Orlando Evans, Defiance, Ohio, Postmaster

Until the 1870s, the postmaster of any town could send and receive mail free of charge. Despite what we moderns see as seemingly endless changes in the mail rate, postage on the frontier was higher. When the first United States postage stamp was issued in 1847, it cost 5 cents to send a letter four hundred miles, ten cents if further. When you realize that the average worker earned less than a dollar a day, mail rates were comparatively high. Thus the postmaster’s franking privilege was a much sought after plum. Not so in the case of Orlando Evans. Evans was served postmaster of Defiance, Ohio, from March 18, 1842 until March 13, 1845, but got that job early. The lifetime of hard work in politics and other occupations came later, and ended in California!

Orlando Evans was a son of pioneer parents. His father, Pierce Evans, had been a soldier during the War of 1812. Posted to Fort Defiance, at the confluence of the Maumee and Auglaize Rivers, he noted how beautiful the surrounding country was. He returned to the Maumee Valley in 1822. He started a general store where the town of Defiance now stands. Doing well in business, he became an associate judge of the Common Pleas Court. Long lived, Pierce Evans died in 1862.

Pierce Evans’s oldest son was Orlando Evans, our postmaster. Orlando was born around 1820. The village of Defiance was then in Williams County; Defiance County would not be carved out until 1845. If the records are correct, Orlando Evans was a very young man as postmaster. He filled several other minor offices in Defiance County. Booted out of the postmastership when James K. Polk became President in 1845, his next position was as Clerk of Courts, which he held until 1852. He also served as Recorder, Trustee, “Director” of education, and Cemetery Trustee, several of which he held concurrently.

In the Census of 1850, Orlando Evans was listed as a “merchant,” living comfortably with his wife Louisa, daughter and two servants, one of whom was African-American. By 1860, he had vanished from Ohio, while his family lived on in Defiance. What happened? Although the details are sketchy, legend has it that Orlando Evans moved to California to join the Gold Rush. We do know that by 1870, Orlando and Louisa were living in Bridgeport Township, Nevada County, California and that his occupation was listed as “miner.”

In the end, we do not know what became of Orlando Evans. His name appears in California voter registration files until 1876. After that, the trail goes cold. He may have moved back to Ohio, or moved somewhere else in California. We cannot be sure given available records. One thing is sure: Orlando Evans lived through exciting times. Not bad for the young postmaster of Defiance.

Halloween Party in Perrysburg, Ohio, 1905

John Amon’s Halloween Party

Halloween was not celebrated nationally until the early twentieth century. As it gained in popularity, the holiday moved from being an underground, back-alley, prank-filled occasion for mischief to a safe, well-supervised holiday that respectable children could enjoy. The change was such that even the “society” pages featured Halloween-themed news.

One example of the “better” sort of celebration was a Halloween party given by the family of John J. Amon (1863-1933) in Perrysburg on Monday evening, October 29, 1905. “The house was artistically decorated with Jack-o-lanterns and autumn foliage, plants and fruits.” The large group (24 children!) played games such as “feeding the ghost” and other holiday favorites followed by a four course supper. A “fortune cake” was presented for dessert. The partygoer who was served a slice containing a thimble was doomed never to marry. However, this was not taken very seriously. The guest who found the thimble was one Harry Fuller of Toledo. Fulton, the Perrysburg Journal pointed out, was a football player, and “not without feminine admirers.”

“At an early hour the guests dispersed all with the hope that again in the future they might be ‘counted in’ ‘At the Sign of the Black Cat.’” Whether the Amon house was actually decorated with a poster or sign of a black cat, or the family had a pet cat, is a little hard to tell from a hundred years later. Either is possible. or the phrase might have been the fantasy of a journalist.

John Amon, whose family hosted the party, could afford to do a party well. The son of immigrants from Bavaria, Amon conducted a hardware shop at 117 Louisiana Avenue, and was in business there from 1891 to 1926. Amon and his wife had a large family; eight children at the time of the Halloween party. Three of his daughters, Eva, Myra and Marie (ages 19, 15 and 13 respectively) were on the party guest list. Whether they had urged their father to throw the party or it was their father’s idea is unknown. The family lived on Front Street near Elm in Perrysburg.

