Before having a tub in one’s home was the norm, public bath houses were the place to go. Hartford had a few. One was recorded as being on Kilbourn Street (now the Kinsley Street area ), then Potter Street (now the Convention Center driveway) where it was anchored for a season; it was moved into the Park River during the winter.
Think about that one. There was a season for showering. It coincided with the sweatiest time of the year, but still, there would be months of finding other ways to bathe.
It seems children would treat it as a pool for playing in during the summer when bathing in the river was banned in Hartford. This inspired the Hartford Daily Courant to run a notice in 1882 explaining that the “Hartford public bath-house has two private compartments for men who wish to be free from the racket and frolics of the boys.”
At the end of Potter Street, a new bath house, created in 1884, was supported by two floats. It was moved to Old Saybrook or Essex during winter months, presumably for repairs. Special bathing times were designated for women and children; women were required to wear a “bathing-dress.”
There were some exciting times. When the Connecticut River’s ice broke in 1896, the dock broke along with it. The bath house and a barge escaped. The bath house docked itself in Essex, coming loose again and drifting through Saybrook, eventually declaring itself retired from the bathing business. A new one was built later that year, installed this time in Riverside Park near Pleasant Street. Increasingly elaborate, this one had 36 dressing rooms and floated on three pontoons per side.
The shiny newness would fade, as happened with every building and location. High water and spring floods would cause temporary closures. The increasingly polluted river would result in mass poisonings of fish. They stank. Then, there were the other odors that would waft in from the garbage dump. Still, this location was held onto for awhile longer.
A new bath house, just for women, was constructed in 1900. This time, there was controversy about where it should be installed. It was determined that Connecticut River was now polluted, so the building should be moved elsewhere or upstream. Others were bothered by its proximity to inlet pipes, where the filth of hundreds of bathers each day would potentially enter the drinking water supply. There was a refusal to turn on Corning Fountain until the women’s bath house was relocated, as the monument’s supply came from the Garden Street Reservoir, which piped in from the Connecticut River.
Around the turn of the century, there was a push for bigger changes. Instead of hauling the bath house up and down the river each year, there was a call to build a permanent structure, citing New York’s practice of requiring larger cities to provide access to bathing houses year-round. Soon after, the marvelous invention of the “spray bath” — a shower — promised to save time, water, and money. There were visions of installing these in school basements, where children could easily access them.
Seeing as how each bath house had a lifespan of just about a decade, it would not surprise anyone that trouble started brewing in 1907 when the women’s facility was damaged by ice. At the end of that season, it became a muskrat family’s home. Its matriarch jumped, displeased with intruders, threw herself onto the back of a worker who was preparing the building for winter storage. Then in 1909, the women’s bath house sank in a flood. Two years later, the men’s bath house would fall into disrepair. As soon as the first wave of problems appeared, the City began to look at locations for two new bath houses — one on the West Side and one on the East Side. Favored locations included Lawrence Street’s Lyceum and Temple Street. Neither spot materialized.
Finally, after thirteen years of seeking a permanent structure, one was built in Pope Park, after numerous delays, design revisions, and financial scandals. What’s important is that there were separate sides for men and women, and equally thrilling: showers. Men were provided with more showers than women. At the same time, a similar building opened on Front Street. That bath (shower!) house was a renovated fire station.
Though the bath house on Front Street never went on any adventures in the Connecticut River, it did see its share of drama. In 1918, federal agents raided the showers for “slackers” — men who were not supporting the war effort. They detained fifteen foreign-born men who “could not produce their classification cards.” After a bit of harassment, they were released.
Like clockwork, ten years after opening, the Front Street bath house was deemed unacceptable. It was replaced by one on Connecticut Boulevard. You can guess what became of that based on its location.
The one in Pope Park fell into shambles, yet it may have lasted the longest of any. Who was using it? In the 1930s, there was an arrangement for those living in a “transient camp” on West Hartford’s Albany Avenue to use the facility. In 1956, the newspaper advertised that a dime would get you a “bar of soap, a towel, and seven minutes of uninterrupted hot water” at the Pope Park Bath House, a spot popular with workers from nearby factories. Twenty years later, angry residents would be demanding to know why the City of Hartford had not yet demolished the building, which had been damaged in a fire in 1967.
Besides these City-run baths, Hartford had other facilities that have been classified as bath houses. Turkish baths were an attraction on the corner of Allyn and Ann Streets. These were fifty cents a pop, sold to those looking to relieve anything from fever to arthritis. There was a Turkish-Russian bath house on Windsor Street. On John Street, a Russian bath house drew attention for more than steam during Prohibition. Then, there were the mikvehs. Though not the sites of clandestine drinking parties, one might assume they were based on how much resistance Magnolia Street residents showed when the Hebrew Women’s Club wanted to build one there. They, 26 people living on that street, thought that it would be a nuisance. Eventually, it was permitted and built. Civilization did not collapse. And why would it? Hartford already had other mikvehs. They were just not convenient to where their visitors were currently living. (Side note: if you have been to West Hartford Center, you have likely passed by an operational mikveh and been none the wiser.)
It’s not that the public bath house has entirely disappeared. There is not a widespread demand and shower facilities are no longer the attraction. Rather, they are adjacent to public swimming pools, within gyms, or as part of school locker rooms. Currently, most of those are closed due to the COVID-19 pandemic; however, the Asylum Hill Bath House (pictured above) remains open. It’s very exclusive.
