Clean Water Works
CLEVELAND, OHIO: From the Northeast Ohio Regional Sewer District, an in-depth and fun conversation led by Donna Friedman and Mike Uva on any and all topics related to clean water, wastewater treatment, stormwater management, and the people, projects, and programs serving Lake Erie and our local waterways and communities.
Clean Water Works
Underground Poetry with Literary Cleveland
Art meets infrastructure! The Northeast Ohio Regional Sewer District partnered with the nonprofit creative-writing center Literary Cleveland to host a reading of "Odes to Infrastructure," a newly-published zine, right in the heart of our Southerly Wastewater Treatment Plant. It was a celebration of our essential-yet-often-unseen water systems and, of course, Lake Erie.
Standing in the concrete tunnels where our treatment-plant workers normally move about, the Literary Cleveland writers delivered readings of poetry and short stories inspired by our infrastructure and its relationship to a cleaner Lake Erie. The echoing chamber amplified both their voices and the central message: connection. As one writer eloquently put it, "Stories and sewers bind us. They reveal our interconnectedness, our mutual dependence."
By bringing writers into treatment plants for tours and workshops Literary Cleveland created a new forum for highlighting our critical work.
Here's some photos from the event!
Visit Literary Cleveland for more info about workshops and tours.
The opinions expressed on this podcast are not necessarily those of the Northeast Ohio Regional Sewer District or its employees. For more information about the Sewer District and its projects and programs, visit neorsdorg. The Northeast Ohio Regional Sewer District presents Clean Water Works, a podcast that explores water, sewer and stormwater issues that affect you and your community. Learn about the people, projects and programs that are protecting your health and the environment here in Cleveland and throughout Northeast Ohio.
Speaker 2:So one of our project engineers, Christine Omerle, is also part of a local organization called Literary Cleveland.
Speaker 3:Literary Cleveland is a nonprofit organization and creative writing center that empowers people to explore other voices and discover their own. Literary Cleveland assists writers and readers at all stages of development, promotes new and existing literature of the highest quality and advances Northeast Ohio as a vital center of diverse voices and visions.
Speaker 2:There you go. And is it literaryclevelandorg?
Speaker 3:It's litclevelandorg.
Speaker 2:Literary Cleveland just published, in collaboration with the sewer district, a zine short stories, poems and other literary formats. A couple weeks ago we brought writers from this organization to venture down into one of the tunnels at our Southerly wastewater treatment plant to give a dramatic reading of works that they had written, inspired by the sewer district's work and infrastructure and Lake Erie, and they read their poems and short stories and haiku, and the group ventured down into one of our tunnels at our southerly plant and read these poems and stories out loud. Christine just happens to be a part of this organization and she made this collab happen.
Speaker 3:She does stuff like that.
Speaker 2:First time ever.
Speaker 3:I think it was the second time, second time ever. I think they did this last year, but different.
Speaker 2:They went down into the tunnels last year they didn't go under the tunnels.
Speaker 3:but I think they did this last year, but different, they went down into the tunnels.
Speaker 2:Last year I think they went.
Speaker 3:They didn't go into the tunnels but I think they took a tour. They did a tour, yeah, but this is the first spooky tour that they've done.
Speaker 2:Yeah, it's a little scary down there. So thank you, christine, for making yet another community partnership happen, this time with writers talking about their love of clean water and infrastructure. We're going to broadcast that right now. Yeah, it starts off, actually, with Christine explaining what part of the plant the group was in and explaining all the infrastructure going on around. Here we go.
Speaker 5:So all the tanks that we walked by. That is our second phase, secondary treatment, one of the last steps of treatment, where we let all of the biological processes eat all the organic material and then it slowly settles out and we have clear water that then goes to disinfection and discharge. So we are underneath where those tanks are, and then those big screw pumps that we saw.
Speaker 6:Hi everybody. One more round of applause. I can't believe this is happening. Thank you, danny, thank you Christine, thank you, I'm going to read the introduction to this scene. I'm glad you're holding it in your hands for the first time as a test copy. But just some quick backstory.
Speaker 6:I still remember, at a Gordon Square Review launch party reading at Brew Nuts on the west side of town, talking with Christine and Laura about the fact that Christine works for the sewer district, is a writer herself, and wouldn't it be hilarious and funny and cool and interesting to do some writing with the sewer district? And what would it be like to take a tour of some of these plants, learn about the different terms, procedures and then do a little bit of creative writing about it. And then we invited you all and many others to submit writing on infrastructure on the sewer district. We have really thoughtful, moving pieces of poetry and creative nonfiction and we have the silliest poetry and fiction that you're ever going to read, and to put it all in one package and to be able to share with people is really special. So I'm just going to read the introduction to this. So this is my intro.
Speaker 6:What do creative writing and clean water infrastructure have in common? Why write stories and poems about wastewater treatment? What the heck did literary Cleveland and Northeast Ohio Sewer District team up to publish this rad zine? One word connection, as NeoRSD once shared on Twitter. Human connections matter. Remember that below the surface of every human interaction is a world of experience that you may never see.
