#cincinnati streets

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Before Automobiles, Cincinnati’s Crosswalks Were About Fashion, Filth And Even Sex

Cincinnati neighborhoods are rather obsessed with crosswalks these days, with a rash of raised crosswalk installation underway. Much of this activity has to do with “traffic calming” and pedestrian safety, especially along major thoroughfares.

Back in the day, before automobiles dominated Cincinnati’s streets, crosswalks served very different purposes. Crosswalks had everything to do with fashion, filth and sex.

Sex? Of course! Where but a crosswalk could a young blade sneak a peek at a lovely young maiden’s stockings? A fervid glance that would inspire flights of delirious extrapolation? Here is an example from the Cincinnati Commercial-Gazette [19 December 1891]:

“A single fleeting glimpse of a woman’s stocking caught as she steps from her carriage or gathers her petticoats up at a muddy cross-walk suffices the skilled student in stocking psychology to determine to what part of the country she belongs, in what phase of society she moves, and where she does her shopping.”

Women back then were almost required to gather their petticoats at crosswalks because these pedestrian pathways were originally installed not to protect humans from wheeled vehicles, but to protect their clothing from Cincinnati’s filthy streets. The Enquirer [14 December 1881] raged about the alluvial detritus clogging our byways:

“The awful condition of the Cincinnati streets was never more apparent than yesterday. The mud on every street, on every cross-walk, and from curb to building, was sticky, and slimy, and greasy. A new cloak or overcoat worn out yesterday for an hour was spattered by passing horses, spattered by pedestrians, and involuntarily spattered by the wearers themselves as they walked. As adhesive as glue, it is never thoroughly removed, and a muddy old garment becomes a greasy old garment at once. Street-cleaning in Cincinnati is a lost art. The Board of Public Works lost it.”

The atrocious mire oozing from Cincinnati streets had much to do with the materials employed to pave streets in the past. Today, it is rare to see anything other than an asphalt or concrete pavement. The few cobblestone or brick streets left in the city are minor tourist attractions. Before the automobile, Cincinnati’s streets could have been paved with dirt, crushed rock, granite, or even wood.

Yes, wood. A glance through old newspapers easily uncovers hundreds of references to “Nicolson pavement” which means wood blocks pounded into the ground and protected by a thick coating of creosote, tar or oil. No sane person would waddle through such a morass – even when covered by a layer of oil-absorbing sand – so Nicolson pavements went hand-in-hand with gravel crosswalks, offering pedestrians a rubbly but dry pathway through the oil slick.

Despite the cost of installation and continual maintenance, Cincinnati employed Nicolson wooden pavements well into the 1900s. A 1916 publication of the Brooklyn Engineers Club described the drawbacks of Cincinnati’s then-new wooden streets “bleeding” oil:

“Numerous photographs were taken by the Bureau of Municipal Research in Cincinnati of pavements laid with blocks impregnated with this oil and they illustrate most accurately the frightful bleeding that took place. The writer saw Rose Hill and Beechwood Avenue shortly after they were laid with blocks treated with this oil. The surface of the pavement had about an inch of sand saturated with the preservative oil which had oozed from the blocks.”

Confronted with such impassable pavements, crosswalks were in demand to protect pedestrians and their fashionable attire from Cincinnati’s muddy, oily and dusty roadways. As far back as 1867, citizens demanded crosswalks near key attractions, as indicated by this letter [23 July 1867] to the Enquirer:

“Messrs. Editors, Will you be so kind as to ask the City Commissioners to place a double crosswalk from the two corners of Laurel street toward the gate of Lincoln Park? Please say that when the ladies are attired for an evening promenade they are much inconvenienced by the rough travel, dust and mud. By obliging, they will receive the thanks of both ladies and little ones.”

Even then, with automobiles far in the future, Cincinnati’s pedestrians had to contend with inconsiderate drivers of horse-drawn vehicles. Traffic jams and vehicles blocking crosswalks are not a new development. The Enquirer [25 December 1881] provides the proof:

“Pedestrians were at the mercy of reckless drivers in Cincinnati yesterday. There was not a cross-walk on any of the public thoroughfares that was not monopolized by vehicles in procession. So closely were they wedged together that people in a hurry to complete their preparations for Christmas were compelled to wait five or ten minutes till a procession of a dozen wagons, buggies and drays could pass by. If perchance there appeared a space as big as a man’s hand between the rear of one vehicle and the nose of the horse following, ladies, with skirts in hand, would fly over the cross-walk in peril of being crushed by other vehicles hurrying up to close the brief gap.”

As the automobile arrived to dominate the streets, crosswalks took on a very different role, becoming (at least on paper) safe zones for pedestrians. The United States Post Office even got involved with the Assistant Postmaster General, as reported in a special dispatch to the Enquirer [25 February 1923], insisting that “good continuous sidewalks and crosswalks” were mandatory if city residents expected mail delivery to continue.

As early as 1916, the transformation was in place. Crosswalks no longer involved fashion or lust. They had become a refuge from the mechanical monsters rumbling down our once-peaceful streets. And also, according to an editorial in the Cincinnati Post [19 January 1916] a lesson in moral hypocrisy:

“We tell others not to cross streets except on cross-walks, but often we cross streets in the middle of a square, and without taking the precaution of looking to the right or left.”

The Cincinnati Automobile Club papered the city with billboards in 1921 essentially blaming pedestrians for getting hit by automobiles because they crossed the street away from the crosswalk. Although crosswalks were intended as safe zones for pedestrians, it made news [Cincinnati Commercial-Tribune 14 June 1925] when a motorist actually stopped as required to allow a woman with a young child to cross Vine Street at a designated crosswalk.

[cincylibrary]

The streetscapes of Cincinnati are always changing. Businesses come and go, old buildings are torn down, and new ones are built.

