Posey Magazine September/October 2010

September/October 2010

www.poseymagazine.com

The very last thing

ED RUSSELL can do for you

September/October 2010

©

A magazine for and about

Posey County, Indiana

Copyright 2010 No material can be reproduced without the written permission of Posey Magazine.

Contact us at: poseymagazine@aol.com

Cover story

Ed Russell spends his free time gardening, story telling, hanging with his buddies and fishing.

Writer Charlene Tolbert recently spent some time with Russell, where he recalled memories from more than 80 years, including stories from some of the nearly 4000 graves he dug in Posey County.

BEGINS ON PAGE SIX © Cover Photograph by J. Bruce Baumann

12 16 18 20 22 28

Feathers/By Sharon Sorenson What to expect with our birds of autumn I’m just sayin’ Posey County Students write about gifts

Posey Then & Now

©

A look back in time

Cynthiana and the dramatic events that occurred in 1822 — By Linda Neal Reising Savah’s Ham & Turkey Dinner and Auction — By Alison Baumann Posies/By Alison Baumann The Impossible Garden Special thanks to the following for their help

Dr. Sarah Appel, June Dunning, Shirley & Russ Granderson, Ryan Nader, Joseph Poccia, Nancy Rapp, Kathy Riordan, Patty Vahey

THE SIMPLE LIFE EXPLORED W

elcome to the first edition of Posey Magazine, a bi-monthly Internet magazine for the people of Posey County — for those who live here and those who wish they did.

The Internet provides a path to explore the people and the sense of place that we call home. Posey County is snuggled up on the toe of Indiana, with the Ohio River on the south and the Wabash River on the west. A very special place in rural Indiana.

It’s home to approximately 27,000 people, all of whom have an interesting story to share. As a young boy, I spent a great deal of time feeding the fish on

the Big Bayou River and wolfing down ice cream sundaes on hot summer days at Walz’s Pharmacy in New Harmony.

Now, as an adult, and living on a small farm in the heart of Posey county, I still see a magical place.

The landscape is some of the most beautiful and scenic geography in all of Indiana. Posey Magazine plans to show you things that you may not have been able to see for yourself and promises stories that we hope you’ll want to share with family and friends across the country, or even around the world.

We will not compete with newspapers and other publications in the area,

but we will compete for your hearts and minds. You can expect profiles of interesting people in Posey County, as well as short stories, essays, picture stories, poetry, and articles on recreation, how we work, some history, and a different look at our youth.

We’d like to hear from you, so please send your comments, suggestions for stories, corrections or criticisms to: poseymagazine@aol.com. We plan to publish a new issue every two months, with our next offering going online the first of November. If you would like to be reminded when a new magazine is uploaded, please send us an email address and we’ll send you a cybernote.

J. Bruce Baumann Editor Posey Magazine poseymagazine. com

POSEY POSTCARD

A

“ nd this realization leads me to one overriding and inescapable truth, that a life well lived must be a creative endeavor. Whatever form that creativity takes whether it’s carpentry, building, teaching, raising a family, or writing a book the challenge of looking within ourselves to find that creative element makes us who we are. But chances are, if we are genuinely open to the possibilities of a calling, we will find that that satisfaction will come from someplace far different from where we expected to find it.”

—by Andrew J. Hoffman

New Harmony, Indiana

Š Photographed by J. Bruce Baumann

The very last thing

ED RUSSELL can do for you

By Charlene Tolbert

years and Edslips Russell steps outside the house he’s lived in for the past 70 a chaw of tobacco into his mouth. He gazes out over the cornfields swaying in the hot summer breeze and points out the long row of zinnias near the barn.

“Those are the only flowers I can ever get to grow, but, boy, don’t they just glow.”

Continued on next page

Over the past 57 years Ed Russell allows he has dug 3000 to 4000 graves in 13 cemeteries in the county. Most of them were for local people and most of them were people Ed knew.

Š Photographed by J. Bruce Baumann

His wife of 60 years, Margaret, is both pleased at his pride in the colorful plants and slightly peeved about his tobacco habit. “I’ve been vacuuming up his tobacco for more than 40 years,” says the petite counterpoint to the rugged Russell who is the principal grave digger for Posey County.

They both admit to 82 years, but Margaret is quick to point out that she’s a few months his junior. Ed says he met her one evening in Mount Vernon after she had persuaded her brothers to take her to town with them, and on a dare he asked if he could take her home. They’ve been a couple ever since, raising two sons and a daughter at their home on Tile Factory Road. Ed says they’ve “had good times and bad, like most folks. We were both raised up poor during the Depression.

