On Any Sunday

Loud commercials, antenna balloons and those weird fan-inflated arm wavers.  Indiana County’s forty auto dealerships will do just about anything to get your attention and your business.  So why won’t they sell you a car on Sunday?

Because it’s a crime.

The law that makes it so is called the Act of April 22, 1794, which is short for its real name, “An Act for the Prevention of Vice and Immorality and of Unlawful Gaming, and to Restrain Disorderly Sports and Dissipation.”  You probably know it as the Blue Law.

Like its siblings in most other American states (as well as Canada and several European countries), Pennsylvania’s Blue Law had public observance of the Sabbath as its original purpose.  It takes just three sentences to cover a wide range of activities in surprising detail:  things forbidden and the penalty for doing them, exceptions to the rule, and a statute of limitations.  In a nutshell, it forbids us to “perform any employment or business whatsoever on the Lord’s day, commonly called Sunday (works of necessity and charity only excepted)” or to practice any “game, hunting, shooting, sport or diversion whatsoever on the same day.”  Simple, right?  But those words have been argued over in more detail, for a longer time and with greater passion than any other in our legislative and judicial history.  It’s enough to make a lawyer drool.

The range of things to which the Act has been applied over the years is immense and sometimes quizzical.  From the Penal Code of Pennsylvania, here’s a sample of 19th century rulings that cited the Act in their support.  On Sunday:

* Barbers may shave themselves but not others.

* The trolley driver whose car makes noise shall be subject to arrest.

* Bakers may not sell ice cream without also providing entertainment.

* Steamboat may be operated as ferries but not as excursion boats.

* Killing coyotes and crows is exempt from the ban on hunting.

* Even when otherwise permitted by law, dueling is forbidden.

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Curiously for a state that led the fight for religious freedom in 1776, the Act raised little objection for the first few decades.  Perhaps the reason can be found in its time and place of birth.  The Whiskey Rebellion, centered right here in southwest Pennsylvania, reached its peak the same year the Act was passed; it may be that “high spirits and freethinkers” were not tolerated while those who fought that insurrection still lived.  In any case, the first legal challenges were not about what the Act prohibited or even why, but when.  In Commonwealth v. Wolf  (1817)* and other cases,  Jews and Seventh Day Adventists asserted that the Act’s designation of Sunday as the Lord’s Day amounted to selective proscription of their faiths’ Saturday Sabbath and a five-day limit to their business week.  The relief that was eventually granted came not from the courts but the General Assembly, after several attempts over many decades.

Support for Pennsylvania’s Blue Law ebbed and flowed over time, often reflecting social changes not related to the law itself.  The most intense of these periods was 1890-1915, during the Third Great Awakening and the closing days of the Industrial Revolution.  Interests-in-common made for strange bedfellows: temperance workers saw in the Act an ally against then-rampant alcoholism and domestic violence, while nascent labor unions welcomed its help reducing the 70-80 hour work week and employers’ control over workers’ lives.

During the height of the pro-Sabbath cycle in the early 1900s, Indiana County outdid most of the state in its zeal for enforcement, with the support of churches, citizens’ groups and even the press.  Railing against the McNichol Bill’s proposed dilution of Sabbath laws, the Gazette urged readers to demand their legislators oppose “establishing the wicked ‘Continental’ or European Sunday in Pennsylvania.”  And in December 1907 alone, seventy merchants, miners and railroad employees were arrested for violating the Act in towns from Plumville to Josephine “on information of the Indiana County Sabbath Observance Association.”

The national Sabbath Observance Association chose Pittsburgh as its 1908 convention site because southwest Pennsylvania was ground zero in the battle over U.S. Blue Laws.  The Indiana County chapter had as its field agent one Doctor James Sharp, whose task it was to set up surveillance on suspected violators, collect evidence and witnesses, then “bring information” (press charges) against those caught working or doing business on Sunday.  He was ruthlessly efficient, accounting for hundreds of convictions before his death in 1909; coal companies and railroads that had hitherto ignored the Act stopped requiring seven-day work weeks of their employees, and merchants dreaded running afoul of our county’s Sabbath vigilante.

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By 1929, more than 100 attempts to repeal or amend the original Act had failed…

But times were already changing.  America after World War One was a different place, and the Sabbath Observance Association less Doctor Sharp had a progressively smaller voice in Indiana County.  Both economic hardship and prosperity dealt further setbacks to Blue Law supporters in the decades that followed: with unemployment near 30%, what Depression-era worker could say no to Sundays?  And how many businessmen could afford to reject one-seventh of all opportunities in the postwar boom?  In between, WWII persuaded us that enforceable uniformity was worth fighting against, not for.

In the meantime, non-employment exceptions were slowly added, most notably the 1933 bill leaving Sunday sports to the discretion of local electorates.  (Indiana County voters chose to continue the ban here by a 2-to-1 margin.)  Once 1938’s Fair Labor Standards Act made the forty-hour week national law and state liquor control debuted, the alliance that had supported the Act dissolved for want of common cause.  And in 1959, the first significant modification of the Act was at last signed into law.

Not that the issue is settled, even now!  Failure of subsequent attempts to repeal the Act altogether has demonstrated Pennsylvanians’ support for at least some degree of public Sabbath-keeping, and our Supreme Court has consistently affirmed the Act’s constitutionality.  On the other hand, recent decades have seen moratoria on Blue Law prosecutions; the day after the first of these in 1976, the Gazette carried ads by Indiana County merchants announcing Sunday hours . . . just two years after police had closed Punxsutawney’s Jamesway Department Store for attempting Sunday sales.  Hunting, betting, and yes, even car sales are still limited to Monday through Saturday, and the debate remains a vigorous one on most remaining provisions of the Act.  May it ever be so; may we never forget that both consent and dissent ensure Pennsylvania’s “Virtue, Liberty, and Independence.”

*Commonwealth v. Wolf, 3 Serg. & Rawle 48 (Pa. 1817).
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Horseless

The first and only horseless carriage ever shown in Pennsylvania will be on exhibition at the Indiana Fair.  It travels along without any other motor than that which the carriage itself supplies.  It will be worth a day’s visit just to see this unique conveyance!

Thus spoke the Weekly Messenger in 1896.  Alas, the announcement turned out to be premature;  Delos and Dick Hetrick’s one-of-a-kind vehicle would indeed make its public debut at the Fair, but not until the brothers had worked out its transmission problems three years later.  Their gasoline-powered “automobile wagon” wasn’t exactly greased lightning – it couldn’t outrun most humans, let alone a horse – but those who saw it realized that it marked the turning of an age.

