This happened on a chilly early Spring day in 1943. My cousin Jim Maas and I were hiking down a set of railroad tracks that run a bit to the north of Hopocan Gardens. We noticed a stream that passed into a culvert on the north side of the tracks but it didn't come out on the south side. On closer inspection, we discovered a manhole on the south side. It was buried in brush and the cover had been removed. The manhole led to a large concrete catch basin that collected the stream water and fed it into about a four-foot tall storm sewer. The neat little concrete catch basin room, was comfortably warm and of course we had to explore the sewer to find out where it went. It was dark, we had to crouch, the walls were slimy, footing was slippery and an occasional tree root would unexpectedly hit you in the head or slide across your face. We were convinced small beady red eyes were peering at us from further down the sewer.

 I had heard that sewers contained sewer gas and that stuff could kill you. Jim had heard that coal miners used to take birds into the mines to detect gas. The birds were supposed to die before the miners were affected. Jim's mother's canary disappeared for several hours one day. It survived and Jim's mother didn't even notice its absence.

 Our major problem was getting enough light to see where we were going. We had a flashlight but every battery in town had gone to the war effort. That left us with big fat candles from my dad's plumbing shop. We enlisted the help of Jim's cousin Jed. Jed was a tall strong fellow, several years our senior. His job was to crawl up the manholes as we encountered them and lift the covers with his shoulders. That way, he could peek out and we could figure out where we were. Jed worked out great for the first couple of manholes. They were in open fields. Then we got to the first one that opened in the middle of a street. Jed pushed up the cover and peeked out just in time to see a car about to pass over him. He yelled and dropped down the manhole, landing in the fluid beneath. Jed resigned his position in the expedition, muttering something about crazy cousins.

 About that time we discovered a map belonging to my grandfather. It showed all the sewer lines on the West Side of Barberton. Lo and behold, there was our sewer. It dumped into Wolf Creek near the Insulator. We located the exit. It was huge, probably in the neighborhood of twelve feet tall. Who knows the depth (or content) of the fluid flowing from it. That's when we learned that sewer gas will explode. We knew there wasn't enough gas to kill a canary, but what about when you get closer to Wolf Creek? We figured the only sure way to find out was to send a burning candle floating down the sewer. If the gas exploded, we would be well advised to find another way to spend our time.

 You drive a nail through a short board, push a candle onto the nail and light it. Launch the burning candle at the catch basin and stand back a respectable distance. Thank God, there was no explosion. Perhaps our little raft had capsized or maybe there wasn't enough gas to cause a problem. We didn't know which. It was getting warm by then and we decided to shift our attention to pebble rock and Wintergreen ledges. However, had there been an explosion, manhole covers would have been flying around Barberton like potato chips in a heavy wind. There would have been newspaper reports of sabotage and enemy attacks. Jim and I would still be in jail and Jed would still be laughing. In case you wonder what ever happened to Cousin Jim, he became a cop in Akron and spent his time dealing with juvenile delinquents. My dad always said, "God is just."