Winter/Spring 2011 by 812 Magazine

812 IS INDIANA STILL THE

BASKETBALL STATE?

The Magazine of Southern Indiana WINTER/SPRING 2011

EAT! 7 diners only the locals know

UNDERGROUND RAILROAD

Hoosier Conductors

SUGAR CREAM PIE THE CAVE MAN ROCKS IN TREES SOUTHERN INDIANA FIRSTS

A vegetarian 1 goes camo: 812 WINTER/ Her reluctant SPRING 2011 turkey hunt

8 1 2 M AG A Z I N E STA F F

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Julia Bergman is the online editor for 812. She loved exploring Southern Indiana and seeing how Levi Kissinger’s family supports his racing career – even serving as his pit crew during the racing season.

A vegetarian who likes to try new things, Alexandra Brown tagged along with outdoorsman Bill Keith on her first – and possibly last – turkey hunt. While she didn’t have to shoot a gobbler, she has new respect for hunters and their prey.

The art director for 812 magazine, senior Larry Buchanan says he gained nearly 15 pounds while trying to become a regular at a Southern Indiana diner. He also designed 812 magazine from cover to cover.

812 departments editor Megan Erbacher was born and raised in Southern Indiana. While reporting her story on diners, she was reminded just how important family and friends are in life and is very thankful for hers.

Alex Farris breakfasted with the “War Council” of Laconia, Indiana’s smallest official town, and rolled through the only four-way stop sign. He also shot pictures of the Washington High School basketball game.

A native of Indianapolis, Kelsey Finn grew up listening to John Mellencamp’s “Small Town.” So she loved getting to know Bobbie Lancaster, a rising singer/songwriter from Southern Indiana.

Andy Gaboury has lived in Indiana his whole life but had never heard of the Tri-State Tornado. As he found out, most other people haven’t either, even though it was the deadliest twister in U.S. history.

812 departments editor Alyssa Goldman never tasted sugar cream pie before writing “A Taste of Southern Indiana.” “Once I took that first bite, I couldn’t stop,” she says. “Writing this piece was not good for my waistline.”

Jessica Haney has been surrounded by Indiana limestone for four years, but only recently came to appreciate it. She discovered the critter-filled façade of Indiana University’s Maxwell Hall and nearly choked on the limestone dust in a carving class.

Kolby Harrell grew up in Trafalgar, Ind., and remembers getting cut from his basketball team – twice. “I combined my love for writing with my lack of athletic ability and started pursuing sports in a different arena,” he says.

Sarah Hutchins sifted through hundreds of fascinating facts to write her Southern Indiana firsts list. She can tell you where the nation’s first successful goldfish farm is located (Martinsville) and the weight of Indiana’s largest steer (4,720 pounds).

Senior Katie Lehman loved the opportunity to discover more about the place she’s called home the past four years. Above all, she enjoyed learning about Indiana limestone, truly “the nation’s building stone.”

812 magazine managing editor CJ Lotz will take another cup of coffee, please. While visiting diners for the cover story, CJ enjoyed bottomless cups and her favorite meal – breakfast.

Tom Miller spent weekends underground with veteran spelunker Sam Frushour. When not crawling through Southern Indiana caves, Tom works as a freelance photographer.

A Cincinnati native, Laura Mullen read George Rogers Clark’s firsthand account of the fall of Fort Sackville in Vincennes. She likes history and enjoyed visiting the memorial in Vincennes.

Cassandra Orton, managing editor of 812 magazine, says what began as a teeth-clenching ride through the forest turned into a new passion – mountain biking. Now she’s eager to return to Corydon and the bike trails.

A native of Spencer, Scott McDaniel studied journalism at Butler University. After a few years at a Kentucky newspaper, he enrolled in the IU School of Journalism graduate program and proposed the creation of this magazine.

A lecturer at the IU School of Journalism, Nancy Comiskey had the honor of working with 17 talented young journalists on this magazine – and the privilege of rediscovering the state she loves through their eyes.

Special thanks to Malinda Aston, Gena Asher, Kurtis Beavers, Anne Kibbler and Jeff Soper for their help in creating this magazine.

TA B L E O F CO N T E N TS

Departments

A Taste of Southern Indiana

What I’ve Learned

Indiana’s sugar cream pie is anything but humble. By Alyssa Goldman

Miss Indiana Gabrielle Reed tells 812 what she’s discovered about the state she calls home. By Kelsey Finn

Editor’s Note

Get Out of Town So how did a rock the size of a refrigerator get in that sycamore tree? Go see for yourself. By Jessica Haney

The 812 List A glass of tomato juice, a shapely Coke bottle and a sandwich in space. Just a few Southern Indiana firsts. By Sarah Hutchins

Features

Vegetarian Alexandra Brown went hunting for Indiana’s wild gobblers, but found new respect for the people behind the camo.

7 Hoosier diners where you can pull up a chair and eat with the locals. By Megan Erbacher, CJ Lotz and Larry Buchanan

In the mid-1800s, one mile of river separated Kentucky from Indiana and slavery from freedom. Meet the men and women – both black and white – who put the lives of strangers before their own. By Sarah Hutchins

Sam Frushour has explored Southern Indiana’s caves for half a century. He’s colorblind, but not in the underground world where everybody sees in black and light. Words and images by Tom Miller

Turkey Club

Is Indiana Still the Basketball State? Some say we’ve lost the Hysteria that used to go with Hoosier. But find the right gym on the right night, and, well, you’ll wonder why we had to ask. By Kolby Harrell

Dare to Do Right

Eat!

The Caver

There’s something special about Southern Indiana – the absorbing personalities you may encounter, the unforgettable places waiting to be discovered and the rich stories of yesterday too often left untold. All these things together make Southern Indiana a destination as well as a great place to live. That’s where 812: The Magazine of Southern Indiana comes in. In our premiere issue, we explore the timeless gathering place that is the Southern Indiana diner. We offer a convincing answer to the question, “Is Indiana Still the Basketball State?” We even send a vegetarian reporter on her first, and likely last, turkey hunt, where she sees hunters aiming to save the state’s wildlife. Whether you’re from Southern Indiana or just passing through, we’re confident that when you read our magazine in print and at 812magazine. com, you’ll have a new appreciation for the region. As for us, we’ll continue taking the winding back roads in our search for the distinctive stories that create the fingerprint of Southern Indiana. It’s a resource we won’t exhaust anytime soon. Scott McDaniel

Cover photo by Tom Miller. Model Kate Suffern is a senior in the IU Deparment of Theatre & Drama. Special thanks to Zach Hetrick for his assistance.

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EXCLUSIVE ONLINE CONTENT

Opening the West

Indiana Bound

The Tri-State Twister

From 0 to 130 mph

George Rogers Clark used song, spirit and a clever ruse to defeat the British at Fort Sackville, claim Vincennes and open the Northwest Territory for America. By Laura Mullen

Like the lyrics of her songs, folksinger/songwriter Bobbie Lancaster is rooted in her home state. Now she’s balancing music and motherhood. By Kelsey Finn

How a normal spring day in 1925 spawned the deadliest tornado in U.S. history and changed three Indiana towns forever. By Andy Gaboury

A Mount Vernon racer breaks out of the pack . . . and his family is right behind. By Julia Bergman

30 People Strong

Hike and Bike Corydon

Written in Stone

Southern Indiana Hospitality

Indiana’s smallest town, with big help from one of Indiana’s leading philanthropists, is finding its sense of community again. By Alex Farris

Our first state capital boasts not only history, but some of the toughest mountain biking trails in Indiana. By Cassandra Orton

Formed millennia ago in the tropical sea that covered the Midwest, Indiana limestone today graces the most famous buildings in the world. By Jessica Haney and Katie Lehman

Three B&B’s where you can journey into the past, visit a working farm or get back to nature – all while feeling right at home. By Alyssa Goldman

All of this and more at 812magazine.com

812:

The Magazine of Southern Indiana Winter/Spring 2011 Volume 1, Number 1 812 was conceived, reported, written, photographed, edited and designed by students in J360 Creating an Indiana Magazine at the Indiana University School of Journalism. Contents may not be reproduced without the written consent of the School. If you’re interested in advertising

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in 812, or if you’d like copies to distribute at your place of business, please contact Nancy Comiskey at ncomiske@indiana.edu.

Tell us what you think We’d like to know how you like the premier issue of 812: The Magazine of Southern Indiana. Please take a few moments to fill out the survey here or online at www.812magazine.com. Do you currently live in the 812 area code? If so, in what city? If you answered yes to the previous question: At which locally owned store would you be most likely to pick up a copy of 812? Please rate the quality of content for 812 Magazine (1 least enjoyable, 5 most enjoyable) 1 2 3 4 5 Where did you pick up this copy of 812 Magazine? (Please be specific with the city and location.)

How likely are you to recommend 812 magazine to others? (1 least likely, 5 most likely) 1 2 3 4 5 Based on your experience with 812 magazine, would you read the next issue? Yes No What topics would you be most interested in reading about?