The second car hereabouts was seen by few, stopping in Blairsville on its way from Greensburg to Cresson.  But oh, the third…!

J.R. Stumpf’s steam car took Indiana by surprise on a Monday morning in 1901.  The five-horsepower Mobile had travelled from DuBois in just five hours.  Everyone stared in astonishment as it sped down Philadelphia Street; horses tethered along the hitching rail jumped onto the sidewalk, and small boys sprinted after it in a pack.  The elderly Mr. Stumpf would use that attention to his advantage for the next several years by making the steamer his Five & Ten Cent Store’s delivery vehicle and symbol.

The automotive revolution had actually been underway in Pennsylvania since 1893, when Philadelphia’s EMV Company launched its Electrobat.  Duryea Power made our first “gas buggy” in 1895, and the Crouch Company of New Brighton rolled out its steamer two years later.  In all, some 130 models were invented and/or manufactured in our state during those early days – forty of them in 1908 alone.  A Pennsylvanian even bought America’s very first mail-order car.  We couldn’t get enough!  The new century was off to a roaring (and hissing and humming) start.

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Winton was one of several makes with “agents” here.

Cars quickly worked their way into our popular culture and language.  We spoke of “flivvers” and “Tin Lizzies,” and children behind on their chores were said to be “slower than a Morris going uphill in a snowstorm.”  Standard dress for an outing on our unpaved roads included hat, gloves and a “duster” overcoat…which the fashion industry quickly caught on to.  McLaughlin’s Clothing Store in Indiana carried a ladies’ coat called The Automobile, and toiletries like Fel’s Naptha were advertised as “a necessary part of the man’s motoring outfit”.

But despite their popularity, the number of autos here increased more slowly than in most other parts of the state.  Our middle class was small; until prices dropped dramatically in 1913, few but the well-to-do could afford to “go horseless.”  Our dirt roads were less suited to autos than to wagons (especially from December through April), and our preference for tradition over innovation may have put on the brakes as well.

Early on, many of our cars were ordered from elsewhere and shipped by train or driven cross-country to the buyer.  The first Indiana County “agents” – dealerships – opened about 1908, typically representing many manufacturers at once.  The two largest were Clymer Motor Car and Indiana Motor Company.  The latter offered everything from the economical Pope (no Popemobile jokes, please!) to a top-of-the-line Buick for five times as much.

Competition between the different engine- and chassis-types continued through the mid-teens.  Three-wheeled autocycles like the Keystone were popular as early delivery vehicles; J.M. Cunningham’s steam-powered Locomobile became our first horseless taxi in 1901, and long before today’s Tesla, quiet electrics like the Owen Magnetic found favor with the county’s horse-owning majority.  But in the end, gasoline engines and the closed touring sedan won out with their greater range and comfort.

Automobiles even popped up in our newspapers’ social columns.  When, where, and by whom most cars were purchased was noted, and the phrase “by automobile” was often added to items about out-of-town visitors.  Accidents, on the other hand, always made Page One.

The first auto accident in Indiana County happened outside Blairsville in the summer of 1900.  Like most during that era’s first decade, it didn’t involve two cars; Roy Gerard and his wife were injured and their buggy shattered when a car spooked their horse.  The Johnstown Toll Pike was closed to autos in 1905 because so many motorists failed to slow down when approaching horses as required.  Newspaper accident-reports came to resemble editorials, with one opining in that “someone will be killed, and then a penitentiary sentence will instill caution in careless drivers.”  Yet by 1920, most papers also featured a weekly section devoted to more positive auto-articles, advice columns and ads.

Blacksmiths and machine shops got our business when the family car broke down.  Liveries and wagonworks soon began adding auto repair to their repertoire.  Among those who failed to adapt was the Indiana Carriage Company, sold at Sheriff’s bankruptcy auction in 1910.  In that same year, our first cars-only repair shop was opened by (appropriately) Delos and Dick Hetrick.

As with the automobile itself, auto-friendly roads were in short supply here at first.  Our relative isolation and railroad-dependence had encouraged a casual attitude about the dirt we drove on well into the new century.  The Automobile Association of Indiana led the push for road improvement; it didn’t hurt that many members were influential citizens!  Starting in 1913, they employed Homer City’s E.B. Griffith to make county-wide inspections, and from his reports created a map of road conditions for use by the county government.  By the late 1920s, many borough streets and most wagon roads had been paved – a boon much appreciated by rural mail carriers, who in those days used their own vehicles.

The old saying “If it moves, tax it!” took on new meaning at Harrisburg in 1906.  Whereas our county had charged a one-time, fifty cent fee for combined license and registration, the new State Department of Highways separated the two, doubled the cost of each and charged them both every year.  The license number (painted onto the body before plates were introduced) functioned as the VIN of its day, staying with your car when you sold it.

The last stand for horse advocates came in the late 1920s.  Citing an increase in tack sales and the economy of horse-drawn delivery vehicles over trucks, the Gazette asserted “Old Dobbin Is Back.”  But few of us yelled “Get a horse!” anymore, and our theaters were showing something closer to the truth – a soundie called First Auto: a Romance of the Last Horse and the First Horseless Carriage.  What was once a novelty had become a generation’s norm.  There was no turning back; by the early 1930s, there was one car for every five of us.  Like the trolley, the horse was history.

What happened to Pennsylvania’s auto industry?  Economies-of-scale made possible by Ford’s introduction of the moving assembly-line in 1913 meant only the most heavily-capitalized manufacturers could compete.  American Austin, our last make still in production as of 1929, closed its plant in Butler a few weeks before Pearl Harbor in 1941.

The Patriot

“Salve, porgiamo agli abitatori della Contea d’Indiana, ai cittadini italiani a quelli di razza inglese e a quelli di ogni altra nazionalita….”

And with that, the only bilingual newspaper between New York and Chicago was launched on August 8, 1914.  In its lead item (Il Nostro Saluto – “Our Greeting”, excerpted above), Indiana County’s Il Patriota announced that its pages would contain articles in both English and Italian, each a duplicate of the other.  It also pledged something novel for a newspaper of its time: to be politically nonpartisan and unbiased in its reporting, and to identify each editorial as an editorial.  “By such methods we hope to receive the commendation of our readers and of other papers as well.”