The Amon family contributed much to Perrysburg. John Amon Sr (1823-1889) was one of a group of Bavarian Catholics from the same parish that migrated together and settled in and around northern Wood County in 1872. Not surprisingly, Amon Sr. was an active member of St. Rose parish in Perrysburg. He also held minor offices in Perrysburg Township. Whether the father built the stylish, narrow store at 117 Louisiana and passed it on to his son, or the son acquired it in another way is not known for certain, but the structure is still known as the Amon Building.

John Amon Jr. died in 1933. Two daughters at the Halloween party lived in Perrysburg all their lives. Myra became a teacher, and married a man named Frank Kaltenmark. In his old age, John Amon came to live with his daughter and son-in-law at their home on Louisiana Avenue. Marie Amon married John Hayes, an electrician. They lived on Front Street. Eva married an immigrant named Vetel Leterman, and disappeared from the record.

In a country made up of immigrants, identity mixes and thins out depending on who married who. John Amon Jr, a staunch German Catholic, saw one of his daughters marry a fellow German and one marry a man of Irish blood. Halloween has Scottish roots, but has come to be celebrated universally. Like many a family, the old stock has mixed with new, and melded a new reality - not unlike the holiday.

[Quotes are from Perrysburg Journal, November 3, 1905.]

Helena, Toledo, and H. G. Harter

Helena, Toledo, and H. G. Harter                      by Alan Borer

Helena, a village in Sandusky County Ohio on Route 6, is a pleasant-appearing hamlet. We used to go through it on the drive between Bowling Green and Fremont to see relatives. We rarely stopped in Helena. It is a very small town; by the time you passed the post office, a barber shop, and a lumber yard, you missed it. With a population (2010) of 224 people, you much watch closely to see Helena in any detail.

Looking back, however, a sizeable business with a Toledo connection was born there. Around 1885, a New York native named Helon Gepman Harter set himself up as a druggist in Helena. For fifteen years, Harter pedaled his trade in Helena. Slowly and steadily, Harter built up a business in patent medicines. The remnants of the Black Swamp, although being quickly drained, were in the area, and Hartman knew that the very term “black swamp” brought to mind cholera, malaria, and dysentery to his Helena customers. So it was no surprise that in 1893, when Harter trademarked his now-popular medicine, he called it “Black Swamp Remedy.”

As H. G. Harter’s concoction grew in popularity, it came time for him to relocate to a larger city. Settling in Toledo’s East Side in 1900, he opened for business at 629 Main Street. After a few years, he switched to new headquarters to 609 South St. Clair Downtown. At his new plant he diversified, selling oddly named pills for people and livestock such as “Crewso Poultry Powder,” “Noxit Quinine,” “Protolene”(for sheep), “Louse Snuff,” and my favorite, “Fatmore,” apparently a supplement to help hogs gain weight.

The “Black Swamp Remedy,” Harter’s primary product, was not necessarily a piece of quackery. Sometimes called “Black Swamp Blackberry,” the mixture’s main ingredient was in fact blackberry root. Pharmacists of the time understood the astringent properties of blackberry needed to treat dysentery, a major complaint in the days before sanitation. Harter’s Black Swamp medicine was not just hokum. Others, however, were more questionable. The company made “Lung Balsam,” which was 15% alcohol and also contained chloroform!

A good businessman, Harter advertised widely. Newspaper ads proclaimed the virtues of the Black Swamp Blackberry as being “Better than Gold.” One ad suggested that the remedy would help “Save the Children” from summertime, and thus mosquito-spread, cramped stomachs. Knowing that potential customers were swayed by free handouts, Harter produced a “Black Swamp Cash Book” for use as a token gift. Produced cheaply, it was only a few pages for keeping track of one’s purchases, but helped customers keep the name in mind.

As the Black Swamp faded into memory, and the medicinal use of blackberry gave way to modern medicine, H. G. Harter saw sales of his formulas begin to dwindle. Harter, who lived above the St. Clair St. factory, died in 1937. The firm was listed in the Toledo City Directory until 1939, and was finally closed in 1946. He is buried in Woodlawn Cemetery.

The “quack” patent medicine salesman shows up in many comedies and melodramas. I remember W. C. Fields and “The Three Stooges” playing fraudulent medicine hucksters. But H. G. Harter appeared to believe in the “Black Swamp” medicine he sold. And it probably did help people who contracted swamp diseases, although not as well as modern medicine.

Latchie or Latcha?

