Erie's Typhoid Epidemic Expedited Need for Clean Waterways

William Pitt Mason, 1916

Following a devastatingly deadly typhoid outbreak in Erie in 1911, due largely to the lack of water sanitation and the presence of raw sewage in the population's drinking water, the need for greater public sanitation was finally taken seriously and a water filtration plant was erected.

Typhoid is a deadly infection contracted from Salmonella Typhi bacteria. It usually spreads through contaminated food or water and, if ingested, the bacteria quickly multiplies within one's bloodstream and intestinal tract. Long-lasting symptoms can include fever, fatigue, headaches, nausea, stomach pains, constipation, diarrhea, rashes, delirium, and even death. Needless to say, it's not a fun experience.

According to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, there are still millions of cases of typhoid around the world annually resulting in over 100,000 deaths. In the United States today, cases are relatively rare, but that was not always the reality. Typhoid outbreaks were common in cities all across the country in the past. The City of Erie was no exception.

As Eugene Ware wrote for the Erie Times-News in 2021, there were waves in the 1860s when over a quarter of the city's population was sick with typhoid. In response to these outbreaks, a water commission was created in order to find solutions related to the polluted city water supply. Progress was slow. "It may only be coincidental that the city leaders and Water Commission members all drew their water from the safe Brown Hotel wells," Ware pointed out.

Entering the new century, typhoid was still a significant issue. Between 1900 and 1911, there were over 3,200 reported cases of typhoid fever in Erie resulting in at least 320 deaths. Where it originated wasn't universally agreed upon, although to local health officials, it was quite clear that releasing raw sewage into the local creeks, bay, and lake was a problem, especially since that water was the source of the city's public supply.

Water from natural springs was used in Erie's earlier years, but as the population grew, so did the demand for water. In 1868, when the population was approaching 20,000, an intake pipe was installed about 975 feet into the polluted Presque Isle Bay. In 1896, with the population around 50,000, a second intake was built in the bay further away from the sewage discharge.

The water commission discussed in 1902 the construction of an "intercepting sewer" to reroute sewage away from the bay as well as, at the insistence of health officials, building a filtration plant. One study noted that "it was evident that sewage pollution of the intake took place almost constantly." Instead, city leaders focused on another potential solution designed by George H. Fenkell, the University of Michigan-educated city waterworks engineer. His plan involved extending a 60-inch pipe across the peninsula and nearly a mile out into Lake Erie where water would be far less contaminated. While it wouldn't be completed until 1908, the goal was to provide the city with "uniformly pure water" by bringing the water supply from "gross pollution" to only "occasional pollution."

During these years, city health officials, led by Dr. John W. Wright, worked to improve sanitary conditions across the city. Between 1908 and 1910, they reduced the 3,000 outdoor "unsanitary privies" in Erie to about 1,400. They passed regulations for the remaining on how often they had to be cleaned, encouraging having waste carted out to the rural areas for farms — although this wasn't enforced and many outhouses were overflowing with the "night soil."

As a result, typhoid outbreaks were common. Cases generally spiked between January and March. Even by 1910 though, there still wasn't a consensus in Erie on its origins (or even that it was typhoid at all). Some believed it was caused by the rainy, cold weather. Others blamed the milk supply. After all, the health department had only recently begun inspecting milk and, using Department of Agriculture standards, around 62 percent of Erie County's dairy farms were rated "poor" or "bad."

Some speculated that it spread through garbage or flies. Despite being advocated for by Dr. Wright and other health officials, the city wasn't responsible for garbage collection or incineration. Residents disposing of garbage relied on "licensed scavengers" who'd take it for a fee. This proved ineffective. As one federal report on Erie noted, they often neglected poorer districts and focused on more lucrative affluent neighborhoods. So, many residents simply let garbage accumulate in their backyards or they'd dump it in vacant lots, alleyways, or creeks.

Erie's population in 1910 was now 66,525 and growing fast. Immigration was increasing. Manufacturing boomed. General Electric was building their plant nearby in what would become Lawrence Park. This boom made solving the waste problem that much more complicated.

"The entire sewage of Erie goes into Erie Harbor and Lake Erie," read a report by the National Institute of Health. Nearly the entire city had sewer connections by this point with 11 sewer outlets dumping into Presque Isle Bay and another three into Lake Erie just east of the harbor. Cascade Creek, Little Cascade Run, Mill Creek, Garrison Run, and Lighthouse Run all functioned as sewer outlets. Waste from the docks, ships, and manufacturing plants along the bayfront and lakeshore all released into the water too.