The odds against such an enterprise were long.  The Patriot’s coalfield predecessor La Sentinella del West Virginia had closed its doors the year before, and even in major population centers, new Italian-language newspapers like Philadelphia’s La Rassegna could fold in a matter of months.  So why was Indiana’s giornale able to thrive for more than forty years?  Read on.

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The Patriot stepped in at just the right moment to serve an Italian-speaking community of surprising size.  Our population had grown by more than half in the previous decade, and immigrants drawn here by employment in the mines and mills accounted for 20% of us.  Relatively few Italians lived in the county seat, but Indiana was centrally located in a ring of mining towns, so it was the right place and time for such a voice.  But more than that, Indiana County in 1914 had the right man for the job.

Founder and editor Francesco Biamonte was born in Zagarise, Italy on the first day of 1891.  Sponsored by his brother Giuseppe of Creekside, the youngest of Maria and Gaetano’s seven children was sent to study in America at age nine.  Here he went to school at Sykesville for a year before returning to Italy.  He came back to Pennsylvania at age thirteen, this time to stay.  After brief employment at his brother’s dry goods store, Francesco worked in a Johnstown steel company’s office while attending Cambria Business College.  His education was interrupted by conscription into the Italian army (he was not yet a US citizen) but was resumed at Indiana State Normal School when he returned.  By 1913, he was Indiana County’s official court interpreter.

With $100 of borrowed capital and a staff of four, the Patriot’s beginnings were as humble as those of most whom it served.  The paper owned no press in that first year.  At its workrooms in the Thomas White building, editor-in-chief Biamonte, Italian editor Giuseppe Palermo and English editor Francis Smith (on loan from the Weekly Messenger) would compose articles and ads, set the type-sheets and haul them to the Messenger’s pressroom . . . then print the paper, break down the type and haul everything back to their office, all before the Messenger’s own hours of operation.

So what did readers find that Saturday when they opened the Patriot?  Though the particulars would change over time, Volume I, Number 1 was typical of those to come.  Published as a weekly, pages 1-4 were in English and 5-8 were in Italian.  World War I had started just days before; war news and the death of President Wilson’s wife were front page.  Events in Italy were grouped as Telegrammi D’All Italia, while the rest of the Italian pages covered local concerns like mining safety, mutual aid societies and music.  Ads were in Italian or English and took up almost half of total space.  Among them was an ad for Biamonte’s own services as travel agent, banking liason and interpreter.  What did not appear in that first issue were Biamonte’s editorials (a prominent feature later on) but a selection of op-eds reprinted from other journals.  On page two was the feature “Questions That A Good Citizen Should Know” (coaching for the naturalization test), followed by voter-registration tips and deadlines.

In some respects, the Patriot’s greatest contribution was made not in its workrooms but in the business office at 15 Carpenter Avenue.  There, Biamonte’s fellow immigrants came to seek his help and advice on everything imaginable – especially American laws and customs.  Interpreting America to immigrants was a major focus of the Patriot, and its editor sometimes had to interpret immigrants to American natives.  When Gazette articles claimed the formation of a “Black Shirt” Italian fascist unit was pending here, they were rebutted by Biamonte on page 1 of the Gazette itself: “The good Italian citizen now resident in Indiana County . . . still cherishes due regard for his motherland, but his loyalty is to the American Constitution and to the American government and flag.”  The Patriot lived those principles to the end.

In February 1917, the name Francesco Biamonte appeared proudly in the Patriot’s list of nineteen Italians who had become cittadini di Uncle Sam that month.  And when America went to war, Biamonte was “called to the colors” and reported to Camp Forrest, Georgia in June 1918.  Minus its guiding light, the Patriot ceased publication.  Two weeks later, the Indiana Progress noted that Biamonte had “failed to pass the physical due to a defective foot and was discharged.”  He moved to Pittsburgh and worked in the Foreign Department of the First National Bank there, then returned to Indiana (can you blame him?) to work for Farmers’ Bank.  But printer’s ink was in his blood, and in April 1919 the Patriot announced its rebirth.

To its prewar mission of educating and encouraging the immigrant community, the paper now added overt political advocacy which had as its aim the promotion of that community’s interests – even if that meant abandoning the party-neutral stance so proudly announced in its maiden issue.  Biamonte’s own perspective was decidedly conservative, and Indiana County was a Republican stronghold at the time, but that party’s local leadership was not immigrant-friendly; besides, most Italian-Americans opposed Prohibition while Republican candidates tended to be “dry.”  So in 1922, the Patriot came out for Democrat John McSparran for Governor.

He lost.  And so, it seemed, did most candidates whom the paper endorsed over the next two decades, including Biamonte himself when he ran for County Prothonotary.  Frustrated and (to quote historian Stefano Luconi) “longing for that political recognition which a perennial minority party was unable to grant,” Biamonte and the Patriot switched parties in 1930 and endorsed Republican Gifford Pinchot for Governor.  Such flips were not unique for Italian-language journals in our state; Pittsburgh’s Unione and Philadelphia’s L’Opinione would do so in 1932, though in the opposite direction.

Few low-income readers could afford a paper’s nickel price during the Great Depression, so the Patriot changed from weekly to biweekly.  It remained so even with prosperity’s postwar return, surviving long after every other non-daily in our county had succumbed.  In the meantime, the Patriot had lived up to its social aims by editorial support for things like women’s suffrage, veterans’ pensions and investment in America through bond sales.  That willingness to rally support for a just cause would be tested in 1941.

During the two years before our entry into WWII, Biamonte’s editorials grew increasingly bitter and critical, especially of the Roosevelt administration’s friendly relations with Britain and the Soviet Union.  But like so much else in America, the Patriot’s editorial tenor was changed overnight by Pearl Harbor.  The biweekly issue, already composed and printed the day before, was scrapped and replaced with a special edition dated Monday the 8th.  Under its masthead: “We must unite no matter what our differences of opinion.  We must stand together to keep America free.”  True to its word, the Patriot curbed its wartime criticism;  Biamonte praised Roosevelt for removing non-naturalized Italians from the list of enemy aliens, and even his contention that demanding Italy’s unconditional surrender was a mistake appeared discreetly as a letter to the editor in another paper.