Which age category best describes you? Under 18 18-25 26-40 40-55 55+ Gender? Male Female Additional comments? Please mail your response to: 812 Magazine Indiana University School of Journalism 940 E. 7th Street Bloomington, IN 47405

A TA ST E O F S O U T H E R N I N D I A N A Bake your own Hoosier state pie

Ingredients: ½ cup sugar ¼ cup corn starch 12-oz. can evaporated milk ½ cup water 1 teaspoon vanilla ½ cup butter ¼ teaspoon cinnamon 1 prebaked pie shell

ot o by m To Mi lle r

Instructions: In

Indiana’s Not-SoHumble Pie

Sugar cream pie may be made from simple ingredients, but it leaves a lasting legacy on your taste buds. By Alyssa Goldman You won’t be able to take just one bite out of a slice of sugar cream pie – a custard pie with a little spice and a whole lot of sweetness. Indiana declared sugar cream pie the official “Hoosier State Pie” on Jan. 23, 2009. It’s known as a “desperation pie,” says author Joanne Raetz Stuttgen, who ate at nearly 500 restaurants to write “Café Indiana: A Guide to Indiana’s Down Home Cafés.” The traditional dessert is made from a barebones recipe with ingredients cooks usually have on hand. Most recipes for sugar cream pie include heavy

cream or evaporated milk and sugar. Some people use flour or cornstarch to add thickness. Others add eggs for a richer flavor and color. And the cooking methods differ, too. “You can cook it on the stove,” Stuttgen says. “You can bake it in the oven. Or you can do a combination of both.” Historians disagree on the pie’s origins. The Indiana Foodways Alliance, which promotes Indiana’s food, claims that the Hoosier sugar cream pie originated in Quaker settlements in Wayne County between 1810 and 1825. Arguably, the tastiest sugar cream pie in the state can still be found there, specifically in Winchester, Ind., where Indiana’s most famous producer of sugar cream pies, Wick’s Pies, Inc., was founded more than 60 years ago. Some food historians attribute the pie’s origins to Dutch and German immigrants moving to Indiana from Pennsylvania while others believe it developed from the Indiana Shaker community of the early 1800s. Yet another theory is that migrants from Appalachia brought “transparent pie,” a variation on sugar cream pie, with them. No matter its origins, sugar cream pie is distinctive to Indiana. “It is an iconic state pie,” Stuttgen says. “You can’t find it far beyond the Indiana borders.”

a small bowl, stir together the sugar and cornstarch. In a saucepan, heat the evaporated milk and water over medium heat; add vanilla, butter and cinnamon. Bring mixture nearly to a boil then stir in sugar and cornstarch mixture, a little at a time, stirring constantly. Cook, stirring constantly, over medium-low heat until mixture thickens. Quickly pour into prebaked pie shell; dust with cinnamon.

Want a taste, but don’t want to cook and clean the dishes? Joanne Raetz Stuttgen, author of “Café Indiana: A Guide to Indiana’s Down Home Cafés,” says the best sugar cream pie in Southern Indiana is at the Newberry Cafe at 103 5th St. in Newberry. Hours: 5 a.m. – 1:30 p.m. Monday-Saturday; closed Sunday $1.25 per slice $10 for one pie

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W H AT I ’ V E L E A R N E D

Indiana Miss

Gabrielle Reed was born in L.A., but Indiana is her home. She tells 812 why. By Kelsey Finn Gabrielle Reed, 23, has taken a year off from her studies as a vocal performance major in the Indiana University Jacobs School of Music to pursue her duties as Miss Indiana. Reed was born in Los Angeles, but moved to Bluffton, Ind., when she was 12. She has traveled to the northern and southern tips of the state for appearances. 812 spoke to Reed about the appeal of New Harmony, singer Angela Brown and comedy clubs. What word comes to mind when you think of Southern Indiana? Greenery. All the trees. Because I’ve driven back and forth from Indiana to L.A. several times, I think Indiana is definitely one of the prettiest states. What does Indiana offer that you don’t have in L.A.? Indiana will always be the place I consider home, because this is where all the best things in my life have happened. Not only coming to IU and being Miss Indiana, but it has allowed me to grow into who I am without the hustle-bustle and superficiality that you would find in L.A. Indiana allows you to create a separate life for yourself. In L.A., I would have been pushed into acting or modeling, and I would not have been able to pursue the classical route I’ve taken.

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Where is the most unusual place in Southern Indiana you have visited? New Harmony. It’s a small historical town originally founded as a utopian society. Being able to walk through a small town and go

an hour or so without seeing one other person is a little bit eerie but extremely peaceful. What is something people would be surprised to know about you? I like going to comedy clubs. I follow a few comedians like Todd Barry and Jimmy Door, who is similar to Jon Stewart. I don’t like vulgar humor — it’s an easy way to make a joke. Who is your favorite Indiana musician? Angela Brown, who is a very successful soprano. She got her master’s degree at IU. There’s kind of this fear that opera and classical music is dying, and she’s really made it her project to change that. She’s the one big name from Indiana who’s being proactive about the movement. What else have you experienced in Southern Indiana? A lot of great musicians have come through here. I mean Hoagy Carmichael is definitely one of them. I went to a reception for the Starr Gennett Foundation in Richmond, Ind. Gennett Records is one of the original jazz labels that is no longer in existence. It had some of the old greats like Louis Armstrong and Duke Ellington.

Vocal performance major Gabrielle Reed says Indiana has a legacy of great musicians. / Photo by Alex Farris

GET OUT OF TOWN

Out on a Limb

What business does a rock the size of a refrigerator have in the top of a sycamore tree in the middle of the forest? Brown County experts narrow the possibilities. By Jessica Haney It all started in 1998 when a turkey hunter named Brad Price stumbled upon a giant sandstone boulder nestled 35 feet off the ground in the branches of an oak tree in Yellowwood State Forest. The phenomenon appeared in nearby newspapers and became known as Gobbler’s Rock. This rock took an unexpected dive in 2006, but more boulders have popped up in trees since. The question still remains — how in the heck did they get up there? “It’s just so unusual,” says Sheri Sloan, a friend of Price’s from Eminence, Ind. Sloan became fascinated by the rocks nearly a decade ago and has quizzed loggers, Department of Natural Resources employees and locals. Yet no logical solution has surfaced. “One thought was that it’s the military with nothing to do,” she says. But there’s no evidence that heavy equipment or a helicopter ever got close. “I think it’s going to stump me forever.” Other theories are that dynamite rocketed the boulders to their position, that a tornado lifted them into the trees and that the rocks were used as Native American deer stands. One website claims that it’s the product of “acoustic levitation.” Of course, the most outrageous theory is that aliens dropped them there. Experts at Yellowwood aren’t sure how many of the rocks-in-trees exist, but the most wellknown are the two boulders resting in sycamore trees, 100 yards apart, in a remote part of the forest near Plum Creek. It’s about a 35-minute hike from the car drop-off, along a trail and through the brush, and requires a creek crossing—not exactly for the faint of heart, but definitely doable. “People hiking the back country are more likely to come about them,” says Jim Eagleman, a naturalist for Brown County State Park. Eagleman keeps a file for all the information he can get about the rocks and has imagined a theory of his own: Somebody pulled the boulders up using a block and tackle, perhaps as a prank. “I don’t know how else you can do it,” Eagleman says. “Somebody somewhere is having a laugh over this.”

See for yourself Here are directions to one of the sycamores in Yellowwood State Forest. See if you can find the other. Just make sure to bring a compass and a GPS. From SR 45 near Helmsburg, take Indian Hill Road south until it intersects with Plum Creek Road. Leave your car at the drop-off to the left just before the intersection. Hike the Tecumseh Trail heading east. The trek is approximately a mile long. Follow the marked trail as it leans north until it intersects with Plum Creek. From here, make sure to have the GPS handy. Ditch the marked trail and hike east up the creek on the north bank for a half mile or so, then keep your eyes peeled for the trees. The fewer leaves, the better. Coordinates: N39° 14’ 59.1”, W86° 18’ 33.5”

Did a tornado, aliens or a practical jokester lift this sandstone boulder into the branches of a sycamore tree along Plum Creek in Yellowwood State Forest? Grab a GPS, take a hike and see what you think. / Photo by Jessica Haney

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IS INDIANA STILL THE

BASKETBALL STATE? Some say we’ve lost the Hysteria that used to go with Hoosier. But find the right gym on the right night and, well, you’ll wonder why we even had to ask. By Kolby Harrell

Basketball hoops dot the Southern Indiana landscape. Photos by Kolby Harrell and Alex Farris

y grandpa was raised during the Depression on a small 42-acre farm in Flat Rock, Ind. His mother sold eggs at the local market, and his father raised corn, oats, clover hay, cattle and hogs. When he was 12, his father rigged a backboard and a hoop to an old telephone post in the barn lot â&#x20AC;&#x201C; a much-needed upgrade from the tin can he had nailed

to the side of the garage. Students in Flat Rock didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t have organized basketball until the seventh grade, which for my grandpa came in 1949. During planting and harvesting seasons, he ran a plow for 33 cents an hour, earning up to $4 a day.

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Come winter, though, he longed to do what every other Hoosier farm boy wanted to do. Play basketball.

About 6,500 fans filled the Hatchet House to watch Washington High School win its first home game of the season. Indiana University recruit Cody Zeller led his team with 30 points. / Photo by Alex Farris.

