Posey Magazine March/April 2011 by J. Bruce Baumann

March/April 2011

www.poseymagazine.com

The Donnie Martin W oodcarver From Solitude

March/April 2011

A magazine for and about

Posey County, Indiana

Cover story

Writer Charlene Tolbert met The Woodcarver of Solitude, and whittled away at the interesting layers that make up the creative life of Posey County’s Donnie Martin. Taking blank blocks of wood, Martin turns them into magnificent works of art. So perfect, you can count the feathers on the birds and the scales on the fish. BEGINS ON PAGE SIX © Photographed by J. Bruce Baumann

18 I’m just sayin’ Posey County students write about staying up late 20 The Mount Vernon Election of 1849 — By Linda Neal Reising 22 Posies/By Alison Baumann Cheap & Easy 26 © A look back in time

Posey Then & Now

30 Feathers/By Sharon Sorenson Eastern Bluebirds 36 Twin Swamps: An experience from another time — By Sharon Sorenson Special thanks to the following for their help

Jane Bauer, Mary Feagley, Sherry Graves, Judy Grebe, Cece Luebke, Henry Means, Joseph Poccia, Kathy Riordan, Erica Thomas

SAD NEWS We

lost two close friends this winter. Our lives will not be the same without them. When we first met them, we had no idea that they would be like family. They were obnoxious. They filled the air with their constant jabbering; it was annoying at times. Discussions with other friends would be interrupted with loud comments on whatever was on their minds. It was difficult to hear what others were saying. Yet, as time went on, they became part of our family. We noticed that with a little attention they greeted us warmly. They liked to follow us out to the barn, noticing every change with interest. Our cats were interesting, but the horses brought about the closest inspection. Sometimes that closeness got them a swift kick, but nothing deterred them from taunting them again the next time. I can’t say that I fully understood everything that was said, but I got the gist of it, and that seemed to satisfy them. At least it

satisfied me, and one out of three is not bad. My trips away from the farm meant that I would be rewarded with special attention upon my return. Running at top speed to greet me, they always brought a smile to my face. Hugs were always expected. Friendships can develop very fast or take time. With these two it was several years before I fully embraced them. My wife developed a fondness almost immediately, as she is wont to do. She is clearly more open than I am. I’m the kind of guy who stands back and watches for a long time, waiting for the other shoe to fall. It never did. In time, we were all part of one family. Living in the country brings strange relationships of love and respect. My city friends probably never did understand the relationship. That’s okay with me. It just made us closer to each other. Sometimes even us against them. Their names were Flossie and Mulligan.

That’s what we called them, although it turned out that both of them were males. We never knew their last names. They were unofficially adopted when we moved to the farm, and we never did get around to giving them last names. It was enough to satisfy even the most critical among us. As I said in the beginning, the sad news is we lost both of them on a cold winter’s night. The lake was frozen solid, so their normal escape plan was not available. We saw the frozen tracks that zig-zagged in an irregular pattern across the ice. It must have been horrifying for them as they tried to outrun another of god’s creatures. A chase that ended in death for both. My heart was broken. My stomach knotted. Some tears, too. We had been so close for more than 11 years. Yes, just farm geese, but friends too. It’s awfully quiet around here these days. Things just don’t seem whole anymore. — J. Bruce Baumann Editor Posey Magazine www.poseymagazine.com

“Until one has loved an animal, a part of one’s soul remains unawakened.” —Anatole France, poet, 1844-1924

hen we finally got possession of the farm, the former owners — who had tried unsuccessfully to sell us a horse, several goats and a couple of adorable bloodhound puppies — merrily drove off, calling, “We’re leaving the geese!” There were five of them—three Chinese and two Emdens. Before we even moved in, two came to grief in the winter night. This poem is about their grisly fate— but mostly about the ones who were spared then and lived with us for many years until their time, too, came last month.