Volume XXXII, Number 1 – the first postwar issue – was printed in a world very different from the one into which the Patriot had been born.  The third generation of Italian-Americans now outnumbered the first and second, and attitudes about ethnicity and assimilation were softening.  Within six years, the coal that had drawn sons of Italy across the ocean and into the mines would be replaced in half of American buildings by oil and gas; unionization, minimum-wage laws and national prosperity ended the near-slavery of those who remained in company towns, eliminating the need for an advocate in print.  And in the end, much of the Patriot’s audience came to prefer TV’s immediacy to newspapers’ depth.

By the 1950s, just one of the Patriot’s pages were in Italian.  Many readers had moved away, so although there were coast-to-coast and international subscribers, circulation had fallen well below its former peak.  But its editor, by now made a Commander in Italy’s Concordia Knights for his journalistic services, soldiered on.

Since his 1939 marriage to art professor Grace Houston, Biamonte had suspended the Patriot’s publication during July and August while the couple vacationed in Grace’s Ohio home town.  In the summer of 1955, he came home early due to an unspecified ailment and died the day after publication was to have resumed.  When it did resume on October 29th, the Patriot carried notice of its founder’s passing, yet except for listing his wife as publisher and Margaret Morrell as editor, Volume XLI, Number 1 seemed business as usual.  But the next issue, devoted entirely to the life of its founder, was its last.

If the Patriot’s final edition was a memorial to Biamonte’s life, the last one under his own hand (June 25) was an embodiment of his character.  As if by design, it focused on topics that had been crucial to the immigrant generation whose welfare had been his passion yet were even then passing into history: coal mining’s strategic importance, labor unions’ place in politics, and one’s philanthropic duty to the old country.  There was coverage of Pittsburgh’s Italian Day and the opening of the Sons of Italy Building in Philadelphia.  Reviews of opera and art and the life of violinist Niccolo Paganini were there, too, all lifelong loves.  Yet the anger that had burdened his life’s final third was there as well, in vitriolic editorials denouncing Allied involvement in WWII as Russia’s “stooges” and Fascist abuse of Italian Jews as an exaggerated “tale.”

But in the final analysis, that issue’s most revealing piece was surely the half-page spread of a rippling American flag with the caption: “July 4th, 1955 – That the principles set forth by our forefathers in the Constitution of the United States 179 years ago may be eternal.”  The patriot had lived those principles to the end.

Cool!

Did your parents call the family fridge an “icebox” when you were growing up?  If you’re a Baby Boomer, they probably did, because it really was one back when they were kids.  Their generation was the last to use iceboxes, and the last to know firsthand the people and processes that supplied the ice inside.

Humans have preserved their food with ice for thousands of years, but the harvesting, storage and distribution of natural ice reached its historical peak right here in the eastern United States during the 19th century.  Democracy, geography, and industry gave birth to the new “Ice Age.”  Ice in summer had been reserved for aristocracy since ancient times, but the American Revolution democratized its use and thus increased demand.  Our north Atlantic seaboard had the right climate to produce harvestable ice in quantity, and the ports to ship it from.  As for industry; well, we were that century’s keenest entrepreneurs:  if there was a high demand for something, American traders would find a way to supply it.

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The ice trade actually began as an export business, since most early 19th century Americans lived in rural areas where they could harvest their own ice.  Boston’s Frederic Tudor first shipped ice to the Caribbean in 1806, and by 1840 had ice houses around the world.  But the biggest consumers of all were America’s two largest (and hottest) cities: New York, which used more ice than most countries, and Philadelphia, which had the highest per-capita consumption of ice on the planet.  Domestic ice sales overtook exports after the Civil War, and our expanding railroad network allowed long-distance transport of meat, produce and dairy products for the first time thanks to ice-cooled refrigerator cars.

By 1870, most Americans had stopped harvesting ice for themselves, happy to let commercial suppliers relieve them of the task.  But in more remote areas like Indiana County, many farmsteads, butchers and hotels had their own ice pond and ice house.  Making ice cream, brewing beer, and drinking ice water were now possible year-round.  Not everyone approved;  the Indiana Democrat equated drinking ice water with drug use and implied that those who indulged in it were bound for “a clime where ice water is not used” after death.

There was social status in ice as well.  Serving ice-cooled drinks to summer guests meant you were a “somebody,” so upper-class folk built ice houses behind their homes, and social columns noted who had filled them in the past week.  The icewater-and-chocolate tradition still observed by Indiana’s Shakespeare Club was born of that practice.

Where did the rest of us get our ice?  Depends.  Those living in rural townships or small boroughs could help fill the community ice house with each winter’s harvest and tap it in summer.  Citizens of larger boroughs bought ice from the butcher, grocer or fishmonger until ice supply houses sprang up in the 1870s.  Then in the summer of 1875 came the Indiana debut of an American classic:  the ice wagon!

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Ice came daily to our homes in Blairsville and Indiana.  Deliveries were not suspended on Sundays the icemen were exempt from Blue Law strictures because ice preserved food and therefore life.  It sold at 35 cents for 100 pounds in 1880.  Horses drew their brightly-colored wagons through the streets each morning from April through October, rain or shine; one or two men hefted blocks of up to five cubic feet with giant ice tongs and brought them in to our iceboxes.  And though it was illegal and the subject of many a parental lecture, hitching one’s bike or velocipede to the back of the ice wagon as it passed was a favorite childhood sport.  There’s a little Marty McFly in all of us, eh?

Demand increased here until, by 1887, there were at least five ice merchants in Indiana and three in Blairsville.  Ours was cheaper than ice sold in Philadelphia, where the Knickerbocker monopoly imported it from Maine after local harvests couldn’t keep up with demand.  (It was healthier, too – most major rivers were polluted!)  No figures exist for our county’s per-capita consumption, but it never matched the average Philadelphian’s 1400 pounds per year.

So, how was it harvested?  At first we used tools of the carpenter, stonemason and lumberjack, but purpose-designed equipment was available by mid-century.  The Wyeth horse-drawn ice cutter allowed fast, high-volume harvesting, but not all of our lakes and licks froze deep enough to support its weight, so much of the harvesting here was done manually.  A depth of 8 to 12 inches was typical, and some years brought up to 18 inches.  Harvest usually began in January and continued into March, when gorges ice jams that blocked and flooded waterways put an end to the season.  Here’s a description from the 1892 Indiana Progress:

The first process is (to use) a scraper which removes snow, rough ice and other substances. Next is to mark out blocks…. Then the ice plow is brought.  (It) resembles a saw with large teeth, is drawn by a horse and is guided by the marked lines.  The ice is plowed within four inches of its depth, (leaving) enough to bear the workmen’s weight .  Large cakes are then sawed off by hand and floated through canals kept open, guided by men with steel bars.”

