Posey Magazine July/August 2012 by J. Bruce Baumann

July/August 2012

www.poseymagazine.com

July/August 2012

A magazine for and about

www.poseymagazine.com

No material can be reproduced without the written permission of Posey Magazine. Contact us at poseymagazine@aol.com

Bob the Bobcat: Depositions of all parties were taken in Indianapolis in May. The Administrative Law Judge stated that she would have a ruling within a week either deciding the case or setting a hearing date. So far, there has been no further word, and Bob still waits at the Feline Rescue Center.

REQUIEM FOR OLD BARNS: Alison Baumann’s poetry focuses on the life of barns. Rural Posey County offered the perfect setting for a magnificient poem. I’m just sayin’ — Writing about death is never easy, but the students of Posey County found just the right words to express their feelings. One student wrote: “Life goes by too fast. Some never get to know. Some know it all. Live like it’s your last day. Because it just might be.” Posey Then & Now — In 1937 the Ohio ©Photograph by J. Bruce Baumann River flood covered Mt. Vernon’s Sherbourne Park like a blanket. This August Cover story the Park overlooks a much drier river and will celebrate its 100th Anniversary. Occupying a second floor studio in New Harmony, Nicholson creates wonderful Feathers — Writer Sharon Sorenson works of art on her loom and computer. The weavings depict the life she has creonce told an audience that if humming ated after leaving Chicago six years ago. Her work is in many private collections birds were bigger they would eat you. and famous companies, as well as in the Thomas Jefferson Monticello collection, the Her new column provides information Denver Art Museum, the Smithsonian, and many others. — By Linda Neal Reising that will amuse and delight you.

Laura Nicholson —Weaving a life

Special thanks to the following for their help

Alison Baumann, Judy Grebe, Becky Higgins, Ray Kessler, Joseph Poccia, Kathy Riordan, Jane Saltzman, Mayor John Tucker, Sherry Willis

ANTICIPATION G

rowing up in a city neighborhood meant being surrounded by sound. Houses were separated by a tiny strip of grass and a narrow sidewalk that rang with the echoes of children’s running feet. Streets served as a playground and ball field. The factory whistle blew at the start of the shift, at noon and at the end of the workday. There were few personal cars on the street; most people walked to work, to the grocery store and to the movies and called out to neighbors along the way. There were mailmen in those days who walked their routes and knew the folks who lived there. Our mailman once told my grandmother he was glad her sister was recovering nicely from her surgery. Seems he had read the news on a post card. There were delivery vehicles too -- ice trucks, milk trucks with their rattling bottles, dry cleaners. And then there were the vehicles that a child watched for with joyful anticipation. Deep in the fall and winter would come the cry of “Hot tamales!” Down the center of the street would come the pushcart with its savory smell of spicy meat wrapped in corn meal. The cart had a charcoal brazier deep inside and smoke

would billow out when the cart lid was lifted. Conversely in the heat of summer would come the ice cream cart. It was a kind of a cross between a pushcart and a bicycle and was usually operated by a teenager with a whistle clenched in his teeth. The whistle would blow and children would scurry home to wheedle their mothers out of a nickel for a Popsicle or a Fudgesicle or maybe a dime for an ice cream sandwich. But perhaps the most eagerly anticipated vehicle of all was a beat-up old panel truck that had been repaired and painted so many times that even the owner couldn’t tell what its original color had been. In late spring or early summer, homemakers would begin to watch and listen for the clatter of the scale dangling from its roof and the cry of the driver: “red ripe tomatoes, green beans, cucumbers, cantaloupes and Posey County watermelons.” The driver would stop in the middle of the block and housewives would swarm around that old truck. His wife, a woman of indeterminate age with skin like tobacco leaves and wearing a shapeless, frayed straw hat, would throw open the doors and start selling, allowing beans to be snapped, corn husks to be pulled back and cantaloupes to be sniffed, all in

the name of freshness. But most important of all, at least to the children, were the watermelons. Warm and heavy with the tell-tale yellow spot. But heft and appearance wasn’t enough to justify a purchase. Oh, no. It had to be plunked and maybe plugged. To plunk a watermelon was to thump it with a middle finger, drawn back then flipped forward making contact with the melon and causing a ringing sound if it were truly ripe. If a question remained in the mind of the prospective buyer, that old woman would offer to plug the melon. That meant thrusting a sharp blade deep into the brilliant heart of the melon three times then pulling out the triangular plug for close inspection. If the melon passed the plug test, it would be lowered into the waiting Radio Flyer wagon and transported into the backyard where it would soon be plunged into a wash tub filled with ice water. Somewhere in this world or the next there may be another taste that sweet and satisfying. I really don’t think so. That must be why about this time of year I occasionally wander to my front door, open it a crack and listen for a faint, far-away cry of “Posey County watermelons.”

