When I was in high school in the late 1970’s and people I didn’t know well would drive me home from my summer job, I would ask to be dropped off at a neighbor’s house.
The sun is diving into the Pittsburgh skyline — it’s about 5:30 but still 85 degrees with humidity you can smell — and I’m standing by the corner of Ross Street and Third Avenue, waiting for Jimmy to show up.
Most boxing gyms are battleship grey in color – the painted concrete floors, the duct tape holding together the punching bags, the old sweat-stained tee-shirts of the fighters.
I thought I knew Cleveland. Then I stayed downtown for a week. Without a car.
The Cuyahoga River is better known for catching fire than for its natural beauty. When I stepped into the rowing shell for the first time, I thought of the rumors that circulated about the Crooked River.
The Cuyahoga County Fair in Berea, Ohio, was billed as “It’s A Family-A-Fair!” and lived up to its name as related humans of all ages once again gathered at this summer rite of passage.
3,700 miles away from the original battle for Normandy, D-Day in Conneaut, Ohio, began in 1999.
These profiles tell the story of Rust Belt refugees who are happy with their lives but sometimes can’t help thinking they’ve lost something they’ll never get back by joining the Michigan and Ohio diasporas.
Amy Casey’s paintings are unique takes on cityscapes but could as just well have been called organisms, or machines. Her exhibition features a handful of new works.
Marilyn Rodgers could do just about anything with her Saturday off, but instead she chooses to vacuum a train terminal. The executive director of Buffalo’s Central Terminal Restoration Corporation (CTRC), a nonprofit that’s rehabilitating the city’s vacant train station, goes up and down yards of original Terrazzo flooring, sucking up dirt with an industrial-strength cleaner. “I have to clean my house,” she jokes of the 523,000 square foot space where she frequently visits.
Stories of Rust Belt refugees and what they've gained and lost in joining the Michigan/Ohio diasporas.
I was born in northeast Ohio, on the awkward border between green and brown farmland and the gray highways crisscrossing Ohio’s suburbia. It wasn’t exactly Amish country, but buggies did clip-clop down the road every so often.