Darcy Trunzo has written this piece on the 1889 flood legacy in Johnstown on her Substack. It is reprinted with permission.
Though I was raised in Indiana County – I was born here. As was my mother. Her side of the family lived up the road a bit in another mining town called Portage and a handful of others in a tinier patch town called Martindale. My maternal grandmother reminded us often that she would bring the train into Johnstown every week and take the incline to the neighborhood of Westmont where the “rich people lived up top” —away from the belching of Cambria Steel -(forerunner of Bethlehem)
– and cleaned their houses.
Throughout her life she would be a woman who would judge her work by how black the water in her bucket was when sent to the drain or a runoff ditch- visual indicator of both her hard, good, work and- the amount of pollution that waged war on the health and common decency of well-off residents. To this day cousins and myself trauma laugh over the fact that she, a ‘hard woman’ (as described by my abusive grandfather) felt in her pentecostal religiosity that the only way to truly purify the world was through bleach and fire. Sin should be washed away or burned. Allegiance to the gospel carried out in back breaking work – knowing that its rewards would never be found in this here life— but one had faith that they’d be carried beyond by an angel band who would —in the mind of she and kin would nod approvingly at how black her water was indeed.
When finished, washrags wrung dry – she’d ride back down the hillside on that counter weighted contraption —one of many that used to dot Western, PA hillsides as a practical means of conveyance. She’d take the train back to Portage – away from ‘the city’. This detail, was visual and visceral to me – having ridden on the incline from the time that I was young – I had an understanding of the notion that anyone who lived ‘up top’ had a circumstantial and visual advantage to those who were from parts below—ants to be crushed, burned or ‘warshed’ away— or so it seemed looking down. But I’d come to realize – that workers-like ant colonies – industrious, and able to lift many times their own weight – always remained vulnerable to the soles and scrub water of those ‘up top’ or could seared into oblivion when peered at under the close interrogation of a magnifying glass.
May 31st was the anniversary of one of US History’s more flagrant examples (from a veritable buffet of options) of how the rich felt those down below could meet with their sole at any point by way of intention or – institutional negligence. The Johnstown Flood. How the pals of bastard Henry Clay Frick sat idle at a fishing club in nearby South Fork while a damn that they’d been neglecting for quite some time – succumbed to what was one of the most historic rainfalls to date. Near 4 billion gallons of water made its way through the Little Connemaugh valley wiping small towns to bedrock surging, and gaining momentum finally reaching Johnstown proper, 14 miles down river from the South Fork Hunting and Fishing Club.
Of record it was the worst flood of the 19th century and around 2,200 people were killed by the floods directly – if not by the subsequent fires and illness. It also became one of the largest efforts of the Red Cross lead by Clara Barton who helped mobilize the community to provide food, shelter and medical supplies necessary to get reconstruction of the downtown area underway.
Although victims tried to file suit against the South Fork Club – they were unsuccessful in securing damages because the resourced and well shod were able to partition their assets from the club itself – and managed to indemnify themselves from any liability. And yet – with the all of the peculiarities of trauma bonding – the community and victims worked harder than ever to ensure that the mills and mines were up and running in short order, carrying many times the weight of the tragedy as their collective identity. Work that also would be rewarded by the angel band one day.
This collective identity of the worker remains visible in people, their language and demeanor. The epigenetic trauma of floods (‘36, ‘71, and ‘77) and various tragedies of industry and their companions – black lung, alcoholism, and family violence of varying sorts are found in the stories of many of Johnstown’s residents today. And finally the legacy of widespread regional industrial collapse of mine and mill closures from the late 70’s onward. This milieu made all too familiar in films of the 70’s and 80’s about the social and economic considerations of the time and the impact of industrial collapse. Films like “Slap Shot”, “All The Right Moves” and “Ladies And Gentlemen The Fabulous Stains” all depicted the struggles and the embedded community found within a fictionalized Johnstown.
It can be seen in the buildings, and structures that survived the surges, and the wood framed buildings that would become the infill to take the place of ones flattened. The people who inhabit these spaces by legacy and circumstance are still by and large being shaped by the fickle whims of industrialization with the few secure jobs being provided by military contractors and some via healthcare. Once thriving manufactures of well made ladies undergarments, Bali Best Form – sold at longtime regional department store flagship Glosser Brothers and its discount partner ‘Gee-Bee’ (incidentally close kin to the Trump regime architect and perhaps high profile cuckold Stephen Miller —-who incidentally is fully denounced by his family) – retooled to make ejector seats for fighter pilots.
