The Body Politic:

The Life and Times of Harold "Wags" Wagner

By Daniel Wilkins
Graduate Student
University of Toledo

"Here, take a look at this." It was Bruce Wagner, youngest of two sons of Minnieruth and the late Harold J. Wagner. Harold was a five-time elected City Councilman for the City of Toledo from 1957-1967. The three of them sat before me, Minnieruth, with a beautiful smile, big rosey cheeks and twinkling eyes, small in size compared to her two boys, Peter, the oldest, a prominent attorney, on her left, and Bruce, retired from Champion, on her right.

"I bet you haven't seen anything like that in a long time.' Bruce went on, "Can you tell me what is so unique?"

I looked down at the item he had handed me, It was a matchbook. Faded white from age with big blue letters: "Harold J. Wagner, 331 Sunset Blvd. Toledo, Ohio." There was a phone number and then: "Representing Superior Match Co." and "Close cover for safety." This should have been the tip off but I didn't catch it.

"What is so unique?" I asked, having no clue.

"The striker." Bruce explained, "It is on the open side of the match book. They haven't done that in years."

So began our two hour journey through family memorabilia and personal stories in search of the seeds of one man's life, no, check that ... this is not so much a story of one man and his struggle against great odds. It is a story of love and family, devotion and support, one that takes place in a time of many struggles faced by a whole country. It is a story that sweeps across sixty-five years; across the time of early industrial expansion, the Great Depression, World War II and, most importantly, the Polio Epidemic of 1947-48 and the sociopolitical struggle for civil rights in the 1950's and 1960's.

This is the story of Harold "Wags" Wagner, a Toledo politician who, as mentioned above, spent five terms elected to city council. While this might not seem so remarkable, he did it as a wheelchair-user, in a time of great inaccessibility, not only architectural inaccessibility, but attitudinal, programmatic, political, educational and every other kind of inaccessibility; a time shortly after one of our greatest presidents, Franklin Delano Roosevelt, who had run the country for twelve years, ended a World War and put millions of Americans back to work, all from his wheelchair, did so in secret, because of these very same oppressive societal attitudes toward disability.

In the end, as one living with a disability, I can tell you this is not just the story of Harold Wagner the politician, not just the story of Harold, a family man with a wife and two young boys, a man born to sell, who became the first adult to contract polio in Toledo, in the last great epidemic of the 1940's, it is in every way as well the story of the woman and family behind the man. As the interview and research unfolded, the love and support and sheer strength of the woman, petite by all physical standards, and the power of the marriage vows became gloriously evident. Harold was the self-made man, but she was the key to Harold's post-polio success. With this in mind, let us look briefly at Harold's early life.

Born in Fostoria, Ohio, September 18, 1906, Harold was the fourth son of Joseph Wagner and the only son of Emma Wagner. Emma had married Joseph after he had been married once. Consequently, Harold had three older half-brothers, Ralph, Floyd and Donald.

Interestingly, on Memorial Day, 1907, when Harold was only eight months old, a tragedy occurred 85 miles to the northeast of Fostoria, in Elyria, Ohio, that would benefit Harold in his 42^nd year. A streetcar accident would injure 80 and claim the lives of nine, among them young Homer Allen, son of a prominent businessman and later Rotarian, Edgar Allen. When lack of proper hospital services led to the deaths of some of the victims, including Homer\s, Mr. Allen championed the fundraising efforts to build, in 1908, Elyria Memorial Hospital and, later, upon realizing the lack of care available for children with disabilities, worked to establish the Ohio Society for Crippled Children, of which Toledo Society for Crippled Children was one of the very first.

More information on the accident, the role of rotary and the Ohio Society for Crippled Children can be found here as well as a 1927 interview with Edgar "Daddy" Allen here.

As soon as he was old enough to do so, Harold joined his father, mother and brothers working at The National Carbon Co., a long standing Fostoria industry. He did this while still in school.

Also, while in high school, he was class president for three years and, during National Boys Week, Harold was elected Mayor of Fostoria for one day.

Immediately after high school Harold shuffled off to Ohio Wesleyan University in Delaware, Ohio, where he paid his way through school working as a handy man in a funeral home, at the college gymnasium, at a local restaurant, wherever he could find something to do. He did this for three years.