Our supply was more than equal to the demand.  We harvested waterways from Mahoning Creek to the Conemaugh, but the most productive sources were excavated “ice ponds.”  The biggest of them was created by the Pennsylvania Railroad at Black Lick in 1870.  It yielded 241 boxcars of ice that first winter, most of which went to Pittsburgh (Blairsville and New Florence got the rest).  There were even three ice ponds within Indiana borough itself; of these, the hands-down favorite was Gessler’s.

Carl Gessler prided himself on being “Indiana’s Original Ice Merchant.”  His ice house, ice pond, and ice wagon were each the borough’s first.  Gessler’s Ice House on Chestnut Street, where he also sold ice cream and other confections, was served by its adjacent ice pond starting 1879.  The pond was Indiana’s favorite skating venue between winter cuttings and was stocked with fish in summer.

But history was catching up with the ice pond.  Ice famines caused by warm winters and increasing demand in the 1890s brought an alternative source to the fore.  Production of artificial ice had been possible for decades, but the technology was unreliable and cost-prohibitive.  Improved techniques made “plant ice” practical and profitable, and by century’s end it accounted for almost half of US ice production.  Carl Gessler and the PRR both abandoned their ponds in 1903 when they switched to plant ice.  Even so, natural ice wasn’t frozen out of the market just yet; the progress of each year’s ice harvest was followed by our county’s newspapers through 1936.

The fate of home-delivered ice (and the icebox) was sealed when domestic refrigerators were introduced after World War I.  Not much of a threat to Jack Frost at first, they cost more than a car and were harder to maintain.  But price and compactness had improved enough by 1930 that we bought more refrigerators than iceboxes that year.  And for those of us who still couldn’t afford one, there was even a conversion kit that turned our icebox into a Frigidaire!

Pennsylvania’s last ice wagon horse died in 1936, and “retired” wagons were used as mock tanks for training during WWII.  When the final icebox maker closed in 1953, the “Ice Age” was over.

If you’re ever out by Aging Services in Indiana, walk around the block.  There where the tracks cross Chestnut between 10th and Edgewood you’ll find it, the last trace of our “Ice Age:” some gravel-mounds and a bulldozer or two in a field that was once Gessler’s Ice Pond.

 

Coal and Iron and the Badge

There’s an old adage that says a frog dropped in boiling water will hop right out, but he’ll stay there till he’s cooked if the water’s heated slowly enough.  We humans can be that way about threats to our freedom, and Pennsylvanians are no exception.  We proudly shed our blood in the War to End Slavery, yet just six weeks before we won, our legislature authorized the next great threat to freedom – and almost no one objected.

Not many realized it was a threat at the time.  The need seemed genuine, and the solution obvious: train-bandits were better armed and organized than law enforcement in many Pennsylvania counties, so railroads asked for the right to create their own police units.  It seemed like a practical idea, so Act 228, An Act Empowering Railroad Companies to Employ Police Force, was passed in April 1865.

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Rail police were to “possess and exercise all the powers of policemen in the city of Philadelphia.”  Their authority extended not only to company property but throughout the county(s) in which they were commissioned.  A year later, the Act was amended to include two other giants of the Industrial Age: “all corporations, firms or individuals . . . in possession of any colliery, furnace or rolling mill within this Commonwealth.”  Badges were now to read “Coal and Iron Police” and show the company name.  And just what did it take to become a Coal and Iron Police officer?  The governor’s signature on a single-page application from the company, an oath and a badge.  No training, no background check, no security bond . . . and no accountability.  Answering only to his employer, each man was essentially a law unto himself.

Almost from the start, coalfield “C&Is” were used primarily as strikebreakers, economic enforcers and agents of social control in company towns.  They performed evictions and collected debts, kept up surveillance and shut down public gatherings, and above all prevented infiltration by union organizers.  They were not without legitimate functions;  many a murderer and thief was brought to justice by Coal and Iron Police, and the very lack of accountability that made C&Is such a threat to freedom gave would-be criminals reason to reconsider.  Though the Act stipulated that anyone arrested be “dealt with according to law,” in practice they were as likely to be beaten as brought to trial.

Accidents of geology and geography spared Indiana County some of the worst abuses.  We sit on the edge of three high, medium and low-volatile bituminous deposits; since coal companies tended to concentrate on a single type, no monopoly like those in Allegheny and Schuylkill counties controlled our land and people.  Lucky, too, that our miners weren’t recruited from the counties in Ireland where Molly Maguires were found.  In the 1870s, that underground society reacted to coal company abuses in eastern Pennsylvania with arson and murder, and the Coal and Iron Police responded in kind.

The relative peace here was reflected in our newspapers.  Coal and Iron Police were mentioned just three times in their first twenty years, and even then it was for their actions elsewhere in the Great Railroad Strike of 1877.  But in 1894 the lid came off.

It happened as part of the biggest coal strike America had seen to date.  When Glen Campbell strikers threatened their non-union replacements, our County Recorder swore in sixty new Coal and Iron Police officers for the Berwind-White coal company.  “Foreigners” (as newspapers called immigrant miners) and “Cossacks” (as miners called C&Is) seemed eager to trade shots, and the latter had shoot-to-kill orders should gunfire erupt.  Why didn’t it?  Curiously, that credit goes to Jefferson County’s strikers.  They’d already become violent, so Governor Pattison sent in the National Guard.  One thousand uniformed men marched through Glen Campbell on their way to Walston, and trigger-fingers suddenly stopped itching . . . a close call.

Coal consumption was breaking records every year as the 20th century approached, and mine employment rose to meet it.  So did labor activism and the C&Is’ increasingly brutal response.  That the creation of the Coal and Iron Police had been a mistake was by now obvious to almost everyone – even other states’ producers!  An 1898 edition of The Coal and Trade Journal noted that “Pennsylvania has an institution peculiar to itself . . . a private standing army of irresponsible myrmidons apparently authorized by the laws of that state.

The first small changes to that army were set in motion by the Anthracite Strike of 1902.  When both sides refused even federally-mediated settlement for almost six months, America ran out of home heating coal; with winter approaching, President Theodore Roosevelt threatened to nationalize the mines and replace strikers with soldiers.  The UMWA and Operators’ Association immediately split the difference and resumed production.  As part of the deal, a presidential commission investigated the strike’s root causes.  Among their recommendations was “discontinuance of the system of Coal and Iron Police . . . and resort to regularly constituted peace authorities in cases of necessity.