My grandpa speaks of those days in a reverent tone, as if to seal the game in a jar the same way his mother used to can peaches. Those peaches tasted even sweeter in the dead of winter, he recalls. His stories about playing high school basketball in the early 1950s are the same for me. He pulls a jar from the shelf, wipes the dust from the lid and opens it to remind me of the way the game used to be. Then, after a long pause, he sets the jar aside, shakes his head and tells me basketball is losing ground in Indiana. Most Hoosiers would agree that the game has fallen on tough times. It’s been almost 15 years since the Indiana High School Athletic Association ruled in favor of four-class basketball, ending the state’s storied single-class tournament. Indiana University is still struggling after two of its worst seasons in the program’s history. And there’s a lot more to do on a Friday night these days than watch high school basketball. Some of us question if our self-proclamation as “the basketball state” is anything more than a failed attempt to preserve what little Hysteria we Hoosiers have left. Maybe if we continue talking about how much we love basketball, letting the delightful taste of what once was linger, we’ll be able to convince the other 49 states that Indiana still deserves that title. Regardless of where you stand on the question, let’s reach through the cobwebs together and open a jar of sweet, old-fashioned Indiana basketball. Now, I understand that some people need more than just canned history to prove that we’re still the basketball state, and I’ll get to that. But for now, let’s look at how

the game of basketball, as we know it today, grew organically from Indiana soil.

We fit the game.

Back when basketball was nothing more than a seed, it fell on our rich Indiana soil. Hoosiers nurtured the game and watched it flourish. The growing conditions were perfect. Eventually, the game’s roots reached deep into the ground, and basketball became a part of our state’s identity. Even James Naismith, the inventor of the game, once wrote that basketball was established in Massachusetts, but had its trueorigins in Indiana. One of his top aides, the Rev. Nicholas McKay, brought the game to Crawfordsville, Ind., in the late 1800s. Once here, he substituted iron hoops for Naismith’s peach baskets, taking the first step toward the modern-day rims and nets and the notion that we Hoosiers “perfected” the game. By 1911, the IHSAA had established the first official high school boys’ tournament with 12 teams. Fittingly, Crawfordsville was the first state champion. Over the next 25 years, the state tournament grew as more schools formed basketball teams. By the 1930s, nearly 800 teams competed in the winner-take-all tournament. The nature of Indiana, with its network of small towns and farming communities, drove the sport’s popularity. Most kids worked on farms in the spring and fall, which left winter free for

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sports. Basketball aligned perfectly with the seasons, not interrupting planting and harvesting the way baseball and football did. Those sports also required more players and greater start-up costs for equipment. But even the smallest school could have a basketball team. It only takes five boys to play, seven if you need substitutes. “Hoosiers,” the movie based on the 1954 state championship game between Milan and Muncie Central, captures that small town flavor. Today, the Milan Miracle is one of basketball’s most celebrated underdog stories. Similar upsets happened in Kentucky, Illinois and Wisconsin, but it was the story from Indiana that was made into an Oscar-nominated film. Emerson Houck, author of “Hoosiers All: Indiana High School Basketball Teams,” has followed Indiana basketball for more than 50 years. He says as more schools entered the tournament, the state became better connected. Winning teams traveled to other regions and carried with them values such as playing hard, winning and losing with grace and working together as a team. As important as travel, though, were the local sectionals and the pride towns took in having the best basketball team in their area. Champion teams became part of a town’s identity, giving rise to the construction of enormous gyms all over the state, each packed with as many as 10,000 fans on Friday night. Today, Indiana still has nine of the 10 largest high school gymnasiums in the country.

up-tempo style of play. Branch McCracken, a former All-American under Dean, went on to coach the Hoosiers to two NCAA championships in 1940 and 1953. His team, called the Hurryin’ Hoosiers or “point-a-minute men,” pushed the ball up the floor as Dean’s teams had done. While the fast-paced, offensive attack wasn’t limited to Indiana, it was a style of play most often found in the Midwest. Dean and McCracken popularized what was called “firehouse basketball.” Bob Knight brought his disciplined defense, his commitment to a clean program and his incendiary temper to Indiana University in 1971. In his 30 seasons in Bloomington, he coached the Hoo-

Indiana still has nine of the 10 largest high school gyms in the country.

We spread the word.

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In those cavernous fieldhouses, Indiana produced some of its most valuable crops. Basketball players, coaches and styles of play sprouted from the hardwood in front of the largest high school crowds in the country. As the sport became more popular, state borders began to fade. But if you travel to other basketball-crazed states today and dig deep enough, you’ll find Indiana roots. Take John Wooden. Before becoming the coach at UCLA, Wooden led Martinsville High School to three straight consecutive state finals as a player, winning the championship in 1927. He later won twice as many NCAA championships as any other basketball coach in history. Everett Case, who coached Frankfort High School to four state championships, popularized basketball in North Carolina and the ACC after being named head coach at North Carolina State in 1946. Case’s winning record, which spanned his 18-year career, still stands as the best in school history. It’s even rumored that he took from Indiana the tradition of cutting down the nets after a big win. “I’m not sure who started that,” Houck says. “I don’t remember them cutting down nets in Illinois in the ‘50s. I can’t swear they didn’t do it in Kansas, but I would bet it probably is a tradition rooted in Indiana.” Everett Dean, the first basketball All-American at Indiana University, went on to coach at his alma mater and is credited with developing what he called “progressive basketball,” the modernday fast break. Dean then took his coaching style out west to Stanford, leading the team to the 1942 NCAA championship with his

siers to one NIT championship, three NCAA championships and 11 Big Ten conference championships. He also coached the USA men’s Olympic team to a gold medal in 1984 and currently holds the record for most career wins by an NCAA men’s basketball coach. Fired in 2000 after an altercation with a student, Knight finished his coaching career at Texas Tech University where his son, Pat, still coaches today. Larry Bird, the “hick from French Lick,” led Indiana State in 1979 to its first NCAA tournament appearance, losing in the national championship game his senior year. Bird then won three NBA championships as a Boston Celtic, earning MVP honors in ’84, ’85 and ’86. After his playing career, Bird returned to Indiana and coached the Pacers for three years. Today, he’s the Pacers’ president but remains a basketball legend in Boston. “A lot of states claim to be big on basketball,” says Bob Padgett, author of “Hatchets – A Comprehensive History of Washington High School Basketball.” “But there sure is a lot of Hoosier blood in those places.”

We broke barriers.

From 1910 to 1940, the Great Migration changed America’s racial landscape. Nearly 2 million black men and women headed for points north, mostly big, industrialized cities like Indianapolis and Gary. The migration sparked racism in those states, shifting the Ku Klux Klan’s political power from the South and reinforcing barriers that would soon be broken on the basketball court. In 1947, Bill Garrett led Shelbyville High School to a state championship and was named Indiana’s Mr. Basketball. That fall he arrived at Indiana University and became the first black basketball player in the Big Ten. Indiana author and sportswriter Bob Hammel says Garrett’s recruitment had a sociological impact on the game. “It was a gentleman’s agreement, of all things to call it, that no one in the Big Ten would draft black players,” Hammel says. “As shameful as that era was, it was transitioning on its own.” The Klan had long played a role in Indianapolis politics and

pushed to keep schools racially divided. The IHSAA banned black, private and parochial schools from the tournament until the mid1940s. In 1955, Indiana still had three all-black high schools, two of which played in the state title game. Crispus Attucks, led by Oscar Robertson and coach Ray Crowe, became the first all-black school to win an integrated tournament anywhere in the nation. “It was especially pronounced because of the racism and conservatism in Indiana,” says IU sport sociologist Gary Sailes. Attucks’ win dispelled myths of inferiority and proved that black athletes could compete at the highest level. “Just give us a chance and open the door,” Sailes says. Attucks’ victory also marked the first time an Indianapolisbased school won the tournament in its 44-year history. The Tigers then went on to win state in 1956 and again in 1959. “Crowe’s coaching style centered on the talent and athleticism of his players. He let the horses out of the corral, so to speak,” Sailes says. “During a time when the philosophy of basketball was to slow it down and work the play, Attucks would come out, put on a dunking show during warm-ups, run their opponents hard on offense and swarm them on defense. It was a style of play most of the opposing teams had never seen.” In 1966, Texas Western upset heavily favored Kentucky to become the first team in NCAA history to win a national championship with five black starters, two from Gary, Ind. The game is considered a milestone in the integration of black basketball players in college. But Hammel says Attucks’ earlier success helped make that milestone reachable. “Eleven years prior to that, in a state that once was a Klan state, Indiana accepted the fact that blacks could play basketball quite well,” he says.

Do we still have it?