One of the jobs took him into the broadcast studio at WCAH, housed in the old Hotel Fort Hayes in Columbus. This led to an opportunity in broadcasting and in the last half of the 1920's, before the great Depression hit, he was appearing on the "Majestic Radio Hour". He had his own program, "Riley of Radio" on which he read "poems of the James Whitcomb Riley type' which he wrote from time to time. People enjoyed his talent so much that he was invited to hone his entertainments skills on the Lyceum and Redpath Bureaus, radio circuits popular in the day.

He began to do the grange and luncheon circuits and out of these public appearances, which honed him for his future as a councilman, came a couple of books, one called "Glimpses of Life" and another, "Sunshine and Shadows". This work in the limelight brought him to the attention of men like Dr. Arthur Fleming, then US Secretary of Health and Welfare, and Frank Stanton, head of the Columbia Broadcasting Company. They all spent time together on a debate squad.

When asked why he left it all behind, Harold was quick to say, "I went broke and returned to Fostoria."

This was only partly true as he left Columbus when his mother contracted cancer, which was about the same time that the Great Depression hit. He quit college in his final year to take care of her and, according to family, never went back. Instead, after a time, he took a LaSalle Extension course for Law and after his mother's death, moved to Toledo to look for job. There, he worked for a while in the Justice of the Peace courts and began to consider politics. He had an offer to run for Seneca County Treasurer in the mid-thirties but turned it down feeling he wasn't ready yet for public office.

He found passion in sales because, ultimately, he felt it "put him in touch with people, with the common man." He worked for many companies early on including The National Press, which was a large ad product business: pens, business cards and other promotional products.

It was at one of these companies that Harold met Minnieruth, his future wife when she came to work for him as a secretary. She claims it was a very short time before Harold wooed her into a relationship, engagement and marriage. She followed this up with the comment, "He was a natural born salesman. He could sell anything." They were married, October 27, 1936 when she was 19 and he was 30.

When World War II erupted, Harold was called to duty. He spent time with the 606^th Engineers Battalion, made up of artist, architects and "other gifted men" who spent time working on harmless deceptive defense tactics. This took him to Ft. Carson in Colorado and to the Aleutians in Alaska. After his tour, he left the military in 1945 to return home and start a family.

After the war, book matches were at a premium. Harold went to work for The Superior Match Co. selling book matches, to those who wanted advertising, where he would sell a volume of matches, and then would distribute them to places all over town. He was the top salesman in Ohio selling matches and, though politics took over a large portion of his life, he did this for much of the remainder of his life.

Peter recounts the story of their yearly vacations to Indian Lake, 90 miles south of Toledo. "We would hop in the car and head to the lake for vacation. Sometimes we wouldn't have but a couple of dollars to our name. But Dad knew that when he got down there, while Bruce and I played around, he and Mom would circle the lake selling matches to all of the hotels, restaurants and businesses. We'd have a great vacation and we'd go home with money in our pockets as well. Dad always knew he could do anything he set his mind to doing."

I notice that whenever one of the boys is sharing a story, Minnieruth just stares at me, beaming her beautiful smile, obviously proud of her husband and the family's life experiences.

The smile disappeared for a moment though, when I asked her if she remembered the first few moment of Harold\s bout with Poliomyelitis (Polio). Instinctively, both sons reached out and took a hand as Minnieruth quietly fought back tears as her mind flashed back to that day in late summer, 1948.

"We had gone to Indian Lake. Peter was four and the baby, Bruce, had been in the hospital with severe bronchitis, and it was about three month later, I didn't want to go. I wanted to be near the doctor. Well, he started coughing on night so we headed home. Now, Harold had sort of drug his leg a bit that whole summer and we never did find out what it was. I've always felt it was part of the Polio but they never said so."

"He went to work and came home tired. He was upstairs taking care of Bruce, who wasn't happy, while I was downstairs doing laundry. He was carrying Bruce and singing to him. All of a sudden he fell and threw Bruce on the davenport. Later that night he fell and broke the bath table. Our regular doctor was gone, so I called a friend who came over and said, "I hate to tell you this but it is going to be a long time before you put shoes on again."