Before the newest intake out in the lake, the entire public water supply was taken from this "grossly polluted" bay water where it was "delivered untreated and unfiltered to consumers." A report by the Department of the Interior stated that the bay's "contamination is so offensive … and so great in amount as to make the water utterly unfit for drinking or domestic use." The city's creeks were "practically open sewers" of "foul condition" with garbage, human sewage, and farm waste. "[T]he sewage odors from the open ditch are offensive and have been the subject of much complaint," explained the report.

Nearly 10 million gallons emptied daily from 43 outlets into Mill Creek alone (which did not yet run under the city). At its mouth was thick "sewage sludge" as well as "garbage, dry waste, rubbish of all kinds, and … factory sewage."

That winter saw two massive outbreaks. In December 1910, a sickness referred to as "winter cholera" (but was actually enteritis) first ripped through the population, sickening one-third of the city. While generally not fatal, it hit suddenly causing a slight fever and severe abdominal pains lasting as long as five to six hours followed by one to two days of diarrhea and potentially weeks of weakness. Health officials again pointed to the water supply and stressed the need for filtration, citing a study done in Albany in which filtration had led to an "enormous" decrease in waterborne illnesses.

Then a few weeks into 1911, the city was hit abruptly by an "explosive" typhoid outbreak described as a "serious menace to public health." January had 240 reported cases and would total over 700 by the epidemic's end. Each day, the Erie Daily Times daily published names of those sick, those recovering, and in many cases, those who died.

There was George A. Kuhn, a 36-year-old driver for Wayne Brewing Company, who succumbed at St. Vincent Hospital. "His death is a great blow to his devoted wife who is left with three small children to mourn the loss," eulogized the paper. More obituaries were published: a 33-year-old factory worker, a 51-year-old woman who took care of her elderly mother, a veteran of the Spanish American War and popular employee at Hammermill Paper, a 17-year-old "esteemed young man ... [who] enjoyed the confidence and respect of a wide circle of friends," and a 13-year-old with a "great, big, loving heart" who was known for building treehouses for the neighborhood squirrels.

From the mid- to late-1800s, an intake pipe for the population's water supply was taken directly from Presque Isle Bay, which was intensely polluted with human, animal, and industrial waste from waterways throughout the county. This graphic shows the proposed new water intake from the lake, a mile out from the bay, which was constructed in 1908. (Image: U.S. Geological Survey)

"Boil the drinking water," advised the Erie Daily Times. Despite this warning, the editors were still skeptical over the water supply as the source, saying the origins of infection were "not definitely settled." They were increasingly agitated as the weeks passed and began to, quite aggressively, defend the city's water and even criticize calls for filtration due to the potential costs. "Alarmists would make Erie people think lake water is bad when it is shown by analysis to be as good as water filtered in many cities where plants costing millions of dollars have been installed," they asserted. "[I]t is very evident that the lake water is not to blame."

The Committee of Erie Businessmen's Exchange was frustrated too, saying the epidemic "has been greatly exaggerated much to the detriment of the business interests of the city." Many residents appeared to agree, much to the frustration of health officials. Typhoid cases increased. Meanwhile, F. Herbert Snow, "sanitary engineer" for Pennsylvania's Department of Health, was brought to Erie to assist. With his help, city health officials worked to unequivocally identify the source, eliminating garbage, flies, vegetables, imported bananas, milk, ice, and mere contact with infected as the primary cause of the outbreak.

City hospitals were beyond capacity by January's end. "Every inch of space is being taken up to make room for the patients," reported the Erie Daily Times, adding that hallways in St. Vincent Hospital were "transformed into wards to accommodate the large number of sufferers." Hamot Hospital built a temporary pavilion on the lawn with steam heat and electric lights that could hold another 18 beds. The hospitals had around 100 nurses and six physicians, already beyond exhausted and taking turns sleeping 4 to 6-hour increments. One doctor made 40 house calls in one day. Medical students and 16 of the Sisters of St. Vincent assisted, but staffing was still stretched thin.

One of the Erie Daily Times reporters soon contracted it. He later described being taken by stretcher and ambulance to St. Vincent Hospital. He suffered two weeks of "burning fever, oblivion and delirium" as his nurse tended to him with cold towels and a "calm, sympathetic voice" with her "tender strength," bathing him daily, feeding him, and changing his sheets frequently.

The paper redirected its anger away from health officials and toward two competing papers, which they argued were still "sensationalizing" the epidemic by making readers "believe that Erie is the worst place on the face of the earth" and prematurely blaming the water supply. To be fair, Snow still hadn't drawn any definitive conclusions. Water samples were sent to expert chemists elsewhere to analyze, but when typhoid cases escalated in February, the city brought in a renowned chemist. They and city health officials all soon met with the water commission with their results: despite the bay intakes being closed off, sewage was indeed identified in the public supply lines.