Top Image:

In 1895, the northwest corner of 7th and Race Streets was dominated by "The Columbia Painless Dentists, which was run by Dr. Edgar M. Poole .  One of the large signs posted on the outside of the building reads "Painless Extractions with cocaine air or gas".  

An advertisement for the business placed in a 1907 edition of the Cincinnati Post reads:

“Oftentimes, inspection is forced of the teeth.  This is wrong.  The teeth should be examined frequently for signs of decay and given the proper attention. We will fill them for 50 cents or extract them painlessly.  Our prices are the most reasonable. Call and see.”

The Collins and Bruggemann Co. Art Store can be seen in the one-story building to the right of Columbia Dentists, under a sign that reads " Collins and Bruggemann Pictures and Frames".  The business moved to 4th street when these building were torn down.

The distinctive Lincoln Club building can be seen at the far end of the block on 8th Street.

Visit our Cincinnati History Slide Collection to see more images like this.

Middle Image:

Located on the corner of Race and 8th, the Lincoln Club of Cincinnati was a Republican social organization. Founded in 1879, the club counted many prominent citizens as members, including Charles Fleishmann, who served as a Vice President, and William Howard Taft.

Their headquarters building at 8th and Race was built in 1886, and designed by Samuel Hannaford.

The three story neo-Romanesque structure was remodeled in 1895.  After the Lincoln Club folded, the Rudolph Wurlitzer Company purchased the building and leased space to the Cincinnati Automobile Club.  The building was razed in 1929, and the site remained a parking lot until the Garfield Tower was built in the late 1960's.    

This image is from Kraemer's picturesque Cincinnati.

Bottom Image:

The northwest corner of 7th and Race Streets in 1921. Originally known as the Robertson Building, this 8-story building was built circa 1910 by the Robertson Realty Company at a cost of $90,000. In 1911 it was sold to Jefferson Livingston, the owner of the Snyder Preserve Company, who renamed named the building after himself. The Pearl Market Bank purchased the entire Livingston Block for $325,000 in 1921.

View the original slide image here.

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Cincinnati Surrendered To The Automobile When Jaywalking Was Outlawed

How many Cincinnatians subscribed to Popular Mechanics magazine in 1912? And how many of those subscribers recognized, in the September issue, a tiny article on Page 414 that laid out the future of the Queen City? It all seemed so innocent:

“The city pedestrian who cares not for traffic regulations at street corners, but strays all over the street, crossing in the middle of the block, or attempting to save time by choosing a diagonal route across a street intersection instead of adhering to the regular crossing, is designated as a ‘jay walker’ in Kansas City. Kansas City recently adopted a new ordinance for the control of foot traffic as well as vehicles, and ‘jay walking’ is to be prevented as rigidly as ‘jay driving.’”

That squib appeared adjacent to another brief item on how the brand-new town of Speedway, Indiana allowed only motorized vehicles on its streets, banning anything pulled by horses. In combination, the two articles sounded the death knell for a way of life that had existed for millennia.

Look at the illustrations that grace the old books about Cincinnati. There is no such thing as jaywalking. The streets were owned and enjoyed by the people. Pedestrians share the road with wheeled vehicles, crossing wherever convenient, even stopping in the middle of the street to chat. Horse-drawn carriages and wagons hauled passengers and freight. Men pulling handcarts and pushing wheelbarrows dodge the throng. The only motorized vehicles were the electric street cars, and they were confined to their tracks.

During election season, Cincinnati’s streets filled with torchlit political parades. On at least one occasion, a parade filled Vine Street from Fourth Street to McMicken with chanting men waving flaming brands, lighting the clouds above with a rosy glow. When any dignitary showed up in town, they were expected to speechify from their hotel balcony and people thronged the street below, halting traffic as they cheered. People crossing the street from any direction weren’t “jay walking.” They were just “walking.” The automobile changed all that.

Horse-drawn vehicles and electric streetcars killed a fair number of people, but the motor car quickly notched more than a hundred fatalities and many more injuries every year. Local media often blamed the victims. The Cincinnati Post [8 January 1916] piled on:

“Fourth-st. is the mecca of Cincinnati’s jay walkers. Most of the jay-walking is done between Vine and Race-sts. The other day we counted 20 persons crossing the street at different points at one time – and none was using a cross-walk. Fortunately accidents are rare on this street because of the extreme care exercised by autoists.”

It appears not to have occurred to the writer that this behavior, just five years previous, would have been considered normal.

The hammer landed in 1917. Cincinnati joined the ranks of other auto-infested cities that criminalized jaywalking. The new law went into effect in May of that year, restricting automobiles to no more than 8 miles per hour in the business district and 15 miles per hour in residential districts. For the first time, pedestrians were restricted to sidewalks and crosswalks. Pedestrians – literally – fought the new law. According to the Post [23 May 1917]:

“Theodore Mitchell, 38, agent, 631 Maple-av, is the first person to be arrested on a charge of jay-walking since the new traffic ordinance went into effect. Traffic Patrolman [Edward] Schraffenberger charged Mitchell attempting to make a short cut at Fifth and Walnut streets. When reminded of his mistake, Mitchell became angry, Schraffenberger said. Mitchell, charged with disorderly conduct and violating the traffic ordinance, was cited to appear in court Thursday.”

If you’d asked the cops, however, they would unanimously aver that the chief violators were women. The Post [21 May 1917] quoted Police Lieutenant Charles Wolsefer:

“The women are awful. They just don’t pay any attention at all. Just take a look at them crossing on Race-st.”

The reporter did so, and counted 48 jaywalkers, of whom 37 were women. A few days later, another Post reporter followed another policeman on patrol who confronted 25 jaywalkers, of which only two were men.

