it did preserve the surroundings. In 1930, the company donated 144 acres for the creation of Gorge Metro Park, which operates today under Summit Metro Parks.

In theory, the Big Falls aren’t lost but merely misplaced. In 2013, two smaller dams were demolished upstream in a $1 million project to improve water quality of the Cuyahoga River. The Ohio Environmental Protection Agency proposed the dam removal, and the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers approved.

The Gorge dam still stands, although the power plant, which ceased operations in 1991, was razed in 2008. If another demolition is approved, water could crash against rock, swirling and cascading, endlessly streaming. The Big Falls are waiting to be found.

MIDDLEBURY

Akron isn’t supposed to exist. Middlebury was the dominant town, the industrial giant, the regional hub.

According to local lore, the pioneer settlement became so prominent in Ohio that Cleveland, originally spelled Cleaveland, was known to early 1800s travelers as a small village situated north of Middlebury.

The three most important words in real estate are location, location, location. Middlebury had a prime location and a promising future until one fateful day when those assets were torn asunder.

The community began simply. Joseph Hart, a former sea captain from Wallingford, Connecticut, bought fifty-four wooded acres and co-founded a gristmill in 1807 with Judge Aaron Norton, a native of Goshen, Connecticut, along the Little Cuyahoga River, a seventeen-mile waterway connecting the Cuyahoga River to Springfield Lake.

Although the origin isn’t certain, Middlebury probably was named for Middlebury, Connecticut, about ten miles from Norton’s hometown. The Western Reserve village sprang up from the four corners of Tallmadge, Springfield, Coventry and Portage townships, so its central location may have been an inspiration as well.

The new mill was an immediate success. According to local historian Karl H. Grismer (1896–1952), It was not an imposing establishment—just a small, one-story frame building with a wooden tub wheel and one run of stone. But the mill turned out a better grade of cornmeal and wheat flour than those in Hudson or Northampton and settlers soon began going there with grain. Many came from as far away as forty miles.

With plenty of water power available, the site soon attracted other businesses. John and Samuel Preston of Tallmadge built a woolen mill. Judge Norton and William Laird opened a blast furnace. Abraham Graham founded a distillery. Peleg Mason established a general store and Middlebury’s first tavern. Brothers Charles, Julius and Edward Sumner set up a nail factory. Samuel Newton started a hotel.

Everything for pioneer comfort was manufactured there, from iron kettles, nails, plows and stoves to satinet and broadcloth, wrote local historian Olin. It seemed that Middlebury would become one of the most important cities of the Western Reserve.

In 1808, town founder Joseph Hart and his wife, Anne, welcomed a baby girl, Eliza, the first white child born in the vicinity. Within five years, Middlebury was home to fifteen families and boasted a school built by Miner Spicer. The population approached four hundred by the early 1820s, a community large enough to have its own post office and circulate a newspaper, the Portage Journal, edited by Laureen Dewey.

As a boomtown, Middlebury attracted a lot of rough-and-tumble characters who frequented the village’s watering holes, threw back stiff drinks and started bare-knuckle brawls. On one particular evening, however, Middlebury became drunk with happiness.

On February 4, 1825, the Ohio legislature approved the construction of the Ohio & Erie Canal to connect the Ohio River with Lake Erie. Middleburians, as residents were known, reacted with glee, assuming that the waterway would pass through their bustling village. Grismer described the scene:

Like wildfire, the news swept through Middlebury. And that night, old timers said, Middlebury had the greatest celebration ever held in the Western Reserve. Men, women and children braved the bitter cold and congregated at the town square close by Newton’s Tavern. A giant bonfire was lit, numerous speeches were made, and a barrel of whiskey, furnished free by Payne & Squire, distillers at Old Forge, was drained before the crowd broke up. It was a big night, one long remembered.

Middlebury’s stores provided supplies for laborers on the project. Contractors and bidders signed deals in Middlebury establishments. Unfortunately for Middlebury, that was as close as the canal got to the village.

Warren’s General Simon Perkins, who owned more than 1,300 acres in Portage Township, persuaded Paul Williams, another landowner, to join him in laying out the village of Akron in 1825. They stood to make a handsome profit if the state purchased their land for the transportation project. The Ohio canal commission unexpectedly approved a route through Summit Lake that passed two miles west of Middlebury. Akron, which existed mainly on paper, was the big winner. Middlebury, home to four hundred residents, was shut out.

