Posey Magazine November/December 2012 by J. Bruce Baumann

November/December 2012

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November/December 2012

A magazine for and about

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“After reading the many, many wonderful comments about Alison, I realize we all feel like she was our great friend who cared about our lives, our families, our interests. That is a wonderful and unique ability to make each friend feel like he or she is special.” — Kathy Gostley Riordan “Alison was a beautiful inspiration. She showed me that life is about living deeply, fully, and completely. I remind myself of this truth when I start to lose sight of what her example taught me. Life is to be celebrated, not just endured. She will be greatly missed.....but never forgotten.” — Katy Dunigan

Cover story

“I’m remembering (paraphrasing) one of ©Photograph by J. Bruce Baumann Alison’s poems — my favorite: “Thank you for making the world even more beautiful than it needs to be.” — Louise Machinist

Alison Baumann — How she shared the light with us!

Posey Magazine does not normally feature a member of its staff, however the extraordinary work produced by Alison Baumann, a writer who contributed wherever she was needed, deserves the recognition we offer here. She died peacefully in her Posey County home on September 1, 2012, in her usual understated way — quietly, and with all the poise and dignity that she could muster. We hope you will take the time to read her poems in this issue, seeing what she could see. Pictures of Alison, taken over the years, are gently placed among her poems. Special thanks to Joseph Poccia for his continued support

“If we could see what you can see, the world would be a better place.” — Dr. Mark Browning “Maybe all one needs — or at least all one can reasonably hope for — is understanding friends.” — Alison Baumann

FRIENDSHIP I

am an only child who has never married, yet I have a four-year-old angel in my life who calls me Aunt Charlene. That would be because her grandmother is a member of my family of the heart, a family of choice, a family of friends. It was a kind of happy accident, our becoming friends. We worked together when we were both young enough to have the energy to go out to movies and dance clubs after a full day of work. Nancy started as a casual friend and today is the sister I never had. Countless people have asked if we are sisters. We used to wonder why they asked. Now we just say yes. I suppose we learned together about choosing to be a family. We learned that shared values count as much, if not more, than shared genes. We learned that sharing laughter and tears creates a bond stronger than blood. And trust. We learned there is no need to question. We just accept. Nancy and I have not always lived in the same town, not even in the same

country. But any time we reunited, it has always been as if we had seen each other just the day before. Now it’s rare for a couple of days to pass without our seeing each other, but we never run out of things to talk about. Nancy is one of my small family of friends. I don’t have a lot of friends — a host of acquaintances but few friends. It’s a choice I have made. I can’t afford very many friends. There is only so much of me to go around. You see, I don’t put any limits on friends. It was Aristotle who said “a true friend is one soul in two bodies.” And I agree. Nearly 45 years ago, Nancy left to spend a year as a volunteer in Israel. When we parted, she told me, “Take care of my family.” You’ll note she didn’t ask me; she told me. And that was just fine. Remember, no limits. Nancy believes there are only three things of value a person can give to a friend: their time, their love and their truth. And I agree with her. But it’s tougher than it sounds. The love flows

freely. The truth is sometimes hard to speak and harder still to swallow. And a true friendship can’t flourish without the truth. But time. That’s the most difficult. Everyone’s life is so busy, so driven by demands, that finding time to spend with a beloved friend is sometimes farther down the “do list” than it should be. Oh, you tell yourself that some other item on your calendar is more pressing, that you can find time to solve the world’s problems another day, that your friend will always be there waiting for you. And it’s true. Until one day it isn’t. One day that friend has gone where you cannot follow. You can’t call to tell her about something you read that called her to mind. You can’t sit down over coffee and laugh and cry. All you can do is cry. Call now. Stop what you’re doing and call now. Take the time to share the truth of your love. Do it now. —Charlene Tolbert Contributing Editor Posey Magazine She can be contacted at poseymagazine@aol.com

POSEY POSTCARD “Unexpected intrusions of beauty. This is what life is.” — Saul Bellow

ÂŠ Photograph by J. Bruce Baumann

By Linda Neal Reising

ÂŠ Photographs by J. Bruce Baumann All of the poems in this story are fully copyrighted ÂŠ2012 by the estate of Alison Baumann. None of her poems can be repurposed either in print or on the electronic media without written permission from her estate and Posey Magazine.

