Athens: Glimpses of Home: Joe Schloss

Former coal miner steadies himself on solid ground

Athens: Glimpses of home

By Jenaye Antonuccio, Athens NEWS Contributor

(photo by Sherry DiBari)
April 17, 2008

When given a choice, most people would not work in utter darkness.

For Joe Schloss, however, it’s what he would choose even today. For 27 years, Schloss spent his daylight hours 400 feet underground in Southern Ohio Coal’s Meigs Division mines #31 and #2, working as a surveying supervisor.

“I would still be down there,” he said. “It’s real boring without it. It was good for my health, kept me in good shape.”

He said he misses the thrill and activity.

“There was always something that gave you an adrenaline rush. It’s similar to war,” he said. “You share a lot with people.”

But the mines are closed, and his doctor has required him to have core decompression surgery on both hips.

Schloss, 58, has been on long-term disability for a year and a half. While the left hip slowly heals, he is impatient to start his game again. He’s hoping for one summer of fun before the next surgery.

Most early mornings, you could have found him alone on the Athens Community Center courts, playing “Blade Ball.” A game of his invention, it utilizes skillful rollerblading in one-man basketball.

“I take the brakes off of the rollerblades, and just swirl to stop,” said Schloss.

His silver Jeep would have been parked nearby, with the license plates identifying him as a veteran. Most often, the Jeep would have been topless, open to the morning sun.

“When I get in the jeep, it’s not cold. It’s refreshing,” he said.

Schloss grew up in Athens. Living on Hudson Avenue in his youth, he mowed lawns to make money. The area was full of families. He had agreements to mow 40 yards.

“The students were all in dorms. You just didn’t see them,” Schloss said. “There was no Mill Street or Palmer Street problem.”

His junior year, he moved to a farm in Guysville in the eastern part of the county.

With no football team at Federal Hocking, he missed the game he loved most. Instead, his senior year, he helped coach the reserve team.

“When you live in the country, you have to drive a half hour to get a gallon of milk,” said Schloss. “You could never keep the car clean. You always need new vehicles because they are always falling apart.”

After a two-year Navy commitment during Vietnam, and a brief stint of employment in Columbus, Schloss moved back to Athens.

When he first interviewed for the mines, he didn’t want to go underground.

“I said, ‘Forget it,’” he recalled. “But I was with a group of guys that got along really well.”

Being in the dark all day, he had to identify his co-workers by the sound of their voice.

“You have to shine the light from your cap-lamp on their chest. If you shine it in their face, it makes people mad. They get temporary blindness.”

Sometimes, they were made to wait for downed equipment or elevators. Schloss made up games to pass the time.

“We’d take our hardhats off and play tag by the light from our luminary stickers; we couldn’t barely see them,” he laughed. “If we heard a rock or something stirring, we’d just jump.”

He witnessed mining methods change from conventional dynamite, to room-and-pillar extraction, to long-wall mining with a machine utilizing tungsten carbide drill bits that could remove an entire seam, leaving the earth to fall in behind it. He endured the constant din of machinery.

He noticed when familiar working conditions suddenly required warning signs and occasional chest x-rays. He saw accidents, and worried when others got lost.

“Never let a new guy underground alone,” said Schloss. “One didn’t read the map right. They found him the next morning. He’d been there 24 hours.”

He points to a spot on the map that would be the underworld to us, but to him, it is familiar and almost like home.

“I remember hanging up a sign that said, ‘Entering Gallia County’ right here, just to let the guys know.”

Today, he has to think about whether he is more comfortable in the dark.

“I say you can see better without the lights on,” declared Schloss.

When he meets with his former co-workers, he can see their familiar faces have changed with time. He gets through the winter cautiously, avoiding colds due to chronic bronchitis and asthma.

Reminiscing about the time he was offered a job in Utah with better conditions, he says of the state, “It was like visiting the moon. There wasn’t anything but tumbleweed.”

“I don’t regret staying,” Schloss said. “I love Athens.”

He takes advantage of the opportunities for entertainment the university offers.

“I like the excitement the kids bring to town,” Schloss said of students. “I don’t like their jaywalking.”