THE SPARED (after Mary Oliver) Gaunt, ashamed as someone’s turned-out dog, a coyote haunts the stubblefield— even when he spies the downy breast shimmering in moonlight, averts his narrow yellow eyes, and circling slowly winds the coil tighter for the final, mortal spring, there is nothing you would notice but the wind, the furtive gabble of the spared— and even in the bitter dawn, before you find the blasted tent of feathers blown against the wire fence, you only sense a silence— before you know what isn’t there, you hear the horses snuffling at their hay, the spared complaining softly at their corn. —Alison Baumann

Flossie and Mulligan

ÂŠ Photographed by J. Bruce Baumann

Donnie Martin

The W oodcarver From Solitude By Charlene Tolbert

IDonnie t all began with a fishing trip. Martin, known by many as the

Woodcarver from Solitude, was a young father taking his two sons fishing. The boys, as little boys will do, became really, really excited when they landed a good-sized crappie. They wanted to keep it. But that

The tools of the trade must be as sharp as the carver, including adding a pair of magnifying glasses to focus on the detail that is admired and recognized by collectors everywhere. ÂŠ Photographed by J. Bruce Baumann

A pair of wood ducks in flight, complete with bands. just wasn’t possible. Fish were for eating. And even if the crappie weren’t headed for the dinner table, a taxidermist’s fee was a bit steep for a guy who made plastic for a living.

But daddies don’t like to disappoint. So Martin decided to try carving a crappie from a piece of 2-by-12-construction lumber he had tucked away in his garage. “I

didn’t really know what I was doing,” he said. “I just decided to take off any parts that didn’t look like a fish.” By the time he finished carving and

The life-like carving of a displaying mourning dove.

Martinâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s attention to detail accurately reflects his art on the face of a red-breasted nuthatch.

This golden eagle will take hours of grinding and wood burning to bring out the details. painting, he had a piece that fooled visitors into thinking he had kept the crappie. And then the requests started. So a second life began. And now, about fifteen years later, there’s no end in sight. At first, in fact for nearly four years, the 47-year-old artist confined himself to making gifts for friends and acquaintances. And he kept getting better and better, or so he thought. But he wasn’t content just to be an artist in his own mind. He carved a stringer of fish and took the work to Vincennes to the Shaker Prairie Shop of Jules A. Bouillet, a world-renowned carver of birds. Bouillet took a look at his work and said, “You should be doing this for a living.” Martin thought long and hard about

taking the famous carver’s advice. After all, he and his wife, Linda, had three children — a daughter to go along with the two sons — and he had been at GE long enough that, as an operator blending plastic, he was pulling down a healthy salary, about $60,000 a year. He’d gone to work at GE right after graduating from Mount Vernon High School, and it was all he knew. “When I started talking about quitting, everybody thought I was crazy. We had three little ones and I would be losing all those benefits and the health insurance alone, well, I can’t tell you how much that was. “Now my wife is an RN at Deaconess and that takes care of the insurance, but not when I first decided to quit. “Linda and I talked about it for quite a while, a long time, and then finally I went to

“One of my supervisors kind of sneered and asked, ‘What are you gonna do? Whittle wood?’”

A barn owl displaying the detail and texture of the feathers.

work and gave my notice. “One of my supervisors kind of sneered and asked, ‘What are you gonna do? Whittle wood?’” Well, that “whittler” went on to become a woodcarver whose ducks command a price from $500 to $1,000. His songbirds go for $250 to $500 depending on their habitat. The most valuable carving he’s done so far is the bird that won him the title of the 2001 Ducks Unlimited Carver of the Year. He estimates that its owner could probably sell it today for about $10,000. And his work has won him friends and fans all over the country. He did a carving to give to country musician Charlie Daniels when he attended one of his shows, and in no time Daniels became a collector of Martin carvings the way some music lovers collect Charlie Daniels music. But more than fortune or fame, Martin has been blessed in a way that few men can claim. He purely loves what he does for a living. And he has a heart for friendship. He keeps a coffee pot going in his studio and there’s a clutch of lawn chairs, often occupied by as many as a half dozen friends sitting around watching and swapping stories. If he could he’d give most of his creations away. As it is, he gives away more than the person paying the bills is probably happy with. He donates a duck each year to the Ducks Unlimited auction, a gift that has probably brought in about $25,000 over the years. He donates carvings for raffles for the Wild Turkey Association and teaches classes for the Indiana Department of Natural Resources.

A red-tailed hawk, with the primary wing feathers and tail carved and inserted. He doesn’t confine his teaching to classes. He recalls one day looking up from his carving to see Ed Russell walking toward him. “He asked me if I was the Donnie Martin who did wood carving and if I was, could I teach him a thing or two. I said ‘sure’ and we starting talking about it. He borrowed a couple

of tools and he was on his way. Now, I find myself borrowing tools from him.” Martin estimates that he has taught hundreds of people over the years, and if you talk to him long enough, he’ll convince you that you can do it, too. He relishes doing carvings for people

who request specific birds or fish. That’s 98 to 99 percent of his business. And he gets a real kick out of it when someone asks for a bird or some other creature he’s never heard of. And he loves rising to a challenge. A friend once asked him if he could make an electric guitar. “I can’t even play a radio,”

Donnie Martin built Randall Littleâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s urn from black walnut collected by Little on his farm more than 20 years ago.