A lison Baumann once began a poem with the

lines, “Before you understand what sorrow is — you must love something.” It’s no surprise, then, that so many were filled with sorrow when Alison died on Saturday, September 1, 2012. She was truly loved—loved for her spirit, loved for her intellect, loved for her goodness. But she left behind a precious gift—her writings. Although Alison penned fiction, non-fiction, and plays, she will best be remembered for her poetry. Alison once wrote, “Don’t be afraid to tear the skin from your own heart, flay

PILGRIM ROAD Life is so short, We must move very slowly. — Chinese proverb Since you asked, I’ll tell you — I am not ashamed of how I spend my time. I wake to the bright smell of sunshine on sheets as warm as any lover’s arms. I sing an old song alone in an empty house and kneel in the rough clay of the garden, to touch the musty undersides of tomatoes, the bristly pods of newborn beans. I sit for hours in the damping grass, while warblers sing in the buckeye trees, and think about nothing but God. And since you asked, I’ll tell you what my plans are— to walk the length of the pilgrim road, slow as a beetle, and stare in the face of wild poppies until I understand what light is, to sway beneath the circles of dark vultures in a brilliant sky, and know what it is to wait for death and not do anything important. — © Alison Baumann

Click here to hear Alison

reading Pilgrim Road. Close the window to return to the magazine.

it open on the marble slab.” She did just that in her poetry. Living on a remote farm in Posey County, Alison drew inspiration from her surroundings—the life cycle of trees, plants, and animals. Caroline Nellis, a good friend of Alison’s, said, “She drew her energy and her spirituality from nature.” But Alison did not see the world around her with normal vision. Nothing escaped her eye—last gold leaves of forsythias, musty undersides of tomatoes, black eye of the pond. Not only was she able to see what most do not, but she was then able to transform it into metaphor, turning her vision into something touching and timeless. Alison also wrote about people. For example, her poem entitled “Nancy” was inspired by one of her clients when she was working as a divorce attorney. Alison once remarked that her clients gave her so much—the stories of their lives. She felt an empathy for all kinds of people, especially those in difficult circumstances, and this caring comes through in her work. “Nancy” begins with an actual question that Alison’s client asked her. “Did I tell you we lived in the mountains once?” From there, Alison weaves a history for this woman, showing the beauty of everyday activities and the brutality of betrayal. It makes no difference to the reader how much of the poem is real because it is all true. David Bartholomy, editor of Open 24 Hours, wrote, “Alison cared about truth and honesty, as well as beauty, and she clothed them in a voice that—whether on the page or at a microphone—captivated me.” Throughout much of Alison’s poetry, there is a deep poignancy, deal-

THE MIDDLE OF MAY One of our last big elms has died this Spring at the far south end of the yard. I wouldn’t have noticed, except I was down there picking up branches after the storm. About noon, in the middle of May, and the air was filled with snowy puffs from cottonwoods deep-rooted in the loam of the ravine. Up in the elm, the clutch of leaves that ventured out this year had browned and shriveled, and the rough-barked trunk was bigger around than my arms could reach— I don’t know why, but I tried.

of the barn—would do, for a spring theme.

This isn’t where I meant to go. I was thinking of the clear breeze, the clouds speeding by overhead and cottonwood snow, of mud-splattered bush beans up in the garden, and daylilies budding. I was thinking, what a time— what a rich, rich time— the middle of May, after a storm, about noon. I have nothing to prove with this dead tree, this scabrous bark; the millions of unruly cells breeding in my spine are gravitas enough. A simple poem— a pair of cardinals nesting gaily in forsythia, the blacksnake swallowing a mouse in the feedstall

Trees at least know how to go with dignity. You don’t see them moaning or thrashing at the end— not even a shudder in their trunks to mark the final moment (though no one I know has been there holding a tree at that instant to swear it doesn’t happen). And there was that desperate flush of leaves sent out a month ago— when hope was gone, when the last slim column choked and closed— there were those ragged remnants of desire up there waving greenly at the sky, calling out for sunlight, day after shameless day.