Designed by James Geddes, the Ohio & Erie Canal opened its gates from Akron to Cleveland with much fanfare in 1827 and completed construction by 1833. Located on a hydraulic superhighway, Akron became the next boomtown while Middlebury slowly withered on the vine.

The old town still had some life in it. Middlebury was known for producing stoneware, pottery and sewer pipes, and its high-quality products were shipped across the nation. The First Presbyterian Church of Middlebury, one of the first churches in the region, was organized in 1831. Middlebury produced such prominent citizens as George Barber, founder of the Barber Match Co. (later Diamond Match Co.); his son Ohio C. Barber, founder of Barberton; Dr. Eliakim Crosby, Akron developer; Boniface DeRoo, founder of Akron City Hospital; and Roswell Kent, a pioneer merchant.

Akron was the future, though, and Middlebury was the past. In April 1872, the two communities held a vote on whether to merge. Akron voted 1,042 to 6 in favor. Middlebury agreed 140 to 26. Middlebury dissolved on May 27, 1872, and became the Sixth Ward of Akron.

Akron’s Sixth Ward, formerly known as Middlebury, is viewed from Tallmadge Road in 1891. Courtesy of the Akron–Summit County Public Library, Samuel Lane Collection.

Socialite Mary Robinson dedicates a fifteen-ton boulder on February 16, 1931, at East Market Street and Buchtel Avenue in memory of her grandfather Ambrose L. Cotter, a Middlebury settler. Courtesy of the Akron Beacon Journal.

Today, Middlebury’s square is hiding in plain sight. It’s the shaded park at East Market and Exchange Streets near Akron Fire Station No. 2. For decades, Hower Department Store operated next door. Local businesses tried to turn the square into a parking lot in the late 1940s, but the Summit County Historical Society preserved the site, establishing Middlebury Square Park in 1950.

A large millstone, formerly of the Great Western Cereal Co., marks the spot, along with a plaque that reads: The site of the public square of Middlebury, the oldest part of what is now the city of Akron. Settled in 1807 by Capt. Joseph Hart, Middlebury became an important milling center as symbolized by this millstone. Here the first schoolhouse and town hall and Akron’s first church was organized.

Middlebury is gone. Its square lives on.

SOUTH HOWARD STREET

The most important intersection in Akron history is lost without a trace. There isn’t a bronze plaque or historical marker to identify it. Motorists pass through every day without realizing its significance.

The downtown crossing of Howard and Market Streets was once the heart of the city, pulsing with energy, thrumming with activity and synchronizing the rhythm of daily life. It’s where a nascent village took its first furtive steps and marched confidently toward maturity.

Dr. Eliakim Crosby (1779–1854), a Middlebury resident and Connecticut native, led an 1831 drive to dig a channel to divert water from the Little Cuyahoga River to create hydraulic power for industry. The Cascade Race flowed down present Main Street, curved west and emptied near Lock 5 of the Ohio & Erie Canal. In 1832, Crosby built the five-story Stone Mill at the foot of the hill, giving Mill Street its name.

Initially called Cascade, the village that arose at Market and Howard rechristened itself as Akron despite the name already being taken by a rival hamlet at Main and Exchange Streets. North Akron and South Akron feuded bitterly for years before merging in 1836.

One of Cascade’s first merchants was Seth Iredell, soon to be elected Akron’s first mayor, who built a two-story frame building in 1832 at the southwest corner of Market and Howard. Crosby’s son-in-law Charles W. Howard operated a general store in the building and lent his name to the famous street that served as the town’s east–west divider. Innkeeper Willard W. Stevens opened the Cascade House at the northwest corner. Hiram Payne built the three-story Stone Block on the southeast corner.

Howard Street’s early businesses helped fix the character of the city while a colorful and exciting cavalcade passed through on Akron’s canals, said local historian Hugh Allen (1882–1977). The canals linked Akron with the outside world and made the village a gateway to the frontier, he said.

Right through the center of town, running the gauntlet of hotels, stores, warehouses and lumber wharves, passed stately packets on the eight-hour journey from Cleveland to