After finally gaining access to the snake pit, the men noticed the strong increase in foul odors. They saw hundreds of men in one dayroom, some just laying on benches staring at the ceiling while others tried to hide their faces with their shirts. Blain went on to explain that Byberry was the largest mental hospital in the state, but it received the least amount of funding per patient. “We get $8.20 per patient each day, which is up from $5.17 a day last year,” he said. “Haverford State Hospital gets $21.00, and Eastern State School and Hospital up the boulevard in Trevose gets $30.00 to $35.00 a day. I don’t know why it is. Ask the governor.” They did, and Governor Schaffer opened his own investigation. He inspected the hospital personally and ordered several buildings closed, starting with the snake pit. After shifting the elderly patients from W-7 to W-6, minor refurbishments were made to W-7, and it became designated “South Unit.” Its connection to the traffic tunnel was bricked up, and a razor-wire fence was erected around the third-floor porch in preparation to receive the violent males from S-1 and S-2. S-1’s 550 male patients were moved there by June 1968, and the building was condemned by the state and sealed up. In August, S-2’s last 150 patients were moved to W-7, and the twin “snake pits” began their term of vacancy, boarded and locked.
Several attacks on employees by patients that occurred on the grounds of the hospital after dark demanded a call for streetlights. The buildings had exterior perimeter lights, but the majority of the grounds were unlit, including the roads. When a female employee was assaulted and raped returning to her ward after dark to retrieve her purse, the state made lighting a priority. In February 1968, $250,000 was appropriated for a lighting program, and the Philadelphia Electric Company installed 286 mercury-vapor lamps mounted on stainless-steel poles throughout the property.
In October 1967, as part of Blain’s new therapy system, a tract of ninety-two acres in Buckingham Township, Bucks County was purchased by the state for use by Byberry patients. Located at Holicong and Ashmill Roads, the former Wonderland Day Camp, according to Blain, would provide an incalculable relief to patients who had been cramped up in their wards. The camp was ideally suited for the hospital’s purpose. It contained twenty-two buildings, with a dining hall and an outdoor amphitheater. It also featured a swimming pool, a lake and several ball fields. The camp’s new director, Malcolm Winkler, spoke excitedly about it. “Pennsylvania is the first state to have a permanent mental health camp, and we want this to be a success,” he said.
But the community did not share Winkler’s progressive outlook. They had not even been told of the state’s plan and expressed outrage and concern for their very rural community. A civic meeting was held in November at the Midway Fire Hall in Lahaska, where residents voiced their fears about the camp. They claimed that the patients would present a serious danger to children attending a new school that was under construction at the time. Some residents were in favor of the camp and welcomed its presence in the community, but even they were angered that neither the state nor the hospital gave them any notice of their plan.
“Attorneys for the estate with whom we’ve been negotiating asked us not to publicize the fact that we were acquiring Wonderland Camp,” said Blain. “I’m afraid the people in Buckingham who oppose the camp lack an understanding of what we are doing and hope to do there in the future.”
Dr. Blain fully assured the citizens of Buckingham that the patients at the camp were harmless and posed no threat to their community. “All the patients chosen to attend the camp are carefully screened from patients who have ground privileges at the hospital,” he said. “These patients are not dangerous. We opened the camp to take them away from the hospital and let them see something of nature and get a little color in their cheeks.”
Winkler, who lived at the camp with his wife and young children, stood behind Blain on the issue, stating, “If I thought for one minute that my wife and children were in danger, I wouldn’t be here. What we are doing is taking people who will be released shortly and trying to hasten their cure by letting them come in contact with nature.”
The patients’ contact with nature was short-lived, however, as the overwhelming opinion of Buckingham residents was that the camp had to go. By November, two patients had already walked off the grounds of the camp. Their whereabouts were not discovered, and while Blain called the two patients “harmless,” nearby residents were frantic and doubled their efforts to get rid of the camp. In December, the Buckingham Taxpayers Association threatened to involve state officials. Its president, Roger Williams Jr., exclaimed, “If almost immediate action is not taken by the commonwealth to cease operations at Wonderland Camp, the association intends to take action in the courts to stop the operation, and stop it right now.” Blain finally succumbed to their pressures and closed the camp down.