He enjoys the busy school year, and the lazy quiet of summer. He laments the lack of jobs in the area.

“We need a big manufacturing company to come in here,” declared Schloss. “We need to get some kind of plan, other work than just OU.”

With the weather turning, it’s likely he’ll be back on the basketball court. Like he used to do in the mines, he’ll be happier when he can invent games.

“If you make a game out of it, it keeps you from worrying,” he said.

For now, he throws balls to his dogs, who avoid the recently transplanted cactus in the yard he pridefully takes care of, above ground, in the town he loves.

more than they're cracked up to be....

ATHENS: GLIMPSES OF HOME

Seed hulls thickly cover the ground near the brick retaining wall at Wilson Hall. A few chipmunks pepper the scene, cheeks bulging. But the squirrels steal the show: nearly ten sit in a row atop the wall, devouring and mussing the neat piles of black oil sunflower seeds and unshelled peanuts that Vicky Butcher has laid. “Nineteen squirrels are the most I’ve seen,” says Butcher, an Administrative Assistant in the College of Arts and Sciences Dean's Office. For nearly forty-five years, someone has fed the squirrels at Wilson Hall. Ms. Butcher has done so for eighteen and a half. “I have no idea how much I spend. If I knew I would probably stop,” Butcher says. “During the winter, I go through six 25- pound bags each. When it’s really bad, I also put out birdseed.” Over long weekends or breaks, a Guardian Angel takes her place. “He watches,” she says. “If I haven't put food out for a couple of days, he feeds them.”

It was 1908. Ohio University’s President Allston Ellis, reputedly showy and vain yet an able administrator, had recently had a major confrontation with the former University President, Charles Super. Ellis, having held office for seven years and would until his untimely fatal heart attack in 1920, was careworn. A series of unfavorable public criticisms had triggered a mandatory Presidential four-week vacation. He was slated to tour and observe eastern Normal Schools, which trained students to become teachers. Harvard was one of his stops. While being entertained by Professor Albert Bushnell Hart, something frolicking on Harvard’s Yard caught the eye of the man with a propensity for display. From a November 1902 edition of Harvard Illustrated Magazine, an article by George Allan England notes: “Every morning at seven our almoner fills the green boxes about the Yard, which serve as arboreal pantries. There is also a certain tin pan whither the squirrels come to drink; they are quite at home with us and know it.” On the fateful day of June 18, 1908, a committee was formed. From the Board of Trustees minutes: "A motion by Boyd, seconded by Kinnison, was unanimously adopted appointing Ellis, Welch, O'Bleness, Wood, Biddle, and Jones a committee to consider the advisability of securing squirrels for the campus. Said committee to report at a subsequent meeting of the board.”

Going out to sweep the chaff at the end of the day, they start to appear. “They recognize the sound of the broom,” Ms. Butcher says. They know her: she knickers, coaxing them with peanuts. ”The first few years I named them, got to know them. Then they would disappear and it hurt.” She holds her white bucket full of peanuts, smiling proudly, talking to them, worrying over one’s muddied nose. “Last summer’s drought drove them to water,” says Butcher. “When they came back I didn’t have as many of the old squirrels. I’ve had to retrain a new generation to trust me.”