Basketball is written in our state’s history. We helped shape the game and the game helped shape us. It built schools, defined communities and brought the entire state together. It’s easy to get caught up in that history – to think back to a simpler time when basketball breathed life into every single town in Indiana. Back when nobody would question whether or not we were the basketball state because, well, we were mad about it. Irrational. Maniacal. Hysterical. And if you were crazy enough to doubt it, you still weren’t as crazy as Hoosiers’ love for the game. The question, though, isn’t were we once the basketball state. That’s easy. Just sit down with my grandpa for 30 minutes and he’ll tell you about Friday night games at Flat Rock, the packed gyms, the cheer blocks and the way they turned the firehouse into a dance hall after a big win. He’ll tell you about taking his sweetheart to the Chicken and Steak Inn for a Coke before cruising around Shelbyville’s town square in his gray 1949 Pontiac sedan. He’ll tell you about his Flat Rock letterman jacket, how they used to issue them only to basketball players, and then he’ll try it on and laugh at how it fits a little tighter these days. But as sweet as those stories are, we can’t live off canned history forever. So my grandpa and I drove south on State Road 57 to watch Cody Zeller and the Washington Hatchets open their season against fellow Daviess County rival Barr-Reeve. Before Zeller signed with IU in November, he was one of the most soughtafter recruits in college basketball. He’s just one of eight high school players to recently commit to the Hoosiers, seven of them from Indiana and five of them among the top 100 recruits

Bob Knight coaches former Mr. Basketball Steve Alford in 1986. The team won the NCAA Championship the next year, and Alford is now head coach at the University of New Mexico. / Photo by Tom Hirschfeld, The Arbutus

in their class. We arrived in Washington not long before tip-off and had to park three blocks from the gym. The Hatchet House, as it’s affectionately known, seats 7,090. That night, the team unfurled last year’s state championship banner, the sixth one in Washington’s history and the third in the Zeller era. We walked in at court level and were surrounded by fans and gold and black banners hanging from the rafters. Dave Crooks, the voice of the Hatchets for the past nine years, says attendance was easily 6,500. It was a Wednesday night. Roger Gillingham hasn’t missed a Washington game since 1976. He sits courtside every week keeping stats of the game. “I’m a little off tonight,” he tells me as he reviews his game notes. “Missed a couple of baskets there in the second quarter.” Gillingham never looks up from his stat sheet as we talk. Not until I ask him if basketball in Indiana is dead. He shoots me a puzzled look. “Dead?” he asks, now laughing. “I can’t speak for other parts of the state, but around here, in Daviess and Martin counties, in Southern Indiana, basketball hasn’t slowed down a bit. Just look at all these fans.” Washington won. Zeller put up 30 points and 13 rebounds. After the game, my grandpa and I drove in silence for a while. Then, somewhere along old U.S. 50, I spoke up. “There sure were a lot of people in attendance tonight.” “Yeah,” he said. “Kind of reminds me of back when I played ball.” He smiled. We arrived home and added another jar to the shelf, this one fresher than the rest, with a shiny lid and our reflections in the glass. Neither of us said anything else, but we both knew it. Basketball in Indiana still tastes just as sweet.

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Vegetarian Alexandra Brown went hunting for Indiana’s wild gobblers, but found new respect for the people behind the camo.

TURKEYCLUB BY ALEXANDRA BROWN | PHOTOS BY TOM MILLER

e sit hunched over, masked by the bushes and our camouflage clothing. We stare into the open field as expansive clouds hover above us, streaks of early sunlight peering through the gray. We hear the occasional rustle of leaves blowing, and I rub my hands together for warmth. Bill Keith holds a round turkey call in his left hand, guiding the wooden rod across its surface. Back and forth. Back and forth. It releases a slow screech one, two, three, four times. Then it is silent, and we wait again for the sight or sound of a turkey. Keith’s shotgun leans against a small tree, and, as a vegetarian, I can’t help but worry if I’ll have the stomach to shoot it should I actually see a turkey. People raised their eyebrows when I told them I was doing this. But I like doing things no one would expect of me, that I wouldn’t even expect of myself. I wasn’t always a vegetarian, but a former yoga teacher taught me all of the health benefits: lower cholesterol, better posture, better concentration. Staying active is important to me, but hunting was one sport I knew nothing about. I was curious about the hunter and what motivated him to take an animal’s life. Keith, 53, is an avid turkey hunter and creates his own turkey calls for sale. His face captures the innocence of a child when he says he hunts every chance he gets and rarely sleeps during turkey season. But 60 years ago, sportsmen like Keith wouldn’t have had that option. As late as 1945, Indiana had no signs of a turkey population. In the early 1900s, years of habitat destruction and lax hunting regulations wiped out most wild turkeys in North America, according to the National Wildlife Turkey Federa-

Hunter Bill Keith argues that his handmade turkey callers sound better than the real thing. He hopes to make 1,000 callers before spring turkey season opens April 27.

tion. Restoration programs began to release wild turkeys in 1956 when farm-raised turkeys failed to survive in the wild. Indiana traded its grouse for wild turkeys from Missouri to restore the population, says Nathan Yazel, a wildlife biologist for the Indiana Department of Natural Resources. In 1970 Indiana had its first modern turkey season.

t’s difficult to be grateful for a healthy turkey population as I drag my body out of bed at 4 a.m. to meet Keith for my first and possibly last hunting trip. Two hours later, I pull into a parking lot near Holiday World in Santa Claus, Ind. Dressed in camouflage overalls and

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a NWTF baseball cap, Keith stands out among the plastic Santas and candy canes. He waits stiffly next to his red Dodge Dakota pickup truck, hands in his pockets. “Hi. Nice to meet you,” I say, and we shake hands. I apologize for being a little late. To fill the awkward silence, Keith says he can’t understand why his two daughters married guys who don’t like the outdoors. He hands me a camouflage shirt and pants, and I slip them on over my clothes. We drive, twisting and winding down heavily wooded roads. A few minutes later, we pull onto a small grassy patch of land, a 100-acre farm in Grandview, Ind., where he has legal permission to hunt. But another pick-up truck is already parked there. He calls his friend to see if he is out hunting already but then realizes it isn’t his friend’s truck. “We got company then,” he says. Keith says trespassing is an ongoing issue that court systems don’t take seriously enough. Trespassing is mostly an issue of safety. More than half of all shooting accidents occur on private land, and most shooters involved have more than 16 years of turkey hunting experience, according to the DNR. It’s important for hunters to know who is on the land because both the turkey and the hunter’s heads are at about the same level, Yazel says. Turkeys spend most of their time on the ground, feeding, breeding and nesting in open, grassy areas. While Indiana has never had a fatal turkey hunting accident since its first modern turkey season, hunters are injured every year. Keith seems flustered by the unexpected visitor to the farm

hunters use pop-up blinds, which look like a camouflage camping tent. He says turkeys don’t notice them. “But a deer is like, ‘Who in the hell moved in overnight?’” he says. Other hunters don’t use calls because they know where the turkeys will be. But Keith lives for the chance to call in a turkey. He even argues that his own calls are better than a turkey’s. “A turkey is the worst turkey caller in the world,” he says. “They sound like crap.” But a hunter can never know what kind of call the turkey will respond to. On a trip to Oklahoma, Keith hunted with a friend who was a terrible caller. While Keith wanted to take over, the turkey would only respond to his friend’s call. The most common methods to hunt turkey are with a shotgun or bow and arrow, and the hunter needs to be about 30 to 40 yards away. Hunters need to be careful because turkeys can get away fast. Their powerful legs allow them to run up to 12 mph. Sharp spurs on their legs have been known to cut hunters who get too close. Turkeys can fly short distances, but usually run when threatened. They can weigh 30 pounds, and the subspecies native to Indiana – the Eastern wild turkey – tends to be larger to survive the cold weather. As we sit in silence, Keith taps the wooden caller rod against his knuckles. Then, in a moment of defeat, he says, “I’m afraid none of this is going like it’s supposed to.” I’m both disappointed and relieved. It was one thing to shoot a turkey. But then he explained how hunters have to stand on its head afterward to make sure it’s dead.

“The turkey has got the eyes of an eagle. They’ve got the hearing of a bat.”

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and smokes a quick cigarette before I follow him in silence to the open fields. He pauses for a while, staring into the distance as he tries to figure out where we should hide. He decides on a spot in the corner of the field, covered by bushes. I sit perfectly still, listening as he releases a call first with a mouth caller and then with one of the wooden callers he makes at home. Male turkeys are called “gobblers” because of the loud, robust calls they use during the spring mating season, when turkeys are most active. Keith says the choice of call and caller are based on the hunter’s preference. There are box calls, mouth calls, diaphragm calls, wing calls and scratch calls, but it only takes one call to hunt a turkey. Still, even after about 20 minutes, we see and hear nothing. “Plan B,” Keith says. A part of me is hoping we call it quits right then. My eyes dart toward the woods whenever I hear the semblance of a bird, thinking it’s a turkey and that in a matter of seconds I will have to shoot the gun. Keith cautions that we both need to be quieter, but I can’t imagine how much quieter we can get. We settle on a fallen log in field number two. While Keith hides in the natural scenery of the forest, some

e walk through the forest, stopping to taste fresh persimmons and observing wild ginseng and deer rub, the scrapes deer antlers make against the trunks of trees. I savor the persimmon’s sweet, apricot-like flavor. Keith tells me about how just a week ago some kids trespassed on the farm, burning tires and trashing the property. “So many people disrespect the outdoors. It makes me sick,” he says. A little dirty and a little tired, we head back to the red pickup truck. A few miles from the farm, we visit Keith’s good friend Gary Ayer, owner of Ayer’s Sporting Goods and winner of the Indiana Hunter Education Association “Outstanding Achievement” award. The IHEA is a not-for-profit organization dedicated to hunting education in Indiana. He says that hunters fall in love with turkey hunting because the spring season is when everything turns green and turkeys are especially active. He also says it’s a mental game. “The turkey has got the eyes of an eagle. They’ve got the hearing of a bat. And if they had a sense of smell like a deer, they’d be impossible to hunt,” Ayer says with a laugh. “I’ll put it that way. They are tough to hunt.” But Ayer says hunting is also about preserving wildlife. The American hunter funds the vast majority of wildlife conservation and preservation, Ayer says. The Federal Aid in Wildlife Restoration Act places an 11 percent excise tax on sporting arms and ammunition. The tax funds research, environmental

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Diners remind us what life was like before fast food. They offer comfort food at a comfort price, and we’d never pay in anything but hard-earned cash. Meals are homemade and hearty. Customers are considered family. Specials are written on a marker

THE

BURGER JOINT

THE

THE LANDMARK

PLACE

THE FAMILY

Pie

SPOT

THE BREAKFAST CLUB WHERE EVERYBODY KNOWS YOUR NICKNAME

board, chalkboard or yellowedfrom-age piece of paper. Alcohol is not served, but you can get breakfast all day, every day. Family-owned diners are a mainstay of small Southern Indiana towns. 812 picked our favorites. We don’t claim they’re the best, but anyone within a 10-mile radius can tell you how to get there. These diners

ʡ\

PLUS

feature that mix of sass and sweet

CJ LOTZ ʟ

friendliness that makes a place

MEGAN

feel like home. And whether you

ERBACHER

want a hamburger or a heap of hash browns, we know you’ll find it here, served with a side of hospitality.