“One person asked me if I could make a magpie. I said, ‘sure.’ Then I had to find out what a magpie was. That’s when the ornithology lab at the University of Cincinnati comes in handy.” Martin says with a chuckle, “but I’ve made a whole lot of guitars since then. “One time the Mount Vernon police chief asked me if I could make a crosier for an ordination. Had to do a little research before I could do that. It’s a kind of a walking stick shaped like a shepherd’s crook. “But the hardest thing I’ve ever tried to make was when my neighbor who was dying with cancer asked me to build his casket. He was to be cremated and he wanted the box that would hold his ashes to be made out of wood from his farm. So I made a box out of black walnut from a tree on his farm that had fallen in a storm. I did some of the rough cutting using a handsaw that had belonged to his father. He had given that saw to me some years before. Seemed right to use it. The box is 16 inches long, 7 inches high and 6 inches wide. It’s waterproofed. It has a horse’s head on the cover and silver at the corners. When I took it to show it to him, he said ‘That’s just what I wanted it to look like.’ That’s all I wanted to hear. “His widow is from England and she’ll be going back there. She’ll take his ashes with her in the box and they’ll both be buried there side by side, a long way from Solitude.” Martin does his work in a garage/ A “keeper” bluegill that is 12 inches long. The color brings this monster to life.

Being an independent artist is not what some people would consider a “safe” way of life in these difficult economic times, but Martin has no regrets. studio at his Solitude home. The building is filled with equipment, wood (he uses black gum tupelo for most of his carvings and often basswood for habitat) and partially completed carvings. “When people tell me they want me to make a specific bird for them, I try to talk to them long enough that I can get a vision in my mind of what they’re thinking about. I ask what attitude they want the bird to have, is it in flight or perched or about to take off? Is it hunting and about to strike? If it’s perched, is it on a fence post or on a tree limb? Is this carving going to be displayed in their home? If so, where and how? “Once I have it fixed in my mind what they’re looking for, then I begin. It’s all about observation and presentation. You don’t present a fish in a flowerbed. Artists look at things differently. They don’t just know how many fins a fish has; they know how many scales. But for me, it’s not just precision. For instance, I try to give all of my birds an attitude, a head turned a bit, one feather ruffled or out of place. “I have never had anybody say ‘That’s not what I had in mind.’ “Don’t misunderstand. I’ve made my share of mistakes. I’ve started out to make a goose and ended up with a hummingbird. But the challenge is a good thing. “A woman came to see me one day It’s not just the life-like detail of this wren, but the character displayed by a real bird.

A white-breasted sparrow on a branch is a work of beauty. and asked me if I could carve a black-capped chickadee for her as a gift for her mother. I said I could and would be glad to. She said the carving did not need to be mounted on anything and that it should not be painted. Well, I couldn’t understand why she didn’t want it painted. I told her it wouldn’t cost much more for me to paint it, but she insisted. It needed to be exact with every feather in place, but no paint. I felt funny about giving

her a bird that in my mind was unfinished, but she was the customer. So that’s what I gave her. “Several months passed and she returned, asking me to carve another bird, a different species, but the same request. No paint. This time I told her I just didn’t feel right about not finishing the job properly. “She smiled and said, ‘Donnie, didn’t you know? My mother is blind. When I put it

in her hands, she held it gently and said, ‘Oh, my. It’s a chickadee.’ “You couldn’t get that feeling from making plastic.” 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’m just sayin’

Staying Up Late

Staying up late, not all know how. So here’s your tutorial; I’d listen up now: Watch too much t.v., eat like a cow, Invite all your friends, then gather around. Consume all your junk food, gain a few pounds. So now you know how; don’t hesitate. Get on your couch, and stay up late! Craig Beeson Mt. Vernon Sr. High There is one thing—actually several things— good about staying up late. One thing is going to Busler’s and buying tons of food and talking to the clerk who used to use drugs. Then we would go to Wilson’s and talk to the waitress named Lauren; she always gives us free Sprite. Lastly, we would go to the house and watch funny movies like The Hangover, Semi-Pro, and Talladega Nights; we also talk about girls and play Dare. Then comes the part where you have to wake up, which feels like you just got hit repeatedly in the head with a bat. This is why staying up late is so much fun. Austin Montgomery Mt. Vernon Jr. High When I am up past midnight I know I’ll regret it the next day, when my eyelids will be attached to my cheekbones and my forehead will gravitate to my school desk. If I speak, it will be unintelligible. I will wish I had gotten more shut-eye. Sarah Smotherman New Harmony Sr. High