It was the early 1990’s. President Charles Ping and President Kazuo Yamada continued to deepen the twenty-year-old rich bond between Ohio University and Chubu University in Japan. Numerous gift exchanges were made. Most notable: receiving cherry trees for the banks of the Hocking River near the Convocation Center, and giving a replica of Cutler Hall’s cupola, which was placed on a raised surface in a Japanese city park equivalent of our green. But less renowned is the gift of grey squirrels. Ping said, “The City Council came to Athens and were quite taken with the squirrels. They asked if we would ship some to them so they could release them at a new city park. As it turned out, it was very complicated to ship live animals.” Dr. James Bryant, then Vice President for Regional Higher Education, said, “When talking with the city council, the squirrels would come in through the open window of my Cutler Hall office and run around on my desk. The Japanese fell in love with them.” They specifically requested twenty-three squirrels, no more and no less. “You cannot put more than one squirrel in a cage, especially stressed ones,” said Dr. Bryant. “We had to have twenty-three cages, each with appropriate food and water receptacles and use a licensed breeder to capture them. We had to get confirmation and an export license. We took all the seats out of an O.U. plane and flew to Chicago, then to Tokyo. From there it was a two-hour drive in busses to get to Komaki City, which is on an island.” The Japanese were waiting for the squirrels as the centerpiece display at an International Fair. There were no other squirrels on the island so releasing them was not advised. “They had constructed an enormous, circus-wagon like cage with wheels to move to the park where they would be kept afterwards,” said Dr. Bryant. “It was one of the most interesting undertakings in all my years.” One squirrel died a few days later. A squirrel’s life expectancy is little more than a year. One year later, there were only fourteen left.
Dr. Robert Lilley was a visiting professor to Chubu from April to June in 1997. From his journal entry, June 19, 1997: “Tohru Washizu, Director and chief of the Komaki International Affairs Division met with us. We hiked up the hill to a park where the Gray Squirrels given by Ohio University are kept. It was very hot and muggy, and most of the squirrels were hiding, but the ones we saw looked in good repair.” On a sign at the park, the header at the top said: “Cute International Ambassadors of Friendship, American Eastern Grey Squirrels.” The rest reads: “These eastern gray squirrels are a gift from the people of Ohio to the people of the City of Komaki as a symbol of the friendship between the City of Komaki and Ohio University. You can see these squirrels in all corners of the rich green University of Ohio campus." Josep Rota, Associate Provost for International Affairs said, “Unfortunately there is no squirrel left on the campus of Chubu University. I am inclined to believe they died because of the environmental conditions. The climate and similar factors were just too different.”

Bark is peeled off of the trees in strips. Squirrels carry old used tissues or bits of fluff. They are nesting. In the pre-spring barren trees, the nests, or drays, stand out like blots of ink on blank paper. All over the grass, little holes have been dug, evidence of a search. “Our grounds people do a wonderful job keeping the grounds looking good. They use those big leaf vacuums,” says Ms. Butcher. “The squirrels don’t bury the nuts deeply, they just find a tuft of grass. When the grounds are cleared, most of the peanuts that they have hoarded get ground up and shipped out somewhere else.”

Whether our squirrels carry Harvard genes, or suffer the loss of their Chubu-bound relatives, some things have not changed: squirrels like to make their homes on campus greens. Keeping safe from predators, they prefer traveling in groves of trees rather than ground travel. The eastern gray squirrel, Sciurus carolinensis, officially classified as a rodent, can weigh up to 1.5 pounds, measure 16- 20 inches long, and always flash a white belly that stands out amongst the speckled grey. Characteristically bushy tails can be used as a parachute, an umbrella, a blanket, and a cushion for falls, and for balance and communication. A squirrel must habitually gnaw with its constantly growing teeth in order to prevent the puncturing of their own skull.
Typically hoarding more food than it can eat, a grey squirrel practices singular burying, called “scatter hoarding”. Most nuts are forgotten and not recovered, which leads to the inadvertent planting of a tree. Once rampant in the area, droves of squirrels would migrate in waves up to half a billion in size, disturbing efforts of agricultural production. Ohio law required a quota of squirrel skins to be turned in with tax payments. Chestnuts were a major foraging choice, until the blight obliterated nearly all chestnut trees, reducing squirrel populations. Increasing human settlement also pushed out the tree planters, which brought about another law: only six squirrels per bag during hunting season.
Do they seem more intelligent, these creature we view every day? Does their chirruping have a slight Bostonian accent? Do they aspire for more, or pine for things lost? Whatever the case, they have made their home with us, with no intention of ever leaving.

They leap with soundless grace, lilting on air. A crow caws suddenly, and they scatter, prone to instinct. One lets out a screeching alarm, warning the others. It carries, message conveyed from tree to tree. “They are still wild creatures,” Ms. Butcher says, “but I do think the squirrels add a lot to the campus. To see the students so thoroughly delighted (about) these critters running around, that gives me a thrill, too.” After a few minutes, one hesitantly approaches, freezes, paws poised in question. She tosses a peanut. Within 5 seconds, it has chewed through the shell, corn-on-the-cob style, going for the gold.