Among the first arrested was Miss Ella Bright of 538 Howell Avenue, Clifton, a teacher at Woodward High School. Miss Bright did not care for the attitude of the city policeman who accosted her. According to the Cincinnati Enquirer [7 June 1917]:

“She declared she had been upbraided unduly by an officer because she crossed the street in a manner which was a violation of the traffic laws after alighting from a street car.”

In August of that year, Mrs. John Mongan, 4217 Glenway Avenue, Price Hill, was arrested for striking a police officer who grabbed her arm as she executed a “Dutch Cut” (diagonal jaywalking) across the intersection at Sixth & Race.

Former U.S. President William Howard Taft, then on the law faculty at Yale, was visiting his hometown that year and blithely jogged across Sixth Street near Main, only to be corralled by Officer Joseph Schindler, who gave the law professor a little legal lesson.

The Post even enlisted its “boy reporter,” 12-year-old Freddy Printz, to test the city’s ability to enforce the new jaywalking regulations. On 7 July 1917, Freddy reported his fruitless attempts to get bawled out by a police officer. Despite blatantly jaywalking at five different locations, he only earned a polite reprimand from one officer.

While the local constabulary was doing their best to enforce the new laws, the automobiles were merciless. On 21 May 1918, the Post reported on the 25th traffic fatality of the year. The victim, a 12-year-old girl, was the twelfth child killed by an automobile that year.

Curiously, although Cincinnati outlawed jaywalking, the city had omitted one very important detail that might have contributed to compliance with the new law. A letter signed only “Chicagoan” appeared in the Post on 13 June 1917. The writer suggested that, like other cities attempting to get pedestrians to cross at intersections, Cincinnati should assist pedestrians by painting white lines on the street to mark approved pedestrian crossing paths. Cincinnati’s mandatory crosswalks were unmarked!

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A Lost Chapter From Cincinnati’s Irish History: The Sad Saga Of Dublin Street

“If ugliness were a cardinal virtue, angels might abide in Dublin Street.” Cincinnati Commercial Tribune 21 July 1849

When the ghost of Ginger Ryan appeared one night in 1903, Dublin Street, long neglected and criminally abused, was already doomed. Ginger, or James, as he was known to the local priest, had worked as an express man when he was alive. He delivered things by horse-drawn wagon. When he wasn’t working, Ginger was fighting. Sometimes he got into brawls while he was working. Ginger Ryan was the very embodiment of Dublin Street, so it was no surprise when residents of that woebegone lane claimed they saw Ginger’s ghost wandering around in the chill October dusk. Ginger’s ghost never spoke and eventually ceased its nocturnal visits.

As the name suggests, Dublin Street was a gathering place for Cincinnati’s Irish population. The street offered shelter throughout the time when “No Irish Need Apply” signs decorated many Cincinnati storefronts. Barred from all but the most menial occupations, many Dublin Street residents turned to crime. The infamous Nuttle Gang, Irish through and through, congregated here. Descriptions were rarely inspiring. Here is the Enquirer [23 November 1877]:

“Dublin street is a sort of nickname given to a hole in the line of Lock street extended north. It is thickly studded with houses whose tops scarcely reach to the level of the streets now filled in around it. The houses are principally old, weather-beaten frames, with rickety stairs and fences and general squalor to correspond.”

Despite its unsavory reputation, Dublin Street remains one of Cincinnati’s mysteries. It was a street, but it was also an informal district. “Dublin Street” was a catch-all term for the area just east of Bucktown where the poor Irish lived. It is intriguing that Cincinnati’s city directories, which include lists of every street in the city, make no mention of Dublin Street. That absence might imply that Dublin Street had not been dedicated or officially accepted by the city, and yet as early as 1845 the city appropriated funds to grade and pave Dublin Street.

It was hardly worth the expense. Dublin Street proper was a narrow alley crammed into a ravine running from the intersection of Lock and Eighth streets to the intersection of Court Street and Gilbert Avenue. Don’t bother trying to find it on a map. The whole area has been bulldozed and covered with a web of highway ramps. As it extended northeasterly, Dublin Street also descended into Deer Creek Valley, the old “Bloody Run” once bathed by the effusions from slaughterhouses upstream. When it rained, Dublin Street became a cesspool. The Enquirer [24 May 1871] opined:

“The Board of Health would do well to visit Dublin street and Gilbert avenue. There is about four feet of filthy gutter-water standing in the street, and the residents have to dam it out of their houses.”

It is unlikely the Health Department took the newspaper’s advice. No one wanted to “visit” Dublin Street and those people forced to do so, such as officers of the court, barely escaped to tell the tale. The Cincinnati Times-Star [22 November 1911] recalled one episode:

“Court Officer John Thomas had his troubles on old Dublin street, too. He recalls a time when he was called upon to arrest a youth named Thorp on a charge of theft. The boy cried and in a moment the street was filled with excited men and women. Thomas had to hold the boy and fight the crowd back. Gradually he fought his way to Gilbert avenue and dragged the youth up the hill while sticks and stones were showered upon him.”

As the anecdote implies, the northern end of Dublin Street, where it met Gilbert Avenue, was a hill, made steeper by every improvement to Gilbert as the main route to tony Walnut Hills. Eventually, Dublin Street ended in an embankment that acted as a dam, pooling rainwater and sewage downhill from Gilbert’s finely paved thoroughfare. The Enquirer [31 May 1871] reports the effects of one storm:

“The water rose rapidly on Dublin street, flooding the floors of most of the houses on a level with the street to the depth of ten or twelve inches, and pouring in torrents down into the basements in the rear, which are used by the poor residents in this locality for kitchens and sleeping-rooms.”

A pioneering sociologist, Wallace E. Miller, reported on his inspection of Dublin Street, part of a comprehensive look at the city’s “tenement districts.” According to the Enquirer [15 March 1902]:

“This district,” says Prof. Miller, “is popularly known as ‘Dublin Street,’ partly because of the predominance there of people of Irish extraction. The ground is very low. The drainage is very poor, indeed. The street is never dry. The houses for the most part are frame buildings that are not kept up to the standard either of comfort or appearance. The surroundings are not conducive to health either in summer or winter.”