I didn’t need to bring that mouse up, either. It was just something I happened to see, like the dead elm, and the dog in the driveway worrying some newborn thing slick with saliva, rain or afterbirth. How he gnawed it, tossed it in the air— and how it moved after that, blind and helpless, how its quick hot breaths kept coming hour after hour until you couldn’t stand for it to live.

— © Alison Baumann

WOLF MOON I need to know again what phase the moon is in— I’ve spent too many days in crowded houses, worn out my soles in dinstruck halls, I’ve gazed too many nights at neon skies. I need to know again where deer trails slice the thicket, clambering with goosegrass, where screech owls shelter in the sycamore, its ghostly branches coupling in the wind, what dusky hour bats come out and possum drags her baffled kits to drink. I need to know the eerie ring of ice-thick ponds, the chill delirium of coyote kills, the whir and swirl of raptors’ wings, the low, slow curve of Advent sun. I need to know again the full Wolf Moon of winter — I’ve been too many years away from home.

— © Alison Baumann

NANCY Did I tell you we lived in the mountains once? In a daredevil house, propped on stilts, full of light— I’d lean on the bannister, taller than trees, and trusted everything. That was before the mill closed down and one by one the neighbors slunk away, dragging their trailers. You’d come upon these clearings in the woods— A gravel drive, straight row of flowers, three wooden stairs. The mill road rutted with neglect, became impassable in winter. He’d mount the pickup, grind the wheels back and forth ‘til chainsparks flew— I seared my shin on the outlet pipe, and he missed work again, if there was work. Did I tell you I was pretty once? In thin white shorts and brown legs waxed so smooth they shone. He’d run his hand along my thighs— Do these go all the way to the top? He’d always say, and touched me and touched me.

That was before the children came and Rachel with colic shrieked all night. He, needing sleep, would seal the bedroom door— I circled the living room, pumping my arms, making small noises. Fixing his breakfast, I’d brace my belly on the oven bar and eat from sheer exhaustion. I kept on making two eggs basted, toast light, honey, coffee and cream, long after he started taking breakfast out, I guess, and whispered phone calls in the bedroom late at night, and that hot Sunday afternoon when he sat quietly in the living room, staring at his shoes, and left for good. My mother, dying with her money in New York, sends me fifty dollars every week to pay the weight-loss doctor, trying to buy me back pound by pound (I am expensive now, well-marbled meat.) She doesn’t know I still keep crackers in the glove box and have no one to talk to but those I pay by the hour. Did I tell you that he loved me once? I forgot to tell you that.

— © Alison Baumann

DECEMBER GATHERS IN

(A Pantoum*)

Watchful and undreaming, bowing their great, stolid heads, the horses are standing at the gate waiting for last summer’s apples. Bowing their great, stolid heads while icicles braid ringlets in their manes, they wait for last summer’s apples as December gathers in. Icicles braid ringlets in their manes. Somewhere, a heron cries, alone. As December gathers in, already fish are burrowed, sleeping. Somewhere, a heron cries, alone, circling the black eye of the pond. Already fish are burrowed. Sleeping mice have nested in the rafters of the barn. Circling the black eye of the pond, the wind picks up. The geese are gone, and mice have nested in the rafters of the barn. Only the unborns count forward. The wind picks up, the geese are gone, the horses still stand waiting at the gate. Only the unborns count forward, watchful and undreaming. — © Alison Baumann *A pantoum is a verse form composed of four-line stanzas where the second and fourth lines of one stanza become the first and third lines of the following stanza.

FIRST SNOW This year it comes in late morning, rushing in from the pale western sky, as if it has somewhere more important than our poor fields to go. Great rags of blackbirds lift without warning above the ashen cornstalks, the improbable green of winter wheat. Deer sprawl on the highway, heads thrown back, eyes bright with wonder, pointing skyward their elegant ebony hoofs. Even weeds in the ditches have gone on to glory, rising up from dank crevasses white and glittery as angels. Again it has come in the dark days before Christmas, glazing the cities, their elegant roofs, the heads of their choirs singing Hosanna. Hosanna Hosanna from here, too. â&#x20AC;&#x201D; ÂŠ Alison Baumann