Speaker 6:Stories and sewers bind us. They reveal our interconnectedness, our mutual dependence. Words and water are so essential, so foundational we hardly notice how important they are. It's only when there's a rare breakdown, a massive storm or a misunderstanding that we realize how lost we would be without them. Clean water and clear communication are not things we should take for granted. They're things we should celebrate, and that's why, since 2023, literary Cleveland has been partnering with the Northeast Ohio Sewer District to hold free creative writing workshops at wastewater treatment plants so that local writers can learn more about the inspiring and innovative ways sewer district serves our region. We've toured westerly, southerly, easterly sites, learned about everything from gravity thickening to sludge incineration. We've hiked along the doanbrook watershed to see the ways green infrastructure can be used to address our current future challenges of our changing climate. Last, we invited writers who participated in these programs to share what they learned in creative ways through poetry and storytelling.
Speaker 6:You now hold the results of this collaboration, this unique connection between water and words, in your hands, our odes to infrastructure. So we hope that you enjoyed the zine. We hope that the stories and poems move you and make you laugh. We hope you gain a newfound appreciation for the work of the Northeast Ohio Regional Sewer District and we hope you go forth and celebrate the connections that matter most. All right, you ready to get started? Yeah, our first reader today is Melissa Vincell, who has written and published poetry, flash fiction and prose for over 25 years. She was a finalist for the 2024 Cleveland Breakthrough Writing Residency in Poetry. In between raising three humans and working as an editor, she finds current inspiration along the trails of the Cleveland Metro Parks. Visit her website. Please welcome Melissa Vincel.
Speaker 7:Thank you. 2024 on the Cuyahoga. My child bobs on plastic the color of flames, dangles feet in murky greens of this rock-bottomed river. His tiny fists chase foamy orbs to a signpost near the sandy bank, a plaque to mark the dead buried in fishless depths some 55 years downriver. I tense imagine my son as slick and flammable, but he paddles away with fingers that care nothing for history, floating between limestone and sky, floating between limestone and sky. Then the water held too little hydrogen, barely oxygen, trapped bodies that drowned, confused, atop a film of brown slime. Then children learned to tell time by the burn of rust, until, finally, only ten mutated. Gizzard shad pulsed below mouths gaping. To be the chosen, the river chose fire. A scream of reds and smoky bursts cracked bridges above the people, while the people stood with heat on their cheeks.
Speaker 7:Perhaps destruction is always how it begins, perhaps we can admit that much. And the next part is always pale, green shoot. Stubborn sparrows nesting in empty paint cans, girl scouts selling cookies for clean water, a single pipe cleared of the ooze. Decades push against decades to break apart even granite meander around the immovable. Drops flow onto drops until there is a steady trickle that turns a deluge of hands, scrubbing of policies galvanizing whole cliff sides of cries to bring life darting back. So now a heron swoops a steelhead trout, its beak breaking only quiet, its feathers dripping only water. So now the current beckons my child to slip from crooked banks, float summers under the song of warblers, until he is a man, his eyes able to read the river, his toes luring northern pike, his calves strong against the flow of whatever paints the future.
Speaker 6:Okay, this is my favorite transition in the whole issue, because we're going from the sublime to the ridiculous, and I love it. We have co-writers for our next piece, so I'm so I'm going to introduce both of them. Liz brazil is a nea 2020 creative writing fellow and the author of extinction events, winner of the 2018 prairie schooner book prize for fiction. She holds an mfa from bowling green state university. Her work has appeared in best Small Fictions, joyland, kenyon Review Online, best of the Net, cincinnati Review, hayden's Ferry Review, columbia Review, fence Passages North and many others.
Speaker 6:Liz lives in Cleveland and works as a technical editor for National Renewable Energy Laboratory, and Laura Malene Walter is the author of the novel Body of Stars. Her writing has appeared in the Kenyon Review, poets and Writers, the Sun Ninth Letter, slate, literary Hub, the Master's Review and many others. She has received support from Swanee Yaddo, tin House, ohio Arts Council, the Barbara Deming Memorial Fund, the Ohioana Library Association and elsewhere. She is the Ohio Center for the Book Fellow at the Cleveland Public Library, where she hosts Page Count, a literary podcast, and she is a big fan of the Edgewater Outfall. Please welcome Liz and Laura.
Speaker 8:Okay. So, like Matt said, we co-wrote this piece. We wrote alternating sections. We each wrote two sections, so we're just going to alternate. So here we go.