—Charlene Tolbert Contributing Editor Posey Magazine She can be contacted at poseymagazine@aol.com

POSEY POSTCARD

“This grand show is eternal. It is always sunrise somewhere; the dew is never all dried at once; a shower is forever falling; vapor is ever rising. Eternal sunrise, eternal sunset, eternal dawn and gloaming, on sea and continents and islands, each in its turn, as the round earth rolls.“ — John Muir, naturalist, explorer, and writer (1838-1914)

By Linda Neal Reising

Spring Onions, 2004, 23” x 29” wool with cotton, hand woven tapestry.

ucked next to the Main Café in New Harmony, the tiny door labeled LFN Textiles could easily be overlooked. But up a steep flight of narrow stairs lies a studio composed of several light-filled rooms, in which Laura Foster Nicholson draws, paints, designs ribbon, and weaves exquisite tapestries. The Illinois native was born into a family that appreciated the arts. Her mother trained as an artist, and Nicholson credits her mother with having taught her the love of textiles, even if at times she thought her daughter’s time could be better spent. “I was taught to sew at a very early age, had to sew a lot of my own clothes. Loved it! Loved it! My mother would be upset that I would waste all of my creative energy making clothes. She would say, ‘You’re better than that. You’re an artist. Go upstairs and draw. Don’t sew another skirt!’”

Laura Foster Nicholson in her studio that is alive with light, energy and creativity.

ÂŠ Photographed by J. Bruce Baumann

“Chicory,” limited edition jacquard tapestry, 2008. Nicholson designed it on a computer, based on a hand woven tapestry, and then sent it to a mill where 16 copies were woven. “These are like fine prints and sold by art consultants which might require a less expensive textile.” It was only natural that Nicholson should attend art school. She earned a BFA at the Kansas City Art Institute, where she was first introduced to weaving. Since she was interested in drawing-based work, she was pulled toward tapestry weaving. “It was like I found my tribe immediately,” she says.

She went on to earn an MFA from Cranbrook Academy of Art, a graduate school near Detroit, in 1982. Since that time, Nicholson has had numerous exhibits, publications, and awards, including fellowships from the National Endowment for the Arts and the Illinois Arts

Council. In 1985, she won the Leone di Pietra Prize at the Venice Biennale of Architecture. Nicholson’s clients now include many private collectors and some famous companies. She licenses her jacquard ribbon designs to Renaissance Ribbons in California, which produces and sells the ribbons all over

A very small tapestry of a greenhouse comes to life thread by thread, row by row on one of Nicholsonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s two looms.

Inserting colored threads into the warp of a very small picture. Much of Nicholsonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s work involves gardens in temperate places such as Indiana.

Working at her loom, Nicholson uses the tangle of threads to introduce just the right color and feel. Mixing the contrast of shiny and matte gives the textiles their dimension. the world. She has her work in the Thomas Jefferson Monticello collection, Disney’s Grand Californian Hotel, the Chicago Board of Trade, the Federal Reserve in Chicago, and several museums including The Art Institute of Chicago, The Minneapolis Institute of Arts, The Denver Art Museum, and The CooperHewitt National Design Museum of the Smithsonian. With national and international recognition, how did Nicholson find herself in New Harmony? Her former husband, Ben Nicholson, teaches architectural design at The Art Institute of Chicago, and he started bringing groups of students to New Harmony

to see the architecture and labyrinths that have made the town famous. During one of these trips, he and Connie Weinzapfel arranged a show of her work at the Gallery of Contemporary Art. At that time, Nicholson was starting her ribbon business, and she put her ribbons on sale at the Gallery shop. She found that when she went on selling trips, she met people from all sorts of places who told her, “Oh, I’ve seen this ribbon. I’ve bought this ribbon in this teeny town in Indiana.” After several such encounters, Nicholson recognized them as a sign that New Harmony would be a good place for her to live and work.