Latchie or Latcha?                                                By Alan Borer

We used to take the back way from Bowling Green to the Woodville Mall every once and awhile. Pemberville Road to the Woodville Road, then northwest toward Toledo. In the forty five years since I last went that way, the scenery has likely changed. We were always fascinated by a village we passed on that trip called Latcha, partly because it was just about the smallest place we had ever seen. A recent satellite map shows about fifteen dwellings, plus some miscellaneous outbuildings. There were probably fewer back in the mid 1970s, as the eastern exurbs of Toledo have brought in a few newer residents. A new motel has been built nearby, as well as a tavern. A small place, however, it still is.

The main issue I wish to examine is the name of this hamlet. Modern maps clearly label it as “Latcha.” Highway signs and the county engineer use that spelling for Latcha Road, an east-west roadway that runs under I-280 in Wood County’s Lake Township. But the village has an alternative spelling, “Latchie,” which was used by the post office, which closed in 1953. Records do not tell us quite where the confusion arose. It might be worth looking back over this tiny town and see if we can find an answer.

Latcha (we will use this form unless describing specifically postal matters) originated as a lumber town. In the 1870s, the forested land of the shrinking Black Swamp was still providing work for many. The first land was formally platted in 1876. A few years before, in 1871, the Toledo and Woodville Railroad acquired a right of way through what would become Latcha. The forests disappeared, but farmers followed. Farmers needed stores, churches, doctors, and rail access, and these all came to Latcha. And in those pre-Internet days, the farmers needed a post office.

The Latchie post office replaced an even smaller office called Webb. The first postmaster of Latchie was appointed January 13, 1873. His name was James J. Brim, a family prominent enough to give its name to a county road in Wood County. Like many small town offices, Latchie’s post office moved with whichever shopkeeper received the postmaster’s job. One postmaster, Thomas Rowe (1889-1893, 1897-1901), kept the post office in his home east of the village. Mr. Rowe must have been a Republican; his two terms of office match almost exactly the Presidential terms of Benjamin Harrison and William McKinley.

Over the years, several members of the Bahnsen family were postmasters, including Henry M. Bahnsen. Henry Bahnsen served from 1918 to 1953, at which time the Latchie office closed. Latchie was never big enough to have Rural Free Delivery, although when the office closed, it still had about fifty box holders who called daily for their mail. In deciding to close the Latchie office, the government cited the cost of keeping such a small post office alive. [Figure 1]

But the question remains – Latchie or Latcha? Printed maps in the 1870s and 80s clearly spelled it Latcha, as does the most recent history of Lake Township (1998). But the 1897 history and atlas of Wood County used Latchie. The last postmaster, Henry Bahnsen, said the correct version was Latchie. A report filed with the federal Postal Topographer in 1898 spelled it both ways; Latcha for the town and Latchie for the post office. Who is right?
The answer possibly lies in how the name was pronounced. I have made no formal study, but local speech patterns do sometimes switch the “a” sound at the end of a place name for an “e” pronunciation, if the word ends with a vowel. A resident of the next county to the east, for example, lived in “Senekey” (Seneca) County, and sometimes went to “Fostorie” (Fostoria). Most place names do not lend themselves to this, but “Latcha” could become “Latchie,” just as “Attica” could be “Attikey.” In the case of Latcha, the post office may have picked a dialect form, rather than a “standard” form.

It has been many years since I was last in Latcha. I would be interested to hear from life-long residents of Wood County’s Lake Township if they call the village Latcha or Latchie. Like many questions, there may or may not be a “right” answer. And while nobody asked, I am happy with either spelling!
[More on Latcha can be found in Robert L. Blake, A History of Lake Township Wood County, Ohio (1998). Thanks to Michele Raine, Wood County District Public Library, for help!]

1911 Theater Fire Made for Big Show

1911 Toledo Theater Fire Made for Big Show           by Alan Borer

Nothing brings a crowd like a disaster. Anytime there is a car crash, a fire truck, or a police siren, people come out to see what the cause is. The bigger the disaster, the bigger the crowd. Where were you when the Fassett Street bridge was ruined? Or when the Tiedke’s building burned? When a piece of our collective memory is destroyed, the destruction itself becomes a memory.

The post card above is of a fire in Toledo in 1911. I was surprised that something as fleeting as a fire would appear on a post card, but there it was. The card was mailed on November 14, 1912, and illustrated a theater fire in downtown Toledo that occurred on April 11 of the year before. A post card does not travel with the speed of email, but it was impressive in 1912, and the color that was added to what was originally a black-and-white photograph was unavailable in newspapers of that time.