When Dublin Street residents appealed to the city for relief, they were met with undisguised scorn. After years of requests for some sort of attention, whether a set of stairs to climb up to Gilbert Avenue, or more capacious culverts to drain pooled floodwaters, Dublin Street residents asked for an embankment to keep the Gilbert Avenue hill from sliding into their back yards. City Councilman William E. Patterson even accused Dublin Street grocer Florence McCarthy of theft because he had rebuilt his house on stilts to avoid the flooding. According to the Enquirer [22 June 1890] Councilman Patterson laughed:

“McCarthy, you’re a robber. Here you shove up a house on sticks and then ask me to have the city slide a lot under it. You’re the first man I ever saw that would steal dirt. I’ll not vote for it.”

What the city eventually did vote for was a viaduct to connect the downtown to Gilbert Avenue. It took years to decide on the route and to condemn properties along the way, and to agree on the contractor, but every alternative concurred on one item: Dublin Street would be wiped from the map. The Cincinnati Commercial Tribune [17 July 1909] exposed the city’s ulterior motive:

“It has been decided to condemn all the property in Dublin street, although all of it is not needed. The part not needed will be used for a park or a playground, it is said.”

When Dublin Street disappeared, there was no record of anyone shedding a tear. There is, today, a park in the general vicinity of the old Dublin Street. It’s for dogs.

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A Passel Of Curious Cincinnati Street Names, Part One (A to E)

Annwood Street (East Walnut Hills) Most Cincinnati streets that memorialize people recognize men, but there are several honoring women. Anne (Bryan) Wood (1780-1867), for whom this street and a connecting lane is named, is also responsible for the nearby Wold Street, named for her estate. A native of England, Mrs. Wood and her husband James arrived early in Cincinnati and made a fortune in merchandizing. Their daughter Ellen married Judge Timothy Walker, one of the founders of the Cincinnati Law School. Although she died 30 years previously, warm memories inspired the neighboring community to preserve her name through the street signs.

Arcadia Place (Hyde Park) Soon after this 47-lot subdivision was platted in 1916, the new residents formed a neighborhood association that survived for decades. Every family on the street was automatically enrolled in The Arcadians, an organization devoted to fostering neighborhood pride. The Arcadians sponsored annual Halloween and Christmas parties as well as regular gatherings. They elected officers annually. When the subdivision was first constructed, none of the houses had addresses, so the Post Office refused to deliver mail. The residents adopted addresses based on the lot number of the parcel on which they had built their houses, so today’s addresses don’t match the standard city system.

Back Street (Over-the-Rhine) When Back Street was first scratched out of the northern reaches of the city, it was literally a “back street,” and that is apparently how it got its name. That’s according to Ray Steffens, a Cincinnati Post reporter who penned an invaluable series of articles, “How Was It Named?” that are treasured by local history buffs. So invaluable are these articles that they were collected by a dedicated librarian at the Cincinnati Public Library, where they occasioned a bit of a literary spat. Steffens pooh-poohed the idea that Hamilton-born novelist Fannie Hurst drew any connection between Cincinnati’s Back Street and the titular “Back Street” of her 1931 best-selling pot boiler. Apparently, on one of her trips through Cincinnati, Miss Hurst paged through the library’s scrapbook of Steffens’ columns, because this handwritten note is scrawled through the clipping for Back Street: “Not correct. Miss Hurst researched here, because I am Miss Hurst.”

Belsaw Place (Clifton) For reasons perhaps known only to the family, the estate of Thomas Sherlock in Clifton was named Belsaw and was uniformly praised for its beauty by the newspapers of the day. Mr. Sherlock immigrated from Ireland and made a fortune in Ohio River shipping and insurance. He died in 1895. Two years later, a short street on the southern side of Ludlow was renamed Sherlock Avenue in his honor. (Sorry, Baker Street Irregulars!) When Thomas’ widow, Nancy, died in 1899, the rural estate in north Clifton was bequeathed to the couple’s five daughters along with all the jewels, horses, carriages and artwork. When the estate was subdivided in 1921, it was announced as the “most exclusive” development in the city, with no houses allowed to be constructed for less than $20,000.

Boudway Lane (Westwood) Perhaps the most maladroit street name in all of Cincinnati sprang from the unrelenting necessity of police paperwork. Right on the border of Westwood and West Price Hill lies a minuscule stretch of pavement with no addresses, but lots of traffic accidents. In the early 1990s, the police appealed to the city’s public works department to slap a name on this anonymous wreck magnet. Since the tiny strip of asphalt, no more than 250 feet long, connected Boudinot Avenue and Glenway, the poets at City Hall coughed up a portmanteau word and christened it Boudway Lane. A few years later, the dolorous Boudway was subsumed as an extension of the equally mellifluous Glenhills Way.

Calhoun Street (Corryville) In 1843, John C. Calhoun, United States Senator from South Carolina, was very popular among the Democrats of Cincinnati. A proponent of states’ rights and limited government, Calhoun fiercely defended slavery and the interests of white supremacy. A group of Cincinnati Democratic businessmen wrote a public letter to Calhoun that year, inviting him to visit Cincinnati. One of the signers of the invitation was William Corry (1811-1880), among the children of William Corry (1778-1833) who owned all the land that was later known as Corryville. The southern boundary of Corry's property was a road named Calhoun Street in the 1840s, apparently in homage to the Southern firebrand.