Pink Cakes, 2004, 23.5â&#x20AC;? x 27â&#x20AC;?, wool with cotton, hand woven. In 2006, the Nicholsons moved to New Harmony and bought a small piece of property where they could have a garden, as well as two studio buildings downtown. Since then, she has actively involved herself

in the community while continuing to produce significant artistic work. She believes that as an artist she has a duty to use her art to express social concerns. The state of the environment, climate change and the amount

of waste produced by our way of life have led her to a series of screen-printed dishtowels, which she hopes will encourage people to limit their use of disposables.

“I was born in Chicago and moved to New Harmony six years ago.” — Laura Foster Nicholson

Beset, 30” x 28”, wool with metallic, polyester and silk. Part of a recent body of work about personal transformation. This tapestry depicts the artist surrounded by bees — creatures that are important to her life and have been woven into her tapestries for years.

Another cause that Nicholson is dedicated to is the “buy local” movement, and she has been working hard on “buy local” campaigns. Last year, she designed a “buy local” logo for the New Harmony Business Associates, which was featured on the “My Hometown” show on WTVW. Right now, she’s working to promote the increasingly popular New Harmony Farmers’ and Artisans’ Market. Nicholson draws ideas from her life and the world she sees around her. “I’m very interested in gardening, for example, so a lot of my subject matter has been

gardening. I’m interested in domesticity, so a lot of my so-called architecture work has really been more about houses or these barns as a part of life, not as an architectural examination.” Nicholson’s recent work has been more intimate. Of her last series of tapestries, completed last September, she says, “They’re all very emotional, introspective type pieces that use the bee as a metaphor for transforming yourself through a difficult situation.” What’s next for an artist who has accomplished so much? “I’ve let go of drawing to an extent that we’re kind of

estranged right now, and I need to be able to sit down with a sketchbook and just take some joy in drawing and also in writing, both of which have given me huge pleasure in my life… When I can be disciplined enough to sit down and do it, …I want to address issues about food and about gardening and about sustainability, but in a lyrical and pictorial way as I have done in the past.” And then, of course, there is always the next major body of work, the next series of tapestries. “Weaving to me is a centering process essential to my wellbeing… I reserve it for my alpha state work, when my hands and heart and head are connected in a way that stills the chatter of thought and manifests deeper realities.... That is how I define the art-making state, and it deserves the highest respect in my own chain of work. The weaving studio is uncluttered with any of the other things that crowd my workday— no sewing, no paperwork, no computer, nothing but yarn, space, and my looms. When I set foot in there it is like entering the yoga studio: no shoes, mind stilling.” (laurafosternicholson.blogspot.com) So it turns out that through that small door and up that long, narrow flight of stairs on Main Street in New Harmony is an amazing “mind stilling” space. There, Laura Foster Nicholson creates art that opens our minds to the beauty of the everyday and fills our hearts with appreciation for this unique community. A Posey County resident since 1980, Linda Neal Reising lives in the historic “Cale House,” where she writes fiction and poetry, as well as fending off rowdy raccoons and voracious Virginia creeper. She can be contacted at: poseymagazine@aol.com.

REQUIEM FOR OLD BARNS

They were the ones meant to shelter. Built with dreams, strong backs and hope, the sweat of young men in the August sun, the mild watchfulness of women, hands folded on swollen bellies, seeing not men or sweat or rough hewn joists but children chasing kittens in the loft. They were the ones meant to shelter under their metal roofs, among their sturdy beams, hay for cows shouldering in to be milked, 4-H lambs bawling through February storms, chickens, always chickens, and brood sows birthing litters like strings of squealing beads— even the mud-hard nests of swallows in the rafters, and the black snakes gliding toward them. But for them there is no shelter. The young men’s children—and theirs and theirs— tore out the stalls, piled the packed manure floors with rusted tractors, unwheeled wagons, parts of parts of things never to be joined again. Now weeds and upstart maples whip the silvered sideboards, winds pry loose the corners of the roofs, and twisted sheets of metal sail over far flung fields of wheat. For them there is no shelter. Now sun beats down on the hearts of hope; now raindrops dance on the skeletons of dreams.