Special thanks to: Bill Kimok, Susan Knoer, Judy Connick and Doug McCabe of the University Archives; Kelee Riesbeck and Joanne Prisley of Athens County Historical Society; Dick Piccard, Josep Rota, Dr. Robert Lilley, Dr. James Bryant, Dr. Charles Ping; Betty Hollow, Mariel M. Jungkunz, Sally Linder, and Vicky Butcher. Translation by eric@jcastle.info.

Rachael Ritchie

Riding the ebb and flow of a transient town

Athens: Glimpses of home

By Jenaye Antonuccio (photo by Sherry DiBari)
March 13, 2008

Habitually setting her expectations low, she’s hardly ever disappointed. Instead, each day carries a pleasant surprise. Tall and sunny with a broad smile, Rachael Ritchie doesn’t let much get her down.

But she does worry.

Ritchie, who with her husband, Shawn, owns Goodfellas Pizza and Lucky’s Sports Tavern, worries about the price of cheese.

And if her kids will have school.

And if people will undergo a change in the way they socialize.

“The past 10 years have brought change in technology,” she said. “It is crazy to think that things are going to be the same in five more years. What happens if no one goes out anymore, don’t meet face to face in a social setting, and (instead) stay in and play online?”

For Ritchie, all these things affect the security of her job. But for today, she loves what she does. To prove it, she has calluses on her hands from constantly rolling out dough. And she brings her girls to work on snow and flood days for extra help, modeling a true family business.

When Ritchie’s husband was given the opportunity to purchase Goodfellas three and a half years ago, she had stipulations.

“I said ‘If we are really going to do this,’” remembered Ritchie, “’then I’d like to have my hand in it.’”

She and her husband trade time with the girls and spend evenings together. She believes working outside the house makes her a better mother.

“Becoming a mother changed so much,” she said. “It completely puts you on the backburner.”

She works at Goodfellas during the day, preparing for and serving the lunch crowd.

“I like the people,” said Ritchie, “I have my people that come in all the time. Everyone likes to come back to Athens. Students visit, tell me what’s going on.”

Ritchie, turning 30 this year, is often mistaken as a student, but she soon proves them wrong.

“The older customers say, ‘You have midterms?’ The younger people know that I’m not their age. They are just starting to realize that I actually do run the place.”

Filling the needs of students who don’t call Athens home is a different type of commerce.

“We are not affiliated with the university,” said Ritchie, “but we are on the university schedule, have the late hours at night.”

It is tempting to feel ostracized.

“Uptown business owners are different,” Ritchie explained. “It seems like neither group (the university nor the students) really gets you. I really identify with the other bar owners and the other uptown business owners. We have our little get-together we can be (stronger) in.”

Since coming here to Athens 12 years ago, Ritchie is recovering from being a people pleaser.

“I was green and naïve,” said Ritchie. “Some people are just looking out for themselves. In a lot of ways, I’m still very green but I believe in the goodness of people.”

Priorities are different now with a family and bills to pay. Though customer satisfaction is key, business decisions are weighed carefully.

“Did I make people mad? Yes, I did,” she said. “Did I make the best decision? I still believe I did.”

She is committed to relationships.

“Different vendors will promise me this, that, or the other, but if I have established a relationship with another vendor, I can’t just jump ship and go.”

The price of flour has skyrocketed since three years ago. Less acreage is devoted to wheat crops and is instead given up for corn, which is used in ethanol production. The farmer must pay more for limited supplies of grass and grain to feed cows.

Subsequently, the costs of dairy products are rising. The main cost in pizza making is cheese, and flour is a close second. Bakeries across the nation have been affected by the increase. This worries Ritchie, but she is genuinely undaunted about her future.

“I’d like to think that I usually have a smile on my face,” said Ritchie. “And if I ask you how you are doing, I’m not expecting a ‘fine’ in return. If you ask me how I’m doing, I’m going to tell you, ‘You know, I’m a bit tired today.”