Franklin Clarke (left) presents Daniel Blain with a plaque. Pennsylvania State Archives, RG-23.
But in April 1968, he renewed the three-year lease of the camp. The hospital was paying $2,000 a month for the ground and was determined to make full use of the property. Thirty-five female patients were bussed in and out of the camp daily. They spent six hours a day enjoying its facilities, under the close supervision of director Winkler, four attendants and a nurse. But again the Taxpayers’ Association responded by forming a committee to “dig into this thing.” Hospital records indicate, however, that the camp remained in use for another five years.
Deinstitutionalization brought on awareness leading to a new attitude toward mental retardation and its segregation from mental illness. Byberry’s inadequate unit for retarded patients in buildings C-4 and C-5 was growing in population as the system shifted more patients around. But relief was underway. In 1968, as part of the state’s Mental Health/Mental Retardation Act, the Woodhaven Center was created. It seemed only natural that the state use land it already owned, rather than purchase new land for a site. The GSA decided on one hundred acres along Byberry’s southern border, Woodhaven Road, east of Route 1, and ground was broken in August 1968. Dr. Donald Jolly, commissioner of mental retardation, explained Pennsylvania’s new concept. “We are going to limit the individuals in each group so that we can do something in the way of training them,” he said. “Instead of having sixty persons in one ward milling around aimlessly, we will keep the children in groups of twelve and adolescents and young adults in groups of sixteen.”
The modern 280-bed facility, strictly for retarded patients, cost $11.3 million to build. It provided a charming transition for patients from Byberry. The seventeen buildings of the new institution were one-story brick structures. The Woodhaven Center was very modest in appearance, and the interiors were bright and cheery. It opened in 1971 and is still in use today, in cooperation with Temple University. It is considered one of the finest facilities in Philadelphia for the care of the mentally retarded.
By 1970, the neighborhood of Somerton had grown into a flourishing, suburban community and was experiencing its own version of Buckingham’s situation. The children who grew up in Somerton could not help but discover the state’s largest mental hospital down the street from their homes. Most were strictly forbidden by their parents to go near the sprawling complex, which only made it more alluring. Some were naturally fascinated by it. Either way, their presence soon became a problem. Curious children who wandered onto the grounds or approached the buildings were often frightened away by patients. But in some cases, children mingling with patients led to obvious dangers. Patients who had ground parole would also wander into the neighborhood, and concerns were immediately voiced by Somerton residents.
Boy Scouts plant trees in front of S-1, the “snake pit,” circa 1965. Pennsylvania State Archives, RG-23.
The PSH Auxiliary, headed by Thelma Ribaut, started the “His and Her Shop” in the basement of W-3 building in 1969. Operating only through donations and volunteer help, the shop allowed patients to browse and purchase clothes in an effort to help familiarize them with the outside world. The auxiliary raised $3,
000 to renovate the former occupational therapy room. “Being able to choose for himself, in a modern store-like atmosphere is something that some patients haven’t done for years,” said Ribaut. “Many may have even forgotten what a store looks like.” The shop was open from 10:00 a.m. to noon and 1:00 to 3:00 p.m.
In July 1970, the Somerton Youth Organization, a nonprofit group founded in 1955, acquired eleven acres of former Byberry property for use as baseball fields. Entering into a contract with the State Department of Property and Supplies, the organization leased the land for one dollar per year. It contained three baseball fields south of Southampton Road and east of the New York Short Line and is still in use by the organization today. Alfred Operacz, the group’s athletic director, reported that it had spent $1,700 to have the grass cut. He also praised the hospital, stating, “Relations with the hospital are fabulous. They give us every cooperation we ask.”