We’ve worked hard and had some heartaches.

Our oldest son was killed in a wreck. There’s been some sickness, but it’s been a good life.

Still is.”

Ed’s done a little bit of everything in his working life. He quit high school in the first half of the ninth grade to help his father farm what turned out eventually to be 216 acres. “I looked a mule in the butt for a lot of miles ’til Dad was finally able to get a tractor.

When he bought a rubber-tired tractor he let me use it to go to town on Saturday nights. I worked in the excavating business, operating bulldozers, draglines, all kinds of earth-moving equipment. I worked at Alcoa for a while, laid pipelines.

“I even worked on a towboat once for 30 days. We went all the way to the Gulf. I was just an old green country boy. Mostly I just helped the cook, took coffee to the pilot, shined the lights. When we got back up here, I was due to be off for 30 days. You know, they work 30 days on, 30 days off. I was leaving the boat and the captain asked me if I’d be coming back. I told him no, I was going home to eat my mother’s home cooking.”

However the work Ed has done that connects him most closely to his Posey County home is digging graves. Over the past 57 years Ed allows he has dug 3,000 to 4,000 graves in 13 cemeteries in the county. Most of them were for local people and most of them

Ed and his wife, Margaret, recently celebrated their 60th wedding anniversary. were people Ed knew.

“I just this week buried a close friend of mine. He was a fella I had known since we went to school together. It’s kinda hard, but I feel like it’s the last thing you can ever do for them. Some people just can’t understand it.

They ask me how I can do it, but I tell them that – that it’s the very last thing I can do for someone. I dug the graves for my Mom and Dad.”

Then he pauses and says, almost to himself, “Couldn’t do it for my boy though.”

Ed can tell stories for as long as you can listen about the work involved in assisting Posey County people to their final resting places. After all, he began this work only a couple of years after he and Margaret married.

“I was working for another fella then who was a contractor and he dug graves on the side and I helped him out. After a few years, I went into the business for myself. Back then you got $10 for digging a grave. Before long I bought my first backhoe for $800. My wife cried for a week when I came driving it home.

See, that was $800 we didn’t have. But it’s worked out. I’ve gone through seven little hoes and three big ones since then.

“Times have changed. An awful lot of people are being cremated now. Most families still bury the ashes, but, of course, that doesn’t require as much work. Back when I started, people thought you shouldn’t even step on a grave; now I drive all over the cemeteries and no one thinks a thing about it. I mark off the graves and get to digging. Price has gone up to $600 a grave now. But in Evansville it costs $1,200 to $1,400. It takes about 20 minutes to dig the grave if you don’t have to move the stone. But my job’s not over then. You have to put the flowers around the grave and you have to console the families.

“Sometimes I’ve buried a husband and wife at the same time. Then there was that time you may remember some years ago when there were four kids. I think they were all cousins. Killed in a train accident while they were working detasseling corn.

“Dealing with families can be a tricky

“I got tired of cleaning sweet corn by hand, so I invented this fancy machine out of old rollers from a washing machine,” Ed said. business. Sometimes there are family feuds and they come to a head at the graveside.

There have been times when there have been sheriff’s deputies with shotguns standing off to one side just to keep the peace. We had one burial here a while back where there were three county cars and three state police cars before it was all over.

“One time a woman was kneeling, I guess she was praying, at the foot of another woman’s grave. I think maybe it was her daughter. Well, another woman came up behind her and grabbed her by the hair and

Ed and Annebelle in 1933

dragged her up. They started fighting and then some of the men started fighting. One woman grabbed one flower and threw it in the open grave and said, ‘That’s good enough for that old bitch.’ Then other people started grabbing up flowers and throwing them in the grave.

The funeral director motioned to me to start filling the grave, so I started pushing dirt. I was getting pretty close to some of the fighters with my blade, but they just kept at it. They finally settled down, but it was a mess.

“There was one funeral not too long ago where somebody had parked a van at the

foot of the hill below the grave. People filed past the grave then walked down to the van where each one got a cold beer. Probably better after than before.

“There was one family from Beaver Dam, Ky. I think maybe they were Pentecostal. Each one of them took their shoes off as they got out of their cars and walked barefooted to the grave.

“Some family members don’t want machinery; some people want to dig the graves themselves. But you just can’t allow that. You never know what you’ll get into.