STORIES If you talk about foolishness and inexplicable degradation, we all have our stories. The skinny hippie boys with names like Morgan, Pepper, Blue, who took us on their naked mattresses through hazy nights of spinning lights, too many pills and no safe exits The earnest marriage counselors who gave us books we never read and made us stand with arms outstretched to catch our partner’s backward fall, then gasped when we stepped aside and let him go The second husbands, with their fancy cars and suicidal daughters, who bought us breast implants for Christmas and cared no more than we did about love The futile fumblings of balding men collecting for the dinners they could not afford and we refused to eat, the sharp smell of aftershave, garlic and shame The stories that spill out halfway through the second bottle in the living rooms of new-found friends who never trust us with their children after that And, uninvited, cloud the sky of this late winter afternoon when scraps of snow lie melting at my feet and geese are lined up dreaming on the ice floes.

— © Alison Baumann

NOT THAT KIND OF WOMAN There was nothing missing here before you came. Don’t think for a moment that I shaped my hours around some empty place, spent my nights tossing, arching with desire. I am not that kind of woman who saves up recipes, remembers birthdays, fills her bed with cats. Old Prince has always stayed in the kitchen, curled on his flannel puff—and I, I sleep so calmly in my own bed that when I rise and pull the cover up you’d never know a living soul had been there. So when I brought the coffee in and paused a moment in the morning light, it wasn’t so much you I noticed, asleep again, face down in my pillow, as the way the blankets heaved against the footboard, the cover sprawling on the carpet, urgent and disordered— and I was grateful, I suppose, for that. — © Alison Baumann

OLD FOLKS All across America old men sit at windows in their undershirts, waving or scowling— patterned a lifetime ago on the floor of a factory mud of a field. I always wonder who puts them there, who fetches them at evening, feeds them and makes them take their medicine, washes where they’ve dribbled— not like old women, who lean on their elbows smoking cigarettes, spilling out the edges of their slips— they put themselves there, and smile and weep for a reason. — © Alison Baumann

Anya’s Farewell The last time she came to spend the summer slumped on the musty couches of the old house, Americans were dying in the streets of Baghdad, the pockmarked huts of Nasiriyah, Mosul, Ramadi— names we’d never dreamed in the snowy innocence of winter—the pair of great blue herons who always nested in the slough behind the house were gone, but hordes of geese fouled lawns and all the greens of the exclusive Country Club where she thought she might play golf again, but summer heat came early, shimmied up from sidewalks thick with tourists in flag-striped halter tops, and then the neighbors’ old retriever stretched in the sun on the asphalt drive beside the garden spent and wasted by the middle of July and didn’t get up for dinner, or anything, again, and sailboats circled listlessly on water flat as if the palm of God were laid upon it, the afternoon at bridge in the high-ceilinged

dining room she dropped her lower lip, glistening with whiskey and vermouth, stared blankly at her hand as cards slid down the damask tablecloth into her lap to the carpet, she wept freely then and often over television infidelities, imagined slights of distant relatives, her long-dead husband, while toddlers lost their chubby feet to land mines in Afghanistan, teenagers vanished in the blurry fathomless wars of Africa, and Chechen rebel girls exploded at a festival in Moscow, she whimpered when they ran out of maple walnut at the Super Scoop, wondering loudly why no one ever takes responsibility for anything anymore, and the line of shorts and halters surged around and past her to the window like the stream around a twig that hitches briefly in the current, bearing up for one last moment in the summer sun.

— © Alison Baumann

SECOND BURNING The morning of the auction, the sun sat in a bland December sky as if nothing had happened after the first hard frost and days of rain. Men in faded caps and canvas jackets drank coffee from metal thermoses, silent as animals. In the mud yard around what used to be the Benthall place, six tractors—six!— wild-tined cultivators and sturdy discs, an eight-row picker and a mammoth John Deere combine, almost new, pulled from the barn after three years waiting for him to come back from where he went and use them again. It was she who believed it. That he would never leave her sitting on the flowered sofa watching television in the afternoons, though he was gone a year before the wire behind the washer, frayed beyond exhaustion, suddenly blossomed like a giant dahlia in the August heat and went on blooming, forgetting itself, up the brittle papered walls and out the open windows into twilight. She was in town when it happened, having dinner with her daughter at the Mexican place on Sonnheim no one could remember at the time, lulled by the weary litany of stubbornness and beer and always unexpected violence. Only the dogs died—blood-footed, overcome and singed at the kitchen door—though the sofa was ruined, the television, the maple dining room and bed they’d shared