What was going on in this scene? The caption tells us that this was the American Theatre on Jefferson Street, and notes that the Pythian Castle is in the background. Interestingly, both of these buildings still stand. The Pythian Castle, standing on the corner of Jefferson and Ontario, was built in 1890 for the Knights of Pythias fraternal organization. The building changed hands a number of times since the Knights sold it in 1951. A fire in 1978 left the building abandoned. Just last summer, the building was bought by developer David Ball, and at last report the building was in the midst of a three year remodeling project.

The theater has a somewhat more complicated story. When it was built in 1897-98, the theater was called Burt’s Theater. Burt’s Theater was built by Frank Burt, a showman and owner of several Toledo-area theaters. The new theater was designed “as a copy of a 15th century Venetian palace complete with a row of ornate gothic columns and balconies. The 1565 seat theater also featured an extra wide row called a "fat man's row". Patrons were offered a variety of daily shows of early vaudeville performances and melodramas. . . .”

Mr. Burt sold the theater in 1910, after surviving being shot by his jealous wife! “The Toledo City Directory lists it as the American Music Hall. From 1911 to 1915, the city directory lists the building as the American Theatre.” But in 1911, a fire broke out and nearly destroyed the building. On the afternoon of April 11 a fire started in the “gallery” of the theater, started by electrical wires leading to a “newfangled” motion picture projector. Very quickly, flames could be seen shooting the second and third story windows (as seen in the post card).

Two pieces of luck kept he fire from being a total disaster. The fire occurred well before scheduled evening performances of the Paycen Stock Company, an acting troupe scheduled to perform that night, which prevented any casualties. Even more fortunately, the theater stood right across the street from Toledo Fire Engine Company #3, and the firemen were able to fight the fire with no delay at all. Fire Chief William F. Mayo was on the scene, and the fire fighters were able to pour water the building from three sides. In about 45 minutes, the fire was out.

The fire was quite a show. “The streets on both sides of the burning theatre were thronged with men, women, and children and the police had their hands full to keep venturesome spectators back of the fire lines.” One of the fire hoses burst during the affair, and the crowd fled in a “mad stampede” to avoid getting soaked. At least one spectator believed the spray had been a joke of the fire fighters, and complained about such frivolity.

The building, while damaged to the tune of $10,000, was saved. The theater went on to other uses. “The Burt Theater went through many iterations through the years; the Peppermint Lounge, the Country Palace, the Club and Caesar's Showbar are businesses that people might remember. The building sits empty today and its ornate architectural features were most recently saved from demolition when it became a part of the Lucas County Land Bank in 2013.”

We moderns are lucky to have this post card view of an early twentieth century Toledo fire. If only the photographer had thought to record the crowd that watched this fire, surely as interesting a scene as any that appeared on the floorboards of the old Burt’s Theater.

Emperor’s Ambassador Visits Toledo – Briefly

Minister Wu meeting a group of Americans. This picture was not taken in Toledo, but if probably very similar to the view that day.

Emperor’s Ambassador Visits Toledo – Briefly 

The story begins like a film noir. A dank morning at the dingy old Union Station in downtown Toledo, which smelled of coal smoke and cigars. The weather on November 1 is typically chilly, and 1901 was probably no exception. The nation was still in mourning for President William McKinley, dead by assassination six weeks before. A couple of newsboys listlessly hawked the Blade and the News Bee. Then there was a commotion, as a “special” train slowed to a stop, belching and wheezing. A moment’s pause, and then two foreign gentlemen emerged to wait for a connecting train to Michigan.

As a few loiterers gawked, the men brushed themselves off. The older man was dressed in black silk, and introduced himself, in perfect British English, as Wu Tingfang, envoy and minister plenipotentiary to the United States from the Chinese Imperial government. The younger man was his secretary, Mun Chewchung. They were on their way from Washington to Ann Arbor, where Minister Wu was to address a student group. A one hour layover was to be spent in Toledo, while the two Imperial servants waited for their Michigan-bound train.

It was a busy hour, however. Some big names had come to meet, however briefly, the Chinese diplomats. Congressman Emmet Tompkins of Ohio was one of the first to shake hands with Mr. Wu. Then “forty or fifty” dignitaries were introduced by Congressman James Southard of Toledo, each of whom shook hands politely with the visitor. But the star of that hour was Mark Hanna, the powerful senator from Ohio and right-hand-man of the deceased President McKinley.