She said she values seeing things through from start to finish, just like adding yeast, flour and water together to make dough. Softball, soccer and bowling keep her active all year round.

For cerebral stimulation, she loves sitting down with a good crossword puzzle. Becoming a nurse is a challenge she aspires to meet someday.

Ritchie said she believes the compact coziness of Athens allows for success of the individual.

“If I wanted to go out and change something I could,” she said. “If I were somewhere else, it would be like a drop in the bucket. Your voice can be heard in this town; you can get on your soapbox and scream it out. Everyone is so visible. If you want to make a difference, you can in a good way or a bad way.”

The ebb and flow, the full-swing rush of the quarters, and the calm of the breaks work well for her family.

“It is always changing, always evolving. Customers change every four or five years,” said Ritchie.

She believes this is a cure for the restlessness and boredom befalling many Americans.

It spares her from being stuck in a rut. Every August before fall quarter begins again, she’s ready.

“Athens has its quirks, flaws and idiosyncrasies, but this is definitely a community,” said Ritchie. “I’m not leaving. I don’t entertain the thought.”

get out zine

I had a recent book review published in the new online outdoor adventure zine for the Ohio River Valley, Get Out! Zine (www.getoutzine.com). The book was Allan Eckert's That Dark and Bloody River, chronicling the rich history of the Ohio River. A good read. http://getoutzine.com/node/165

Name change

Due to a pre-existing website and T.V. show called "45701", my series for the Athens News will now be called "Athens: Glimpses of home."

Athens:glimpses of home: Renard Phillips

the latest in the Athens series in the Athens News:

Eyes that have seen the world find simplicity in Athens

Athens: glimpses of home

By Jenaye Antonuccio (photo by Sherry DiBari)
March 3, 2008

He has witnessed the tearing down of the Berlin Wall, been the recipient of the only meal in the house while others go hungry, and stood upon a Finland floor that lifted to reveal an ice hole for fishing.

Yet, he has chosen to settle in rural southeast Ohio, working as a librarian at the Athens Public Library. But for Renard Phillips, context is like a flashlight beam, shining onto the dark shapes of before and after. Without knowledge of surrounding words and circumstances, discovering meaning is difficult.

“Context is one of my favorite words, and we rarely give the effort to provide it,” Phillips said.

He maintains that out of fairness and respect, a person’s context should be explored. “People out of laziness want to put people in a box, reducing to a one-dimensional type of category. For example, my context is not just, ‘I was born in Georgia.’”

Phillips’ pre-Athens life is extensive and fascinating. After the death of his mother, and that of his father a few years later, he was forced to become secure without family ties.

“Home is where I am. It’s about applying me to where I am,” said Phillips. “My sense of home has not evolved as most people’s would.”

He began traveling, initially with Up With People, an organization designed to help build bridges of understanding between cultures for foundations of world peace. Months turned into years of rich experiences in numerous places. He returned to the United States directly after time spent in Senegal. Homecoming was less than positive.

“It was culture shock to be in the U.S. and in southeast Ohio,” he said. “I came here and all of a sudden I became intensely aware that I was black person. I wasn’t prepared for that. Our society is very ‘yes/no,’ ‘on/off,’ and ‘black/white.’ There is a whole range of things in between.”

Before Senegal, he had met a group of Afro-Germans in Berlin and realized his own ignorance about his roots.

“They really opened my eyes to how ignorant I was of Africa,” said Phillips. “I couldn’t rely on my own society to give me a healthy context of Africa, because here in the U.S., the context is negative. And if I thought so negatively about Africa, what did I think of myself?”

This prompted his visit to Senegal, where seven separate languages are spoken, to gather his own frame of reference.

“Most of us didn’t make a conscious decision what color we would be, what gender, what nationality, what ethnicity,” Phillips said. “That’s just what we were born into. We are merely products of our environment versus products of ourselves.”

Traveling was stimulating and profound for him.

“I’ve experienced the beauty in people, profound grace in people,” he said. “Two days from now I could be in another place, but still they choose to share.”