Speaker 8:Porcelain below she sniffed what a treat. The sense of pizza night wafted through the house. Her kids had sent dispatches from New York about the pizza there, the fresh ingredients, the easily draggable slices, the populace's general resignation that made it a rat paradise. Despite her pride and her brood's success, she sighed. Of course Betty was thrilled that they'd all followed their dreams of becoming pizza rats and subway rats in the big city. And of course she'd been excited when she'd nuzzled them, straightened their whiskers one last time and waved them down the great interconnected sewers. But it really made the nest quiet these days. It made her wonder what else was out there. Betty jumped down, shook the remaining toilet water off her sleek fur and proudly but quickly cleaned the white mark on her lower back. Every time she looked at it she felt a rush of joy as strong as a toilet flush. Her mom had always told her the water droplet-shaped marking meant she was special, destined for sewer glory.
Speaker 8:With her head held high, betty scurried toward the kitchen. A voice from the living room Betty froze Jeez, said the man. I thought the storm wasn't going to hit until later tonight. A distant crackle of thunder obscured the woman's response, but I'm sure you guys at Westerly are all over this, though. Betty inched closer, rain pattering against the windows. We won't know until it really hits. Oh, come on, what do I always say? You're my sewer hero. The woman laughed and Betty scurried into the kitchen and under the fridge, the rain disguising her soft footfalls as she munched on a few scattered crumbs. Her heart raced Westerly. On a few scattered crumbs. Her heart raced Westerly, sewer heroes. She nibbled a piece of herby cracker. Imagine her Betty being a sewer hero.
Speaker 8:Her friend Bev had raved about Westerly before. The smell is delightful, she'd said, and they're doing so many amazing sewage things there. Could this be it? Could she make it to Westerly and be a sewer hero too? She contemplated this all night. She thought of her children becoming viral sensations because of the food they dragged around NYC sloppy burritos as big as they were discarded Caesar salads in clamshells of plastic and, most famously, an open container of sag aloo from which not one grain of rice was spilled. She thought of Bev, who told her You're an empty nester. Now it's time for you to find your passion. She was one year old, after all Middle-aged, though she couldn't quite believe it, if not now. When, the next morning, when the woman opened the front door, betty took a quick, galvanizing peek at her water droplet spot and scrambled out from under the fridge, emerging into the drizzling rain, her tiny rat, heart pounding. She ignored the shriek that followed her. Anyway, the woman would understand once she and Betty started working together as westerly sewer heroes.
Speaker 5:Betty felt like a genuine city rat as she dashed toward Detroit Avenue, taking in the smells of Lakewood's main drag. She paused to watch an eastbound 26 bus rumble to a stop and fling open its doors for an elderly man. Betty had heard tell of the wonders of the Cleveland RTA, but public transportation was a benefit. She'd never had a chance to indulge it Until now. Betty tiptoed closer as the man maneuvered a portable shopping cart onto the bus. She waited until the perfect moment to slip aboard undetected, and then the door snapped shut behind her and the bus thundered to life again, surging down the street. Much like freshly flushed toilet, water surged through the pipes she was on. The bus was empty, save for a little boy sitting near the back with his mother, who leaned her head against the window and appeared to be asleep. Hi Ratty, the boy whispered, are you hungry? Betty stepped forward her whiskers quivering in anticipation. As the boy held out a peanut butter cracker, she took it delicately in her front paws and retreated by the back door to nibble on it in peace. I like your spot, the boy said, and he pulled out a phone. Were humans given phone plans in the womb so he could take her picture? Betty posed showing off her marking. Her mom once said Betty's spot was shaped like Wally Waterdrop, the mascot for the regional sewer district. Imagine meeting Wally one day A rat could dream.
Speaker 5:The bus made rapid progress east on Detroit. They passed the YMCA, the library and countless restaurants, including Taco Bell, a sentimental favorite among toilet rats. Fortunately, the cracker filled Betty's stomach so she wasn't tempted to hop off the bus, not even for a cheesy bean and rice burrito. But then, not long after the bus crossed the border into Cleveland, she saw it A toilet, a glorious, gleaming white toilet sitting out on the curb. Betty pressed her paws to the window. What was a toilet doing out in the wilds like that? It wasn't even hooked up to anything to pull over and open its doors. Betty slipped off the bus and ran to the toilet, a dreadful realization slowly dawning on her this toilet was trash. Someone would come by in a truck and cart it away, where it would never flush again.
Speaker 5:Betty leaned against the cool porcelain and held a respectful moment of silence for the commode as a single tear trickled into her whiskers. A shadow fell over her, the kind of shadow created by a predator, specifically a hawk. Ah. She screamed as her body rocketed into the air. The hawk's claws closed around her, creating a terrifying cradle as she soared above the treetops. Sorry, bro, the hawk said, but I'm hungry and I skipped lunch. I am not your bro, betty said tartly, and I do not consent to being your dinner. You should have thought of that before venturing out with that big white mark on your back. The hawk retorted Seriously, I've seen better camouflage on a skunk. Betty fell silent. They were traveling north at a rapid clip, but then the hawk veered east at the coastline, heading for Edgewater Park.