THEM

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The Burger Joint

The Breakfast Club Van’s Country Table, 270 E. State Road 64, Marengo What to order: Eggs and bacon When someone will serve you: 6:30 a.m. – at least 7 p.m.

Hinkle’s Hamburgers, 206 South Adams St., Bloomington What to order: A burger, of course. And fries. When someone will serve you: 10 a.m. – 4 p.m. for lunch, but closed Sunday.

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hen you open the door, walk to the red counter. Don’t sit down yet, you’ve got to place your order. Pickle or onion on your cheeseburger? If you order everything, you’ll also get lettuce. Although the Clark family owns Hinkle’s now, they’ve kept the original family burger and chili recipes because they’ve worked so well. The one-room building holds six tables where you can chat with your neighbor while you wait for your order to come up. Soft crushed ice fills your sweet tea glass, but the real star is your hamburger. It’s as greasy as they get, but it’s delicious that way. The beef patty was formed from meat ground on the premises that day. A simple white bread bun sandwiches the meat, and you can dribble on as much ketchup or mustard as you like. Top the meal off with some crinklecut fries in a paper bag and you’ll walk away with an All-American satisfaction. Even former IU president and chancellor Herman B Wells loved Hinkle’s, and there’s a framed, signed letter on the wall to prove it.

A brown baggie of fries and a ground-on-site hamburger honor the traditional Hinkle’s recipes that won over Herman B Wells. / Photo by CJ Lotz.

H OW

BECOME

R EG U L A R AT

YO UR

LOC A L

DINER

It took 16 days, 32 biscuits, gallons of gravy and 63 pieces of bacon, but 812 art director Larry Buchanan did it. In the diner world, regulars rule. Four mornings a week I went to a local diner. I arrived around the same time, sat in the same spot, ordered the same thing and always paid with a $10 bill. After day one, I had my seat and order down. Counter, seat 2. Biscuits and gravy with a side of bacon and a Coke. On day 10,

I walked into the diner. It was more crowded than usual and my normal seat was taken. I sat next to my regular seat, turned to say hello to the man next to me, turned back and saw a Coke sitting in front of me. I was a regular. I’ve scattered some tips throughout these pages on becoming a regular at your local diner.

f you don’t feel at home at this place, then you don’t know what a country home feels like. The soft lighting, seasonal tablecloths and fauxwood paneling may distract you from the expansive menu. For Marengo and surrounding towns, the day starts here. A group waits outside every morning for Van’s to open at 5:30 or 6:30 a.m. Some are retired, and some are business owners, farmers or loggers. “They’re the guys that really just aren’t on the time clock,” owner Rose Toney says. “It doesn’t matter when they start work.” Toney knows their names, where they live and what they order. A half order of biscuits and gravy is $2.59. For those who are really hungry, there’s the “he-man breakfast” with its spread of eggs, pork tenderloin, hash browns and toast for $7.99. Friends sit around and share coffee while Toney serves them and finds time in the kitchen to make her pies from scratch. You may not be in the mood for pie at breakfast, but you’ll want to take a slice home for lunch. Toney makes coconut, chocolate, banana and lemon. Order ahead and you can even take a whole one home to share—if you’re feeling generous.

WHY WE DINERS

THE INDIANA EXPERT Wendell Trogdon heard people say that good homemade food and bottomless-cup conversations were a thing of Indiana’s past, so he set out to find more than 125 reasons that was a lie. Trogdon authored the book, “Main Street Diners: Where Hoosiers Begin the Day,” as part of his huge list of Indiana-themed historical and service books. Trogdon grew up in a little town called Heltonville 15 miles south of Bloomington. As a boy, he loved to visit the small town restaurant and order a hamburger before a high school basketball game. During those meals, he saw the whole town gathered together. He still remembers those conversations and the sense of community he felt. The book is meant to bring back the idea that small towns share a sense of purpose and community. Both a guide and a historical book, it explains how wealth and position are cast aside in favor of a serve-everyone mentality that comes along with home-cooked food. It’s about what’s shared around the table rather than on it, he says. “A lot of it is about the conversation,” he says. “It’s an opportunity for these people in a small town to get together and see each other every day.”

Where Everybody Knows Your Nickname

he name on her birth certificate means nothing to you, the regulars she calls family. When it opened three years ago, it was her children’s idea to name the diner Big Mama’s Café, because that’s what everyone calls her. Owners Rodney and Linda “Big Mama” Daugherty offer a homey atmosphere at Big Mama’s Café that brings you back for great food at low prices. A typical breakfast special of two eggs, toast, potato, choice of sausage or bacon and coffee or tea is only $2.99. Regulars Grumpy and Wanda come in every Friday for the catfish platter. The platter includes your choice of potato, a salad and a roll. Big Mama has known the couple for four years. She still doesn’t know his real name – he’s always been Grumpy to her. “He’s gained 11 pounds since we opened back up,” Big Mama says. The diner was forced to close for almost a year due to Rodney’s heart attack. Big Mama wanted a place you could call home. No one is treated differently here; everyone is family.

Big Mama’s Café, 1802 Stringtown Road, Evansville What to order: Catfish platter When someone will serve you: Monday – Saturday 5 a.m. to 8 p.m., Sunday 7 a.m. – 12 p.m. Family drags in all day long, making music with the bell hanging above the two doors. The ringing warns the waitresses that someone has come in. Big Mama believes diners will stick around for many years because a lot of older people don’t like fast food. And many of them still want a smoking section. After paying the waitress, Grumpy and Wanda get up from their table. Placing his hand on Big Mama’s shoulder, he says, “Her and her husband are two of the nicest people you’d ever wanna meet.” He looks me in the eye, “Now don’t tell her I said so.” Big Mama has tears in her eyes. “Look, I even got takeout!” Grumpy jokingly says, glancing down at food spilled on his shirt. As he heads for the door, Grumpy says, “If you want a restaurant, this is the one. This is it.”

Rodney and “Big Mama” Daugherty offer a homey atmosphere and good food at low prices. You may even get your own nickname. / Photo by Megan Erbacher

REGULAR TIP Change up your order. Don’t feel like you always have to order the same thing. Servers, however good they might be, have to remember a lot of orders over the course of a typical day. If you change yours up a bit, they probably won’t notice. And if they do, it will start a little conversation.

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Soul Food

You won’t need sugar to sweeten Rose’s iced tea. Former IU coach Bob Knight was a fan and always saved room for a slice of pie. / Photo by CJ Lotz

REGULA R TI P Get to know your servers well. I found that I loved talking to the waitress I had most often. It felt great to start the day off with a good conversation with someone who felt like an old friend after awhile.

The Family Spot Rose’s Diner, 13305 E. Hillview Lane, Solsberry What to order: Breaded tenderloin, onion rings When someone will serve you: 6 a.m. – 3 p.m. every day

s it Rose’s or Rosie’s? Everyone calls it by a different name, but even famed former IU basketball coach Bob Knight had a soft spot for this haven of downhome eats. He brought the entire team to the restaurant after a victory, and they all sat in a special room to the side.

You can sit wherever you like. Wait for the server. It just might be Rose’s tall and kind grandson, who helps out in the family business. Place your order, then watch Rose cook it behind the low, open counter that shares the space where you dine. It’s a spacious room with laminate tables and mismatched chairs. There’s a poster for a community party here, and all the kids are invited. You won’t want to miss her hand-dipped onion rings, which surprise you with a sweet crispness that gives way to a chewy, hot onion. Rose is known for her pies, which some people even eat for breakfast, washed down by bottomless cups of her piping hot coffee. Bobby Knight was known to love a slice of cherry or peach.