In the last number of years I’ve spent time living, working, observing and interacting with Johnstown as a place to examine where my own personal history and a collective history intersect, combine and can be reconsidered. It is, by its very nature – a river town that was a natal force for my own family – but also, for the United States. A literal crucible in which a specific wave of our identities would be shaped through industrialization – railroads, skyscrapers, mechanization and militarization.
I spent a large portion of 2022 researching, photographing, interviewing and making art about media depictions of this place, and how, very specifically the women were impacted by industry and its repeated cycles of advance and collapse as men became absent physically through the attrition of death, or military assignment, or emotionally via mental health crisis associated with work and military related traumas – or long term disabilities, cancers and so on and so forth.
And yet – there is a community here – an identity that is confused, yet earnest, trying constantly to battle the golden carrot of “things are getting better” and disappointment of “that’s just the way things are” and somehow negotiating the friction between the two. There is art here. There is humor here. There is a simultaneous desire for more and for things to remain the same – the comfort of known pain versus the discomfort of growth and new possibility.
This is the sort of place that reporters love to come during campaign season -to engage in ruins porn and expect to get the shot and beer opines of who they believe are the hog mawed dumpty-dumps who vote counter to personal interest and cause the rest of the nation suffering. They sidle up at the first dive bar they can find and mark down what little they can eavesdrop and maybe pull a quote or two from someone three (or more) deep whose level of community engagement involves bitching about the uneven leg on that there bar stool – and the fact that they’re pissed that the Diocese Scandal ruined the town’s reputation for good. Meanwhile – beyond that one dive -in a sea of many – opinions and perspectives are abundant- and a host of community members eager to engage in means of resisting the status quo – or at least mutual aid and support of their fellow community members.
In my past work and continued relationship with and investigations of this place I hope to shed light on how places like this are microcosms of what we are encountering writ large as a country and how repeatedly the poor are forced into becoming complicit in an ongoing cycle of making and doing things that harm themselves and other poor people for generations – by design. How the threat of the soles of industrialists have all but become either invisible – or in some instances welcome – because without that hanging threat – what else would there be as a resource or motivation? But also how working people resist and claim ownership of their homes and places of communion and leisure.
Right now – the incline is busted. Down for repair since ‘22 and folks who rely on it for transportation to get ‘up top’ for work or otherwise have had to find new means via local public transit —CamTran – to make their way to Westmont. The disrepair has not only impacted momentum of the existing community – but also the growing economic force of recreational tourism – as mountain bikers became noticeable regulars on the incline – using it to access a network of trails that spiderweb throughout the region and dump onto the larger network of trails that can carry riders all the way to DC via repurposed rail beds. Upward mobility stymied in the literal sense – and the ability for outsiders to view this town in more nuanced way – slowed considerably.
CamTran whose ridership sits at about 850,000 (down from over a million pre-pandemic) rides a year according to its executive director Rose Lucey-Noll, serves not only daily commuters – but also a considerable aging and disabled population. Many of whom rely on paratransit and call for ride service – funded at nearly 50 percent by medicaid and medicare funds that make their way down to local services. Looming cuts to this funding could mean many who are struggling will be placed in even more dire circumstances. While seated in a river valley in Appalachia – Johnstown is still a city weather, the indicators of such seem little more than a shadow. Diminished transit will draw into higher relief the food deserts that impact downtown and spokewheel neighborhoods as most of the grocery outlets remain in neighborhoods ‘up top’.
While the waters of the iconic Johnstown Flood may have receded from the initial surge of 1889 – its legacy absolutely remains – and in many circles here its mere mention raises hackles. Younger folk mock the “Flood City” label as reductive and a negative impediment to community growth – despite much of the community’s tourism money coming from those intrigued by the past. One thing about Americans in general – we really don’t like being reminded of the less flattering aspects of our past – and we hate changing course from those events even more.
So I reflect on the anniversary of the dam at South Fork giving way as a means of reconnecting an audience with my relationship to this place as it serves as a heuristic for so much more in our past and current place in time. And for those who are fighting to push beyond the legacy of their past and wanting more in the here and now despite the looming sole of those ‘up top’ – not just through back breaking labor or spiritual coaxing to their place beyond by the angel band.
So I reflect on the anniversary of the dam at South Fork giving way as a means of reconnecting an audience with my relationship to this place as it serves as a heuristic for so much more in our past and current place in time. And for those who are fighting to push beyond the legacy of their past and wanting more in the here and now despite the looming sole of those ‘up top’ – not just through back breaking labor or spiritual coaxing to their place beyond by the angel band.
Wow! Beautiful, ugly truth. What a read. Thanks.