I’m Just Sayin’ is a sounding board for young people. All middle and high school students (including homeschoolers) 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 three issues: May/June issue: My Best Day Ever Deadline: March 20, 2011 July/August issue: Apologies Deadline: May 20, 2011 September/October : True Love Deadline: July 20, 2011

Staying up late is awesome. Anything you do during the day is twice as fun at night. When I have friends over in the summer, we take spotlights and go possum stomping all jacked up on Mountain Dew. We’re out ‘til about 2 in the morning stomping possums, then we go inside and play Xbox ‘til morning. In the winter, we don’t stay out too late because it will get too cold and the possums won’t be out, so we play Call of Duty all night. That’s what I do when I stay up late. Andrew Adams Mt. Vernon Jr. High I’ve stayed up late before and it’s awesome, especially when your parents aren’t home. You can do whatever you want. Except when you do something, try not to make it noticeable because some parents have photographic memory and know where they put things before they leave. So just make

sure you put things back where they were so they don’t notice. That’s all I have to tell you about staying up late. Blake Wilson Mt. Vernon Jr. High The tv’s on in the background, playing late night shows. My mind wanders around, oblivious to the noise. Thoughts from the day, thoughts from the past. I worry if I worry too much. I stare at the empty ceiling above. I’m always up late at night with my thoughts. Andrew McDaniel New Harmony Sr. High Most times when kids stay up late they’re talking to their friends. I remember one time when I stayed out till like 3 in the morning with one of my friends. First we went to her Grandpa’s house and played poker. Then we went down to her Mom’s friend’s house and we finally left at 2 and went looking around town for something to eat. When I got home it was 3 and my Mom wasn’t home. I was lucky I didn’t get in trouble because how late I stayed up. Eli Overten Mt. Vernon Jr. High Toilet papering, the highlight of the night, it is the king of the nightlife activity court. You run, you dash, and you hit every house as

the residents sleep. Wait, what was that—oh no, we’ve been caught; we’re so dead! The prankster catcher returns us to our house of origin to instigate our punishment. Although we were caught, the memories we’ll make sure to never forget. Sadly for us the toilet paper is now wet. Austin McConville Mt. Vernon Jr. High Drowning into the night… The atmosphere reveals an illumination of heaven’s stars, with the silhouetted sky behind it. For the moon will fight against the darkness, to shine upon the murky boulevards. Lighting the way of up late dwindlers. Showing that if we decide to stay up late, we will forever have light to guide our way. Gwendolyn Jolley Mt. Vernon Sr. High My friend Joey and I were notorious in my previous town for staying up extremely late on the weekends. The best example of this is probably when he and I didn’t sleep for two days straight. We drank two gallons of various brands of soda to keep us awake. We managed to somehow stay awake for the two days but then slept for more than twelve hours the next day. Thomas Stigall New Harmony Sr. High

Amidst the middle of night, No adults in the gloom did I sight, But an ominous omen struck my soul, Something just wasn’t right. Foolishly I switched on a light Its intense gaze unveiled a bitter sight, Both parents staring—glaring—downright scaring Amidst the awkwardness of the night. David McGary Mt. Vernon Jr. High Staying up late is so awesome; you can do so many things at night. The best thing would be going ding-dong-ditching. And if you’ve done that then you can play Call of Duty Black Ops. My highest score is 216 kills, 26 deaths. My ratio was 11.44. My brother is a lot better than me. Jeremiah Hargett Mt. Vernon Jr. High Staying up late is like taking risks. You’re sitting there thinking, sneak out, get in trouble. Turn on music—ok, they aren’t coming—oh crap, turn it down. Michaela Williamson Mt. Vernon Jr. High It’s quiet all around my house and I can’t sleep. I read the clock and it’s 1 a.m., so I creep down the stairs. Taking each step quietly like a cat walking across the floor. Heading for the cabinet to grab a midnight snack. I

