Change is continuity

In Johnstown Waters, I came to learn about the many other ways in which water shaped Johnstown. The most prominent and popular example of that shaping is that which everyone already knows: the 1889 flood. (“Bonus” points for being aware of the 1936 and 1977 floods, I suppose.) Beyond the three major and well-known floods, however, I came to learn that floodwaters visited Johnstown on many occasions other than those three. Major floods issued forth several times in the early 1900s and, indeed, it was well-known that there were already several feet of water in Johnstown streets at the time of the 1889 apocalyptic flood. Much of Johnstown’s history hasn’t been shaped by 1 huge or 3 major floods, but by a persistent, watery challenge over much of the city’s timeline.

At the same time, water also had deeply salubrious effects on the city. In its earliest days as a post-colonial community, it became an important waypoint for the Pennsylvania Canal; it was, in fact, the eastern terminus of the western part of the canal, and the western terminus of one of the most intriguing examples of industrial architecture and transportation in American history: the Allegheny Portage Railroad, which I detailed in Johnstown Industry. The fact that the canal and the railroad alike soon lost their status with the improvement and expansion of other railroads (most notably, the Pennsylvania Railroad and the B&O Railroad) was of secondary importance in comparison to the fact that it established Johnstown as an economically important component and contributor to Pennsylvania and the nation.

Water, therefore, was largely transportation, and boosted Johnstown’s every day role. Quiet, prosaic, and perhaps even boring: this is what happens when life gets lived outside of sudden tragedy. This is also one of the early recognitions I had in my writing about Johnstown – the story is more than the floods.

The story, however, may not be more than water. I’ve learned that the water hasn’t just shaped the topography, and it hasn’t been just the villain for 3 major times and countless others…it’s been the path of life for people in the big valleys of the Conemaugh and Stonycreek Rivers, providing the economic channels by which the city found its location and its connections to the rest of the world. Take away the water, in any sense, and the city and its people are gone.

That’s not to minimize the impact that the floods can have. I wrote in Johnstown Waters that, in the early 1900s, the farmers of Somerset County actually met employees of Cambria Steel with armed resistance and forbidding access to their properties. Cambria Steel had been surveying land for the eventual construction of the Quemahoning Dam. The Somerset County farmers, almost always a prickly lot, blocked access to roads and pathways. Certainly, they were concerned about flooding themselves, but many who were around in 1910 were also living with the living memory of the destruction of the 1889 flood. More than 100 years later, residents of Wilmore were sent into a panic and evacuation when the National Weather Service incorrectly reported that the Wilmore Dam was in breach. (One notable news article stated that 40,000 residents were ordered to evacuate…considering that this number is about a third of the population of all Cambria County, it’s safe to say there was a bit of exaggeration.)

Flash floods did, in fact, occur in Wilmore that night, ruining many a basement, complete with appliances and, irreplaceably, family memories and heirlooms. But the most notable thing, at least for an observer, was the reception of the possibility of a flood. Within the shadow of the dam itself, it’s not unreasonable to be frightened of reports of a breach. I do think, however, that the news coverage and particularly local coverage, was colored by the experience of history, passed down through the generations. Wilmore is, after all, in the same pathway as the great flood of 1889.

Water provides the historical continuity of the entire region. It is, I think, richly ironic that water provides continuity while also being our larger cultural metaphor for change itself. Without falling into the trap of cliché, the metaphor has existed for at least as long as the pre-Socratic philosopher Heraclitus, attributed to saying something like “one cannot step into the same river twice.” That’s not the exact translation, but it serves as an example well enough for this moment.

So – water. It is, perhaps, thought to be the most fungible item in our culture (despite the persistence of branded, bottled water) but known to be poisonous when mistreated, and scarce when needed the most. It is the foundation of Johnstown, but also the foundation of society itself, even of life. It is also the most ardent agent of change. After all, it has nothing but time, and in the course of seconds, minutes, days, years, centuries, millennia, and eons, can shape and reshape even the hardest of earth’s rocks. Change is continuity.