DAVID STRADLING AND RICHARD STRADLING

perceptions of the burning river:
deindustrialization and
CLEVELAND'S
CUYAHOGA RIVER

ABSTRACT

In 1969, Cleveland's Cuyahoga River caught fire and burned for about twenty minutes, damaging two railroad trestles. After initially receiving little local news coverage, the fire evolved into an iconic event of the environmental crisis. Significantly, the river had caught fire at least nine times before 1969. Why, then, did the 1969 fire garner so much interest? We argue that the growing importance of the burning river reveals one consequence of the long, wrenching process of deindustrialization in Cleveland and much of the United States. Press coverage of the earlier fires focused on economic issues. The Cuyahoga and its industrial flats were at the heart of Cleveland's economy; the area's docks, railroads, warehouses, and refineries were essential to the city's well-being. By the 1970s, however, as the 1969 fire story evolved, the flats were rapidly emptying, as were nearby neighborhoods. No longer did most Clevelanders make their living near the industrial river. From a greater physical and psychological distance, then, the burning river looked much more troubling than it had close up in an earlier era. Cleveland's postindustrial sensibilities—like those of the nation as a whole—created new meanings for the Cuyahoga and its 1969 fire.

IN THE 1980s, CLEVELAND BEGAN to rediscover the industrial flats along the Cuyahoga River. Once the heart of this Midwestern metropolis, the flats had been slowly abandoned and bypassed for nearly fifty years, with new highways bridging the narrow valley and old factories giving way to grassy, unused fields. By the mid-1990s, though, Jacobs Field and Gund Arena brought sports fans downtown, and bars and restaurants had sprung up along the crooked river below. Despite decades of deterioration, evidence of the city's industrial past remained abundant, including the many archaic drawbridges, brick ware-houses, and rows and rows of pilings that constitute the river's banks through much of the city.1 Part of the return to this once-industrial landscape included the marketing of a new beer, Burning River Pale Ale, created by Great Lakes Brewing Company of Ohio City, the neighborhood just above the Cuyahoga on the near west side of Cleveland. Burning River's brilliant packaging is emblematic of the city's postindustrial self-mockery. But it is also much more. The package claims that the 1969 fire on the Cuyahoga "built as much character in the city as there is in this beer." And so, while surely many Clevelanders still feel some embar-rassment about the famously flammable Cuyahoga, others, including those at Great Lakes Brewing Company, have begun to take ownership of the city's flawed history, and even have taken pride in an urban character forged by fire. In an image that appears on every bottle, flames on the water add a glow to a rose-tinted skyline framed by two of the drawbridges in the flats. Adding to the romance, brilliant stars shine down on the fortunate city. The Burning River packaging reaches back to an industrial identity, before the "Mistake on the Lake" era of 1970s, back to better economic times, when Cleveland was a city that made things. In this postindustrial imagining, the burning Cuyahoga represents an industrial past, worthy of pining and pride.2

1

Figure 1. A Local Brewery's Burning River Pale Ale Courtesy of Great Lakes Brewing Co., Cleveland, OH . . . There are about 9570 more words in this article. Please log in (or, if you are not yet an authorized user, please go to the User Setup page) to gain full access rights. Or if you're already logged in register your subscription.