Speaker 5:Betty couldn't believe her luck. Westerly was practically in Edgewater. If she could escape this beast's clutches, she'd be home free. She just needed a miracle. As with the best kind of Cleveland miracles, betty's came in the form of an unlikely sports victory. A family on the beach, upon learning that the Guardians won their away game in the playoffs, shot a celebratory bottle rocket directly into the Hawk's flight path. The Hawk was so startled that it swerved and opened its talons, dumping Betty onto the sand. Below On the ground, betty rolled over with a groan.
Speaker 5:Being dropped from height was no fun, even if she was a flexible, resilient rat and even if the Lake Erie sand was as soft as a nest packed with Egyptian cotton fluff. As she lay recovering, the rain picked up again and a peel of thunder erupted in the distance. She needed to find shelter, find shelter. Betty picked her way across the beach until she saw it the Edgewater outfall. All educated toilet rats knew about the combined sewer outfall which looked like a tunnel poking right out onto the beach. This legendary piece of infrastructure was more than a century old and Betty couldn't believe she was seeing it in person or in rat. Rather, her kids would be so proud.
Speaker 5:She squeezed through a crack in the outfall's cover to check out the inside, even though she knew she was taking a risk. Despite improvements that drastically cut down on how often the outfall discharged into the lake, the system was still overcome by heavy rain in rare cases. At any moment a wall of water might come blasting through the tube, pushing open the cover and spilling across the beach and into the lake. But wow, it smelled so dank and moist and enticing inside. Betty curled up wrapping her tail around her body for warmth and listened to the rain pattering against the outfall tube. She deserved a break. She'd rest her eyes for just a few minutes and then she'd carry on to Westerly. Betty was so tired from her adventures and the outfall so cozy that she couldn't help herself. With images of sewers and toilets and peanut butter crackers dancing in her damp little rat head, she drifted to sleep.
Speaker 8:Betty awoke in a raging torrent spinning through a dark foamy deluge. The wall of water had come. As she careened and spluttered, she scrabbled against the slick surfaces of the outfall, trying and failing to find purchase. As the flood cascaded out of the concrete tube and onto the beach, cold air slapped her in the face and the sky twirled above her. She was pulled below again, smacking against the rocky shore. Then the rocks fell away and the smelly tide slowed, but she was yanked under again by the surge. She struggled to right herself, pushing her little rat paws out against the water with all her might, propelling herself up toward the light. Betty broke through the surface, sputtering and gasping. She spun treading water as she tried to get her bearings. She couldn't believe the strength of the outfall's current. It had blasted her far away from shore. Panic rose in Betty's stomach. She was a great swimmer she was a rat after all but she'd never make it all the way back to Edgewater without something to grab. There was a splash. What are you doing out here, little guy? Betty swung around. A woman stared down at her, sitting, astride a long yellow board with a slick surface. She reached forward, scooped Betty out of the water. There, she said, plopping her on the front of the board. The woman straightened, squinted in the direction of the shore. Oh man, did you come from the outfall? Crap, I shouldn't be out here. I knew I was cutting it close after that huge storm. The woman looked behind them and started paddling. Hang on, buddy. She leapt up and the board gathered steam. Betty clung on for dear life, heart pounding. The wave pushed them forward faster and faster. The wind howled past Betty's ears as they coasted into the beach. The woman stood the water just up to her knees. Home, sweet home. Betty hopped off the end of the board, slightly dizzy but elated. What an adventure. Her children would never believe it and did what she'd seen other people doing to one another all day. She sat on her haunches and waved her paw from side to side. Oh my God, said the woman, and she pulled out her phone in a plastic baggie. Betty shook herself and cleaned off her water droplet marking and scrambled across the sand. She could smell the same toilet smell that reminded her of home. She must be close.
Speaker 8:She headed into the park, the grass rough against her fur, noticing it wasn't raining anymore. She passed a gaggle of humans walking down the path, one tall guy in a literary Cleveland t-shirt and glasses was saying at the end of the day, we all have to acknowledge the first drafts are always going to be a big old dump, but at least it's your own crap, you know? The gaggle laughed. Betty made her way around the edge of the group. As one of them said, is that a rat With a water droplet on its back?
Speaker 8:Betty ran through the park following the smell of the sewers. She could see several rounded domes, through the trees, across a marina full of boats. She was almost there. A long, languid laugh came from her right. A tabby cat slunk toward her. Hey, girlfriend, it said. Halfway between a purr and a growl, I love your look. That water droplet Gorge. Her claws glinted. Betty backed away, thanks, she squeaked. The cat hunkered down, wiggling its rear end, tail curling sinuously. What a treat.
Speaker 8:Betty took off, sprinted toward the boats and the cat sprinted after her. Betty bobbed and weaved through the grass until she came to the edge of the wooden pier and launched herself onto the nearest boat called Crapshoot. Came to the edge of the wooden pier and launched herself onto the nearest boat called Crapshoot. The cat followed. I'm just trying to be vulnerable and open about my needs. Betty jumped one more time onto a boat called Royal Flush. The cat yelled behind her. You know what? You're being really toxic right now. She stopped at the edge of the boat and watched Betty continue on her way. Betty leapt to the next boat, then the next one, before finally making her way to the shore. There it was right in front of her, westerly.