Camargo Road (Madeira) A lot of folks, mostly men, are memorialized in Cincinnati street names. We have lots of streets named for presidents, governors, generals, businessmen, property owners and so on. Camargo Road – although its origins remain somewhat obscure – is likely the only street in this area named for a ballerina. Marie Anne de Cupis de Camargo (1710-1770) was known as “La Camargo” and lived the extravagant life of an Eighteenth-Century sex symbol. She was the first ballerina to wear slippers instead of heeled shoes and she is often credited with adopting the shortened skirt for the stage. As her name indicates, she had Spanish roots – Camargo is a very small village in northern Spain – but indications are that it is the dancer, not the municipality, that gave its name to our road.

Carrel Street (Columbia-Tusculum) When Columbia was annexed by Cincinnati, that venerable old town (older than Cincinnati) had its own Main Street and, of course, that duplicate name had to go. Reaching into history, the city fathers renamed the street in honor of Hercules Carrel, a legendary boat builder, whose operations were based nearby. Mr. Carrel also had a riverboat named in his honor, but don’t you wish the city would have named that street for his first name? Hercules Street! Now, there’s a name to be reckoned with!

Catawba Valley Drive (Columbia-Tusculum) Readers of Dann Woellert’s exhaustive history of Cincinnati winemaking know that most hillsides on the north bank of the Ohio were given over to vineyards in the decades before the Civil War. That was certainly true in the area around Alms Park. One remnant of those long-gone vines is a little street named Catawba Valley Drive, honoring the Catawba grapes that once grew here. At one time, Wine Press Road ran nearby, but was later incorporated into Alms Park.

Cross Lane (Walnut Hills) Walnut Hills was platted by the Reverend James Kemper, pioneering Presbyterian minister, who built his own residence there in 1794. That log house is now preserved at the Heritage Village Museum inside Sharon Woods Park. As an energetically religious man, naming a street after the cross would not be unusual, but Kemper’s intentions had nothing to do with his proselytizing zeal. He named all his east-west streets “Cross Lane” and numbered them. The only lane retaining that designation was originally named “Cross Lane No. 1.”

Dublin Court (Dillonvale) It’s a mystery why Cincinnati’s annual Saint Patrick’s Day shenanigans aren’t scheduled out in Dillonvale. Joseph Dillon, a proud son of the Auld Sod, platted the Sycamore Township community that he would christen with his own name in 1951. He remembered his birthplace by naming streets for Dublin, Belfast, Antrim, Killarney, Wicklow, Donegal, Wexford, and Limerick, and that’s no Blarney!

Elberon (Price Hill) With the popularity of J.R.R. Tolkein’s fantasy novels in the 1960s, folks could be excused for believing that this street was named for some elvish prince. In fact, capitalizing on that association a (very good) Cincinnati folk-rock group took Elberon as their band name. The actual origin of this street traces to the assassination of President James A. Garfield in 1881. After being shot in Washington, DC, Garfield was moved to Elberon, New Jersey, along the Atlantic shore, where it was hoped sea breezes would help him heal. That treatment failed and Garfield died in Elberon. Cincinnati was devoted to Garfield and commissioned a statue, still standing on Vine Street. Boyle Avenue was renamed Elberon in 1889, shortly after the statue was installed. Which only begs the question: How was the New Jersey town named? Turns out it has nothing to do with elves, nor (as believed for a long time) Native Americans. “Elberon” is a contraction of L.B. Brown, among the early settlers of that little seaside resort.

Eppert Walk (Mount Washington) Josephine R. “Josie” Eppert was 60 years old when she died in 1939. She had been a schoolteacher her entire adult life and was beloved by generations of children who attended Mount Washington Elementary School. She lived at the corner of Plymouth and Oxford avenues and walked home along a footpath that was later paved. Clifton Merriman, local real estate broker, suggested memorializing Miss Eppert by placing her name on the route she had traveled for decades.

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Some Curious Tales About Cincinnati Streets And How They Were Named

Over the years, Cincinnati’s streets have been named, renamed, abandoned and vacated. The origin of some of our street names is lost in the mists of time and mythology. Here are a few attempts to sort the facts from the folderol.

Now That’s Plumb Curious

On the very earliest Cincinnati maps today’s Plum Street is labeled as “Filson Strret,” honoring the first local surveyor (and coiner of the name “Losantiville”) John Filson. By 1802, however, Filson Street had become – mostly – “Plumb Street.” There was enough confusion on this and other street names that City Council officially named the downtown streets on 12 February 1814, codifying that spelling, with a “B” at the end. One hundred years later, the Cincinnati Post [25 November 1914] claimed that it was “Plumb” Street “because other streets were platted plumb, or square, with it. While this may have been the case, there does not appear to be a contemporary record to support this theory. To the contrary, it seems that Cincinnati’s streets were “plumbed” westward from Broadway, originally known as Eastern Row. Additionally, it must be noted that the sweet purple fruit was known equally well as “plums” or “plumbs” up to around 1850. Whether by coincidence or not, all city maps after 1850 refer to “Plum Street.”

Beware The Indian Maiden!

As a useful rule of thumb, if you run across an origin story featuring an otherwise unidentified Indian Maiden, consider that legend – no matter the source! – to be unmitigated poppycock. For example, the Cincinnati Post [24 November 1914] claimed that Race Street got its name because two Indian braves raced down that primeval avenue to win the hand of a beautiful Indian Maiden. In reality, Race Street (and Vine, Walnut, Sycamore, etc.) was named by surveyor Israel Ludlow when he created to first official plat of the town. Ludlow used street names borrowed from Philadelphia. Be likewise suspicious of nostalgic old ladies. Mrs. Mary Lawton, aged 80, told the Enquirer [23 June 1929] that her own father, Nicholas Hoeffer, named Race Street after a racing track he owned at Washington Park. Not so, Mrs. Lawton, not so.

Don’t Touch That Name!