Asylum Hill Bath House
Before having a tub in one’s home was the norm, public bath houses were the place to go. Hartford had a few. One was recorded as being on Kilbourn Street (now the Kinsley Street area ), then Potter Street (now the Convention Center driveway) where it was anchored for a season; it was moved into the Park River during the winter.
Think about that one. There was a season for showering. It coincided with the sweatiest time of the year, but still, there would be months of finding other ways to bathe.
It seems children would treat it as a pool for playing in during the summer when bathing in the river was banned in Hartford. This inspired the Hartford Daily Courant to run a notice in 1882 explaining that the “Hartford public bath-house has two private compartments for men who wish to be free from the racket and frolics of the boys.”
At the end of Potter Street, a new bath house, created in 1884, was supported by two floats. It was moved to Old Saybrook or Essex during winter months, presumably for repairs. Special bathing times were designated for women and children; women were required to wear a “bathing-dress.”
There were some exciting times. When the Connecticut River’s ice broke in 1896, the dock broke along with it. The bath house and a barge escaped. The bath house docked itself in Essex, coming loose again and drifting through Saybrook, eventually declaring itself retired from the bathing business. A new one was built later that year, installed this time in Riverside Park near Pleasant Street. Increasingly elaborate, this one had 36 dressing rooms and floated on three pontoons per side.
The shiny newness would fade, as happened with every building and location. High water and spring floods would cause temporary closures. The increasingly polluted river would result in mass poisonings of fish. They stank. Then, there were the other odors that would waft in from the garbage dump. Still, this location was held onto for awhile longer.
A new bath house, just for women, was constructed in 1900. This time, there was controversy about where it should be installed. It was determined that Connecticut River was now polluted, so the building should be moved elsewhere or upstream. Others were bothered by its proximity to inlet pipes, where the filth of hundreds of bathers each day would potentially enter the drinking water supply. There was a refusal to turn on Corning Fountain until the women’s bath house was relocated, as the monument’s supply came from the Garden Street Reservoir, which piped in from the Connecticut River.
Around the turn of the century, there was a push for bigger changes. Instead of hauling the bath house up and down the river each year, there was a call to build a permanent structure, citing New York’s practice of requiring larger cities to provide access to bathing houses year-round. Soon after, the marvelous invention of the “spray bath” — a shower — promised to save time, water, and money. There were visions of installing these in school basements, where children could easily access them.
Seeing as how each bath house had a lifespan of just about a decade, it would not surprise anyone that trouble started brewing in 1907 when the women’s facility was damaged by ice. At the end of that season, it became a muskrat family’s home. Its matriarch jumped, displeased with intruders, threw herself onto the back of a worker who was preparing the building for winter storage. Then in 1909, the women’s bath house sank in a flood. Two years later, the men’s bath house would fall into disrepair. As soon as the first wave of problems appeared, the City began to look at locations for two new bath houses — one on the West Side and one on the East Side. Favored locations included Lawrence Street’s Lyceum and Temple Street. Neither spot materialized.
Finally, after thirteen years of seeking a permanent structure, one was built in Pope Park, after numerous delays, design revisions, and financial scandals. What’s important is that there were separate sides for men and women, and equally thrilling: showers. Men were provided with more showers than women. At the same time, a similar building opened on Front Street. That bath (shower!) house was a renovated fire station.
Though the bath house on Front Street never went on any adventures in the Connecticut River, it did see its share of drama. In 1918, federal agents raided the showers for “slackers” — men who were not supporting the war effort. They detained fifteen foreign-born men who “could not produce their classification cards.” After a bit of harassment, they were released.
Like clockwork, ten years after opening, the Front Street bath house was deemed unacceptable. It was replaced by one on Connecticut Boulevard. You can guess what became of that based on its location.
The one in Pope Park fell into shambles, yet it may have lasted the longest of any. Who was using it? In the 1930s, there was an arrangement for those living in a “transient camp” on West Hartford’s Albany Avenue to use the facility. In 1956, the newspaper advertised that a dime would get you a “bar of soap, a towel, and seven minutes of uninterrupted hot water” at the Pope Park Bath House, a spot popular with workers from nearby factories. Twenty years later, angry residents would be demanding to know why the City of Hartford had not yet demolished the building, which had been damaged in a fire in 1967.
Besides these City-run baths, Hartford had other facilities that have been classified as bath houses. Turkish baths were an attraction on the corner of Allyn and Ann Streets. These were fifty cents a pop, sold to those looking to relieve anything from fever to arthritis. There was a Turkish-Russian bath house on Windsor Street. On John Street, a Russian bath house drew attention for more than steam during Prohibition. Then, there were the mikvehs. Though not the sites of clandestine drinking parties, one might assume they were based on how much resistance Magnolia Street residents showed when the Hebrew Women’s Club wanted to build one there. They, 26 people living on that street, thought that it would be a nuisance. Eventually, it was permitted and built. Civilization did not collapse. And why would it? Hartford already had other mikvehs. They were just not convenient to where their visitors were currently living. (Side note: if you have been to West Hartford Center, you have likely passed by an operational mikveh and been none the wiser.)
It’s not that the public bath house has entirely disappeared. There is not a widespread demand and shower facilities are no longer the attraction. Rather, they are adjacent to public swimming pools, within gyms, or as part of school locker rooms. Currently, most of those are closed due to the COVID-19 pandemic; however, the Asylum Hill Bath House (pictured above) remains open. It’s very exclusive.
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