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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? 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 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.