Ray Ray’s Fish, Chicken and More, 1000 Washington Ave., Evansville What to order: Fried chicken, chess pie When someone will serve you: Monday 11 a.m. – 8.m., Tuesday – Thursday 11 a.m. – 9 p.m., Friday and Saturday 11 a.m. – 11 p.m.

ay Franklin, 57, didn’t know anything about running a restaurant six years ago. He learned the trade in three days and has operated a successful soul food diner ever since with the help of his family. He says you never know what can be built from dreams. According to Franklin, soul food isn’t necessarily spicy, but it is seasoned, everyday American food. Ray Ray’s offers lightly battered fried chicken that “tastes so good it’ll make the Colonel cry.” The secret blend of spices in the batter gives the juicy chicken meat a

The Landmark

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The Depot was a train station long before it became a diner. / Photo by Megan Erbacher

Depot Diner, 232 S. Main St., Griffin What to order: Country-fried steak platter When someone will serve you: Monday – Saturday 6 a.m. – 8 p.m., Sunday 7 a.m. – 4 p.m.

he round table in the back of the room, or the front, depending on which door you walk in, fills with men at 6 a.m. and 2 p.m. every day. “They solve each other’s problems, get mad at each other, and do it again, seven

The Rev. Ray Franklin waits patiently while a customer decides what to order. Ray Ray’s is known for fried chicken made fresh to order. No heat lamps here. / Photo by Megan Erbacher

touch of salty goodness. “Honey, you put your foot in this,” is a compliment people in the fried chicken business strive for. Ray says it keeps you coming back for more. The best thing about this chicken – it’s made fresh to order. No heat lamps here. You also get a list of nine sides that includes coleslaw, mashed potatoes with gravy and spaghetti. You will melt over days a week,” owner Shirley Simmons says. Once the town railroad station, the Depot Diner has served customers off Interstate 64 for over 30 years. Simmons, 60, bought it for her two daughters, Angie Norman and Michele Almon, three years ago. The Depot walls are decorated with Griffin

Ray’s chess pie recipe. The Franklins used to buy their pies from a friend, but it got expensive. So the friend offered to sell her recipe. That night, Ray tried to bake the pie. He had never baked before, so he wasn’t sure what it meant when the recipe told him to ‘cream butter.’ After a few perfecting tries, Ray Ray’s got its delicious chess pie. The creamy center sits below a crispy, sugary memorabilia – photos of old barns and the train that once passed by, newspaper clippings from the tornado and flood that nearly took the small town out many years ago. Simmons wants to keep the history in the Depot and enjoys when passersby ask about all the photos. The diner’s most famous

R EGULA R TIP Don’t try to force it. It seems simple, but you have to like the food and the atmosphere. So much so that you keep coming back. Becoming a regular takes time. It will happen naturally.

dish is country-fried steak served alongside a heaping pile of mashed potatoes, all smothered in sawmill gravy. The roll is great for soaking up the gravy, and the green beans add a bit of saltiness. Simmons and her daughters know all 160 people in Griffin by name and usually what they want to order.

topping. When the friend came in to get a piece, she said it didn’t taste like her recipe. Ray smiled and said, “I know, it’s mine.” Now she wants to buy his recipe. “I call it a pie from heaven,” Ray says. Another special you can always get is the 99-cent leg quarters with a roll. Ray splits his time between the restaurant and being associate pastor at New Horizon Baptist Church. The diner’s motto is, “Honor God in all we do.” Ray says they stand for that; God is their driving force. Ray says God blessed him with a vision he didn’t see – the diner. He enjoys both running the restaurant and being associate pastor because he likes nourishing people. “I like feeding the physical body and the spiritual body,” he says. “It’s like Burger King,” Simmons says. “You get it your way.” Most customers are farmers, oil guys and people off the interstate. A man covered in black goo to his knees walks up to counter. Simmons looks up. “Now there’s an oil guy,” she says, handing him a glass of sweet tea to-go.

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Wilfrud Nobles takes a break at the counter during a rare quiet moment. / Photo by Megan Erbacher

The Pie Place Dean’s Diner, 125 W. 2nd St., Mount Vernon What to order: Pizza, pie When someone will serve you: Monday – Wednesday 7 a.m. – 10 p.m., Thursday 7 a.m. – 11 p.m., Friday 5 a.m. – 12 p.m., Saturday 6 a.m. – 11 p.m. and Sunday 8 a.m. – 8 p.m.

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ilfrud Nobles, 53, says being the oldest running restaurant in Mount Vernon gives Dean’s Diner an edge. The diner is named for his mother and has been running for 33 years. The long, wooden bar, along with smoking and non-smoking sections, makes this feel like an oldfashioned diner. Nobles’ mother comes in early every morning to bake pies – coconut cream, lemon cream, chocolate cream, the list continues. He says people come in for the pies, but their specialty is pizza and strombolis. The pizza is exactly how a pizza should be – cheesy, just the right amount of sauce, and a middle ground between hand tossed and

thin crust (leaning more towards thin). The spices in the sauce make a perfect marinara, and the best part is that you can get whatever toppings you choose. There is no limit. Nobles says that you get attached to your extended family of regulars, and it’s hard to see them go. “With so much time here, we’ve had people pass,” Nobles says. “And that’s difficult.” He chuckles when questioned on the busiest time of day, because it’s breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Specials are offered every day, and on Sunday there’s a buffet. “Customers like a family business,” Nobles says. “There are not many independently owned and operated businesses left.” Nobles hopes diners will outlast chains. But in a franchise world, he understands that insurance and taxes are difficult to pay; and sometimes fastfood service isn’t an option. “People don’t have time or patience to come in, sit down and eat in,” Nobles says. “Everybody wants things so quick now.” Nobles believes a diner should offer comfort food, a homey atmosphere, and custom orders. That’s the secret to keeping customers coming back for 30 years.

ichard Gutman is the curator of a permanent diner exhibit at the Culinary Arts Museum at Johnson & Wales University in Providence, R.I. He’s visited more than 500 diners and published four books on diner history and architecture. The first diner was a stationary wagon in Providence that sold sandwiches. Companies like Mountain View made kits that looked like train cars and shipped them around the country as prefabricated diner buildings. Indiana was one of the farthest west strongholds where these companies sent out diners that were made on the East Coast, Gutman says. Along with the train cars, the term “diner” drifted in meaning as it reached the Midwest. “Diner” can now just mean a neighborhood gathering place with home-cooked food. Gutman comments on three aspects that are true of most diners he visits, no matter the location:

Bottomless cups of coffee When you order coffee, you order a commitment. Each refilled cup is a promise of more talk and more stories shared. “It’s a way a diner says, ‘We welcome you here and you can stay as long as you like,’” Gutman says. “‘We’re not going to kick you out, even though there’s someone else hovering over your stool. Be comfortable.’” The beginning of each cup is the beginning of something more. Seasoned to your taste “Whether it’s ketchup, hot peppers or hot sauce, a lot of people feel they want to doctor their food in their own special way,” Gutman says. Customers ask for Cholula, Tabasco or Frank’s hot sauce, but many diners serve a house blend. Gutman says he has one friend who sprinkles hot pepper flakes and Parmesan cheese on every few bites of his food.

Eggs the way you like them Gutman always orders poached eggs because it’s one of the hardest yolks to get right. It tests a diner cook’s precision. The yolk should be runny but the white cooked through. Gutman loves to soak up the yellow with his toast, but he doesn’t like any signs of water (from poaching the egg) on the bread. He says he thinks fried eggs are the most frequently requested cooking method, but you can have yours scrambled, well-done, sunny-side-up, over-easy or however else you’d like.

In the mid-1800s, a one-mile-wide stretch of river separated Kentucky and Indiana, South and North, slavery and freedom. Here, men and women – black and white – risked their lives to operate one of the nation’s most elaborate social networks, the Underground Railroad.

Dare to Do Right

Words and images by Sarah Hutchins

hen Tice Davids reached the Ohio River in 1831, he plunged in. As Davids, a slave from Maysville, Ky., swam across, his white master searched for a boat, hoping to catch him on the other side of the river. By the time the boat landed, however, Davids had disappeared. Standing on the bank, the white master uttered a phrase that would go on to characterize the network of men and women who risked their lives for strangers. “He must have gone off on an underground railroad.” In many ways, we are still standing on the banks of the river, looking in and wondering what happened when slaves jumped in and began their quests for freedom. Where did they go? Who helped them on the other side? Were they actually free? Almost 180 years after Davids’ escape, the Underground Railroad has become romanticized. Listen to the basic information enough times and the network starts to sound like the

old Oregon Trail computer game. Ford the river. Follow a trail. Trust a stranger. School children read tales about Harriet Tubman and gaze at constellations trying to “follow the drinking gourd” to freedom. Most adults don’t learn any more than that. Heidi Kruggel works for Historic Madison. She says plenty of people have no idea the Underground Railroad was neither underground nor a railroad. When confused citizens come her way, she tells them about the significance of Madison, Ind. She tells them about the network of intrepid locals who fought for freedom. She tells them stories. The Kentucky-Indiana border marked the division between South and North, slavery and freedom. Underground Railroad “conductors” moved slaves across the Ohio River into Indiana and connected fugitives with local “stationmasters.” If the Ohio River was a superhighway of activity for escaping slaves, Jefferson County was one of the most popular stops on the road north to freedom.

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LEFT: Founded in 1848 by an abolitionist preacher, Eleutherian College provided an education to people of all races. The school motto was “Dare to do right.” RIGHT: Today, the classroom walls are peeling, but you can still read students’ names scribbled in pencil, and the college’s cast-iron bell still tolls over the valley.