— ©Alison Baumann

OLD BARNS

“Inside a barn is a whole universe, with its own time zone and climate and ecosystem, a shadowy world of swirling dust illuminated in tiger stripes by light shining through the cracks in the boards.” — Carolyn Jourden (Heart in the Right Place)

“Sure, it was a handsome building in its day. But then, there’s been a lot of winters pass with their snow and ice and howling wind. The summer sun’s beat down on that old barn till all the paint’s gone,  and the wood has turned silver gray. Now the old building leans a good deal, looking kind of tired. It came to me then. We’re a lot like that, you and I. Only it’s on the inside that the beauty

grows with us. Sure, we turn silver gray too… And lean a bit more than we did when we were young and full of sap. But the Good Lord knows what He’s doing. And as the years pass He’s busy using the hard weather of our lives, the dry spells and the stormy seasons to do a job of beautifying our souls that nothing else can produce.” — Valley Bugler Community Newspaper on Facebook May 1, 2008

Feathers/By Sharon Sorenson

ummers ummin’

Now in mid-July, when temperatures and humidity

soar, Posey County backyard Ruby-throated Hummingbird populations also begin to soar. While hummer season doesn’t peak here until early September, mid-summer marks the end of the first nesting and the beginning of a second. A female hummer starts building her second nest while still feeding her first brood. Much like a working mom, balancing motherhood and career, Mrs. Hummer is one busy gal, nurturing about-to-fledge babes, snatching weed seed fluff to line her new nest, and pasting lichen to the nest’s outside using tree sap as paste and her bill as a brush. © Photograph by Sharon Sorenson

When the first babes fledge, they’re apt to perch in the open, bills agape, peeping loudly to be fed. No such luck, kids. Time is of the essence, and Mom’s already busy with more eggs. At our backyard feeders, the new kids seem uncertain how to get at the good stuff their fellow hummers enjoy. They poke around the feeders, testing this position and that, finally tasting enough nectar to encourage continued effort. Meanwhile, back at the new nest, Mrs. Hummer has two eggs that could pass for white beans. She incubates for about two weeks, the elastic edge of her nest leaving a “nest ring” across her breast, easily visible when she dashes out to visit feeders. When eggs hatch, the nestlings look like little bees smaller than the eraser on a Number 2 pencil. Mom’s feeding tasks begin anew, finding nectar and bugs to regurgitate into hungry mouths.

Contrary to popular belief, hummers’ primary diet is tiny bugs, not nectar. They seek protein from aphids, gnats, tiny spiders— all those little critters that fastidious gardeners love to hate. But to apply pesticides to eliminate tiny bugs is to eliminate 60% of the hummers’ diet. So if you want hummers, cap the pesticides. After twenty-two days of hectic feeding, Mrs. Hummer’s second brood is ready to fledge. Mom’s work is done, and she’s free to gorge for herself, tanking up for the trip to her Costa Rican winter home. So early September brings the greatest number of hummers to area feeders. By then, not only has the second batch of fledglings joined the first, but migrating adults from the north are beginning to move through, every one of them focused on the feeding frenzy to fatten up—to double their weight—for a nonstop flight across the Gulf of Mexico.

Later, when the new kids have learned the knack of pigging out to double their own weight, they, too, will head south. By this time, though, adult males and females have long since departed. So the hatch-year birds go it alone. Instinct tells them when and where to go. Instinct tells them when they’ve arrived. And loyal critters that they are, the 20% that survive their first year, including the rigors of migration, will return to your yard, to your feeder, and expect you to have it ready for them come early April next year. Sharon and Charles Sorenson settled in St. Philip in 1966 and continue to improve their certified backyard wildlife habitat that to date has hosted 161 bird species and 53 butterfly species. Send your bird questions and comments to them or contact them for publicvenue programs, conferences, or seminars at forthebirdscolumn@yahoo.com.