“With the water table so high in some of these cemeteries, you have to pump the water out of the graves before they can put the vault in place. And even then you have to hurry a little bit because the vault can float.

“And you know those grassy mats that are put down around the graves. Well, sometimes the mourners don’t know it, but they’re walking on water.”

Ed laughs and tugs on his suspenders.

“I guess this backhoe I’ve got now, I’ve had it better than 30 years, will probably be my last.

I’ll have to quit one of these days. But I’ve had some good times.

“I was in town the other day talking to a fella on the street and I kept having to stop to say hello or throw up my hand at somebody who honked at me. The guy asked me, ‘Do you know everybody in town?’

“I told him ‘Not quite, but I do want everybody to be my friend.’ ”

Charlene Tolbert is a nearly lifelong Hoosier who continues to be captivated by the people and places of Southern Indiana. She can be contacted at poseymagazine@aol.com.

“I just this week buried a close friend of mine. He was a fella I had known since we went to school together. It’s kinda hard, but I feel like it’s the last thing you can ever do for them. Some people just can’t understand it. They ask me how I can do it, but I tell them that – that it’s the very last thing I can do for someone. I dug the graves for my Mom and Dad.” ­

—Ed Russell

Feathers/By Sharon Sorenson

Dark-eyed Junco

Autumn Birds of

Some folks know

winter is near when the fall festivals wind down and football fever kicks up a notch.

Others know by the every-weekend craft shows. And a few wait for verification by falling leaves and the roar of leaf blowers. Most of us test air temperatures, judging the day that summer heat and humidity finally creep south.

Š Photographed by Charles Sorenson

Some of us, however, recognize autumn-to-winter passage because the birds, ever reliable indicators of seasonal change, depart—or arrive. Hummingbird populations begin dwindling by September’s end with the final rush southward all but over by the begining of November. Goldfinches change into their winter drab, and the first juncos and white-throated sparrows poke about in the undergrowth.

Our birds fall into four categories: (1) those that stay here year-round, (2) those that come here in the summer to nest and raise their young, (3) those that only fly through in spring and fall on their way north or south, and (4) those that come here for the winter.

Hummingbirds fall in the second category; so, like other summer nesters, they put on a rapid disappearing act in late autumn. To remain a good host, though, keep your feeders fresh until at least mid-November. No, your feeders won’t cause them to delay departure.

Hummers migrate when their hormones tell them, and their hormones react to shortened days. To fly across the Gulf of Mexico and on to their wintering grounds in Costa Rica, however, hummers must double their weight. So your feeders offer much-needed calories when cool nights limit production of natural nectar.

Some people despair each fall that their goldfinches have departed. Ah, no, they’re still very much with us; they’re just in disguise. They change colors, from hurt-youreyes gold in summer to camouflage drab olive in winter. So keep the thistle feeders filled.

Year-round residents, goldfinches only last month brought their babies to your yard. Now the whole family gathers around your buffet.

My late autumn goldfinch buffet starts in the garden where an 80-foot row of hasbeen zinnias stands bare of color, decorated instead with seed heads atop stems of dead leaves. There, constant movement marks busily goldfinches feeding. Alongside, three rows of sunflowers, heads bowed, clutch a few seeds. My step outdoors triggers a rush of wings, goldfinches lifting from the declining bounty. The frenzy spills over to feeders, where birds vie for perch space, feeders emptying faster than my pocketbook prefers.

White-throated Sparrow

In early October, expect the first of the season’s white-throated sparrows and darkeyed juncos. At first glance, white-throats may blend in with other brownish birds in the yard, especially house sparrows and house finches.

But take a closer look, and the white throat and yellow lores pop, setting this bird apart as a truly lovely winter visitor.

Juncos, the gray-backed white-bellied birds my grandma called “snow birds,” often arrive together with the white-throats. Perky little guys, they appear fresh from the cleaners, well pressed and suited up for a formal affair, bellies white as if from sitting in snow.

White-throats and juncos, two of the half-dozen or so birds that come here only for winter, fly some distance to join us. After raising their families in the Canadian boreal forests and northward to the Arctic Circle, both birds consider Posey County the equivalent of the Caribbean, here to escape the more brutal northern winters, checking out our brush piles, leaf litter, and weedy spots.

When they clean up the natural “wild” seeds, they’ll come twittering through our yards scratching under evergreen bows, searching for wintering bugs, or pecking beneath feeders, foraging for spilled seeds. A ground-level platform seed feeder under low branches may lure these visitors close to your favorite watch-window. They’ll sing their thanks, cheering up drab winter days to come.