Byberry’s neighborly relations under Blain were one of its friendliest features. They were almost fractured however, on March 5, 1970, when a 180-pound, six-foot patient named Levi Graham was found living in one of the hospital’s steam tunnels, below the unused South Group. A police dog led authorities to Graham’s location, where he had been living for months. Graham was found to be in possession of keys to several buildings, including the kitchen. He had accumulated six cases of orange juice, five boxes of crackers, thirty loaves of bread, a case of canned tuna, a half-case of peanut butter, a case of tomato purée, four boxes of oatmeal cookies, a pocket knife and, of course, a can opener. Graham offered no resistance and was charged with various counts of theft. The same year, two patients were found dead on the hospital grounds.
By 1970, Dr. Blain, after some notable accomplishments, seemed to have lost his energetic fight to reform Byberry. It was said that he was seen less and less at the hospital. As an author, Blain published several books throughout his impressive career, one of which he wrote during his term at Byberry. His trusted assistant superintendent, Franklin R. Clarke, took on more and more of the responsibility for running the hospital. Whether Clarke was covering for Blain during his “authoring” is not known. However, Frank A. Salvatore, state representative from Byberry’s ward, was not impressed by Blain’s second career. “Dr. Blain spends his time writing books, using a state secretary and other personnel, and is unavailable at any time,” Salvatore said. “According to published reports, he receives an annual salary of $30,540.”
Salvatore’s comments did not seem to bother the seventy-one year old. He had lost the ability to stay on top of Byberry and had begun to favor other interests. After discussing the matter with Clarke, who had been practically running the hospital anyway, Blain resigned. He remained on the payroll, however, as a part-time assistant director of research and education. He was probably Byberry’s most efficient superintendent, and he knew it. During his administration, he cut Byberry’s population by more than half, from 6,100 to 2,600. Fortunately, he maintained his reputation and received public praise for his work at Byberry. Clarke officially stepped into the superintendent position in January 1971. His first year as superintendent should have been a warning. He stepped in at a time when Byberry was disintegrating faster than ever before, due to its yearly drops in funding. Upon his appointment as administrator, several interesting events took place.
In 1971, staff psychiatrist Dr. Lois Farquharson would become the center of a sensational murder trial. While working at Byberry, Farquharson met twenty-eight-year-old Gloria Burnette, a fellow employee. The fifty-five-year-old Farquharson became infatuated with Burnette, and the two women became lovers. But at a time when gay rights was a very touchy subject, their relationship was not well received by their supervisors. Dr. Leon Weingrad, Farquharson’s superior at Byberry, had voiced an opinion on the issue that led Farquharson to believe he was working on a way to dismiss her from her position. Fearing Weingrad was trying to keep the two apart, perhaps for other reasons, Farquharson talked Burnette into shooting Weingrad to death in the parking lot of her Society Hill Towers condominium. Both women were arrested, and a three-year trial followed.
Lynne Abraham, then an assistant district attorney, put the blame on Farquharson, calling her “the puppeteer…the string-puller.” But Farquharson’s attorney tried to paint Burnette as the evil manipulator. He said Farquharson had been “totally under the control of her lover, not the other way around.” But in March 1974, Farquharson was found guilty of first-degree murder and sentenced to life in prison. She filed for several appeals of her conviction, but none were granted.
In October 1973, as part of the next step in downsizing, Dr. Clarke announced that the patient transfer from the East Group had been completed. He also reported the closing of the three cottage chapels in the south group to save the $6,000 yearly heating cost. Representative Salvatore expressed his outrage at the decision. “It appears the department is more interested in protecting ghosts and political favorites at Byberry than in providing proper medical care and its necessary supporting facilities, or than in instituting sound business practices and inventory controls,” he said. “It’s not enough that they have stripped the patients of their dignity. Now they’re going to remove a source of religious inspiration which frequently is the only comfort for many of these unfortunate people.”
Female patients paint a mural in N-6, circa 1969. Pennsylvania State Archives, RG-23.
Clarke stayed positive. He pointed out, “It was only a few short years ago that patients were sleeping in basements, but this year there is only one occupied ward above the second floor in any building.” He also stated that the hospital policy was changed to allow patients to wear their own clothes instead of hospital-issued garb. Clarke, at a staff meeting, credited employees for their work during the year. “The job freeze, which saw our employees drop from 2,287 to 1,915 through attrition, resignations, deaths and retirements, can be expected to continue through the year,” he said, “while employees may look for another slight pay increase this year.” The year 1973, according to Clarke, was “one of the most confused ever.” A $3 million budget cut, the loss of 373 employees and the state’s hiring ban would make 1974 “another trying, turbulent, tumultuous year.”