Though the first part of that recommendation would not soon be acted upon, Governor Pennypacker agreed to limit previously open-ended commissions to three years, and in 1905 signed a bill creating Pennsylvania’s State Police.  Troop D’s location in the heart of our medium-volatile bituminous region was no accident.  The writing was on the wall.

coal and iron police bage

Still, assaults kept increasing as coal production peaked.  More than 170 stories about C&Is appeared in Indiana County papers from 1910 to 1930 compared to those three in the first twenty years.  Yet even in places like Ernest and Creekside where “Cossacks” were ubiquitous, this county continued to see less labor violence than most.

During his first term in office, Governor Gifford Pinchot asked State Police to review all existing C&I commissions.  Their 1923 probe found cause to recommend that some 4,000 of them – the majority – be revoked, and the governor obliged.  He further announced that each future applicant must prove US citizenship and Pennsylvania residence, provide character references and employment history, and post a $2,000 bond.  Problem solved, right?  Well . . . not quite.

A 1928 US Senate Report on events here in the bituminous field was not well received in Harrisburg.  Its 3,400 pages detailing Coal and Iron Police beatings, warrantless searches and property seizures “endangered the peace of the Commonwealth,” said Governor John S. Fisher.  He claimed to mistrust the C&Is but thought that to eliminate them altogether was folly.  A single death the following year made it all academic.

In 1929, officers of the Pittsburgh Coal Company’s police force responded to a miner’s drunken rampage by beating and torturing and finally killing him.  All three were acquitted of John Borkovski’s murder; when retried, two of the three C&Is were convicted of involuntary manslaughter, but not before public outrage had spawned two bills further restricting the Coal and Iron Police.  Governor Fisher’s choice to sign the weaker Mansfield Bill and veto the stronger Musmanno Bill contributed to his defeat in the next election.  Gifford Pinchot was returned to office in 1931.

Making good on his campaign promise to abolish the Coal and Iron Police (announced at Indiana County Courthouse!), Pinchot turned Act 228 against itself.  Its 1866 amendment said “the governor shall have the power to decline to make any such appointment . . . and at any time to revoke the commission of any policeman appointed hereunder.”  He did just that, to all of them.  At midnight on June 30, 1931, Pennsylvania’s Coal and Iron Police ceased to exist.

Some C&Is found employment as “real” police.  Jack Stroble of the Keystone Coal unit served briefly as Indiana’s Police Chief in the 1930s.  And in a final irony, Homer City’s policemen are nowadays represented by United Mine Workers of America!

 

Indiana County Judicial System Part IV

In 1894, Judge Harry White came up for reelection; he had been on the Bench since January 1885. White was reelected, but by a narrow margin, and despite numerous efforts to put himself in a favorable light, as discussed in a previous post, Judge White had a controversial career, and he tread a thin line between ethical and unethical actions. However, White was unable to erase the memories of 1894-95, because when the election of 1904 came around, he was defeated for a third term, and never held an elective public office again. He was succeed by Stephen J. Telford who served until January 1916, when Judge Jonathan N. Langham took over his seat.

judge telford
Judge Stephen J. Telford

During the late 1800s and early part of the 1900s, Indiana County was fortunate to have the honor of having two of its native sons on the Supreme Court of Pennsylvania. Justice Silas M. Clark (who died November 20, 1891 in office and was eulogized during a moving funeral) and Justice John P. Elkin, who after serving as Attorney General of Pennsylvania from 1899-1903, was nominated in 1904 for the PA Supreme Court, was elected and took his place on the bench in January 1905 serving until his death on October 3, 1915.

The period from 1891-1916, saw an increase in crime, due in part to a “Wild West” climate in some of the new mining towns; there were numerous murders and other crimes and disturbances. This can been seen in 1898 in Glen Campbell and in Whiskey Run in 1911 which resulted in four deaths.

By 1920 the courthouse was showing its age at 50 years old. When it was constructed, electricity and modern toilet facilities were unheard of, therefore remodeling needed to be completed at various times. In 1917, there was a $3,370 contract for public “comfort stations” to be put in in the courthouse basement. Then in 1929 it was decided to complete the basement, it was previously divided into rooms but never finished because the space was not needed. A street-level entrance to the basement was provided, which eliminated the former steps on the Sixth Street side to the first floor. The toilets on the first floor were removed and two toilets were provided in the basement, along with eight office rooms.

Another addition was begun in December 1917 and completed in the spring of 1918: the “Bridge of Sighs” connected the courtroom with the jail.

By the time the Depression hit, the courthouse needed painting and maintenance, estimated at a cost of $600; the labor was to be provided by the Civil Works Administration. Officials and attorneys contributed $290 toward the cost. Another incident during the Depression Era, was the leaning of the courthouse tower which was noticed by June 1936; an option discussed was the removal of the clock tower, but this was met with protests from citizens. Other plans during this time included the removal of the stone wall and the iron fence surrounding the courthouse, cleaning and painting the exterior, raising the roof and constructing an additional story, remodeling the interior to provide much needed office space, and the installation of an elevator. The Grand Jury approved the project, with labor to be done as a W.P.A. project. By late July, the local WPA office approved the repainting of the courthouse and jail, and Washington also gave its approval on September 11; but the commissioners cancelled the project due to the impending cold weather and the cost of scaffolding. In December the Grand Jury were presented with reconstruction plans, but postponed the matter for further study.

It was in 1923, that women began serving on juries. The Indiana Evening Gazette reported on May 1, 1923 that 73 women accepted to serve on the grand petit and traverse jurors along with 131 men. To put this in perspective Congress passed the 19th Amendment on June 4, 1919 and being ratified on August 18, 1920, giving women the right to vote.

jury chairs
Jury Chairs 9 and 10

It was also during this period that an amusing incident occurred on January 5, 1924. The story begins when everyone in the courthouse began to cry, investigators found two rapidly emptying tear gas bombs in the corridor, and the mystery as to why everyone was crying was solved. It seems that outgoing Sheriff J.R. Richards had the bombs to use in a scattering a mob, and two practical jokers thought it would be fun to release them, that is until they were among the ones weeping. The windows and doors to the building were opened, and the gas weakened, but they had to be closed at the end of the day and the fumes began to collect again. On Sunday morning, the Lutherans, entered the building to worship in while their new church was being constructed; however, they were almost forced to leave due to the fumes.