Speaker 5:She'd done it. She'd actually done it Once that dastardly cat was behind her. It wasn't even that hard. Sure, she had to sidestep a pair of Canada geese who acted like they owned the place. But then she was officially on the grounds of Westerly. She took a quick therapeutic dip in one of the aeration tanks, making sure to hold onto the edge to stay afloat. The gently bubbling waters were better than a hot tub. Then she walked around the ground, sniffing the glorious sewage smells and observing with pride the settling tanks, the gravity thickener and the centrifuges. Finally, she scampered along the perimeter of a building until she noticed a door propped open. With a deep, brave breath, she dashed inside and raced down the hallway. She felt invincible.
Speaker 5:The world was her toilet, but her super-sensitive rat hearing picked up approaching humans. She darted through the nearest open door, which turned out to be a big mistake. She was trapped in a room full of teenagers who must have been there on a school trip to learn about the wonders of infrastructure Rat. A girl screamed, but her classmate grabbed her arm. That's not any rat. The friend announced this is, that is the rat. From there it was chaos as staff descended, cornering Betty between two life-size cardboard cutouts of Wally Waterdrop. Wow, it's really her, said a process engineer with an outline of Lake Erie tattooed onto his forearm. See that marking on her back. Betty felt confused. How did they know who she was? Should we name her Wally? One of the teens asked no, we already have a Wally. This rat needs her own identity. They had no idea how right they were. Fortunately, betty noticed a copy of Lake Erie Can Be Saved, an old Cleveland press publication authored by environmental reporter Betty Cleric Quick. As a flush, betty darted between the engineer's legs to grab the booklet and bring it back, dropping it at his feet. All right, the engineer said with a chuckle, we'll call you Betty.
Speaker 5:Just then a familiar face emerged in the crowd, betty's former housemate in Lakewood, the sewer hero who started it all. Betty waved before she remembered this woman wouldn't recognize her, as Betty typically emerged from her toilet in the dead of night, but weirdly the woman did seem to know her. You're all over, tiktok. The sewer hero said, kneeling down so she could look Betty in the eye and to think you're the same rat from my house this morning. I can hardly believe it. She paused, looking sheepish. Sorry. I screamed at you, a rat who rides the bus.
Speaker 5:The engineer broke in and surfs and crashes, poetry readings. She's a star. I am Betty. Thought she sat up a bit straighter. I totally am, betty.
Speaker 5:We'd like to make you our newest mascot, or rat-scot, if you will, said the sewer hero. You'll help educate everyone about the importance of infrastructure, project Clean Lake and the health of our waterways. We'll convert an office for you, the engineer explained. You'll have the softest bedding, the most enriching toys and the choicest slices of pizza with all your favorite toppings.
Speaker 5:Betty hardly believed her luck, and it was all because she ventured out of the home for the first time. She made a mental note to send dispatches to her kids and to Bev so they'd know where to visit her and so they could put in their pizza orders. She couldn't yet imagine all the glories still to come the press conference, the mayor presenting her with the key to the city, her campaigns against flushable wipes, filming PSAs with Wally himself, her sponsorship deal with a bidet company. For now she was a sewer hero at Westerly, where she'd also gained a whole swarm of new friends. That night, as Betty bedded down in her office, cuddled between her organic rat treats and plush toilet toy, she couldn't stop smiling Her heart, like her new nest, was finally full. Thank you.
Speaker 6:Hannah Strobeck is a are you still in sixth grade? I knew it Seventh grade poet and nature lover whose poem I Feel Distant was featured at a visit that poet laureate Ada Limon made to the Cuyahoga Valley National Park and the WIC Poetry Center summer camps. Hannah is the founder of the Eco Club at her elementary and middle school. She loves to combine her passions and create glimpses of the natural world she loves through her poetry. Everybody welcome Hannah.
Speaker 9:Okay, Hi Twig. I wonder what that twig would see, that one up top the old oak tree. A squirrel came down and said to me that twig, up on the old oak tree, sees the valley as it should be A lush green field that never ends. A rushing river with twists and bends, a sparkling forest, a light with dew, a valley that is born anew. I climbed up high and looked down low upon the valley that I would sow, and look down low upon the valley that I would sow a valley that is born anew, a peaceful place for me and you.
Speaker 6:Can we give it up one more time for Hannah, though for that reading Okay? Next up is Jess Lawrence, a poet, apa-style dissertation editor and winner of the Christine Cotton Award for Literature short story. She writes, explores the world and gives full enthusiasm to the myriad causes she loves, while striving for the perfect cherry chocolate chip bread to share with her found family. Please welcome Jess.