At that point, the scene became a little less serious. Hanna and Wu were well acquainted from previous visits. The story goes that Hanna had once thrown the ambassador into a snow bank when the pair was driving toward Hanna’s Cleveland home. During the brief Toledo stopover, the senator from Ohio greeted the Imperial visitor with a most undiplomatic cry of “Hello, Wu.” The minister smiled and replied, “Why, how do you do, Hanna?” as the two shook hands.

Minister Wu was known for his talkativeness. After he talked politics with the senator, Minister Wu was invited to spend the day, or even better to stay overnight at Hanna’s home. Perhaps remembering the snow bank incident, the ambassador replied, “No, no, no, no, I must go to Ann Arbor.” The two parted amicably and continued their respective journeys.

Mark Hanna did not have long to live after the Toledo meeting with the Chinese ambassador. He made an occasionally shaky truce with the new president, Theodore Roosevelt, and died in 1904. Wu Tingfang has a more complicated backstory. Born in 1842, Wu was educated in England, and was the first Chinese to pass the bar and become an English barrister. He served as Minister to the United States, Spain, and Peru from 1896 to 1902 and 1907 to 1909. He worked on reforming the imperial law code, and published several books. When the Emperor was overthrown in 1911, Wu cast his lot with Sun Yatsen and joined the revolutionaries. In 1912, Sun appointed him Minister of Justice, and in 1917, Wu Tingfang served as acting president of the Republic of China. Wu died in 1922.

At one time, the Emperor of China was regarded as supreme. He ruled over a huge, populous nation who regarded him as all-powerful, even godlike. The Chinese people called him the “Son of Heaven,” and his will was law. He could have anything he wanted; he was rich beyond the dreams of avarice; his commands were obeyed without question. But even the Emperor needed help exerting that power. Not surprisingly, he employed thousands of subordinates, including the intelligent and hardworking Wu Tingfang, who for one day in 1901, exercised the Emperor’s will in a Toledo train station.

[News of Minister Wu’s visit to Toledo appeared in the Toledo Blade, November 1, 1901.]

William Bolles and the Shopping List

William Bolles and the Shopping List by Alan Borer

During the fourth year of the Civil War, specifically September 5, 1864, a man named J. C. Lockwood ordered some merchandise from a downtown Toledo mercantile house. The Toledo concern was owned by one William Bolles. Mr. Bolles sold merchandise to Mr. Lockwood, a merchant whose home was Milan, Ohio, just south of Sandusky in Erie County. The merchandise in question was mostly linens. In this essay we will examine Mr. Bolles, Mr. Lockwood, and one of Mr. Lockwood’s shopping lists, and see what it can tell us about wartime Toledo.

William Bolles was the first in a line of three Toledoans with that name, father, son, and grandson. The son was a dry goods merchant like his father, the grandson an inventor and manufacturer of fountain pens. But the first William Bolles was a merchant. He was born in Litchfield, Connecticut, in 1807 or 1808, the son of Ebenezer Bolles, a saddle and leather maker. Possibly to his embarrassment, he attended the Litchfield Female Academy, the only local school that offered higher education. Mr. Bolles arrived in Toledo after a sojourn in Delphi, Indiana. He was the owner and proprietor of Wm. Bolles & Co, “Wholesale Dealers in Foreign and Domestic Dry Goods, Clothing, Yankee Notions, etc, etc.” Bolles also speculated in real estate in what is now the Old West End. Married three times, he was father of ten children. When he died in 1889, he was a wealthy man.

Switch scenes to the village of Milan. Milan was a canal town, and the canal created opportunities for business. And while Milan’s prominence was slowly giving way to railroad towns, in the 1860s there was still money to be made. One such businessman was J. C. (James C.) Lockwood. Lockwood (1815-1890) dabbled in several different ventures. “J. C. Lockwood and Lucius Stoddard, who were associated in the Milan Banking Company, were also largely interested in the shipping interests. Mr. Lockwood was also engaged for many years in the general mercantile trade. . . “ At the time he did business with Mr. Bolles, he lived with his, wife, daughter, and was rich enough to employ seven clerks, at least some of whom shared the dwelling of Mr. Lockwood.