"We went to the hospital the next day, a city hospital. They took him in and I couldn't see him for two weeks. I took him home on Labor Day and ... (tears come) and he just laid there the whole weekend and cried.

So I got the ambulance to come and take him out to the Crippled Children's Home. He was the first adult in Toledo to get Polio. It was a scary time. Those were the bad days. I was afraid the boys were going to get it. He was there for so long.

"But he made so many friends out there. He mentored so many young people ... Devere Line who went on to be an executive at Marathon, and young Grunky who went on to start a restaurant."

Not long after he returned home, he was asked after contracting polio, while, flat on his back, by a Republican 11^th Ward chairman to make phone calls asking folks whether or no they had voted. "That is what got him out of the bed, in a mental sense." Peter said. "And if it had been a Democrat, he would have been a Democrat."

"He ended up being the 11^th Ward Chairman" Bruce adds.

"He was a natural. He brought a wonderful personality to it. Everybody loved him." Minnieruth mentions smiling, "We were never alone again."

Minnieruth recounts how she would help her husband to continue on with his life, as a salesman. "Every year Harold would sell Christmas and New Year decorations to bars and restaurants. He would make all of the appointments. Then, with a couple of big boxes of samples in the back seat from Cinko's downtown, we would drive to the appointments, mostly bars. I would get out his wheelchair, then him, then the boxes, take them in, then him. In those days there were steps everywhere. So, up the steps we'd go."

"The part I didn't like very much was after we had the orders, we\d drive downtown and pick up the supplies. They were nice, there, about loading the car but once we drove back around, I was the one delivering everything. Harold stayed in the car. While I was dlivering the bars were offering him drinks. He'd drink, and because I didn't drink, I would wait around. I was happy because he was happy."

"And he never once fell out of his wheelchair." She added proudly.

"Oh, wait, mom, tell him about that day that we weren't home." Bruce asked. Mom just waved him off but he continued, "There was ice on the sidewalk and she was in high heels and she slipped and he fell back on top of her and her leg bent until it snapped and the bones came right through the skin. And they sat there against the steps until a taxi driver came by and helped them up."

Minnieruth continues the story as we all grimace at the picture being painted, "It was Saturday, three days before Christmas and nobody was around. There was nothing I could do or he could do. There was snow piled up high and we just sat there looking at the sky."

"She held him." Peter said, "She's a hero."

"She took in laundry." he adds, "At Christmas time she dug hundreds of holes in our front and back yard and sold Christmas trees right out of the back yard to keep her man going."

"You can do anything if you have to. We had two little kids" she states.

"Let me tell you one thing I tell people," Bruce begins, "I never, ever, ever, even when I think back now, thought of my Dad as disabled. Nor did he. I'd look at other people and think, "they're disabled" but not my Dad, for some reason. He did everything and went everywhere."

"Little kids would ask him what happened and he would always respond 'I stub my toe.'"

It didn't matter where he had to or wanted to go. Upstairs, down stairs, it didn't matter. He would go anywhere."

Bruce and Peter both told stories of discrimination and inaccessibility. Bruce, of having to throw his father over his shoulder in Washington, DC to get him on and off a plane, and, Peter, of he and his dad going to the '61 World Series in Cincinnati, having been given tickets by J. Preston Levis, the Toledo Industrialist. Peter recounts getting to the stadium only to have the ticket taker refuse entry, saying, "?we don't let wheelchairs in here." After some deliberation, another ticket taker down the way called them over and said, 'come with me.' He took them right down to the seats next to the dugout, right next to Mickey Mantle, Roger Maris, Yogi Berra.

Minniruth remembers Judge Potter, then Mayor of Toledo, would come to pick him up for a meeting. They would go to a meeting somewhere and Potter would always comment to whoever was helping get Harold up the stairs, "Hey, watch it those arms pull out." Leaving the poor guy immobile on the steps wondering what to do next, not sure if he was going to lose Harold down the stairs.

He never saw boundaries. He never got angry at the inaccessibility. He had a million friends who came over. There was always someone to help him get around.