grab my favorite food, Cheetos. Then I plop on the couch, curl up in my Snuggie, and turn the t.v. on to watch a late night movie. Rachel Burke Mt. Vernon Jr. High When I stay up late I can text and listen to music as long as my parents can’t hear me. Usually my cat comes in my room with me and lies by my side. Then when I say my good byes to my friends, I slowly drift to sleep by the sound of my stereo. Collin Niehaus Mt. Vernon Jr. High I stay up late From sleeping all day Maybe someone will visit, or alone I will stay. I might fix me a late night snack Or wait aimlessly for that important call back. Everything is better when you stay up late. Hannah Williams New Harmony Sr. High Stretch those arms and yawn Your parents are yelling at you to go to bed But you don’t want to because you’re staying up late Turn your music on loud Watch TV and talk to your friends Anything to stay up late. Sierra Miller New Harmony Sr. High

Politics has always made strange The Mount Vernon election of 1849

BEDFELLOWS

ame-calling, character assassinations, attack ads—all have become a part of our election system in recent years. In fact, there has recently been an outcry for Americans to return to a gentler, more civil time, when political differences were settled in an upright, mannerly fashion. However, the past wasn’t always as genteel as some would like to believe—even in Posey County. August 6, 1849, was an election day in Mt. Vernon. The entire campaign had been riddled with bitter strife, but no office was more hotly contested than that of Sheriff. William P. Leonard, in his History and Directory of Posey County, does not specify which parties the contenders represented, but running for office were William James and John Patterson. Both men, it seems, had many zealous supporters. As usual on election days, a large crowd had gathered on the street corner of Main and Second. Before long, the air was filled with “the yells of drunken, half-wild men.” To be expected, the rival factions began throwing taunts at each other, and before long, they were also throwing fists. Although there was a bit of a drunken brawl,

By Linda Neal Reising no one was seriously injured—not until just before sundown. Daniel Lane, who was actually from Illinois, was living with William James, one of the candidates. Naturally, he supported his roommate for sheriff. On the other side was John Coon, a butcher by trade and a constituent of John Patterson. Coon was described as being “a peaceable, inoffensive man, when not under the influence of liquor.” Judging by his behavior, Coon had a great deal to drink that day. The two men began discussing the assets of their respective candidates, but soon the discussion turned into an argument. Coon finally dared Lane to strike him, offering him a half-dollar if he had the nerve to do so. Lane quickly took him up on the bet, but just as he struck his opponent, Coon stabbed him in the breast. Lane reeled and fell to the pavement, bleeding. John Duckworth, a bystander, saw that Coon was trying to cut his way through the crowd, so he struck him several times with his fist, but the blows did not stop the assailant. A second man named Duckworth, whose first name was Green, then hit Coon on the head

with a heavy board, and the crazed man fell to his knees. While he was down, a man named John Pierson picked up a stick of cord wood and bashed Coon’s skull, thus ending the chaos. Fearing prosecution, Pierson fled to “parts unknown,” and apparently wasn’t heard from again. All of the other players in this political drama, however, met with violent ends. Green Duckworth, a few years after the incident, committed suicide in Louisiana. John Duckworth died after being thrown from a buggy one mile north of Mt. Vernon. Lingering until after midnight, Daniel Lane died from his stab wounds. John Coon was taken to jail, but he expired just a few minutes after his victim. Ironically, the next day, Lane and Coon were buried—in the same grave. It’s been said that politics makes strange bedfellows! 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

Tom Fisher, retired mechanic, Poseyville, Indiana

ÂŠ Photographed 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

Posies/By Alison Baumann

C & E heap asy

Years ago, on my only trip to England, I took a tour of

Hampton Court Palace, the 16th century extravagance outside London where Henry VIII had all his extracurricular fun. These days, with the British royals under so much unfair scrutiny, the gardens are the main attraction. They are impressiveâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;acres of privet hedges, roses, and topiaries enclosing elaborately-patterned beds of annual flowers. You get the picture. Spectacular as they are, they have a certain paint-by-the-numbers air about them that is the downfall of most annual plantings, even the more haphazard variety we see around here as soon as the outdoor garden departments open for the season. A lot of people who consider themselves sophisticated gardeners spurn annuals for this reason, claiming that with careful planning you can get both a long

season of bloom and a lot more architectural interest and variety in your garden without them. The problem is that perennials are expensive, mostly short-blooming, and have a nasty habit of going ratty or disappearing completely just when you were counting on them. Those flats of shallow-rooted (or norooted!) annuals you buy at the garden store can get pretty expensive, too, particularly if you have a large area to fill. And unless you coddle them with steady water and fertilizer, they get ratty-looking themselves by the

Cosmos and cleome bloom happily in front of the pole bean trellis in the vegetable gardenâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;or wherever else they can find a square inch of bare soil.