But he began to feel the down-side of a nomadic existence, and returned to the states to find closure with issues concerning his parents’ deaths.

He came to Ohio University for graduate school in international studies, but his present context is his employment at the public library. Before he was hired, he thought about the type of work atmosphere where he’d feel good about what he was doing.

“It’s a place where people want to go; no one is forcing them,” Phillips said.

Interaction with the diverse public of Athens is a given.

“You see the whole gamut of the community: from newborns for ‘lap-sit,’ to people who are well into retirement, to teens,” Phillips said. “You see kids develop from walking to talking, watch them grow up.”

Interacting with this microcosm of Athens, he said he treats everyone the same.

“I treat people with dignity regardless of their socioeconomic background, appreciating them,” he said.

Simplicity narrows a person’s context. To Phillips, Athens is a place to be simple.

“That’s the foundation of my appreciation of Athens. You can be simple here with not a lot of money, but still have a relatively good style of living,” he said. “You shouldn’t need to be wealthy to have basic things: good air, good water, good nutrition.”

Phillips appreciates Athens’ lack as opposed to its luster.

He said, “Athens does not provide all my needs, of course not, but what place would? There are things to keep you distracted in other cities.”

After seeing so much in his lifetime, Phillips views this town as a source of solace. “Athens has provided a great place for me to synthesize. Being simple allowed me to bring some order to all the input I had.”

Here in America, stimulation and materialism are rampant. Genuineness is not easy to come by.

Said Phillips, “Here a friendship is about social convenience. Most of us are not required to leave our comfort zone. You learn to appreciate what people volunteer to share with you and the way they choose to share it.”

Since 1993, Phillips has called Athens home. It is the alternatives of Athens – straw bale houses, slow food and organic venues, the focus on solar power – that appeal to him. But it is Athens’ simplistic uniqueness that roots him.

“It is not quite yet one of those places where one town after another looks the same,” he said. “Athens is a microcosm of essentials. I see it as a luxury to live here."

Athens: glimpses of home/the ridges

Here is the latest in my series, about our beloved "Ridges", originally named Athens Lunatic Asylum.