THE FIRST STOP

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The city of Madison sits peacefully on the banks of the Ohio River. Small mom and pop shops dot Main Street, and Greek revival buildings add historic charm to residential blocks. More than 100 years ago, however, the town was home to strongwilled abolitionists, escaped slaves and, on more than one occasion, mob violence. Most of Madison’s Underground Railroad activity took place in the Georgetown neighborhood, an early black settlement of homes, businesses and churches on the north side of town. While not all of the Georgetown residents were involved in the transportation of fugitive slaves, many dedicated their lives to furthering the freedom of others. The African Methodist Episcopal Church served as a gathering place for many of Georgetown’s abolitionists. After years of worshiping with white parishioners, the black Methodist community decided to create its own church. Many of its founders were active abolitionists, and one member, William J. Anderson, even helped construct the building. Anderson arrived in Indiana on July 15, 1836, with one dollar in his pocket. While Anderson was born free, his mother sold him into slavery. During his enslavement, he learned to read and write, forging his own papers to freedom. In Indiana, Anderson quickly found work as a bricklayer. While people who favored the “peculiar institution” of slavery urged him not to help fugitives enter the state, “their attempts were in vain.” He explained his actions in a personal manifesto. “In the good book we are commanded to feed the hungry and clothe the naked, and no mention is made of color or condition.” Having fled slavery, Anderson believed it was his duty to help his “unfortunate fellow beings.” He used his wagons, carriage and horses to move fugitives into Indiana. “I have carried them away in broad daylight and in the grim shades of night. I have scouted through the woods with the fleeing slave while the

barbarous hunters pursued as if chasing wolves, panthers or bears.” By the time Anderson landed behind bars, he had helped 100 fugitive slaves. However, his sacrifice came with a cost. In 1856, Anderson was arrested and tried for his involvement in the Underground Railroad. He was acquitted of the charges, but his court fees forced him to sell his house and belongings. Another local, George DeBaptiste, created an elaborate alibi to convince locals he was not involved in the Underground Railroad. Right before he planned to transport fugitive slaves, DeBaptiste would pretend to break his wagon. Then, in the dead of night, he would repair his wagon, steal the sheriff’s horses, move the slaves and dismantle the wagon. DeBaptiste eventually moved to Detroit, Mich., where he continued to help runaway slaves on the final leg of their journey north into Canada. One Hoosier made the ultimate sacrifice. Elijah Anderson, no relation to William J. Anderson, died in jail after he helped fugitive slaves take their first steps toward freedom. Kruggel says Anderson, who was often mistaken for a white man, would go into Kentucky and bring slaves across the border. “He would fool people that he was white and traveling with his own slaves,” Kruggel says. Blacks were free in Indiana, but the Fugitive Slave Act of 1850 said runaway slaves could be returned to their masters. Newly freed slaves had little defense against a white man crossing the border and falsely claiming them as his property. A black abolitionist crossing into to the South, Kruggel says, was unheard of. “You would have to be very, very brave,” she says. Anderson was eventually accused of aiding escaped slaves and spent time in a Kentucky jail. On the day of his scheduled release — President Lincoln’s inauguration day — Anderson’s daughter came to pick him up. The conductor was dead in his cell. The dangers of the Underground Railroad resulted in little documentation about the men and women who fled slavery. However, it’s clear that some Hoosiers, like the Andersons and

LEFT: When they tour the college, visitors can look out over the same landscape as black and white students did in the 1850s. RIGHT: The African Methodist Episcopal Church in Georgetown served as a gathering place for the community’s abolitionists. One of the church’s members helped 100 fugitive slaves make their way north before he was jailed.

DeBaptise, helped hundreds of slaves cross into Southern Indiana. They weren’t the only ones. Just 10 minutes north of Madison, in Lancaster, Ind., another group of locals fought for freedom and equality.

THE COLLEGE Time hasn’t been kind to Lancaster. Barns wrinkle and warp. Buildings seem to slouch, just waiting for a gust of wind to blow them over. Standing among the hills, Eleutherian College could easily be mistaken for one of the younger buildings in the area. Inside, however, this National Historic Landmark shows its age. Founded in 1848, Eleutherian College provided an education to people of all races and genders. The Rev. Thomas Craven, a visiting preacher at Neil’s Creek Abolitionist Baptist Church, created the school and found like-minded residents to help. Their motto was simple: “Dare to do right.” In 1856, 18 black students, more than half of them born slaves, attended the college. Just four years later, 50 of the school’s 200 students were black. Phil Land has worked at the historic site for five years. Before he took the job, he didn’t know much about the Underground Railroad. The 59-year-old grew up outside of Washington, D.C., and remembers learning about slavery as a child. “I remember that at a young age thinking there was just something terribly wrong with that,” he says. Now Land guides visitors through Eleutherian College. They come from as far as California and as close as Madison. “A lot of people just said they drove by a thousand times and decided to finally see it,” Land explains. When they do decide to stop, Land tells them about the college’s pupils. He points to two students with the last name of Jefferson and talks about the rumor that they might have been Thomas Jefferson’s children. He also tells the story of Moses

Broyles, one the school’s first pupils. Working as a slave, Broyles spent time with his master’s son. When the boy came home from school, he would tell Broyles what he learned. At first, Broyles’ master consented to the impromptu lessons. Later, however, he realized that his slave had become smarter than his son. The lessons stopped, but Broyles eventually bought his own freedom. After completing his education at Eleutherian, Broyles moved to Indianapolis and became a pastor, encouraging black people to become educated. “Many people call him a Moses to his people,” Land says. As the Civil War came to a close and violence from a proslavery group, the Knights of the Golden Circle, heated up, many locals began to move west. Eleutherian’s leaders felt they had achieved their goal, and they closed the college. Later, the township used the building as a public grade school. Unlike so many of the buildings in Lancaster, the structure has withstood the test of time. Eleutherian College director Jae Breitweiser says she replaced the windows and floors and stabilized the front of the building, but names scribbled in lead pencil still mark the walls. The college’s original cast iron bell — brought from Madison to Lancaster by ox cart — still hangs in the tower. Grab the rope that runs from the first floor up to the roof. Pull hard, bending your knees, and let go. After 160 years, the bell still rings over the hills below.

WHY WE REMEMBER On a cold day, the Ohio River looks like a patchwork quilt of blue and turquoise. On the Madison side, two men — one young and one old — stand on the bank and look in. As the wind sends waves rippling across the river’s surface, it’s difficult to picture anyone jumping in and fighting the current, fleeing slavery for freedom.

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The Caver The last thing you see before you lower yourself into Sullivanâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Cave is the sky.

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Words and images by Thomas Miller

A padlocked gate at the surface hides the miles of cave beneath, 1,050 feet of which is affectionately known as the “Back Breaker.” Leading from the back is Sam Frushour, the former head of field services at the Indiana University Geological Survey. Now 67, Sam’s been caving for nearly 50 years and is the most experienced caver in the group. Although this trip is officially being led by IU Caving Club president Elliot Stahl, Sam is the resident authority on Sullivan’s Cave. He once spent nearly three weeks inside the cave, living off Dinty Moore beef stew and canned sardines with two other cavers. He did it to map the cave, but also to test the psychological impact of isolation and the effects of prolonged exposure to low light. Sam’s darkened glasses suggest blindness, and as far as colors go, that’s the truth. On the surface, Sam has to wear blue- and red-absorbing glasses. The brighter and more colorful the world is, the harder it is for Sam to see. In the cave, he sees just like everyone else: five feet in all directions. We’re all inside now and encounter the Back Breaker, a passage about 4½ feet tall. Elliot starts sprinting through it and disappears into the darkness. The rest of us follow Sam. Sam started caving when he was just 18 and was hooked. “It’s an environment that’s totally foreign to us on the surface,” he says. He’s explored Mammoth cave, the biggest cave in the world, and he owns Bluespring Caverns near Bedford. At his home in Bloomington, Sam keeps a “library” of cave-related material. There’s his collection of more than 800 maps of Indiana caves, the shelves of books on caving and the vampire bat frozen forever inside a glass ball.

Elliot Stahl, president of the Indiana University Caving Club, prepares to climb down into Sullivan’s Cave south of Bloomington. Frushour once spent three weeks in the cave as part of an experiment on the effects of isolation and low light.

Cave explorer Sam Frushour wears special glasses to correct his color blindness when he’s above ground. But in the caverns, everyone sees in black and light. Charting the uncharted has always been a passion for Frushour. He has mapped caves all over the country and even done underwater cave exploration. “It’s an environment that’s totally foreign to us on the surface,” he says.

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Sam has maps of cave passages that don’t seem to be connected to any cave, their original authors long gone.

In his Bloomington home, Frushour has a library filled with maps, books and a bat preserved under glass. Before retiring, he headed up field services for the Indiana University Geological Survey.

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IU student Gwendwr Meredith rests for a moment in a tunnel dug out of Armstrong’s Folly in Sullivan’s Cave. She wears gloves to protect her hands from the jagged limestone that juts out from the darkness.

He helped make many of the maps in his collection and is writing a book now about caves and karst, the limestone region where they form. His desire to chart the uncharted led him to underwater cave exploration, a hobby he tried to hide from his mother. Sam was so busy caving he didn’t marry until he was 53. “I had things I wanted to do,” he says. Two weeks after we visited Sullivan’s Cave, Sam leads another group into Buckner’s Cave just outside of Bloomington. He calls it a “movie cave,” because the opening looks like a cave you’d see in a movie, not just a hole in the ground or a crevasse. Sam says he’s slowed down in his caving. He has a Teflon knee and doesn’t do the hardcore caves anymore. Sullivan’s Cave, he says, reminding me of the agony I endured hunching through the Back Breaker, is an easy one. When we get to the main room in Buckner’s, Sam starts telling the group how Buckner’s used to be. He points out the familiar signatures on the wall, the rock formations and the trash. “Someday all of this will fall on top of somebody,” he says while looking at a crack in the ceiling. The crack has been there as long as Sam can remember. The world has changed a great deal in the last half century. But when Sam takes a new caver into Buckner’s or Sullivan’s Cave or any one of the hundreds of caves he’s been to, they’re the same cave he first saw. You can see it in the way Sam moves: Time doesn’t pass the same in a cave.

Cavers wear helmets with LED lights to illuminate the area around them. Streams flow year round through Sullivan’s Cave and provide a home for cave fish and crawfish that have no eyes.

