Editor’s note: Author Michael Novak, a native of Johnstown, Pa., will present this keynote address at the 125th-anniversary commemoration of the Johnstown Flood on May 31.
Right to the point: I love this city.
I am very grateful to it. Johnstown breeds a certain kind of people.
Kathleen George, magnificent Johnstowner herself, captures that character in her brilliant new novel, The Johnstown Girls, an extraordinary tale of the flood we commemorate today. And of the turmoil it left behind in so many thousands of lives — but also of the virtues it brought out in many beautiful lives. And of virtues this city continues to bring out. In my own terse summary, here is how Ms. George defines the character of Johnstown people:
Work. Work. Work. Persistence. Love. Sacrifice. Do not ever be surprised at how painful life is. Never, never panic. Hold steady. . . . And: “We still have a chance —THROW that ‘Hail Mary’! Fling it as far as you can.”
For me, at least, Kathleen George nails it. That’s who we are.
Focus your memory now. On May 31, 1889, at seven minutes after four in the afternoon, an enormous roar burst out from Conemaugh Valley up there, just ahead of a 40-foot wall of water that kept tumbling over itself to crush this valley. Within moments it smacked down right here on the spot where we meet today.
In minutes, 2,000 Johnstowners lost their lives. Then came the long hours of more dying, often in the dark, alone.
Next morning, all around where we now sit, lay rubble and acrid smoke from lumber smoldering from the fire that had raged on top of the water the night before. All around lay smashed-up wooden planks as far as eye could see. Not more than a dozen buildings stood erect in this entire basin, surrounded by these hills we see all around us.
* * *
More civilians died here in this valley on that May 31st than in any other domestic disaster in American history — except September 11, 2001. More than 90 entire families were wiped out. More than 700 of the dead could not be identified. They lie above us now in Grandview Cemetery, under neat white rows of nameless tombstones.
By 1889, the telegraph had been invented and put into worldwide use. Picture cameras, too. The Johnstown Flood was the whole world’s first internationally shared media event. It was also the first big assignment for Clara Barton’s newly founded Red Cross — the decisive Clara Barton, the undeterrable Clara Barton. She made herself a pain in the arse to a lot of people here, to help save this city. Sometimes that’s what it takes. Johnstowners know that. We’ve each been a pain in the arse, when that’s what it takes.
Just across the way in one of the few standing buildings in the flood’s main path, hundreds of frightened people had huddled for safety during the long night of the flood, angry waters surging against the building all night. Next morning, surviving leaders of Johnstown made their way to the edge of the flood zone to meet there to establish an emergency government, make strategic assignments, divide up responsibilities — and then rush straight to work. Self-government in a sea of disaster. Overnight.
* * *
Just the day before the flood, there had been a huge celebration of Memorial Day. Five sprightly bands dressed in brilliant, diversely colored uniforms marched happily and noisily down Main Street. Dogs yapped, and children clapped and cheered. Behind the bands stomped veterans of the Civil War in Union blue. Just 24 years before, that bloodiest of wars had finally ended. Lads who had served at 22 were now 46 and not yet — not yet — too paunchy for their mothballed uniforms.
A baseball game had been played between the boys of Johnstown and a visiting team from Pittsburgh. The Pittsburghers won again, drat it. The smells of long-barbecuing meats wafted through the air — and mustard, and sliced onions. There were lettuce, carrots stored in the dark cellar over the winter, five different kinds of potato salad. Fresh-baked apple pies.
That night, just as the two-month rain had begun to fall again, a variety show from New York, with its gaudy girls and mustachioed men, performed on the indoor stage on Washington Street. Many in the audience, on exiting hours later, held aloft their shoes or lifted high their skirts to avoid the several inches of water already running down the street.