The final era of the judicial system that we are going to look at is moving into the modern era, mostly after the 1950s through the 1980s. Starting in the 1950’s the grandeous courthouse was described as an “eye sore” and there was a proposed modernization of the building which was estimated to cost between $800,000 and $850,000, but these proposals got no further than the planning stage. Then on October 29, 1962, plans were announced to construct a new courthouse at the rear of the old courthouse, but the Gazette ran several editorials in November which disagreed with the choice of a site and urged that the Pennsylvania Railroad station site (on the corner of Eighth Street and Philadelphia) be chosen. Bids were advertised around January 1, 1965, but it wasn’t until December 7, 1966 that the Commissioners chose the PRR site.

The public got a preview of the new courthouse on June 3, 1967 when the Gazette published a picture and plans. By August the Indiana County Redevelopment Authority purchased the entire PRR property for $300,000 and transferred a portion of the property to the county for a courthouse. On December 6, the Commissioners approved a $2 million bond issue to finance the problem. Construction contracts were signed on January 3, 1968 and ground-breaking ceremonies were held on January 10. Construction continued through 1969 and by the beginning of 1970 contracts for new furnishings were awarded. The last session of court in the old courthouse was held on November 2, 1970; and on December 17 the last county office, the prothonotary, moved out and the doors were padlocked soon afterward.

The Commissioners announced on April 22, 1971 that the old courthouse would be sold in the near future. This set off a history of the old courthouse. There was an auction of the furnishing held in June. In May 1972 there was a survey related to the distribution of the courthouse with three choices: retain the buildings and the property, retain the land, sell to the highest bidder. A large majority desired to keep the old courthouse. By the end of the year the National Bank of the Commonwealth (NBOC) made a proposal to lease and restore the building for bank purposes.

Renovation work began during the summer of 1973, starting with the placement of the old courthouse on the state and national registers of historic places. An “Open House” was held on October 1974.

The new courthouse proved to be less than ideal. There were some people felt that the colonial design was inappropriate, because Indiana did not exist during that period. Moreover, the structure proved to be poorly insulated, heating cost exorbitant, and expensive corrective measures had to be taken. In 1987, at an estimated cost of $200,000, asbestos was removed.

Ground-breaking of a new jail took place on September 9, 1972 and the $1 million 3-story facility was dedicated on September 28, 1973 but not occupied until the end of October. The issue of jailbreaks did not end, and the first occurred on September 21, 1974, followed by three more on November 3. The jail was referred to as the “Ninth Street Hilton.” There were suggestions to put bars on the windows, on November 4 the Commissioners voted to proceed with the installation of bars immediately.

The justice-of-the-peace system was replaced by the District Justices, first elected in 1969 and taking office in January 1970. The first district justices were: James Lambert, Geraldine M. Wilkins, Louis J. Nocco, and Albert Cox. Mrs. Wilkins was the first Indiana County woman to hold the post of District Justice. Judy Monaco was sworn in on May 3, 1971 as the first female member of the Indiana County Bar Association and the first to be admitted to practice in the new courthouse.

Another big change during this period was the elimination of the indicting grand jury system, which was authorized by a 1973 constitutional amendment. The last Indiana County Grand Jury closed its work in December 1978.

The Indiana County Judiciary system is continually changing, with the election of new judges, new District Judges, and the admission of new attorneys to the Bar Association.

Indiana County Judicial System Part III

The development of the judicial system of Indiana County continued into the late 1800s and early 1900s, and it was during this period that there were many significant changes.  The old courthouse was demolished in 1868, but until the time that a new courthouse could be built, the county officials had to find temporary offices.  The prothonotary moved to a store room of Edward Nixon on North Sixth Street adjoining the old jail.  The Register and Recorder and Sheriff moved to George Bodenhamer’s “new office” in the back of Sutton & Wilson’s store which was on the south side of Philadelphia Street at the corner of Carpenter Street.

The Judges

Judge Joseph Buffington of Kittanning continued to preside over the courts of Indiana County under the old Tenth Judicial District, which comprised Armstrong, Indiana, and Westmoreland counties.  Judge Buffington continued to preside until 1871 when he resigned due to his health.  James A. Logan of Westmoreland County was appointed to fill the vacancy until the next election in October of 1871.

It was during this time that judges began to be elected to the bench.  Silas M. Clark was the Democratic candidate and the Indiana Progress reported his selection as “The Democratic Scuffle.”  The reason for this was because H.K. Sloan, who was favored for the State Senate nomination, but could not be nominated because conferees from other counties would not be happy on two district candidates coming from the same county.  Clark was confirmed on July 9 at the Democratic Conference in Pittsburgh.  The Indiana Progress reported that it was rumored that a few Republicans in Indiana contemplated voting for Clark for Judge because “he [wa]s a very clever gentleman.” In the end Clark was defeated in the district by a vote of 3,944 for Logan and 2,613 for Clark.  A possible reason for Logan’s lead was that he was solicitor for the Pennsylvania Railroad, and on election day trains were sent to haul voters to their polling places free of charge.  In later years Clark declared “Judge Logan was a good, able and just judge.”

535fd-silas
Judge Clark

Judge Logan served as judge until the Fortieth Judicial District was formed, which under the new Pennsylvania Constitution, consisted of Indian County alone.  The provision made counties of forty thousand people or more separate judicial districts.  In the election in November 1874, John P. Blair was the Republican nominee for judge, running against Judge Logan.  Blair was elected and took office on January 4, 1875.  When he took office there was a backlog of cases, which had been delayed for several years because the previous judges just found it impossible to keep up the case load of three counties.

The new constitution abolished the office of Associate Judge.  John K. Thompson and Peter Sutton were replaced in 1866 by T.B. Allison and Joseph Campbell, who held the office until 1871 and was succeeded by Peter Dilts, Jr. and James S. Nesbit.  Nesbit resigned in February 1874.  The last to serve as Associate Judge in Indiana County were William Irwin (who succeeded Nesbit), serving until January 1, 1875; and Peter Dilts, Jr. When his term ended in 1876.