The Wonderland camp had been on the chopping block for years when, in 1973, in response to more cuts in Byberry’s yearly budget, Clarke discontinued its use. It was costing the hospital almost $17,000 a year. The announcement was made publicly, and the residents of Buckingham were notified. They were relieved to finally be rid of the “big city’s” dirty mental camp. But two years later, like a haunting memento, the property’s new owner discovered the skeleton of sixty-four-year-old patient Gordon Smith in a wooded area on the edge of the property. Smith had walked away from the camp sometime before 1973, staff said, when he was declared a “walk-off.” Buckingham residents, in later years, would tell spook stories of the camp to children. It was Byberry’s mark on their small town.
In June 1975, a maintenance worker in W-6 building discovered the body of Mary Ann McGrath in an exhaust vent in the building’s roof penthouse. The body, in a “mummified state,” was identified through dental records. Housing only mechanical apparatus, the area was always kept locked to patients. McGrath, thirty-two, had been missing for nine months. She had been a patient at Byberry since the age of thirteen.
As early as 1969, talk loomed among city officials as to how to use the upcoming bicentennial celebration as a way to bring money into the city. The two-hundred-year anniversary of the signing of the Declaration of Independence was an event that Philadelphia had been counting on to bring it out of its shaky financial status. Many historic landmarks were rehabilitated and turned into tourist attractions, and many new structures were built, such as Veteran’s Stadium. With Byberry already downsizing, new land was available on portions of its 1,100 acres, and naturally, it became a point of interest to some as a possibility to be the site of the city’s festivities. The transfer of patients and equipment from the East Group was neari
ng completion, and the buildings would soon be vacant. Some suggested the city rehabilitate those buildings for use in the event.
Meanwhile, local efforts to raise funds for the restoration of the almost three-hundred-year-old birthplace of Benjamin Rush appeared in the form of school projects, candy sales, car washes and donations. Advocates for the land inclusion in the “bicen” had good cause for an uproar. They charged that the city had fought against the Byberry location from the beginning, for reasons of its own. Local officials and residents had formed a committee to raise money to save the Rush House. They were excited about their plan to restore the house as part of a colonial-based theme in what they called “Benjamin Rush Park.”
Left to right: hospital business manager William Simone, SYO athletic director Alfred Operacz, clinical director James Miller and SYO president Walter McHugh, 1970. Temple University Urban Archives.
Opening of the “His and Her Shop.” Pennsylvania State Archives, RG-23.
The city conveniently put an end to the debate however, when it “accidentally” demolished the house one night in 1969. Lawyer for the Rush House committee, Harold Rosenthal, accused the city of deliberately tearing the house down. The committee was able to save the debris from the house, however, and had it moved to the grounds of Byberry, with plans to reconstruct it. By 1972, after plans for the bicentennial had completely shifted from Byberry, the hospital was again in the dark. But the state continued to profit from sales of Byberry’s land, and Rosenthal and others continued to push for a park on the grounds named for Benjamin Rush. They recruited twenty-eight other community groups and organizations to join their cause.
The sale and lease of land continued, and a plot of ninety acres bordering Roosevelt boulevard on the east side, south of Southampton Road, was leased to the National Guard for its new armory, which was erected in 1972 and is still in use today. But while the state profited, the city grew weary of the sale of its land and looked into a way to acquire it back. The property had been reduced to approximately six hundred acres and only about a third of it was being used by the hospital. The legislature from 1938, which gave the state ownership of the property, stipulated that if the state did not continuously operate facilities on the land, it would revert back to the city. Bernard Meltzer, chairman of the City Planning Commission, spearheaded an effort to regain the land back for the city. “We feel the state is violating the agreement under which the land was given,” Meltzer said.
The Philadelphia State Hospital at Byberry: A History of Misery and Medicine (Landmarks) (PA) Page 12