In my yard, white-throated sparrows tie with juncos for first place as most common winter-visitor feeder birds. In fact, to my ears, one of autumn’s most welcome sounds is the junco’s one-pitch musical trill heard in chorus with the white-throated sparrow’s sweet “Oh, Sam Peabody, Peabody, Peabody.” To me that says autumn-turning-to-winter more than festivals, football games, or leaf falls.

© Photographed by Charles Sorenson

© 2010

Sharon Sorenson and her husband, Charles, settled in St. Philip in 1966 and continue to improve their certified backyard habitat that to date has hosted 160 species of birds and 46 species of butterflies. She can be contacted at forthebirdscolumn@yahoo.com

I’m just sayin’ The Eastern sky brims with light as night draws to a close.

The Earth yawns, stretches, and prepares for new possibilities.

As the Sun reaches its middlemost point, the atmosphere erupts in warmth.

All living things drink in the last few rays of light upon the Western horizon.

Darkness descends and stillness rules.

Laden with potential, each day is a gift.

Brandon Wells North Posey High School

Gifts are a thing to be treasured—a sign a person gives to show they care. Most people think holidays and birthdays are the only times that gifts are exchanged, but that is not completely true. Everybody has innate abilities such as leadership, teaching, healing, athleticism, and musicality. When musicians write music and share it, it can then become an inspiration for others.

Those with leadership abilities can lead people to do great acts. Using a gift that comes naturally is an act in itself that shows a person is thoughtful and caring.

Hayley Salaman Mt. Vernon High School I have received many gifts throughout my life but one stands out in my mind. After my grandmother, Flora Mae Hopf, passed away, I was given her Bible. This Bible was given to her through three generations, she used it every day and I do the same.

Every time I see her Bible on my bedside

Gifts

table I think about my grandma and her unconditional love for my family and me.

Her Bible is a symbol to me of the gifts of life and love she gave to me while she was alive. Forever I will treasure the gifts she gave to me and continues to, as I search the same Bible Grandma used to guide her through her own life.

Megan Baehl North Posey High School A child’s toy, the morning cup of coffee, a brightening smile, a warming hug, the bedtime stories, a night out with friends, a family dinner, a family night.

The precious gifts of life, that should not be wasted because...life is a gift in itself.

Cody Devine North Posey High School Rays of light penetrate the canopy Petals of tulips float on the wind Cardinals dart and sing the sweetest of melodies Wind caresses my hair A gift, a gift so precious to me The life I live is the sweetest thing Tylie Robertson North Posey High School Be it a kind word or a gentle smile Lifting a spirit or touching a heart

Asking nothing in return all the while A simple gesture from one person to another One of life’s simple treasures The gift that can never be bought Stephanie Cook North Posey High School From the time we were born we have received and given many gifts of many shapes and sizes. But of these gifts, the most valuable ones are that of no physical form. Examples would include life lessons, memories, and advice. These gifts are one of the best ones to give or receive since they can last forever and keep giving to others. As time goes on, people’s lives have become more involved in different activities and we forget about those simple gifts that are constantly being exchanged. We need to slow down and cherish the gifts that have affected our lives and share them with others around us.

John Bradford Mt. Vernon High School

I’m Just Sayin’ is a sounding board for young people. All middle and high school students (including home-schoolers) in Posey County are invited to submit essays, stories or poems on the designated topics for each issue. Submissions must be no longer than six sentences. Topics and deadlines for the next two issues: November/December: Teacher Deadline October 1, 2010 January/February: Making Plans Deadline December 1, 2010 Email to: poseymagazine@aol.com

PHS

DOG WALK A new venue for your best friend

T

he Posey Humane Society Dog Walk will be held at New Harmony State Park, October 23.

You can download a registration form from the PHS website: www.poseyhumane.org.

Forms will also be available at the shelter, and at other area businesses around Posey County.

Participants need to bring a valid rabies certificate (not just a tag). Plus all dogs must be leashed, with leashes no longer than 6 feet and no retractable leashes. PHS will have leashes available to loan for the day if need be.

PHS says there will be added activities this year that will make this the best walk ever.