Athens: Glimpses of Home
The Shape of Lunacy
By Jenaye Antonuccio

History is not quiet. It speaks in rotting fascia and deteriorating cupolas, in broken windowpanes and ripped screens, in worn divots of the front steps. It speaks in concrete ruins taken over by wild weeds and thorns, in rusting orchard water towers, in crumbling 18.5 million made-on-site bricks. It speaks in now-tall ornamental trees, in sidewalks that come to a crumbling end, in inoperative lampposts that have not given light for half a century. History’s voice is multi-faceted at The Ridges. It is a story of how the shape of a town, land, and its citizens was changed.
In the high end of the mid-1800s, land was getting crowded. Men were busy producing in farms, businesses, homes and families. War loomed. Stress increased, as did mental instability. “Lunatics” were often abused and locked away in barns or basements. A pressing need arose for proper alternative treatment for mentally challenged individuals.
“The simple claims of a common humanity, then, should induce every State to make a liberal provision for all its insane…” - Thomas Kirkbride, On the Construction, Organization and General Arrangements of Hospitals for the Insane
One man had a vision, a solution to a problem: housing the mentally ill in buildings he specifically designed for a cure. Thomas Kirkbride’s treatise proposed the state take responsibility, owing citizens proper custody, housing and treatment. The highly influential Kirkbride Plan of architecture had unwavering principles: plentiful natural light and fresh air; cultivated landscaping for calming and stimulating; and farmland for self-sufficiency, minimizing costs, and to provide patients with purpose, responsibility, and exercise.
“It is now well established that this class of hospitals should always be located in the country, not within less than two miles of a town of considerable size, and they should be easily accessible at all seasons.” – Thomas Kirkbride, On the Construction, Organization and General Arrangements of Hospitals for the Insane
Asylums in Kirkbride style began to appear across the nation. Post-war Athens was suffering from lack of financial prospects. Enrollment at Ohio University had declined. The community was abuzz with talk that a state hospital would be built in the region. Forces were rallied. Three Ohio trustees were appointed to select and purchase a site, and E.H. Moore from Athens was to take the place of a recently deceased member. Thirty towns competed for gaining the facility, but Athens prevailed in the end. In August 1867, the location was set. Funds were raised to purchase the former farm of Arthur Coates, whose own father had been one of the first settlers of Athens County and a ferry operator. The land was then donated to the state, with high expectation for the outcome.
New hope for Athens was awakened. 1867 marked the beginning of a relationship between the commodious Victorian-era batwing structure and the blossoming town. The cornerstone for the Athens Lunatic Asylum was laid at the old hillside farm overlooking the Hocking. Ceremoniously deposited inside were a Bible, constitutions of the State of Ohio and the United States, Cincinnati newspapers, a copy of the Athens messenger, coins, a program from the days’ events, a membership list of the Paramuthia Lodge number 25, and a list of the Masonic officers. Construction began soon after the ceremony, utilizing architect Levi T Scofield’s Kirkbride-influenced plans. Local craftsmen and contractors reaped benefits from the six-year work, as well as merchants in their ability to outfit the interior.
The grand opening for Athens’ soon-to-be largest employer was in winter 1874. One of 35 hospitals built according to Kirkbride’s elaborate plans, it was also the fifth mental hospital in Ohio. Employees lived on site with room and board. Day labor and trade solidified and strengthened the relationship between town and facility. Work was available as blacksmiths, brick-makers, preachers, tinners, cooks, bakers, and seamstresses. According to the Athens County Atlas of 1905, Charles Augustus Snow was contracted to supply the asylum with 150 gallons of milk a day. Butter, eggs, poultry and other produce were also purchased.
“There is no reason why an individual who has the misfortune to become insane, should, on that account, be deprived of any comfort or even luxury…” – Thomas Kirkbride, On the Construction…
The site was stunning. Historical photographs depict scenes of a luxuriant interior. Tile floors lead to the lavish staircases with wood-carved, curving banisters. Pressed tin ceilings overhung rooms with abundant plant-life. Rocking chairs beside tables with linen and lace cloths waited in the halls of the men and women’s wards. Every room provided a view of the beautiful grounds with ready access to fresh air. Prepared dining hall tables were laden with cloths, cutlery, and baskets of fresh bread, baked on site. Cooks held prepped turkeys for the Thanksgiving meal. Underground rails took food from the kitchens to the dumbwaiters beneath the dining halls. An alligator swam the waters of the front fountain. A chapel was nestled between the third and fourth floors of the main building.
“As much as fifty acres immediately around the buildings, should be appropriated as pleasure-grounds, and should be so arranged and enclosed as to give the patients the full benefit of them…” – Thomas Kirkbride, On the Construction…
Landscape was key in Kirkbride plans: the more beautiful, more likely affecting a cure. The county’s Genealogy and History records that the asylum site was “faultless.” It was ready to be changed. Frederick Law Olmstead, who designed such greats as Central Park, Niagara Reservation at Niagara Falls, and Boston’s Emerald Necklace, influenced the designs of Herman Haerlin of Cincinnati. Haerlin hired George Link to oversee the transformation of the property. Link moved to Athens from Cincinnati, spending the next thirty years of his life following the plans according to Kirkbride’s original vision. Patients labored as part of a curative measure on the grounds with grading, gardening, planting, and creating roads and paths.