What did Mr. Lockwood order from Mr. Bolles? Quite a bit, if we study the receipt. Buttons, braid, “frills,” thread, brushes, denim, five dozen spools of thread, and shirting. Lockwood ordered several different kinds of shirting, the finely woven cloth from which shirts are made. Some of the shirting came from the great textile factory at Lyman, Massachusetts. Others came from a company called Great Falls Manufacturing in Somersworth New Hampshire. But many of the purchases are not named. Five dozen spools of thread? Clearly noted, but unidentified as to maker or source. Only one thing on the list, a “box of cartridges,” hinted at the wartime status of 1864.

William Bolles receipt listed one of his mercantile specialties as “Yankee notions.” Yankee notions were small items offered for sale by peddlers, usually from New England. These might include scissors, thimbles, pocket knives, candy, and other odds and ends. Bolles and Lockwood, both Connecticut born, undoubtedly bought and sold Yankee notions. The shopping list carried no military supplies, but does remind us that the Civil War created a booming economy, and merchants large and small took advantage.

Christmas at the Kin Wa Low, 1947

by Alan Borer

Toledo once had such an active night life that a small magazine was published to keep track of it. Toledo Nite Life helped keep patrons of dining, dancing, and drinks aware of what each club and joint was offering. I’m not sure how long Toledo Nite Life existed – I have only seen one issue from 1947 and one from 1948. If the December 25, 1947 issue that I studied in depth was any indicator, Toledo had a many faceted social scene in those postwar years.

In that Christmas issue, the Top Hat Nite Club on St. Clair featured music by “The Famed Klingensmith Family” and had no cover charge. At Brady’s Bar on Sylvania Avenue, Joe Brady was offering a “Gala New Year’s Eve Party” with noisemakers and favors for all. Hats and noisemakers could also be had at the Stardust Inn on Phillips, where nightly dancing could be had to music by Skippy Emline’s Star Dusters. Ka-See’s Night Club featured Jimmy Harry’s Orchestra “for your pleasure.” The 1103 Bar (at 1103 Detroit Avenue) invited dancers to “Swing and Sway to American and Polish Music and Jive.” Further out, The Tivoli at Monroe near Secor offered “Toledo’s Only Smorgasboard,” coupled with Royal Miller on a Hammond Organ. The list goes on and on.

Of special note was the party at the Kin Wa Low. The name means “lovely flowering place” in Cantonese, and the restaurant had a four decade run. “Ha Sun Loo opened the restaurant in a single storefront in 1913. It became so popular it eventually expanded to three full dining rooms seating as many as 200 people, plus a bandstand and a dance floor that could be raised a few feet to serve as a stage.” Serving American and Chinese food, many Toledoans got their first taste of Chinese culture at the Kin Wa Low. The supper club was a venue for singing stars such as Ella Fitzgerald, Bobby Darin, Patti Page, and Johnny Maddox. Keeping late hours, the Kin Wa Low offered floor shows at 7:30 & 10:00 pm, plus 1 am. On weeknights, there was no cover charge, just 50c on Saturday nights, and a $1.50 if there was a nationally prominent act was showing.

On Christmas Day, the Kin Wa Low featured Don Smith and his Orchestra, as seen in the advertisement reproduced here. It also offered “a Great All-Star Fun Revue!” The Kin Wa Low was not just singers; comedy acts, jugglers, even a contortionist were featured. In the Christmas week “fun revue,” Bernie Green, “Toledo’s favorite M. C. Mirthmaker” introduced the acts. They included Ann Craig, a “singing comedienne,” Yvonne & Victor, singers, and The Pauline Parks Dancers, “five dancing darlings.”

The Kin Wa Low must have been a very festive place for “dinner and a show” on that long ago Christmas. All good things come to an end, however, and the restaurant closed in 1962, a victim of television and a change in the way the facility was taxed. The son of founder Ha Sun Loo, Howard Loo, died in January 2017. Mr. Loo had begun his working life at the Kin Wa Low, and later ran his own restaurant, H’Loo’s Steakhouse. According to his son, he remembered the Kin Wa Low as a great place to work and a great place to visit. And for all of us, whether with personal memories or just to have read about it, to remember when downtown Toledo was full of bars, restaurants, stage shows, and supper clubs.
[Quote from Toledo Blade, April 23, 2010. See also David Yonke, Lost Toledo, pp. 80-81.]