Cincinnati street names accrue sentimental ties in curious ways. In 1860, Rosetta Cobb, an elderly Irish Immigrant, sold off a plot of land in the ravine between Clifton and Clifton Heights. She filed a plat with the county naming all the subdivision’s streets for her daughters – Laura, Eveline, Christiana and Julia Ann. Over the years, property sales and redevelopment eliminated all of those streets except for Julia Ann. In 1992, the owners of Clifton Colony Apartments, located at the end of Julia Ann Street, petitioned the City of Cincinnati to change the name of the street because no one could find their apartment buildings. The city reasoned that Julia Ann Cobb and her mother were long past caring. Rosetta Cobb had gone to her reward in 1872 and Julia Ann had married Franklin Underwood in 1855 and moved to Memphis where she remained for the rest of her life. Hearing no objections, the city renamed Julia Ann Street to Clifton Colony Drive. One year later, Ronald Meyer, the city official in charge of street names, got an irate letter from a woman named Julia Ann, demanding Cincinnati change that street name back! Her parents – apparently no relation to the Cobb family – had named their daughter after that street and she considered it to be her very own street.

No Glory For Secretaries

If you can find them, Cincinnati named two streets to honor secretaries. Amthauer Street in Fairmount is sandwiched between Tremont and Harrison and runs eastward from Adler to Pinetree. Until 1908, that little lane was named Spruce Street, but was changed to honor Louise Amthauer, a secretary in the city clerk’s office, during a wholesale street retitling by the Boss Cox machine. Miss Amthauer was a dedicated Republican and later married the county GOP chairman. There is no signage for Amthauer Street, and no pavement – it’s only a paper street. Peggie Lane in Lower Price Hill is at least paved, but also lacks signage. In 1956, Margaret “Peggie” Funk was a secretary in the City Engineer’s Office. The City Engineer needed a name for the driveway abutting Oyler School. “Peggie” was brief, easy to spell, impossible to mispronounce and didn’t conflict with any other names in the system. But the cheapskates couldn’t spring for a sign to recognize Miss Funk.

Got You Under My Spell

Street names appear on street signs, obviously, but also on maps, directories, driver’s licenses and mailing lists. Sometimes discrepancies arise. Copelen Street in Walnut Hills marks the location of Fireside Pizza in the old Company 16 Firehouse. In 1930, the Cincinnati Post [17 December 1930] printed a “gotcha” story claiming the street sign was wrong because the city directory called it Copeland Street. The Post had to eat crow a few days later when Eugene Schellinger, city draughtsman, uncovered the 1855 ordinance naming that thoroughfare in honor of pioneering resident Isaac Copelen, insurance magnate and distinguished Mason, who once lived nearby. The Post got snookered again in 1964, complaining that Wolfangel Road in Anderson Township should be spelled “Wolfangle.” Tell that to the descendants of pioneer settler Gottfried Wolfangel! Not so easy to explain were the manifold misspellings of Whetsel Avenue, honoring Madisonville farmer and military hero Henry Bramble Whetsel. That road winds through three political jurisdictions. In the mid-1990s, an observant commuter noticed the correct spelling on Cincinnati’s signs, but Madeira spelled it Wetsel and Hamilton County opted for Whetzel.

That’s No Lady! That’s A Surveyor!

Jo Williams, born 1981, is a British speed skater and Jo Williams, born 1948, (now Dame Josephine Williams) is a British social worker. Neither of these ladies has anything to do with Jo Williams Street in Northside, which has been connecting Colerain Avenue and Blue Rock Road since 1853. “Jo” in this case is Joel Williams, one of Cincinnati’s earliest settlers. Williams competed with Israel Ludlow to draw up the official plat of Cincinnati. The town fathers chose Ludlow’s plat. Williams attempted to claim the Public Landing through a curious application of squatter’s rights but lost in court. He was more successful as an innkeeper, real estate investor and operator of Cincinnati’s first ferry. A stint as a surveyor has proven effective at getting a street named for you. Jo Williams’ nemesis, Israel Ludlow, is recognized by Clifton’s main drag, while (John) Filson Street, (Joseph) Gest Street and (Eli) Elder Street honor other local surveyors.

Not All Streets Have Happy Endings

Few people give a thought to Northside’s Gulow Street. It’s a short stretch of pavement with a few nondescript buildings and a parking lot, but it has an odd-sounding name. The street honors the memory of August E. Gulow, a merchant tailor who kept a dry goods shop at Knowlton’s Corner for many years. The little byway had been known as Oak Street, but City Council changed the name to Gulow in 1870. By 1900, Mr. Gulow was slipping into insanity, distraught after two daughters died from tuberculosis. The family did all they could to keep the old man out of an institution, but on 5 December 1901, he grabbed a razor and repeatedly slashed his stomach. He died six days later and is buried at Spring Grove Cemetery. His name lives on in that little street.

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17 Curious Facts About Cincinnati’s Vine Street

Only Three Streets

According to the 1943 WPA Guide to Cincinnati, old-time thespian Tom Wise claimed there were only three streets worth visiting in America—Broadway in New York, Market Street in San Francisco, and Vine Street in Cincinnati. Mr. Wise was a lifelong comic actor and had appeared in plays across the United States. He trod the boards of Cincinnati theaters from 1890 until just before his death in 1926.

Vine Was West Before It Was Center

Today, Vine Street divides east from west street addresses in Cincinnati. Until 1896, Main Street was the dividing line, so addresses around Vine Street had a “west” prefix. That changed when city council decided to renumber the entire city in 1891. It took years before council backed up the resolution with a budget, but renumbering finally took place. Consequently, post-1896 addresses are often located blocks away from their Pre-1896 locations.

Never Thirsty

According to the WPA Guide, a stretch of Vine Street measuring less than two miles, between McMillan Street and the Ohio River, boasted no fewer than 113 drinking places during the 1890’s. In the block between Twelfth and Thirteenth Streets alone, there were 23 saloons or beer gardens. The roster of celebrated hot spots on Vine Street included the Atlantic Garden, Pacific Gardens, London Concert Hall, Kissel’s Concert Hall, Schickling’s, Schuler’s, Schuman’s, Commodore, Coliseum, Gabriel’s, Weber’s, Wielert’s—a long litany, redolent of amber refreshment.