“While the hospital itself should be retired, and its privacy fully secured, the views from it if possible, should exhibit life in its active forms, and on this account stirring objects at a little distance are desirable…” – Thomas Kirkbride, On the Construction…
Ornamental trees and shrubs were planted and rare birds were imported, all to encourage visitors. Various bouts of community entertainment were taken at the man-made lakes. Walkways were built from the town to the lakes and asylum land, “Lover’s Lane” being one of the favorites. Ice-skating was a favorite in winter, as were strolling the paths, Sunday afternoon rides and picnics, boating in the summer, and feeding the ducks. Intermingled were monitored patients “taking air” in exercising strolls.
Grounds expanded according to plans, and new buildings were erected, eventually eliminating need for outside farmer’s support. Soon, the facility boasted a large agricultural operation. The institution became nearly self-sufficient. Added to the grounds were a greenhouse, a dairy, orchards, gardens, vineyards, piggery, huts for chickens, and outbuildings and barns for other farm animals. Patients were encouraged to labor. Most items no longer needed purchasing from outside, sometimes selling off surplus became necessary. The dairy’s twin barns was home for the area’s championship herd of Holsteins. Lotta Fayne Klondyke reportedly produced the best milk and butterfat. Ice was carved from the lakes for refrigeration. Water was gathered from springs, and when patient numbers increased, wells were dug.
“A very large proportion of all the insane are treated more effectively and far more economically among strangers, and in well-managed institutions specially provided for their treatment, than at their homes, and surrounded by their families, and by familiar scenes and associations…” – Thomas Kirkbride, On the Construction…
Kirkbride asylums enjoyed popularity and fame for quite some time. But soon, it was clear that this system carried no evidence of long-term cure and induced no decline in mental illness. The height of patient population climbed to 2000. Patient to staff ratio was at some points 50 to 1. Previous methods became obsolete in an understaffed, overpopulated hospital. Inhumane counter measures unintended by Kirkbride were more practical. New methods were tried, including psychoanalysis, and later, tranquilizers. The lobotomy, a practice made famous by Dr. Walter Freeman, was performed in the mid 1950s, two hundred at the Athens site.
Deinstitutionalization, a controversial and unpopular process that began in the latter half of the twentieth century, sought to reduce overpopulation of facilities. The principle of thought was that patients would benefit from the least restrictive setting. Many public hospitals were forced to close, transferring patients to community-based mental health services, or simply left to fend for themselves without care or medications on the city streets.
“All are to remember that insanity is often more clearly shown by what an individual does, than by what he says…” – Thomas Kirkbride, On the Construction…
Constant destructive flooding of the Hocking River called for a 1969 reroute. By saving the town and campus, the once-enjoyed lakes, grounds and paths were destroyed. Route 682 was constructed to run parallel to the river, cutting across the already-scarred grounds. Patient rights were capitalized upon, and in the early 1970s, federal courts ruled that patients who perform tasks in state institutions must be paid minimum wage.
By 1981, the Athens asylum’s patient population was less than 300, with a marked decline each year thereafter. Link’s landscaping was let go, gardens left fallow, deteriorating outbuildings razed. Cost cutting measures in 1981 forced the heat to be turned off in the greenhouse. All exotic plants froze and therapy programs were cancelled. The doors were closed in 1993, patients transferred to a newly constructed facility across the river.
What do we, as residents of this town, behold now as we look upon the building that rises up tall and mighty from the hillside, altering our view of the horizon? We tread upon the earth that was once tilled and fertile, producing abundance. We glance at the enormous ginkgo, marveling at its girth. We play upon the old carriage steps in front, grip the rails as we enter the old administration building to view local art.
The names of the building have changed: Athens Lunatic Asylum, 1868; Athens Asylum for the Insane, 1911; Athens State Hospital, 1944; Southeastern Ohio Mental Health Center, 1968; Athens Mental Health Center, 1969; Southeastern Ohio Mental Health and Retardation Center, 1975; Athens Mental Health and Development Center, 1980; Athens Mental Health Center, 1981. In 1993 after passing into Ohio University’s ownership, the facility was henceforth known as the Ridges.
Fifteen years later, the voice of history is the same. One must be quiet to hear it. It is not the ghosts or mystery that should haunt us, rather it is the fact that one vision could alter the lives of many. Our 45701 stories would be different without it. It becomes etched on the minds of all who live here or visit.

All information was gathered from sources at the Athens County Historical Society; the Mahn Center for Archives and Special Collections in Alden Library; and from Getting to Know Athens County by Beatty and Stone; www.KirkbrideBuildings.com; and Katherine Ziff’s 2004 Ph. D. dissertation entitled Asylum and Community: Connections between the Athens Lunatic Asylum and the Village of Athens 1867 – 1893