for forty years, if you could call that a kind of dying, too. It was she who believed it. No one saw her there again, on the little rise just high enough to stay above the floods when Big Creek in the fields across the road, though they say she was watching from her daughter’s car that Saturday they burned down what was left and carted the rubbish away. Raked it out and planted grass. All you see now are the mailbox by the road, the clothsline poles and the chain link kennel with its plastic house, a well house, shed, at the back an above-ground pool festooned with milk jugs to keep the cover on. Someone comes in summertime to mow the place and trim. She stayed awhile—too long—at her daughter’s place in town, living on the meager and begrudging charity of impatient heirs. Spring ’d be a good time for the auction, he muttered sullenly over beer and chips the color of hunter’s vests. But she believed, believed with her swollen feet propped on unfamiliar steps, he would come back yet to use it all again. ‘d sell a shit potload ‘ve that stuff in the spring, he said. — © Alison Baumann

WHAT I DO The poets grow old and write about nothing but dying. And I — in the long dusk of solstice I kneel tucking frail slips of lambs ear into the toe of the slope— my back rounded to the sky like a stone. — © Alison Baumann

BUT NOT TO LOVE ITSELF An end will come to this. Surely as there was a first time, tense and hopeful as a budding leaf, then all the green abundance shot with storm and light, the last will come. Already sky shows through and bare, monotonous limbs. What’s left is sweetly tinted once again, but fragile, scarce, and we are terrified of space as unfledged birds cleaved to one another in the cold. Is it different when the last leaf falls? Will we know? — © Alison Baumann

ing with the brevity of life and a desire to hope and thrive despite the inevitability of death. In “The Middle of May,” she describes a dying elm tree. But even though there is no doubt that the tree will succumb, she remembers the new leaves that it still sent out, those ragged remnants of desire/ up there waving greenly at the sky/ calling out for sunlight. A similar feeling is evoked in “But Not to Love Itself,” a poem in which the speaker wonders if this will be the last time she will ever make love. Again, in this poem, there is the attention to minute details, the soaking up of the whole experience, as if trying to hold on to something slipping away. Teresa Roy, a friend and fellow poet, described this poem as “So delicate, wistful, and a little sad. Much like Alison.” However, Alison’s “signature” poem is one entitled “Pilgrim Road.” This was the work that people requested at readings. It combines so many elements—the beauty of language, the recurring theme of mortality, and the joy of living. Perhaps her friend and fellow poet Mark Williams said it best. “When I think of Alison’s writing, I think of her hope to see all there is to see, in all there is to see, or as she said in her poem, ‘Pilgrim Road,’ her hope was to stare in the face of wild poppies until she understood what light is. Fortunately, Alison saw wild poppies everywhere. And she shared the light with us. How she shared the light with us!” A Posey County resident since 1980, Linda Neal Reising lives in the historic “Cale House,” where she writes fiction and poetry, as well as fends off rowdy raccoons and voracious Virginia creeper. She can be contacted at: poseymagazine@aol.com.

Feathers/By Sharon Sorenson

Every household has its own twist to

autumn’s ritual. Vac ‘em, blow ‘em, rake ‘em, bag ‘em—leaves, that is. For some, the ritual nears obsession, a daily chase of every leaf. Others await a baretree guarantee of a one-time task. Either way, ritual done, bags go to the curb, ready for the landfill. Would you consider a work-saving, environmentally savvy alternative that also helps the birds? Then leave some leaves. Here’s why.