Judge Blair left a clean docket when his term ended in 1885 and was succeeded by Harry White.  It is said that none of Judge Blair’s decisions were reversed by the higher courts, which is aspiration of many judges on the bench.  Judge White was elected in November 1884, defeating A.W. Taylor, who ran as an independent, by a vote of 4,200 to 3,787.  Judge White’s twenty-year career on the bench was controversial, even questionable; he was very active politically, and at times his political conduct was extremely partisan, undignified, and treaded a thin line between ethical and unethical actions.

New Courthouse

James Allison - Murder Trial Indiana County 1880

In 1867, two consecutive grand juries urged that a new courthouse be built, and with Court approval, they instructed the Commissioners to proceed with building a new building.  The reasoning behind this push was that the old courthouse seemed to be inadequate.  The plan was presented by Mr. Drum of Brookville, and the Commissioners adopted the plan in March 1868.  The cost was estimated to be $80,000 (to put that in perspective, that would be about $1.4 million today).  The Commissioners then requested an Act by the legislatures that would authorize the county to borrow the money to construct the new courthouse.  As with any large project, there was opposition to the construction of a new building, and there were even protests against the passage of the act, which was likely done to delay the taxation that was sure to follow to pay for the building.  Despite the opposition, the Commissioners advertised for sealed bids to be received by July 16.

On Sunday, August 9, 1868, a final religious service was held in the old structure, and demolition of the building was begun on August 11.  The contractor, J.T. Dickey, encountered financial problems, and his bondsman, Irvin McFarland, was forced to take over the contract in association with Philip Shannon, a former Jefferson County sheriff, in ordered to save himself.  There was some excavation and foundation work that occurred during the winter of 1868-69, but there was little other work completed.  In April 1869, courthouse architect, James W. Drum, moved to Indiana and work resumed.

Although work resumed, there were some other problems that arose.  On July 6, 1869, the stone cutters struck for higher wages.  It seems that one or two people took advantage of the excitement of the Fourth of July celebrations to induce the party to go into a strike.  However, about half of the force went back to work on July 7.  McFarland refused the leaders of the strike further employment.  Also, in July, a rope in the lifting apparatus broke, and a stone block weighing several tones fell and broke in two, this also caused damage to the steps at the west entrance.  The Mahoning sandstone blocks came from a quarry in the Tearing Run area near Homer City.  An advertisement on August 5, placed by McFarland, offered $2 per day for Laborers.*  The stone cutters struck again at the end of October or early November, but the cause is unknown.

The stone and brick work neared completion by August 19, 1869, and by November 3 it was thought that a few more days of good weather that the roof would be in place; however, this did not get accomplished until nearly the end of the month.  That winter, work proceeded on the interior of the building.  But there were still more problems, in February 1870 the county bond book was stolen.  The Commissioners offered a $50 reward for its return, and printed new bonds to be exchanged for the old ones.  In December 1872, James B. Work was convicted of forging County Bonds while serving as clerk to the Commissioners, and Judge Logan sentenced him to one year, eight months in the Western Penitentiary on February 2, 1873.

On May 16 and 17, 1870, a bell that weighed 2,480 pounds was placed in the tower.  It was cast in Pittsburgh by A. Fulton & Son and cost $1,017.87.  Later a large clock manufactured by the Howard Clock Co. Of Boston and Springfield, Ohio, and was installed by J.R. Reed & Co. Of Pittsburgh.  The clock faced in all four direction and a 75-pound weight operated the clock. By July 14, 1870, the scaffolding around the building was being taken down.

On September 10, 1870, the editor of the Indiana Democrat got a look at the inside of the new courthouse.  The courtroom was nearly completed at this point, although the stained glass windows that cost $1,000 were not yet installed.  The iron fence which surrounded the courthouse was completed around October 13.

The Commissioners took formal possession of the structure and settled with the contractor on December 3, 1870.  In January 1871, an accounting of the new courthouse was published: the cost of the courthouse and fitting of offices $136,093.38; furnishing $3,524.58; bell and freight $1,017.87; laying pavement around the courthouse $1,557.50; a total cost of $142,193.28.**

In the beginning the courthouse was heated by bituminous coal stoves and lighted by artificial gas manufactured in Indiana.  About 1884, the Commissioners chose to use anthracite coal, which lasted at least three years.  In April 1888, Sutton Brothers & Bell was given a contract to install a steam heating apparatus.

Jail Problems

During the mid-1800s, the old 1839 jail continued to be used, even though it had been branded “a most miserable sham” in 1866 when four prisoners escaped on March 9, 1866.  Richard Clawson, Samuel Ray and Lewis and Frederick Smith were arrested for “Outrageous Behavior” on February 16 – their behavior included drunkenness, rioting, assaulting people, and breaking into homes and damaging property.  Their escape occurred by raising a board in the floor, pushing down a stone in the cellar partition wall, entering the cellar, and then entering the street.

George Johnston escaped on February 27, 1868.  Then on July 15, 1875 six more prisoners – J.S. Lydick, David McCardle, D.L. Spealman, Archie Pounds, J.D. Reed and Hadan – escaped by cutting a hole through the plank on the top of the stone wall surrounding the jail yard.  Five more escaped in August 1876, and Jim Myers escaped in March 1877, followed by three more on May 14, 1877.  This was during Sheriff William C. Brown’s tenure, hence the jail became known as “Fort Brown.”  There were many more escapees than just those mentioned here.  In June 1880, the situation got so bad that Sheriff Daniel Ansley was forced to post a guard outside the jail day and night to secure three men who were “residents” of the jail being accused of murder.

Finally the on December 10, 1885, the Grand Jury found that jail was unfit for its intended purpose and recommended that a new jail be constructed, but not to cost more than $50,000.  Another recommendation from the Grand Jury was that the county need either employ watchmen to guard the prisoners or send them to another county.  This proposition was endorsed by another Grand Jury in March 1886.

On March 16, 1887, the plans for a new jail were published which included a residence and office for the Sheriff along with a two-story jail with a mail ward of ten cells measuring 42 x 52 feet, a female ward of two cells, 20 x 24 feet; a boys ward of two cells, 17 x 20 feet; a hospital room 20 x  22 feet; and a prisoners’ counsel room 7 x 22 feet.

The old jail was razed in April 1887.  The new jail was completed and accepted by the Commissioners on October 30, 1888 and the following day payment was authorized to Mr. Hastings, the contractor.  Total cost for the jail: $50,793.73.***

*This would be about $37 today.

**In today’s money the cost of the courthouse would be about $2.9 million.

*** In today’s money the cost of the new jail would be about $1.3 million.