Exhausting Carrie Nation

It is a matter of legend (the original source has not been identified) that Cincinnati’s Vine Street overcame the anti-booze ardor of temperance firebrand Carrie Nation during her 1901 visit to Cincinnati. Although she spoke to packed houses and toured the local dens of iniquity, she did not smash a single window nor shatter even one barroom mirror. Asked why, Mrs. Nation allegedly replied: "I would have dropped from exhaustion before I had gone a block.”

First Skyscraper

The world’s first concrete skyscraper, the 15-story Ingalls Building, is located on Vine Street. The brick-faced structure was designed by Alfred O. Elzner and George M. Anderson and completed in 1903. Scoffing critics said that any building constructed of concrete poured into molds would topple of its own weight. One Cincinnati editor reportedly stood in front of the building for an entire night, expecting to score a scoop when it collapsed. Engineers agree that this office building can remain standing a long time.

Changing Horses

Statues of two presidents with tragically abbreviated terms grace Piatt Park, located along a stretch of Eighth Street known as Garfield Place. The statue of assassinated James Garfield looks down on Vine Street today, but that was not always the case. Originally, the equestrian statue of William Henry Harrison trotted eastward at Vine Street, while Garfield overlooked Race Street. As the city spruced up for its Bicentennial in 1988, Garfield took Harrison’s spot on Vine street, and Harrison marched west to the Elm Street end of the park.

Freaks And Geeks

Human oddities such as Jo Jo the Dogfaced Boy, the Wild Man of Afghanistan, Big Winny the Fat Lady, a convention of tattooed men and women and “Plutano” and “Waino” from the forests of Borneo were among the huge draws at the Vine Street Dime Museum. Located at the southeast corner of Sixth and Vine, the Dime Museum was a curious combination of freak show, art gallery, zoo, vaudeville theater and natural history collection.

Not The Longest

Although Vine Street runs from the Ohio River all the way north to the city limits in Hartwell, it is not Cincinnati’s longest street. River Road, at 11.4 miles is the longest street in Cincinnati, followed by Reading Road at 8.1 miles. Vine Street places third at 7.6 miles, followed by Eastern Avenue at 7.2 miles. Although, if you Google “longest street in Cincinnati,” top results somehow claim it’s Vine.

Cradle Of Chili

The progenitors of the Queen City’s distinctive contribution to American regional cuisine, Cincinnati Chili, was first served by the Kiradjieff brothers, John and Tom, at their delicatessen, 814 Vine Street, in 1922. The deli was eventually renamed Empress Chili after the burlesque theater next door.

Why Short Vine?

Today, Vine Street makes an inexplicable jog eastward just north of Calhoun Street. A few blocks farther north, Vine jumps back westward. The intervening stretch, serving as the Main Street of Corryville, is known as “Short Vine.” Until the mid-1960s, Short Vine was connected directly to Vine at both ends, with the thoroughfare angling eastward from Calhoun. The creation of the University Village Shopping Center lopped off a piece of Vine between Calhoun and Corry streets, taking Short Vine off the main drag.

A Haunted House?

Journalist and author Ambrose Bierce, an Ohio native, published in 1888 a short story titled “A Fruitless Assignment.” The story takes place in 1859 in Cincinnati and describes the supernatural experiences of a reporter for the Cincinnati Commercial, assigned to spend the night in a vacant house on Vine Street. No one has identified a house that may have inspired this tale, and it is assumed that Bierce constructed the tale entirely from his imagination.

The Nasty Corner

Carew Tower occupies a plot of land that was once the most reviled spot in all of Cincinnati. One newspaper claimed pedestrians crossed the street “to avoid its stenches and unwashed loafers.” Owned by heirs of David K. Este, it was known as the “Nasty Corner.” Department store magnate Joseph T. Carew was so disgusted by looking at the squalor from his office window that he bought the corner and built his own skyscraper there.

The Riot Of 1855

Vine Street was the battleground on Election Day in April 1855 as supporters of the anti-immigration Know Nothing party attacked the growing German community in the neighborhood just starting to be known as Over-the-Rhine. A minor tussle between nativists and a German marching band escalated into armed aggression, including cannon fire. The major skirmish centered on barricades the Germans erected on Vine Street at Fourteenth Street. Fighting raged for three days. No accurate count of casualties was ever established.

Sound Familiar?

Folks from Philadelphia claim that Cincinnati stole their scrapple and called it goetta. They have a better claim to our street names. When Israel Ludlow platted the downtown area, Philadelphia was capital of the new country and our largest city, so he named Losantiville’s streets after Philadelphia’s system of “tree” streets crossed by numbered streets. William Penn laid out Philly’s Vine Street in 1682. You will also find Walnut and Race streets in the City of Brotherly Love.

Birth Of The Strip Tease

There is a fair amount of controversy about the origins of that classic burlesque entertainment known as the strip tease. More than one source points to Heuck’s Opera House at the corner of Thirteenth and Vine Streets in Cincinnati as the birthplace of this erotic spectacle, and the birthday sometime in November 1901. Brought to town by Manager James Fennessy to perform the pseudo-Oriental “cooch” dance at Heuck’s, Millie De Leon, known as “The Girl In Blue” discarded her elaborate costume at an after-hours show that shocked the city, but made her career.

Roebling’s Lament

John A. Roebling wanted his suspension bridge to create a grand thoroughfare from Vine Street across the Ohio River to Covington. A powerful lobby of ferry operators stymied his plan. Roebling lamented the lost opportunity until the day he died. “No avenue in any of the large capitals of Europe,” he lamented, “could now compare in beauty of grandeur with that long vista which would be presented by the line of Vine Street on the one side, continued in a straight course by Scott Street on the opposite shore."