They’re foraging for the avian equivalent of filet mignon

Yellow-shafted northern flicker

ÂŠ Photograph by Sharon Sorenson

Eastern towhee

In spite of popular misconception, many birds prefer eating bugs, not seeds. Pound for pound, bugs have more protein than ground beef. And birds need the nutrition. But when freezing weather depletes bug supplies, bug-loving birds turn to seeds or berries, in the wild and/or at your feeder. Now, back to your leaves. Leaves harbor a bounty for winter-hungry birds. Invertebrates, eggs, and larvae hidden in leaf litter stock Mother Nature’s grocery store, the commodity by which she intends to feed her winter birds. When you throw away leaves, you’re throwing away birds’ natural winter food supply. Leaf litter, however, harbors more than winter’s food. Come spring, in order to produce eggs, female birds need a diet rich in calcium. Much of that calcium comes from land snails. And land snails overwinter— guess where—in leaf litter. So when you throw away leaves, you’re also throwing away birds’ primary source of calcium—and destroying their ability to lay eggs. Add one more corollary: Since birds go where they find the food they need, when you toss away your leaves, then in reality, you’re tossing away your birds. You’ll see in your yard only the birds that your habitat supports. Eliminating leaf litter eliminates a large part of habitat. But how do you leave leaves without offending your (less savvy) neighbors? Consider where to leave the leaves. Blow them under the bushes, under the hedge row, under low-hanging evergreens and dogwoods out to the drip line. Pile them along the back fence, next to the house, or around the base of trees. Encourage your neighbors to do likewise. Consider what Mother Nature does. Her leaves drop under the trees from which they fall, and most stay there, decomposing, composting the soil and nourishing the tree for next season’s leaves—as well as feeding the birds. How she must cringe at our throwing good fertilizer and run-off protection—and bird feed—in the landfill. No bushes or other places to rake your leaves? Run the lawnmower over them,

Northern cardinal

Song sparrow

mulching them, leaving them to feed the soil, saving at least some of the leaf-litter bugs for birds. Bag extra mulch or pile it in a back corner for use around annuals and perennials next spring. You’ll improve the habitat—yours and the birds’. Then watch. This winter, you may see towhees rustling among leaves for eggs and larvae, song sparrows two-foot scratching for bugs, wrens picking the litter for morsels, flickers poking under leaves for ants, even robins checking for grubs. Titmice, chickadees, brown thrashers, and cardinals will likely join them. They’re foraging for the avian equivalent of filet mignon. In all, 122 species nationwide thrive—and survive—on foods foraged from backyard leaf litter. For that, wouldn’t you change your autumn ritual? For more about improving backyard habitat, read Douglas Tallamy’s Bringing Nature Home.

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 public-venue programs, conferences, or seminars at forthebirdscolumn@yahoo.com.

First Legal Public Hanging In Posey County In

the summer of 1883 when young James Vanway ventured to Posey County from his home in Webster County, KY, he couldn’t have had an inkling that he would forever be tied to this place in Southern Indiana. As a 19-year-old, he probably felt immortal, oblivious to the fact that very soon his life would be cut short, leaving only his name to live on in this county’s history books. Upon arriving in Mount Vernon, James Vanway must have enjoyed himself, spending “time and money in our city,” according to a period newspaper. However, he soon grew worried that he was being followed as he went about his excursions around the city. Fearing robbery, Vanway asked a clerk at the Rosenbaum & Bros. store if he could keep his cash in the safe. The clerk agreed, and Vanway’s money, labeled with his name, was safely stowed away. On a Friday morning in August, Vanway went to the store and retrieved $18 from his cache. By noon of that same day, a fisherman walking along the banks of the river about three hundred yards from the Iron Bridge came upon a large amount of blood. He notified authorities, and a short time later, Marshal Paul, Officer Hogue, and Mayor Smith found young Vanway’s body, his throat slashed. His pockets were empty. The law officers soon were given a tip that led to the arrest of Zach Schneider, 18, and 21-year-old John Anderson, who according to the press was “known about town for his depraved and demented condition.” The young men were taken to the Posey