Kelli Rainey and Maggie

Š Photographed by J. Bruce Baumann

Posey Then & Now Circa 1919

Courtesy of the Alexandria Library

Known as “The Castle” for its elegant brick architecture, Mt. Vernon’s third high school, which opened in 1896, was one of the finest high schools in the State. Built at the corner of 5th Avenue and College Avenue at a cost of $17,000, the building originally housed just over 200 students in Grades 9 – 11, taught by 8 teachers in 9 classrooms and an auditorium. Grade 12 was added in 1902. The school population had grown to 240 and 9 teachers by the time an addition (at far right) was built in 1914.

The Castle was razed in 1929, and many of the bricks ended up in the rebuilding of the Booker T. Washington High School.

Posey Then & Now Circa 2010

Š Photographed by J. Bruce Baumann

Fifty-seven years later, in 1986, the Alexandrian Public Library, with its parklike setting and playground, rose on the site of the old high school. In 1903, Mrs. Matilda Greathouse Alexander had donated her private library, containing 3400 books and periodicals, to the Mt. Vernon Public Library Board, and in 1905 the collection moved to the new Carnegie Library on the east side of Main Street. The Alexandrian Public Library now boasts over 100,000 circulating items. Last year, there were 74,660 visits to the Library and an annual circulation of 171,614.

Cynthiana

The serene corn fields surrounding

belie the dramatic events that occurred there in 1822

By Linda Neal Reising

T

he story began several years earlier when a Mrs. Goddard, while immigrating to Posey County, contracted small pox. She was deserted by her alcoholic husband, Isaac Goddard, but was taken in and cared for by a black man who lived nearby.

Regaining her health, Mrs. Goddard returned to her spouse, but shortly afterward gave birth to twin boys who had been fathered by her rescuer. These children would become the pawns in a nefarious kidnapping scheme.

According to W. P. Leonard’s The History and Directory of Posey County, during this time in history, there were many thieves, counterfeiters, and murderers who had escaped to the frontier, a safe haven from which to conduct their illegal operations.

One group of these desperadoes resided on Diamond Island, an island in the Ohio River located nine miles upriver from Mt. Vernon.

The most prominent member of this gang was named Acquilla Ford, the mastermind behind the Goddard kidnapping.

One day, while Mr. Goddard was, as usual, absent from home, Acquilla Ford rode up to the Goddard house in a state of high excitement. He informed Mrs. Goddard that her husband, whom he’d left six to eight miles back, had sustained near-fatal injuries when thrown from his horse. According to Ford, Goddard wished to see his wife before he died.

Since there was no one at home to watch John and Isaac, Jr., the now six–yearold twins, Mrs. Goddard asked Ford what she was to do with her children. He suggested that she put the twins onto his horse, and he would take them to a neighbor’s house where she could retrieve them after tending to her husband. Mrs. Goddard agreed, and once the children were securely aboard the horse, Ford took off in the direction from which he had come, with Mrs. Goddard hurrying behind on foot, heading toward the “accident scene.” She soon lost sight of Ford and her children, but she was not concerned for their safety until she arrived at the neighbor’s home where the twins were supposed to be staying.

When she stopped, she found that Ford had not deposited the boys. It was only then she realized that her children had been kidnapped.

The news of the abduction spread rapidly throughout northern Posey County. A band of twenty-seven men, armed with guns and clubs, assembled to rescue the children.

The posse was led by Patrick Calvert, William Rogers, and Joe Cater. Upon entering the area filled with “outlaws,” the would-be rescuers realized that the entire neighborhood might turn against them, and they retreated, leaving only the three leaders against Ford and six friends. In the conflict that ensued, Patrick Calvert was beaten so badly that he was left for dead. The fray finally ended, but the mission had been a failure, as was a later

search of the area. The residents of Cynthiana abandoned hope of seeing the Goddard boys again.

Two years later, Calvert, who had recovered from his injuries, decided to venture to Arkansas with a group of friends to claim land. The party, on their journey home, spent the night in Fulton, Arkansas. Calvert related to the inn’s landlord the story of the Posey County kidnapping. When he was done, the innkeeper told him that two boys matching Calvert’s description had been brought there and sold two years before.

The next morning, Calvert rode out to a plantation to see the boys, questioned them, and found that they were indeed the Goddard twins. Calvert presented his case to the authorities, who gave Calvert custody of the children. When he brought them back to Posey County, Mrs. Goddard was so overjoyed that she insisted they serve Patrick Calvert until their adulthood. The great kidnapping caper had finally come to an end—a happy one at that.

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.