Posey Portrait

Judge Brent Almon, Superior Court, Posey County, Indiana

ÂŠ Photograph by J. Bruce Baumann

Posey Portrait will feature a random photograph of a friend or neighbor â&#x20AC;&#x201D; in a place we call home

I’m just sayin’

DEATH

I was lucky. I got to spend the last night of my Granny’s life with her. I close my eyes, and I can remember all the things we talked about that night. We made plans for the next day; we hugged and said “Good night.” She passed that night. I was lucky; the last thing I said to her was, “I love you.” Toni Leigh Waddell Mt. Vernon High

no longer with us; but you cannot touch death itself until you meet your end as well. Some people see death as a spiritual occurrence, while others think death is just death. That being said, death has the power to begin new things, but in doing so also ends things that have already been. Miranda Holbrook Mt. Vernon High

Death can be a scary thought— The thought of being cold and alone. It can also be a relief from pain, And it can take you to a place of peace. Death doesn’t have to be scary. It’s just something we all have to accept. Holly King (homebound student) Mt. Vernon High

Through the dark of shattered glass and the whispers of broken bones, death is always around. No matter how deep you hide, it will always be there, slowly creeping closer and closer. I’m just sayin’, “live life long, and love life full.” Kayla Anslinger Mt. Vernon High

Life goes by too fast. Some never get to know. Some know it all. Live like it’s your last day, Because it just might be.

Life is the greatest gift anyone could receive. Along the way people have managed to endure the pain of failure, heartache, and, of course, death. Life is too short to waste. Be bold, step outside of your comfort zone, go skydiving, travel the world, love everyone, and smile too much. Do it all before it’s too late. Megan Trombley Mt. Vernon Jr. High

Kendra Binkley Mt. Vernon High

Death isn’t a tangible thing; it is an abstract idea. For people to touch death, they must die themselves. Someone physically dies and is

To some death is a monster that hides in closets and under beds, waiting for the perfect moment to jump out and grab someone by the hair. To me death is sleep, a loss of pain, a last bid for some sort of peace. To others, death is release from pain, torment, numbness, lack of control. To a few, death means nothing at all. Death cannot be classified as an end of life because death travels with a person from the moment of conception and embraces us when it is time to leave this life and enter nonexistence. Death is both a captor and a friend. Amber Petrig Mt. Vernon High Death is death. It’s something that happens on a daily basis. Creatures and animals die in the wild every day, and no one notices. But when someone human dies, everybody from Kalamazoo to Timbuktu remembers that “Oh my gosh, we aren’t immortal!” Death happens. It is sad, but it happens to us all eventually. William Hershey Mt. Vernon High In this decaying world, death is rampant and unchecked, No freedom without price, no kindness

without malice. Death is a liberation from this Apocalypse; As the mortal shackles wither, As the spirit is at last freed from flesh prisons, the soul ascends. All souls leave this world for worlds unknown to us in part, To exist yet again as new beings. Do not weep for the dead, for it is for us that they weep; For we are still the trapped, the downtrodden, the damned. Jacob Driver Mt. Vernon High Death. This is often a sensitive subject. Death usually makes people feel uneasy or uncomfortable. This is just part of life that makes the world go round. It’s okay if you have a hard time dealing with death. You are not alone! Abby Randall Mt. Vernon High Death, I’m sure, is a touchy subject for everyone to talk about. It is for me because I miss my old dog Shea. R.I.P. Joe Irvin Mt. Vernon High

I’m just sayin’ has been a sounding board for middle and high school students in Posey County. Posey Magazine would like to thank all the students— and their teachers—who participated by submitting short poems or essays on topics ranging from “My Best Day Ever” to “Death.” We have enjoyed reading every submission and encourage students to continue to think about the world around them and to express their thoughts through writing. Death is something no one wants to talk about. Yes, they’re gone; but you have so many good memories you’ve shared. You will see them again once you’re in heaven. Don’t be sad they’re gone. Be happy they were here. Hollie Robinson Mt. Vernon High Is death the end? Or is it just the beginning of something greater? No one honestly knows exactly what happens after you pass. You could be walking with your Savior or maybe just sitting with your friends and family in the clouds. Ty Hurley Mt. Vernon High Doom at the end Everyone will go through A day is your last Things will make you sad Heaven at the end.

Austin Colson Mt. Vernon High

Death. What does it mean to you? For some people, it’s considered a bitter end. Although for others, it can mean a new beginning. It really just depends on someone’s attitude in life. Just enjoy your life with your loved ones before it’s too late! Cody Chase Mt. Vernon High Death--the best way to describe it is by saying it is something you don’t want to experience. The smell smells like a dirty sock. The feeling feels like someone stealing something from you. Death is the worst thing ever. Brianna Kingerly Mt. Vernon Jr. High The meaning of death is to be no longer living on Earth. It really is a scary thought. However, death should be thought of as easy and painless. That isn’t always the case in this cruel world, but it will help you sleep at night. Jada Compton Mt. Vernon High