County jail, but rumors of a lynching rumbled throughout the city. Justice moved swiftly, and on Sept. 27, 1883, the verdict of “Death by public hanging” was read. According to newspaper accounts, Anderson and Schneider, “by reason of their demented minds, hardly comprehended the seriousness of their crime.” They had, according to testimony, killed Vanway, robbed the body, and promptly spent the money at a brothel on Lower Main Street. The madam of the “Red Ribbon,” forced to testify against her will, provided the most damaging testimony. Judge William F. Parrett set Jan. 25, 1884, as the execution date. As the time for the hanging drew near, ministers began visiting the two convicts, who confessed to their crimes and underwent a religious conversion. Preachers weren’t their only visitors, however. On the Sunday before their appointed execution date, more than 100 people passed through the jail to get a look at the killers. Two days before their hanging, Anderson and Schneider began praying aloud, asking for forgiveness and, in turn, granting their own forgiveness to the jury, judge, and sheriff. On the morning of Friday, Jan. 25, 1884, the two men were shaved by George Henrich. They were provided a lunch of coffee, bread, butter, and oranges. According to one report, they “even spread towels over their laps to prevent their new clothes from soiling.” The prisoners, accompanied by two Methodist ministers, were led to the scaffold

by five lawmen. They were followed by six physicians. Not in attendance was Dr. L. B. Crosby who politely declined the invitation, according to a newspaper, because “the good doctor is somewhat superstitious and believes in ghosts.” Also in tow were 12 visiting judges and sheriffs from surrounding counties. In all, about 100 “privileged” people witnessed the hanging, although approximately 5,000 came to the city to take part in the execution. After Anderson and Schneider climbed the scaffolding and arrived on the platform, they began to sing, undoubtedly in quavering voices, four verses of “Oh Sing Me to Heaven when I Am Called to Die.” They then knelt and prayed aloud, “Lord, bless Sheriff Hayes, watch over our poor mothers, and may we meet them in heaven. Oh, bless the good people of Mount Vernon.” The two doomed men, standing on the trap door, again expressed their sorrow for their crime and begged other young men to heed their warning. Afterward, their arms and legs were bound, ropes were adjusted around their necks, and black hoods were placed on their heads. Sheriff Hayes pulled the lever, and the convicted murderers “dropped into eternity.” They were not pronounced dead by the physicians until nine minutes had passed. After their bodies were taken to Henry Weisinger’s funeral home, several thousand people came to view their remains. The first legal public hanging in Posey County was now a part of history. — Linda Neil Reising

Posey Portrait

Dennis Uebelhack, free-range turkey farmer, 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

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.

Photograph by J. Bruce Baumann

Out In The Back Of Beyond/Editor’s Notebook T

he decision to make Alison Baumann’s poetry our cover story was difficult. As her husband, I feared a backlash from our regular readers. But I received more than 300 letters, cards and emails from all over the country offering words of sympathy, empathy and more. It was heartwarming to read the messages that detailed a specific influence that Alison had had on a person’s life. Many said she was a good listener, and just her listening to their problems gave them comfort. Of course, with a minimum of words, much like her poetry, she gave feedback that changed a life. She listened, observed and put most issues into perspective for her friends — and she had many friends. My fear was hearing her voice as I did the final selection of poems. She was a tough editor for anyone who came for critiques — but even tougher

on herself. She would write a beautiful poem, essay, short story, novel or play, and then rewrite until the wee hours of the morning. In the end it was always better when she hit the save button for the last time. She once told me about my own writing that, “sometimes you have to kill your babies.” I cried, argued, debated, and pouted, but in the end I knew she was right. And then there were the hard choices about what pictures to use with the words. She knew the power of pictures as well as the power of words. Her poems were pictures that were captured at a thousandth of a second with a single word. Wonderful words. Visual images placed on a written page, so well-composed that to the uninitiated it was too simplistic. To those folks who know better, it was pure genius. I struggled to marry her words and my pictures. Would she approve,

or would she quietly listen to my reasoning and then point out the obvious? Would the pictures of her that I selected meet with her approval, or would she say that they were unnecessary? My guess is she would have picked the latter. She was a private person most of the time, even a bit shy when you first met her. But put her in front of an audience to recite the wonderful words she had composed, and her voice was strong and clear. No reading from a sheet of paper like many poets do, but a performance that danced through your mind and gave you a way of looking at things in a different light. With the addition of audio that we added with the Pilgrim Road poem, a first for this magazine, you can close your eyes and hear her words reflecting a lifetime of thought and living. She was pure genius — and she may have died, but she won’t be forgotten.

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

“What we were, we are,” and “what we had, we have.” —Author unknown, but loved

Grand Chain Farm