Posey Portrait

Brenda Sawyer at the Yellow Tavern in New Harmony

Š Photographed by J. Bruce Baumann

Posey Portrait will feature a random photograph of a friend or neighbor — in a place we call home

Auctioneer John Pate keeps the merchandise moving, as bidders fight for a variety of homemade goods. All for a good cause.

Savah Community Center Ham & Turkey Dinner and Auction

An 1890’s schoolhouse continues to serve its community

By Alison Baumann

Thirty dollars for a pecan pie? Thirty-

© Photographed by J. Bruce Baumann

five for an angel food cake? No, this isn’t some fancy-schmantzy silent auction for charity— it’s the annual Savah Community Center Ham & Turkey Dinner and Auction, and there’s nothing silent about it.

Auctioneer John Pate starts moving the goods as soon as the last homemade ham and turkey dinner is served, and the bidding can get hot and heavy as favorite baked goods, crafts, toys, decorations and new and used merchandise of every description come on the block.

Brandi Granderson keeps tabs on the winning bidders with Esther Toon, making sure that every penny is recorded and collected.

Former Sheriff Bill Cox was the auctioneer for years, before turning things over to John Pate recently. Marge Bundy has worked tirelessly over the years, dishing out ham and turkey dinners and keeping the auction moving along.

Rumor has it that some of the Christmas ornaments and craft items have seen more than one auction, but nothing dampens the spirits of the bidders, who are there for the laughs and the fellowship as much as for the haul at the end of the night.

“And this here’s a… I really don’t know what this is,” Pate says, faltering for a moment as he holds up a brightly-colored yarn object, “Do I hear five dollars, five dollars…three dollars, will ya’ give me three dollars, three dollars…Come on, folks!” Someone calls out, “You’re holding it upside down!” As each item is sold, 4-H volunteers solemnly carry it to the winning bidder, sometimes amid hoots and catcalls from friends and rival bidders.

The dinner and auction started 30

years ago as a fund-raiser for the Community Center, the two-room Walker School built in 1890. In 1957, the Mount Vernon School District consolidated its elementary schools and offered the old buildings to the communities where they were located—as long as they were used as active community centers and properly maintained.

At first, well-meaning folks cleaned out their garages and donated boxes of dirty canning jars and rusty old tools to the auction, but the quality of the goods available has improved considerably since then. Local businesses as well as individuals donate the food for the dinner and all the auction items, so 100 percent of the proceeds goes for maintenance of the building. A hand-carved duck call by Donnie Martin fetched $150 one

John and Nancy Crum are regulars at the dinner and auction. John, a master cabinet maker, contributes handmade articles that always go for a handsome price. year. Handmade wooden boxes by John Crum bring $100 or more, and who knows what somebody might bid, on a given night, for a bottle of Tim Schaefer’s strawberry wine?

Not that the bidding is always strictly on the up and up. Pre-bids have been known to come in secretly from neighbors or former students eager to contribute to the upkeep of the old school. Then furious staged bidding wars can break out, leaving spouses not in on the game baffled—“Twenty-five dollars for a loaf of monkey bread? Are you crazy?”

Through it all, Pate keeps the evening and the merchandise moving—“Do I hear ten dollars for a jar of Marge Bundy’s pickled okra, ten

bid, now twelve, now twelve, will ya’ give me twelve, twelve bid, now thirteen, now thirteen, thirteen bid, now fourteen, now fourteen…”

This year’s Ham and Turkey Dinner and Auction will be held on Oct. 23, 2010, starting at 5 p.m. at the Community Center on Savah Road.

© 2010

Alison Baumann shares a small farm in Savah with an assortment of creatures, both wild and domestic. She has had poetry, essays and fiction published in numerous regional and national literary journals. She can be contacted at poseymagazine@aol.com

Homemade pies and cakes go for as high as $35. The parade of goodies can go on for hours, as Cody Pate does a cake walk for all to see.

Posies/By Alison Baumann

The Impossible Garden The idea for The Impossible Garden

came to me on a September evening four years ago. I was wandering along our lane beside a long weed-strangled levee that had been built from the dredgings of a small pond. The levee was too steep to mow, so all summer either my husband or the neighbor boy had whacked away at it with the weed whacker, leaving a half-shaven, half-overgrown disaster area. Like a bolt out of the blue, as I stood there, a blindingly simple solution appeared: Wouldn’t it be easier, I said to myself, rather than having to whack down the weeds every two weeks, to turn this mess into a garden?

Alison Baumann’s Impossible Garden is 112 feet long and 14 feet deep. It has been a labor of love for the past four years.