Speaker 10:This is Breathsoft, donenbrook, and it jumps from year to year 1874. He watched the ladies climb quietly into the boats, hiding his tanned hands in the pockets of his work pants. Somewhere in the distance a maid was yelling in the summer heat. It was too hot to cook in the house. But the important men and their beautiful families had filled the city again, crowding around the water to enjoy its cooling edges. As they paddled to the lake, hems were hoisted, just enough to get into a boat, but nothing indecent. Gloved palms were extended to capture dainty wrists while they made swishing descents down the stairs. He and his father had hewn.
Speaker 10:He wondered silently why he hadn't been allowed to see this before, such an intricate dance of manners and manipulation. Even the river bent to the will of the surrounding power, these men who radiated authority. He was contemplating it silently when he heard, then saw a single woman's faltering step. Quickly, the short drop into the rain-swollen brook caught her Before he could say a word. The muck tumbling in the undertow ensnared her layers. She'd been impossible to pull from the water's arms now and there was no time to try. Before anyone could jump in she disappeared under the four feet of rust-stained flow. He was a silent witness in 1893 to the flash quick death of a young woman no one would name. Later it was whispered she was a mistress, but this was not the truth. She was, in fact, a daughter, seldom brought out into society. Rather than explain her existence, in addition to the tragic circumstances of her death, she was simply a casualty to progress, swept beneath the growing city and living all his life in the memory of a stonemason's mind 2018.
Speaker 10:She reached into the pool. It was early, yet barely past dawn. The quiet home of the waking city was growing behind her, but those green eyes were steadfast in her goal Water samples marked clearly with depth and date of location Collection. Another vial, another hope. She'd been watching these eddies for years and her documentation helped keep the changes coming. As she daydreamed about the possibilities, a spot-tailed shiner surfaced near her to capture a skimming snack. How long had that fish been growing in these flows? Was it alive when the cheers went out for the Cavaliers? Were its scars there before those winds? Before another question crossed her mind, she heard her co-worker calling her name. Time to get these to the right people, she hummed under her breath. See you soon, shiner. Hopefully we save this place for your spawn, 1932.
Speaker 10:Sweat and frustration were high as they worked in heavy silence, each of the men that fought for this job. But it was thankless work A culvert to keep the stream where it belonged and rush the filthy water away from the lush homes of the rich. A good project for keeping men employed. Every man knew this was backbreaking labor, repetitive and steady. Some hummed to themselves while others kept conversation.
Speaker 10:He liked to focus on the rocks, watching patterns emerge. Some bricks were lighter than others and the limestone surrounding them had been worked by expert hands long before they got to this place. Was there some secret society they were members of? Now, having added to this work, that made it stronger, would someone, a hundred years from now, kneel down on the banks and wonder about what he was doing? A canteen was offered and he sipped the clean water before returning it to his friend. Maybe someone will imagine all the feet that stepped here before me, just as I do now. He wondered about that the rest of the day.
Speaker 10:That night, when his grateful wife used the money he'd earned to buy provisions to make the first bread they'd had in a month, he smiled at his children as he thought again about the feed in the brook bed before his own. I wonder if they were as grateful as I am, or as happy as I, to see their own children happy and fed on the bread that I earned. The resources to make my job may never win an award, but I am proud of what I have done for these faces I love and the bellies I keep full. Tonight, 2021. There was so much heat underground who could barely keep himself hydrated. The machine bored through the earth before him with precise determination. It's like we're working for the same goal. He caught himself thinking more than once Do you feel that satisfaction of completing the job? Well, emery, he patted the wall of the interior affectionately. Every inch they dug together was another stretch closer to the final destination.
Speaker 10:His grandfather had told him about the sand hogs of Lake Erie and the failures that killed many of them in 1916. Emery, as he called the geared engine he worked every day, did the work that cost lives. Back then, black men and white had fallen together, though valiant men had fought desperately to save them. He contemplated the machinery around him. Together, they safely inched through years of public works labor. They'd screamed under that lake, and safe water now meant death. Before A thought creased his brow under his coarse curls. That's always been the cost. I guess More people died from disease than anything else in the Civil War. A proper sewer would have ended that in the blink of an eye. But they didn't know. His gratitude brought a smile to his face that the next shift noticed. When they asked why he was grinning, he shrugged placidly and said Just love my job, man, I love my job. 1637.
Speaker 10:Dancing by the edge of the brook, she wondered what her little sister was doing. They were supposed to be gathering the fish their brothers had caught, but there was nothing to take home yet. She knew she was supposed to keep an eye on the six-year-old, but there was no stopping that one if she got an idea in her head. After some time swaying in the cool autumn breeze, she saw her sister trotting back up the low hill. From further downstream, a look of triumph on her bronze face revealed what the boys had not managed A fat striped shiner honoring its name in the way the sun lidded Begrudgingly. The boys followed as they headed to their mother with their sister's catch in front, followed as they headed to their mother with their sister's catch in front. Few else had been successful fishing that day, so many were having meals they had scraped together from small game.