ÂŠ Photographed by Alison Baumann

them too thickly, and they fill my vases with long-lasting flowers for months. The little “Profusion” varieties actually stay pretty decent-looking all summer and make a good edging plant. Gardening doesn’t get much cheaper or easier than that.

Humble zinnias last almost as long in the vase as they do on the plant. Pick armloads of them, and they’ll reward you with even more flowers. Just be sure to snip (don’t pull) the leaves that will be underwater, and change the water every couple of days. middle of July. Then next year you get to do it all over again. Or maybe not. As it turns out, there are a number of annuals that aren’t really, and I depend on them to give me a summer full of cheap and easy blooms. I first planted a packet of cosmos seeds to line the center path of the vegetable garden years ago. Prolific self-seeders, they’re going strong now, not only alongside the tomatoes but also up in the Impossible Garden. They have beautiful airy foliage and reliably deadhead themselves all summer. Interestingly, they get bigger and bigger every year, so my original 18” edging now towers over my head by midsummer. Cleome is another self-seeding annual that re-appears year after year, has interesting flowers and foliage and transplants with the flick of a trowel if it shows up where you don’t want it. One of the delights of selfseeders is that you avoid that overly-formal pattern that bedevils so many annual gardens; they weave their way through the garden,

adding an air of serendipity to the most disciplined garden plan. Victoria blue sage is sold in inexpensive flats as an annual flower, but it reliably (so far, at least) survives our Posey County winters. Like a good annual, it shows its intense deep-blue spires without letup from mid-May until frost and asks for nothing in return. After a couple of years, mine started slowly advancing along their own winding paths, so the two original clumps now look like great rivers converging from the top of the garden. The true annuals have their charms as well. Anyone who gardened as a child remembers the sheer wonder of scattering a dollar seed packet on a plot of bare earth, sprinkling a little dirt over top, and patting it all into place with your palms. Zinnias are the absolute best for this. While no one would argue that they’re beautiful plants once the inevitable mildew sets in, they germinate so reliably that I always kick myself for planting

The rare true blue of Victoria sage sets off other flowers of all colors. Although not as long-lasting when cut as the perennial sages, Victoria will hold up well through dinner if you pick it early in the day and plunge it immediately into warm water. 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

Eager as they are to propagate in the garden, cosmos are just as enthusiastic about shedding pollen and petals all over your table. Enjoy them on the plant, and use something else for your bouquets.

ÂŠ Photographed by J. Bruce Baumann (3)

Posey Then & Now Circa1930

Photograph by Homer Fauntleroy, Courtesy of David L. Rice Library

The tiny Posey County community of Harmony opened its first post office in 1816. By 1830, when it was re-named the New Harmony Post Office, it had re-located several times and was the second largest post office in Indiana (after Indianapolis). When this photograph was taken in 1930, the post office rented the building at 513 Church Street, next to the New Harmony Tavern, where Postmaster Henry Long proudly posed with Barbara Glump and Mae Inwood Miller Kemmerling.

Posey Then & Now Circa 2011

ÂŠ Photographed by J. Bruce Baumann

To the dismay of many New Harmonites who lobbied for a multi-purpose government building, the post office continued its peripatetic existence until the current building opened at the corner of Church and Brewery in 1966. In the meantime, the New Harmony Tavern was razed for a park, and 513 Church Street operated for many years as the Scott Price Insurance Agency, known locally for its impressive window display of vintage typewriters and other memorabilia.

Sunrise on Greathouse Road

POSEY POSTCARD

Next time a sunrise steals your breath or a meadow of flowers leaves you speechless, remain that way. Say nothing, and listen as heaven whispers, “Do you like it? I did it just for you.” — Max Lucado

Feathers/By Sharon Sorenson

E luebirds B astern

he eastern bluebird, pretty little member of the thrush family, is Posey County’s honest-togoodness come-back kid. In the late 1800s, bluebird populations plummeted by 90 percent. By the 1960s bluebirds hit the point of near-extinction, virtually extirpated from Indiana. Recently, however, they have rebounded, thanks to the efforts of the North American Bluebird Society. In 1978, NABS organized to direct efforts establishing bluebird “trails,” clusters of man-made nest boxes, to help compensate for loss of natural habitat. Nation-wide, folks built bluebird trails, some consisting of only a box or two, others many more, like the 38-box trail on the A. B. Brown Power Plant property in southern Posey County. Since 1999, the boxes, under the close eye of Vectren retiree volunteers, have produced 1,210 baby bluebirds. Holly berries are a favorite with this colorful male bluebird.