Š Photographed by J. Bruce Baumann

Sometimes, even when you feel certain that the voice of inspiration is speaking to you directly from heaven, it’s best just to ignore it. I was no expert at this, but I’d spent enough winter evenings poring over gardening books to know that gardening isn’t a license to just go free-forming all over the landscape being “creative.” Like anything else that people have been doing for a long time, gardening has a whole slew of rules that you ignore at your peril. And I knew that the first and most important essential for gardening success is: Start small. Be aware of your limitations in time, energy and money. In other words, don’t dig up more than you can mulch.

The problem was that the levee wasn’t small. How pathetic, I thought, would a half dozen daffodils and a row of zinnias look in a vast sea of butchered crabgrass and mare’s tails? Besides, you don’t get an inspiration from heaven to do something wimpy. By noon the next day, I had the perimeter of the new garden marked off with old 4x4s we had left over from a fencing project that never got off the ground. It’s a long trapezoid, wider at the bottom. It measures about 112’ long by 14’ deep, covering the steepest part of the slope.

“You’re crazy,” my husband said. “Heh,” my neighbors said, “that’ll be some work.”

That fall, I killed the weeds but left them in place, hoping the winter rain wouldn’t wash all the soil away. I put in 50 daffodil bulbs and transplanted a few clumps of black-eyed susans and lamb’s ears from the front yard. It didn’t look like much, but the Impossible Garden was born.

Since then, I’ve spent hundreds of hours in the Impossible Garden. I’ve made a lot of mistakes and learned a few things that I look forward to sharing with you in the months ahead. Two things I’ll tell you now, though. First, creating and maintaining a hundred-foot flower garden is not easier than whacking down weeds every two weeks. Not by a long shot. Second, however foolhardy the original concept may be, in this rich and life-giving land we live in, no garden is impossible.

Zennias and butterflies were made for each other.

Š Photographed by J. Bruce Baumann

An unexplored life is sometimes a good thing

By J. Bruce Baumann

I’d be the first to admit that an old guy like me would have an awfully hard time living in the country without occasional access to a strong young back. And it helps a lot if that back is connected to a country kid who knows his way around a weed eater, a wood pile and a hay barn.

Lance’s life is an adventure waiting for the next big story. He’s always ready to tell me about the five-foot black snake he found in the weeds on the levee, or the newborn fawn he saw flattening itself between the rows of a cornfield, waiting for its mother to return from a foraging expedition. Not that I don’t share his enthusiasm. I find myself seeing my Posey County property as a zoological mystery — just waiting to jump out and bite me in places that I would prefer be left unattended.

A recent Saturday chore was to clean up the hay barn in preparation for the new bales that we expected any day. Lance started lugging last year’s bales to create a new pile on the main wall of the barn, so it would be used before the new hay. Lance observed that the kid who stacked them last year was a newbie. That job had just begun when we noticed most of the bales on that side were damp and covered with mold. Not a great

loss—no more than eight or ten bales—but it did seem a bit odd, because I’d fixed the leaks in the roof last summer before the hay was in.

I told Lance to throw the bad stuff out the back door, and we’d deal with it later. I decided that this was an opportunity for me to do some real work and fill the horses’water bucket, but no sooner than I had raised the lever on the ag faucet, Lance came bolting out of the barn. His eyes were as big as silver dollars, and the smile on his face told me that he had discovered something really big.

Skunks. It didn’t take me more than a few steps back into the dark and musty recesses of the barn to realize the boy knows a skunk when he smells one. Or several. From what we thought was a safe distance, we caught a glimpse of an adult skunk leaving the premises — in our direction. Still, there was unmistakable rustling under the hay. Baby skunks. A lot of baby skunks—adorable big-

Lance Carlisle is the kind of kid that sees life for the next big adventure. His nose told him there were skunks in the barn ­— long before he saw them. He’s a junior at Mt. Vernon High School and a lifelong Posey County native. © Photographed by J. Bruce Baumann

A copy of Matisse’s Blue Nudes grace the outside of the barn, while on the inside it was all Pepe LePew. eyed creatures doing nothing more threatening than rooting around until Momma reappeared with their next meal.

Unpleasant as the prospect was—on many levels—we had to get rid of them. Not only do two American Curly horses make their home in this barn, but four barn cats also lounge around in it waiting for me to feed them. And it’s a small barn. Lance and I danced around the odor, tripping over broken bales of hay, catching occasional unwelcome glimpses of those innocent black eyes, and coming up with more and more ridiculous ideas of what to do next. It occurred to me that I needed to take a firm stand, or, more precisely, to make a stand outside.