Speaker 10:Her father was pleased when he saw the meal before him and applauded his sons for their skill Learning that it was his youngest daughter's catch. His belly laughed, filled in their hearts. My father is handsome when he laughs, she thought to herself. I wonder if my husband will be handsome when he laughs too. Her father seemed to read, at least in part of her mind, as he said it's time for you to pick your husband, my girl. She knew that spring would mean marriage in the Fire Nation. A few young men had caught her eye, but she was wary. The warrior she'd thought she was meant to wed since she was tiny, had died on their travels here. It was a hard life and no one knew how kind the crone would be when the short days and the deep cold set in this year. Still, she would keep her eyes open for the changes of the season and see which measured up to the mark in her heart from the warrior with green eyes who died after falling from the rocks near the lake. There would be no record of her hundreds of years later, but the brook would remember 2024.
Speaker 10:There were way too many animals prowling around it made him uncomfortable. They were trying to find new real estate on the dam to tag free-handed names, declarations of love, announcements that enemies could in fact escape themselves. There were a lot of places claimed by varying degrees of art. One of his friends was improving the cherries at the top of the dam. He had to admit they looked better. He'd added shading, some white for shine and just a little darker red for the illusion of rounded fullness. It was in fact, an impressive showing, but he was burning to put his own mark on this place rather than add to someone else's work. I don't just want to say I was here. I want being here to have changed something, anything.
Speaker 10:He found his spot near the base of the dam. It was a slide to get there and he had no idea how he was going to get back up, but he did it anyway. Digging around his duffel bag, he found the thin stream of greens he was looking for. When his friends watched and he hummed, a leaf took shape, an incredibly detailed, alive-looking leaf. As he added shade and dimension, the leaf turned into an undulating image. Everyone was spellbound watching it somehow dance with every stroke of additional paint. He added he hadn't looked up for approval or made any indication that he remembered he wasn't alone Beneath the leaf. He quickly brought to life a small chipmunk. It wasn't cartoonish. He recognized that this wasn't the place for that. He'd done so well with the leaf, he wanted to respect it. The dapples on the coat of the little guy, protected under the curling leaf, shone.
Speaker 10:In the early night he was painting by his phone's flashlight but no one cared. Somehow he started painting, rain falling on his exquisite leaf. When he finished, his friends actually applauded. The sound startled him. What the hell he thought? What happened? When they all crowded around him to marvel at his skill, at the mark he had made, he realized that they had been applauding him. The girl who made him blush every time they talked nudged him gently. The girl who made him blush every time they talked nudged him gently Sign it, she said softly. Everyone should know who actually did this. He quickly swished his initials in tiny strokes by the chipmunk's feet and admired it again. See there, she commanded. That picture she took became the background on her phone. He blushed for days when he found out. I can't believe she wanted my number to send it to me. Days later he got a single text that upended his world. That wasn't the only reason I wanted your number.
Speaker 6:Get coffee with me tomorrow. Okay, our next reader is Courtney L Black, a Cleveland-born poetess and multidisciplinary artist. Her background in cultural anthropology and sociology, theater and media fuels her passion for connecting people from diverse backgrounds and perspectives. From diverse backgrounds and perspectives. The American Folklore Society, assembly for the Arts, broadway Advocacy Coalition, theaters of Change and Columbia Law School, grub Street, boston Writers of Color and the National Social Science Association have all supported her creative ventures. Her ongoing work includes readings from her poetry collection Animalia and Sankofa. Soul's prize-winning project, the Nanny Project, centering the experiences of Black and Brown nannies during the COVID-19 pandemic era. Please welcome Courtney.
Speaker 11:Hi everybody. This is so cool. We're so cool for being down here. This first one is untitled To know your city, you must know what's underneath it. Keep it sacred. The second one is called Source. Sometimes it's the storm that fills our cups to the brim, as well as the dam Treatment. Nature has its own vitamins that we can use after storms and floods Treatment too. Thank all the people who work nonstop to make your water drinkable. Storage Vaults that hold water are apocalypse hideouts, aren't we so lucky Use? The funny thing is Lake Erie monster water also grows flowers. Use too when you brush your teeth. Thank the storm that came before, who got a rebirth applause.
Speaker 6:Uh, sm hunter writes fabulous fiction from her home in cleveland, ohio. Her writing has appeared in link inc. She has won cleveland's first story wars after dark competition. She was a writer in residence at kerrigan in june 2024 and earned an MFA in creative writing from Georgia College and State University. Please welcome SM Hunter.
Speaker 12:I just wanted to say thank you to Literary Cleveland and the Northeast Ohio Regional Sewer District for having us. This is by far the coolest place I've ever done a reading in, so thank you. Through the sewer pipe the party was not going as Nancy had planned. Too many elements had fallen off her costume and now no one could tell she was supposed to be dressed as a mushroom. It didn't matter. He said he would come as a rotten log, like a couple's costume, mushroom foraging. When he showed up in a Superman onesie and an excuse about running out of time and he didn't really know how to sew anyway, she knew it was all over Now.