ÂŠ Photographed by Charles Sorenson

Gotta Love ‘Em Perhaps because bluebirds respond well to our efforts to help, the birds have endeared themselves to many. Julie Zickefoose, in her book Enjoying Bluebirds More, writes, “If you put all the familiar bird species in high school, the bluebird would be the kid who’s elected to everything.” Surely the bluebird wins first seat in the orchestra’s clarinet section for its sweet contralto warble. The choir would choose as soloist the enthusiastic leader of the dawn chorus. No speech team could be without birds that start “talking” 12 days after hatching, communicating with their siblings, mates, family groups, and flocks, making sure everyone knows everyone else’s location and safety. The male’s performance for his mate, fluttering atop a proposed nest box, ducking in and back out to cheer her would ensure his election to the cheerleading squad. Who else for class president? He is admired by other bird species and seems to hold special attraction to house finches. Finches sit on the nest box with him, follow him as he flies, both species singing. Finches share no competitive urges with bluebirds, desiring neither the bluebird’s nest box nor his food, apparently only enjoying his company. Election to the honor society is assured, recognition of bluebirds’ concentrated studiousness. For them, life is all about persistent perching on a lookout, studying a mowed meadow for grasshoppers, crickets, spiders, and beetles, then drop-hunting to snatch prey from the grass. Come winter, with insects gone, bluebirds win Best Team Effort as they form nomadic flocks, helping one another seek berries for sustenance from dogwood, holly, wild grape, bittersweet, poke, Virginia creeper, red cedar, and poison ivy. On Senior Honors Day, then, the come-back kid earns yet one more moniker: Most Likely to Succeed.

Helping ‘Em Thrive But if bluebirds could win so many awards, why do they need so much help? As usual, it’s the fault of humans. In the late 1800s, European settlers brought starlings and house sparrows to the U. S. and released them to the wild. Both species aggressively competed with bluebirds for nest cavities; and bluebirds lost their nests, their eggs, their babies. They all but died out. In the past 40 years, thanks to human intervention, populations have slowly increased.

A male carries nesting material to a well-used bluebird box. Boxes should remain year-round, as the bluebird prefers to stay in the area.

Locally, beginning in 1999, every week from April 1 to September 1, a team of devoted retirees—including, this year, Ron Crawford, Dave Bredenkamp, Bud Heil, Tony Ruminer, and Paul Smith—have monitored a 38-box bluebird trail at A. B. Brown. Last summer’s nests produced 130 baby bluebirds, equaling production in 2004 and 2005. Without question, the men’s dedication determines the bluebird trail’s success. Weekly checks on all boxes mean the team controls wasps and ants, greases mounting poles to deter snakes and raccoons, cleans out old nests to make second nestings safe, removes house sparrow nests to eliminate competition from this invasive species, and relocates unsuccessful or empty boxes to better home sites.

Making a Trail Enthusiasts like Crawford and his team have gained some school-of-hard-knocks knowledge about bluebird nest-cavity success, knowledge you can apply to your own bluebird trail, no matter how large or how small: • Use sturdy, well-built nest boxes, preferably of cedar (for durability), easily opened (for monitoring and maintenance), with a 1 ½” hole, unpainted, minus perches. (For nest box specifications and building plans, see the North American Bluebird Society Web site: http://www. nabluebirdsociety.org/ • Select nest boxes with extended sloped roofs and recessed floors with adequate drainage and ventilation holes. • Examine box construction to make sure it includes rough or grooved interior walls (so fledglings can climb out) but smooth-to-the-touch opening (to reduce adult birds’ feather wear). • For nest box sites, choose rural, open grassland with nearby high perches, like utility wires. • Choose locations void of large house-

The female bluebird is no slouch in helping to build a nest.