Posey Then & Now Circa 1937

Courtesy of Posey County Historical Society

Since the late 1800s, when it was called Holleman’s Park, the Ohio River waterfront at the end of Main Street has been a center of civic life in Mt. Vernon. In 1912, the Jacob Cronbach family donated the land to the city in the name of their deceased son Sherburne, and what has since been known as Sherburne Park was built at a cost of $2882. The flood of 1913 put most of the area under water, but when the Park was finally dedicated in May 1913, it boasted a bandstand and a children’s playground with rockers, a merry-go-round, slides, teeter-totters, and an elaborate swing set called chute-the-chute. Later improvements added concrete steps and seats, a 50’ flagpole, and a fountain with electric lights. This photograph shows Sherburne Park at the height of the 1937 flood, when Coast Guard boats were part of the rescue effort. Thereafter, use of the Park declined as other recreational opportunities became available, but it continued to be the chosen place for civic celebrations. In 1960 the Park was the site of a re-enactment of the landing at McFadden’s Bluff on its 175th anniversary, and in 1966 the City of Mt. Vernon celebrated its 150th birthday in the Park. Annual Mt. Vernon River Days festivities have traditionally centered on the Park.

Posey Then & Now Circa 2012

ÂŠ Photographed by J. Bruce Baumann

The 1990s saw renovations to Sherburne Park, including new lighting as well as removal of restrooms that were discovered to lack a septic system. In the early 21st Century, the City entered into a 2-Phase Riverfront Project that is bringing more extensive changes, including a significant expansion of the Park onto adjacent land to the east. In Phase I, railroad tracks that had transected the site and two large silos just east of the boat ramp were removed, and earthmoving, landscaping and lighting improvements were undertaken. The cost of the Phase I work, including removal of the silos and additional site improvements, was financed with a grant from the State of Indiana, proceeds from the local EDIT tax, and $180,000 in private donations. The top photograph, looking west from the bottom of Main Street across the old Sherburne Park area, is the same view as the 1937 photograph. Phase II, at a cost of $1,200,000 financed with a State grant and EDIT funds, will include an interactive water fountain and an open air amphitheater in the new area of the Park. Foundations will be laid for a building which will house a concession stand and new restrooms as well as space for equipment storage. The bottom photograph shows the Phase II construction in progress east of the boat ramp. When the entire Riverfront Project is completed, there will be a scenic walkway and overlook along the riverfront. The new Park, comprising Sherburne Park and the new east area, has yet to be named, but it will surely return the riverfront at the bottom of Main Street to its previous status as a center of community life.

Out of the frame/J. Bruce Baumann

Out of the frame focuses on moments found without a story or context. We all pass something that catches our eye and tweaks our curiosity during the course of everyday living. Sometimes it makes us smile or even chuckle. You might say it tickles the mind. Other times it makes us think about life in a serious way. Regardless of how we react, in that instant the image touches a part of our brain or heart and becomes part of who we are. For the moment it takes us out of the frame.

Out In The Back Of Beyond/Editor’s Notebook

he May/June issue of Posey Magazine reached over 8300 readers and featured an essay by contributing editor Charlene Tolbert on New Life. A photograph of a newborn fawn caught the attention of our readers and pulled on their heartstrings. It seems that in a world of violence, hate and general mean-spiritedness, we still have room in our hearts for the beauty that life offers all of us, if we only take a few moments to open our eyes, as well as our minds, to the gifts that pass our way every day. I’ve been watching a robin build a nest for the past few weeks. Her architecture is something to be admired, as well as her tenacious work habits. In June she settled in on her nest to provide the warmth and love that comes with motherhood. And in no time at all she hatched triplets, all demanding their share of mom’s offerings. Berries, bugs and worms were devoured as fast as they could be delivered. By the time you read this, the babies will be out of the nest and thinking about the next generation of new life. Ready and willing to do what is necessary to begin the cycle all over. There’s a certain loveliness in watching the evolution of good. We can all learn something from the youngest living things, and hopefully find the strength to pass it on. As the photographer whose pictures accompanied the New Life essay, I can only suggest to you that an open mind can see forever.

J. Bruce Baumann Editor Posey Magazine poseymagazine@aol.com

Trying to beat the heat

Circa 2007

New Harmony’s 4th of July picnic.