Simply asking them politely to leave, like a carload of earnest and sweaty missionaries who had ignored the four No Trespassing signs along our lane, probably

wouldn’t work. Nor did either of us have the stomach—or the leather falconer’s gloves— needed to put them in a box and take them out to the woods. It wasn’t clear to us that that would be kinder anyway; Momma had exited the scene, and the babies were way too small to fend for themselves.

Exactly how we disposed of the skunks is something that probably is best left to your imagination. Suffice it to say that skunk removal can be worse than holding your nose when you go in to vote. A lot worse.

But the country boy never wavered, and eventually we got the job done.

When we were finished, I suggested that we use a four by eight plywood panel to cover the ground before placing new pallets for the incoming hay. After all, it was pretty clear to me that Momma had dug that hole

under the pallet, but I was uncertain where it led to. Nope, Lance said, pointing out the obvious. She probably just walked in the big front door that’s always open and found a spot to give birth. “Nothing you can do about that,” he added philosophically, “It’s just nature.”

J. Bruce Baumann is the editor of Posey Magazine. He spends his time wisely avoiding heavy lifting, mean spirited people, and critters that bite and smell bad. Baumann has spent both ends of his life in Posey County, where he now resides on a small farm. You can contact him at: poseymagazine@aol. com

Bees I. When our bees first arrived that summer, they hovered so high above ground, at the eave of our house, that they looked like mist, wavering aura, a ghost abuzz with promise of rebirth, creating a new colony forty feet high in a space left by careless carpenters.

The local bee man came with his smoker, pushed back his cap on his upturned head, already shaking. Too high.

Judas-like, he slipped us another man’s name— hired killer— swore us to secrecy.

In the aftermath, I swept their remains from the porch, hundreds of husks tumbled together.

II. This year the honeybees have disappeared, not even leaving fragments of transparent wings or velvet shawls, dropped in ecstasy during tremble dances.

Nothing. An apian Jamestown without cryptic words carved into comb.

Colonies simply gone.

One keeper proposes a theory— Rapture— all the honeybees, transported body and soul, leaving us humans behind in our barren gardens.

— By Linda Neal Reising

Out In The Back Of Beyond/Editor’s Notebook Starting an Internet magazine was not what I had in mind for my next chapter. A newspaper, magazine and book publishing career spanning 50 years is addictive and never really leaves a soul, so it was a natural extension of my life. It’s not about money; as you can see, we have decided not to sell advertising. It keeps things clean and simple. We don’t owe anyone anything but a good read and some interesting photographs. Enjoy.

Posey County lays claim to some of the most beautiful scenery in these parts. The folks who call it home enjoy a lifestyle different from the people who live in the big towns and populous counties in Indiana. I grew up spending my summers on the banks of the Big Bayou. I suspect most boys my age would have preferred more action, but I liked the rural setting, the sound of cicadas chattering in the moonlight, and the friendly people.

Ed Russell, who is featured in this first issue, is one of the interesting characters you’ll meet in Posey County. One day about 10 years ago he walked up to my door and quietly announced that our dam was going to break. He thought muskrats had burrowed in next to the overflow pipe. We took a walk out to the dam with Ed to check things out. I didn’t see or hear anything that looked as if a catastrophe was about to happen. Ed had been hunting morels on the property next door, and said he could hear the sound of water underground, and if I wanted to keep my lake I’d better do something quick. Not hearing anything, and not sure if Ed was a snake oil salesman, I must admit I was a little skeptical. But I’m old enough to believe in experience, and Ed had the look of a man with lots of experience. Besides, I’m not good at morel hunting either.

The next day, Ed returned with his backhoe and a shovel. He parked the backhoe about midway on the dam, and then took his shovel to

where he said he heard water. He pushed the spade into the ground and that was the last time I saw Ed — for at least 10 minutes. The ground had given way under Ed’s weight. Sure enough, there was a chasm almost eight feet deep, and with gushing water ready to tear the walls of the dam apart. Ed and I have been friends ever since.

There are a lot of interesting people in Posey County, and I’m sure you must know a few of them. Drop me an e-mail and tell me who they are — and how we can contact them. Don’t forget to mention why you think they have a story to share. Experience tells me that everyone is a story, but some folks just stand out in a crowd.

J. Bruce Baumann is the editor of Posey Magazine, and can be contacted at: poseymagazine@aol.com