Frushour calls Buckner’s Cave a “movie cave,” because the opening is what people expect to see in a film. Cave entrances in Indiana are more likely to be holes or crevasses in the ground.

Dave Stahl and Frushour (right) stand inside a dome in Sullivan’s Cave. Frushour, 67, calls the popular cave – with its 1,000-footlong Back Breaker passageway – an “easy” one.

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TURKEY CLUB, CONTINUED FROM PAGE 16 improvement and the introduction of wildlife to suitable habitats. Hunting also helps maintain a healthy wildlife population. Hunting reduces chances of starvation and disease, Ayer says, and can remove animals that won’t be strong breeders. But he says most people just don’t understand the conservation side of hunting or how animals like deer actually benefit from being hunted. “They don’t understand what all goes on. They don’t understand what a cruel keeper Mother Nature can be,” he says. “They haven’t watched overpopulation destroy deer. I have.” And while most hunters don’t process meat themselves, Ayer does, using almost all of the meat. He even makes deer ribs. “I guess I was born hungry, grew up hungry. Nothing goes to waste,” he says. As Keith talks with Ayer’s wife, Barbara, a pickup truck with a deer on the back pulls into the driveway. It’s their friend, Jim Hoff, a stout man wearing jeans, a camo T-shirt, sturdy boots and a smile. He boasts about a recent hunting trip he took in Menomonee, Mich., where the whole town shuts down during deer hunting season. “They got their priorities straight,” Keith says. Hoff sits on the back of the pickup truck, the deer draped across his lap, posing for me to take a picture with his latest prize. Its tongue dangles from its mouth and its round brown eyes stare blankly at the camera. Flecks of dry blood smatter Hoff’s jeans as he grins proudly. “Did you get the whole deer in there?” he asks. I fumble with the camera settings and struggle to get the viewfinder to focus. “Got it.” Ayer holds a summer sausage in front of him, offering me a taste. “No, thank you,” I say. “You vegetarian?” The jig was up. “Hey, Bill, did you know she was a vegetarian?” Keith’s eyes widen and his jaw slightly drops. “I don’t think I wanna know,” he says.

DARE TO DO RIGHT, CONTINUED FROM PAGE 25

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As cities expand, history gets paved over with highways and aluminum siding. Communities disappear. Buildings sink and sag and slouch. But Kruggel says Historic Madison doesn’t plan to purchase Underground Railroad sites in the area. She explains, “we can’t turn the town into a museum.” So how should people remember? Kruggel says Madison residents are becoming increasingly interested in the history of Georgetown. When Historic Madison gave a walking tour of the area to residents, Kruggel was impressed with the number of people who attended. What about Eleutherian College, a site hidden in the hills of Lancaster? The guest book shows several groups of visitors every day. Land knows how difficult it can be to get people interested in history. After growing up near Washington, D.C., he tired of historical sites. It wasn’t apathy, he says, just fatigue. He knows other people feel the same way. However, he also knows the importance of remembering.

e can’t understand because when he has a few minutes to spare, there is nothing he would rather do than hunt. He says his wife, Beth, is supportive because she doesn’t have to worry about infidelity like other wives. She knows exactly where he is: out in the fields. She recently hunted with him for the first time and recalls when he took their youngest daughter, Sarah, hunting. “It took her two boxes of shotgun shells to get those birds,” Beth says with a laugh. Keith took hunting a little too seriously when he first took his daughters out when they were young, he says. He wanted to make them great hunters in 10 minutes and they didn’t have any fun. “I’ll do better with the grandkids,” he promises. Now retired from his position as production manager at Holland Dairy, Keith has time to put into creating his calls. He describes it as a hobby that started in his garage and he’s now lost all control of. When he went to a hunting show, outdoor supply company Maximum Draw approached him to sell his calls through them. He’ll be compensated for his work based on sales. Every time Keith sells a call, he says it feels like the first time and he turns into a little kid. He hopes to make 1,000 in time for spring turkey season on April 27. Last spring, Indiana hunters harvested almost 13,000 wild turkeys in 19 days, the second most successful season in 40 years. One turkey was Keith’s. As we drove back to the empty parking lot, I thought about my impression of hunters before today. I had pictured Elmer Fudd chasing Bugs Bunny – hunters killing just for the sake of killing. This day changed that. Before we said goodbye, Keith said I was welcome to hunt with him again any time, promising I would be sure to see a turkey if I came during the spring season. A few weeks after our trip, he told me in an e-mail, “I saw seven in the field out in the front of my house this morning. Rest assured I gave them some strong language on your behalf from the kitchen window.” I may not have shot a turkey. I may not have even seen one. But I know that they’re there, traveling in packs from field to field. And as they do, Keith will be sitting in the woods waiting in silence for the perfect moment to call one in.

Land says his favorite moment working at the college occurred when a group of visitors came from Ohio. A woman stopped in with her niece and her niece’s husband. As they walked through the small visitor center, the woman stopped at a black-and-white photo of the old college dormitory. She pointed to a man and a woman and, addressing her niece, said, “That’s your great-grandmother and great-grandfather.” When you visit the sites, the romantic stereotypes of the Underground Railroad fade away. There are no false-bottom wagons, no secret basements, no underground tunnels. Other than a few stone buildings, the stories are all that remain. Too often, we stand on the riverbank and watch history flow by. We stare at it, dip our toes in it and move on to something new. But the story of the Underground Railroad and the sacrifices made by Hoosiers in Southern Indiana deserve more than a fleeting glance. “These people,” Breitweiser says, “they made a difference in the whole country.” Tice Davids plunged into the river. We should, too.

THE 812 LIST Coca-Cola bottle. A Terre Haute glass company produced the first Coca-Cola bottle in 1916. The plant supervisor thought the pop bottle should look like a cacao bean pod, which gave the glass its curvy shape.

Thanks to folks in Southern Indiana, we can drink Bloody Marys, fly planes and stay warm in the winter. Here are eight ways Hoosiers have served as pioneers for the state and nation. By Sarah Hutchins

charm First time’s a

Monoplane. Two brothers built the nation’s first monoplane, an aircraft with a single set of wings, in their Terre Haute barn in 1910. The plane could fly approximately 60 miles per hour at a height of 2,000 feet. When a tornado destroyed their monoplane (and their dreams of producing monoplane engines), the brothers began producing boat motors. Moving train robbery.

The Reno Gang hopped a train in Seymour the night of Oct. 6, 1866, and swiped $15,000 from an Adams Express man. Authorities later nabbed the gang of three. They were never tried for the robbery but were convicted of other crimes. The heist was the first of its kind in the nation.

Winery. The town of Vevay touts itself as the home of the “first successful commercial winery in America.” Swiss winemakers moved to the north bank of the Ohio River in the late 1790s and began tilling the soil. Wine from Switzerland County was even served at the White House during Thomas Jefferson’s presidency.

Car radiator. When you’re cranking up the heat on a cold drive on Interstate 64, thank Simplicity Auto Company. The Evansville company created the first honeycomb radiator, similar to car radiators used today, between 1906 and 1912. Duel. The first duel in Indiana took

place along Silver Creek in 1809. Henry Clay and Humphrey Marshall, both Kentucky legislators, drew their weapons to settle a dispute over a bill to boycott the British. In addition to suffering a flesh wound, Clay was called a “poltroon,” a term encompassing everything bad. That’s basically the equivalent of labeling someone a Boilermaker in Hoosier country.

Astronaut. Virgil “Gus” Grissom rocketed into space in 1961, claiming the title of first Hoosier in space. His ride was short-lived, lasting only 15 minutes. Grissom, from Mitchell, was also the first man in the country to fly in space twice and the first Indiana resident to dine in space (his meal of choice: a corned beef and rye sandwich). Grissom and two other men were the first astronauts to lose their lives when the Apollo I command module caught on fire during a pre-launch test.

Tomato juice. Fans of V8, thank chef Louis Perrin and waiter Dan Hughes at the French Lick Springs Hotel. The duo threw out the pulp and seeds of squeezed tomatoes and served the drink to hotel guests in 1917. The thick red drink wasn’t an instant classic, but by 1921 developers were distributing tomato juice throughout Southern Indiana.

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CREATE YOUR PATH Earn your master’s degree from the IU School of Journalism in Bloomington or Indianapolis BLOOMINGTON Master’s degree in journalism: The School of Journalism has a rich, 100-year history on the beautiful Bloomington campus. In travel courses, report on HIV/AIDS from Kenya and explore cutting-edge technology at South by Southwest in Austin. Work with faculty mentors who have experience with major news organizations such as the Associated Press and National Geographic, and have published landmark research on topics such as agenda-setting and media effects. In addition to our general master’s degree, students may receive specialized degrees focusing on one of these four areas of study:

Global journalism Political journalism Health and science journalism Digital journalism INDIANAPOLIS Master’s degree in sports journalism: Indianapolis is home to dozens of professional and amateur sports organizations. Be a part of the National Sports Journalism Center, follow previous students to internships at the Big Ten Network or USA Today, and meet visiting professionals such as Sage Steele of ESPN and William Rhoden of The New York Times. Master’s degree in public relations: Advance your public relations career and prepare yourself for a career in management. Take courses focused on your industry, whether it is life science, healthcare or sports. Network while you study: your classmates will be working professionals with several years of experience in the field.

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Graduate Studies Learn more at journalism.indiana.edu/graduate