"That this was the cause of the outbreak can scarcely be doubted after a consideration of all the facts," read a report. "It is clear, then, that the sewage pollution must have reached the mains by way of the lake intake."

How that happened remained a mystery to them though. There was speculation that contamination occurred back in November after the dredging of "filthy muck" and "sewage solids" in the bay, which was dumped east of Erie near Four Mile Creek. Perhaps it drifted westward to the lake intake. Another local study suggested that storms and strong winds had produced underwater currents moving east to west. Some further theorized that there was a leak in the piping under the bay which was contaminating the water being drawn from the lake (some time later, this would indeed be discovered as true).

Snow recommended the immediate chlorination of the water supply, saying it would be "especially fatal to typhoid and other similar intestinal bacterias." This was only a temporary solution until a more permanent purification plant was constructed. The recommendation was applauded by public health officials. "The people of Erie owe a great deal to the men who have given so freely of their time and attention to this great problem," one expert said. With a proper filtration plant, he added, Erie would "arouse the envy of other lake cities."

Residents were told that once chlorinated, the water could be used without boiling. For a few weeks, it might taste and smell "obnoxious" from the influx of sanitizing chemicals, but it would soon level out and be "consistently clear and safe."

The Erie Daily Times softened their rhetoric too, saying, "It is a fortunate thing for Erie that some of her most level-headed, far-sighted men have had the management of her water supply system all these years."

The city also began planning for a disposal plant and sludge drying beds along with interceptors that would reroute sewage. It wouldn't outright prevent sewage from reaching the bay, but would certainly reduce the amount.

The danger was not over yet. The health board stressed that the ongoing epidemic would continue. These solutions would take time. Residents still needed to boil all water for 20 minutes and avoid visiting the sick. Health officials were also increasingly frustrated with much of the public for ignoring their warnings.

"So long as people persist in drinking unboiled city water … the primary typhoid epidemic [will] probably continue," they warned. "[T]he typhoid situation in Erie is critical. It is very serious right now." A failure to cooperate, they warned, could result in the epidemic lasting for a year or even longer. Instructional placards were placed all around the city.

In February, Civil War veteran Henry Mayer donated two floors of his building (known today as the Performing Artist Collective Alliance or PACA building) for an emergency hospital. He refused payment. Annie Wainwright Strong assisted with the setup, while also paying for food, milk, and heating coal for families of patients.

Water chlorination was officially adopted by the city in March. Dr. Wright announced that he thought the "backbone of the epidemic" was broken. It was time to prepare for the future. A permanent plant needed fast-tracked. The city must also immediately take on the responsibility of garbage collection and incineration, he demanded, criticizing city council for ignoring his past pleas in favor of paving roads instead.

"Every day of delay may mean illness and perhaps death," agreed the Erie Daily Times, adding that city council likely would not act unless the citizens of Erie demanded it. "Time something was done for the welfare of all, rather than of the few. … The city has just passed through a period of sickness and death that … has but few parallels."

On March 27, it was reported that the sterilization was working. Not a single water sample demonstrated any danger. Over the following month, all of the state health officials returned to Harrisburg. Snow said in his final address that Erie was better protected against typhoid than ever before in the history of the city. "There remains but one thing still to be done," he added, "the erection of a filtration plant."

"[T]he public health demands that no delay shall occur in making the necessary permanent changes," bacteriologist and Commissioner of the State Department of Health Samuel G. Dixon wrote in a statement. The city's board of health announced it would continue taking "extraordinary steps to clean up the city."

Over the following decades, the sanitary conditions of the city readily improved. More upgrades to the water and sewage systems were implemented. According to a study by the American Medical Association, by 1925, typhoid deaths decreased by 80 percent or more in dozens of cities, including Erie.

For the remainder of his life, Dr. Wright continued doing what he did best: addressing public health issues from helping the city through the influenza pandemic of 1918, to promoting vaccinations, to encouraging the pasteurization of milk, to even simple tasks such as using garbage cans with lids and preventing the growth of poison ivy. In 1926, he died of a heart attack at his West Eighth Street home. He'd worked in public health for over three decades.

There was an outpouring of grief and tributes. As the Erie Times News eulogized, "His record will stand in the healthy generation that developed under his regime."

Jonathan Burdick runs the public history project Rust & Dirt. He can be reached at jburdick@eriereader.com