Who’s That Old Lady?

When Grady Decamp authored his 1991 history of the Cincinnati Enquirer, he titled it “The Grand Old Lady of Vine Street.” That was a euphemism. Most of the other newspapermen in town (and many of the readers) referred to the graphic-poor, boringly laid-out Enquirer as “The Grey Lady of Vine Street.” Now located on Elm Street, the Enquirer boasted a Vine Street address from 1857 to 1992.

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Some Cincinnati Street Names Still Honor Boss Cox’s Minions

On Friday, September 4, 1908 the Cincinnati Enquirer carried a substantial legal advertisement, comprising four columns of dense type announcing Ordinance 731 as ordained by Cincinnati City Council

“To change the names of certain streets, avenues, courts, terraces, places and alleys of the City of Cincinnati as designated therein.”

What followed was a list of hundreds of Cincinnati streets that, partially or completely, would receive new names by order of the city administration. The Enquirer, which had cozied up to the political machine of George Barnsdale “Boss” Cox, printed the ordinance without comment. The Cincinnati Post, a constant burr under the saddle of the Cox Machine (and therefore the recipient of no city advertising) smelled a rat. In that day’s edition, the Post identified the rodent:

“Cincinnati having no Hall of Fame, Cox’s Council has honored his faithful servants by naming streets after them. For, after erasing names of 50 old streets, Council has substituted names of its own members, and what streets were left were named for members of the Mayor’s office, the Service Board, the Police Department, the City Solicitor’s office, the City Engineer’s office, and even favored friends who don’t hold city jobs, but who do control certain and diverse votes.”

Buried in that long list of renamed streets were more than 50 for which the new name honored someone in the city administration, and everyone in the city administration owed their jobs to Boss Cox. Heading the list was Mayor Leopold Markbreit, whose name now graced the former Williams Avenue. The mayor pleaded humble ignorance:

“I tell you it’s impossible to tell when, or where, or how lightning will strike, likewise honors. A few years ago I never expected to have even a cat named after me. I’ll have to find out where Markbreit-av. is and see that it is kept clean.”

Vice Mayor John Galvin got a street in Lower Price Hill, where the former Belmont Avenue became Galvin Avenue. But it wasn’t just the top administrators who got their names assigned to street. The mayor’s secretary got a street in Avondale. A street in Fairmount was selected to recognize Louise Amthauer, stenographer to City Council (and the only woman on the list). Kuhfers Alley, between Findlay and Charlotte streets in Brighton still memorializes Police Detective Conrad Kuhfers. Hopkins Avenue in Avondale was renamed to honor Thirteenth Ward Councilman J.H. Asmann Jr.

While the Post went apoplectic, the Cox Machine blithely basked in the warm glow of their own genius. This was an era when political machines controlled quite a few American cities, from Boss Tweed’s Tammany Hall in  New York City, Frank Hague in Jersey City, and Tom Pendergast in Kansas City. All of them bought votes, handed out jobs to supporters and made legal (and criminal) difficulties disappear. Now Cox had a new reward system, one that cost a lot less than a financial bonus – name a street for your good friends!

Cox, to be sure, kept his fingerprints away from this little gambit. The outrage fell upon City Council. In particular, the ringleader was revealed to be Edwin O. Bathgate, representing the Eighteenth Ward on City Council. Bathgate sat on Council’s Streets & Parks Committee and submitted the names in that capacity. A loyal Cox foot soldier, Bathgate had recently been indicted for buying votes.

In fact, there was a perfectly good reason to change many of these street names. Cincinnati was engaged in a voracious annexation binge, and had gobbled up Westwood, Clifton, Avondale, Linwood and Riverside in 1894. Evanston, North Avondale and Bond Hill were still being digested. Many of the new neighborhoods had existed as separate villages for a long time and had streets with names identical to street already in Cincinnati.

Price Hill had Second, Third, Fourth and Fifth avenues, for example. There were two Hand streets; one in the West End and one in Winton Place. Both Hyde Park and Mount Auburn had Erie Avenues. Mount Auburn’s became Thayer and, later, Glencoe.

Winton Place and Westwood both had Epworth Avenues (evidence of strong Methodist congregations). Council decided that Westwood’s Epworth would become Bethany Avenue, but had not calculated on James N. Gamble, president of Procter & Gamble, having a fondness for the Epworth Avenue that ran by his church. City Council backed down and the Winton Place Epworth became East Epworth.

Gamble’s intervention reveals a pattern in the street changes – most took place in poorer neighborhoods and it was mostly the wealthier residents who objected. Saloonkeeper Louis Schueler, representing Cumminsville on City Council, named a street for himself. He told the Post [9 September 1908] that he didn’t think anyone would miss the former Mad Anthony Street:

“Cumminsville residents don’t appreciate history. Why, when I was in Council 15 years ago, they asked me to change the name of that street. They said they didn’t care what other name I gave it. As to naming it for myself, I lived on the street over 30 years.”

Schueler told the Post that those who objected to the change because of its historic significance (Wayne was a Revolutionary War hero.) were the “high-brows” of the ward. The high-brows must have won, because Mad Anthony Street is still there.

Price Hill objected to changing Fifth Avenue to Milwaukee Avenue, and the city relented, naming it Rosemont Avenue.

The Louisville Courier-Journal [ 13 September 1908] weighed in:

“The Cincinnati Councilmen have presumed to change the names of streets having historical significance to names of no dignity whatsoever, such as the names of local bosses, stenographers, letter carriers, janitors and Councilmen.”

The Post ran a front-page cartoon complaining that this eruption of political vanity was destined to destroy the real estate market. Some of the names were changed back or changed again, but many of Boss Cox’s henchmen are still remembered on our daily commutes.