Speaker 12:She was stuck in a polyester thrift store dress that smelled of mildew, armpits and a mint lifesaver Hat, trampled hair fallen, night ruined and just now the hem of her dress dunked in the toilet. While she was trying to hoist her skirt, someone knocked on the door. I chose the basement toilet for a reason. She called out I'll be a minute. The fluorescent bathroom light made her face look green and lumpy. If there was any justice in this world, she thought she would be allowed to sob in this bathroom for 20 minutes undisturbed while she mourned a relationship that had barely happened. Instead, she was going to have five minutes tops before some drunk dude would scream at her from outside the door to pinch it off and get out. She wiped the tears that were starting to form. Might as well, pee and leave. Then she heard a voice. Nancy, why art thou heartbroken? The voice warbled in a low tone, like it was reverberating off the sides of a cauldron. She jumped up, scrambled to pull up her underwear. I said I'll be out in a minute. Thou art overwrought. Send your secrets down to me. Nancy looked around the room for a speaker. The sound was coming from the toilet. But that couldn't be. There had to be a hidden microphone. She thought. Another humiliation. She closed the lid and flushed. No, the voice was drowned out by water rushing down the bowl. It is I, the Jakes of this manor. When the tank refilled the bowl and the bathroom was silent again, the voice spoke more clearly. Oh, this lid. I have sensed your sadness and I have sound counsel for you.
Speaker 12:Nancy had drunk three beers, not nearly enough to be hallucinating voices, but just enough to accept a sympathetic ear. When she could find one, I thought he was into me. She said Every time we went hiking. I thought it was a date, but I think he just likes nature. She gulped hard, trying to hold back the tension in her chest and throat. Everyone loves someone. That's not me. The jakes burbled Soft young maiden, if thou shalt follow my sage instruction, I will soothsay your future times and bring you solace. Nancy remembered enough of 11th grade Shakespeare to understand that this talking toilet was willing to show her the future. Someone pounded on the bathroom door again. Sure, mr Toilet, show me.
Speaker 12:The flapper lifted, a whooshing sound surrounded her body and Nancy felt the pressure of water and air and detritus of all sorts, leaves and shit and wads of clumped toilet paper swirling around her. Her body disappeared, skin and keratin breaking their molecular bonds and melting into the water and effluents. Molecular bonds and melting into the water and effluents. Her spirit body, now separated into millions and billions of tiny pieces, rushed through the sewers miles and miles until it flowed with everything else to the wastewater treatment plant. Here's what the Jakes of the Manor knew that she could not until she had experienced it herself. The sewer sees everyone's shit and it cleans it up. Her heart was sieved and bubbled, filtered, screened, smelling of feces and wetness and earth dismantled, sifted and sedimented and clarified bit by flowing bit, and clarified bit by flowing bit, became cleansed, freed back into the river and the pipes and again into the basement bathroom.
Speaker 12:When Nancy emerged from the sink, soiled and smelling of petrichor, she felt the journey vibrating in her skin. She lifted the light lid on the toilet. You were right, she said. The Jakes did not reply, but she understood now. A line had formed outside the bathroom. Took long enough, said the first man in line. He'd probably been the one pounding Nancy, figured. She couldn't tell him that dirty work took time, not until he could see it himself. She grasped his hand anyway, wished him luck and went upstairs.
Speaker 6:All right, we're on to our last reader. Megan Millstone is a Cleveland-based author and poet who specializes in abstract works with emotional depth. Please welcome Megan.
Speaker 4:The Soul of Lake Erie. When I was a child, I read a fictional book about a character that insisted that water towers were God and that water, above all else, sustained life in ways that other things could only hope to accomplish. So it was made clear water sustains, water conceives, water flows through us all, and if water were the all-seeing eye, would we not be reflections of drop of rain in the ocean?
Speaker 6:Give it up one more time for everybody. Come on A literal underground reading. Give it up for Christine everybody.
Speaker 5:Thank you all so much. We talked a lot about what is the link between the work of the sewer district and the work of writers. As the sewer district, we provide service to 62 communities and we do a lot of outreach with schools and educators and the science community, so getting to carve out this niche and work together with artists has been so fulfilling. Bringing art into these tunnels is so cool. Hearing your words echo through these concrete walls is so special, and I'm very overwhelmed and grateful for all of you to be sharing your work in this place.
Speaker 1:Again, thank you so much. Clean Water Works is produced by the Communications and Community Relations Department at the Northeast Ohio Regional Sewer District. Our music was composed and performed by GS Schrey. If you have a question or suggestion, or if you'd like to learn more about the Regional Sewer District, visit neorsdorg or call 216-881-8247.