Harold's "salesmanship" mentality came in handy during his political career. Peter remembers one time in 1960-61 at the GOP National convention, when Harold, who had come as an alternate delegate, by the last day, had trade up his tickets at cocktail parties and elsewhere until, after trading with a Time Magazine reporter, on the last day he was up on the platform when Nixon was nominated. Peter didn't know how he got up there but he was there on the platform.

"There were no boundaries." Peter says proudly. "He made a lot of important people recognize the problems of accessibility. It was a lot different then."

I asked about the family. They were quick to tell me stories about when both mom and dad were in wheelchairs, hers with a full leg cast from the fall. They lived in a modest little bungalow (she still lives there) and two chairs were a bit much. One would have to move into another room so the other could answer the phone. And of course, as a councilman, the phone was always ringing.

"We had to have a great sense of humor." she adds, "It saved us. I still laugh and sometimes I don't even know what I am laughing about."

Humor is such a big part of survival for people living with disabilities, for everyone, actually.

Peter told of how, during the fundraising time of his political career, when he did a lot of work for Goodwill, there was a black-american man that worked at Goodwill as well who would help push "Wags" (Harold's nickname) around. Usually it would be Peter pushing so Harold would point back over his shoulder saying ,"I want you to meet my son, Peter." But Peter and this man were fond of trading off without Wags knowing it just to watch that looks on people's faces. Harold was such a funny guy. He took it in stride.

Tell me about your father and husband and civil rights.

"My husband was a people person. He didn't care about color. He loved everybody. It made no difference."

Bruce and Peter spoke about the late 50's when Harold was a populist. He attended the "Bronze Raven Parade", the only white guy, in a car donated by Bantam Olds, he would be driving through with three black-american beauty queens on the back waving. Mom would take us home because it was late and go back to pick him up and he'd be still giving a speech. The only white guy. Everybody loved him.

Harold's political career was one of promoting change. His big concerns were community development and industrial growth. He was Chairman of Urban Renewal. He was instrumental in pushing the Fort Industry Industrial Park, on Matzinger Road, and as well the expansion and new construction of Goodwill Industry and Vistula Manor. He raised all the money for the buildings. He would take businessmen through the old rat trap buildings on Cherry Street's Skid Row and then hit them up for money for new construction. There is a plaque at Goodwill commemorating the work he did.

He was loved and respected by everyone as a man who spoke he mind honestly, listened to the constituents, and refused to be bought. Bruce made the comment, "He was a straight shooter. People would try to sway him but he always voted his conscience. He was a Republican, but he would vote non-partisan if he believed in the issue."

A Toledo Blade editorial one year suggested that Harold be nominated Mayor. He was a 32nd level Mason of the Order of Demolay and, as well, belonged to many other boards and civic organizations. He was listed in the Who's Who of the Midwest.

He stayed in office until the election of 1967. The issue of the day was Open Occupancy, sometimes known as Open or Integrated Housing. Harold "Wags" Wagner and others, Judge Potter included, were strong for Open Occupancy. Because of this and racial issues at the time in Toledo and abroad, they were all defeat. Harold left politics but kept selling for another year or two.

Harold Wagner, a devoted husband, father, traveler, politician, salesman, practical joker and friend to many began to slow down, to feel weak early in the summer of 1971. He died unexpectedly of an embolism on December 8^th, 1971.

Minnieruth closed the conversation by saying, "You'd have to go along ways to find anybody else like him."

I asked if their was one thing that made it work for him over anything else?

Peter and Bruce were quick to say, "Her. He couldn't have done it without her."

Characteristically, Minnieruth looked down humbly.

They finished by saying "They were a team. We were just the knuckle head drivers. She and he made it work."

"And I'd do it all over again." Minnieruth said with conviction.

The tape stopped.

Epiloque

Jack Stewart, TARTA Board Member and chair-using activist from the late 70's and 80's remembered Harold by saying he was his role model and that, if it weren't for "Wags", he would never have pursued the need for curb cuts. Wags supported him as a young man and taught him to be an advocate.

We living with disabilities, in Toledo and abroad, owe a great debt of gratitude to the pioneering efforts made by one Harold "Wags" Wagner, a man living with a disability, when it wasn't so easy to do so, who never said "I can't."

Research info for this came from oral interview, newspaper clipping, websites (see links) and from various copies of The Toledo City Journal.