Three eggs, as blue as their parents. •

• • • • •

sparrow populations. Mount boxes on poles, not on trees or fence posts (which serve as ladders for predators), with openings facing southeastward. Mow area near boxes. Bluebirds abandon boxes in high weeds. Mount multiple boxes at least 75 yards apart. Use predator guards, either structures or greased poles, to avoid creating snake/raccoon lunch boxes. Monitor boxes weekly, eliminating house-sparrow nests, ants, wasps, and vacated nests. Leave boxes up year around. Bluebirds travel south only if forced by inclement weather or food shortages. So if berry crops—sumac, poison ivy, dogwood, bittersweet, red cedar, hollies, pokeberry—and the weather hold, bluebirds winter over and use nest boxes as winter roosts.

Hats off to dedicated folks who have brought bluebirds back from the realm of the threatened. Because of them, we can thrill to the birds that carry the sky on their backs. 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.

The comeback of the bluebird population is a thing of joy in Posey County.

Twin Twin Swamps

A destination, indeed. A step back in time, an experience from another clime!

By Sharon Sorenson

osey County huddles in the southernmost corner of Indiana, farther south than Louisville, Kentucky. Because of its southerly location and its position between the Ohio and Wabash rivers, Posey Countyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s climate is warmer and more humid with milder winters than that of the rest of Indiana. As a result, then, of sheer geography, Posey County hosts the northern-most range of a wide array of plants and animalsâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;and is the only site in Indiana for many of these special species.

A mass of muted color greets a visitor to Twin Swamps, as she makes her way on a series of low boardwalks at the entrance.

ÂŠ Photograph by J. Bruce Baumann

The trail leads west through a southern flatwoods, where you can find spider lilies dancing from the floor of the swamp in August.

The most likely place to enjoy these spectacular flora and fauna is Twin Swamps, a 598-acre wooded tract dedicated in 1987 as a State Nature Preserve and named for its two biologically significant swamps. The “twins,” however, are far from identical. One is home to an overcup oak forest (Quercus lyrata) while the other boasts an ancient bald cypress forest (Taxodium distichum). Both of these trees, which arguably reach their northernmost habitat here, need watery homes to

survive. More than likely, it’s the bald cypress trees with their characteristic surrounding “knees,” the accompanying abundant bird life, spring frog wetlands choruses, and remote location of the property that, combined, make Twin Swamps a destination. And there’s no better time to plan a trip to Twin Swamps than in spring when life bursts from the damp and brings alive the mysterious setting. Minus only drapes of Spanish moss, Twin Swamps

conveys an atmosphere of the Deep South. It could be the setting for a full-of-drama mystery or a full-of-joy romance. Given the destination, aim for a springtime stroll along Twin Swamps’ quiet, winding paths, where long boardwalk sections protect tree roots from too many feet and protect many feet from too much mud and water. Along the boardwalk and trail, visitors can comfortably glimpse the now nearly extinct flatwoods habitat that once dominated

Broad beech fern (left) thrive on the damp, shaded area in the flatwoods.

Bald Cypress trees grow “knees” or roots, and are cousins to the California redwoods.

ÂŠ Photograph by J. Bruce Baumann

Barbara Cochran is one of many visitors every year who take advantage of the elevated boardwalk to venture deep into the swamp. the Ohio and Wabash river floodplains. But spring also brings the ephemerals! Blossoms blanket the flatwoods, first in white, then yellow, pink, and blue. Ah, blue. In early spring, Virginia bluebells bloom in profusion there, acres of them, spread out along a slight ridge, as far as the eye can see, nodding to the rhythm of the breeze. Or go in August, when heat and humidity may seem too oppressive for an enjoyable outing. But August brings the

magnificent spider lilies, knee high on slender stems, fragile white blossoms brightening the understory, shaded by the magnificent overcup oaks. A destination, indeed. A step back in time, an experience from another clime! Rick Mark, a then-Master of Arts in Liberal Studies candidate at University of Southern Indiana, created a thoughtful Web site about the property, including seasonal and habitat guides to the flowers, trail maps, and

further history of the Posey Country treasure. Check it out at: www.usi.edu/science/biology/ twinswamps/wildflowers_of_twin_swamps. html. Sharon and Charles Sorenson are regular contributors to Posey Magazine. Send your questions and comments to them or contact them for public-venue programs,conferences, or seminars to: forthebirdscolumn@yahoo.com.

Poetry Where the Crocus Waits

Left to Wonder

You dig the peonies. I replant them. I think about how much we love this work: the uprooting, the thinning, the covering up.

Just days ago, a flock of gulls sunned themselves on the parking lot of an abandoned mini-mall. What drew them to this place—a mystery. Perhaps from far above, the concrete glistened, shimmered— impersonating water and wave.

It’s our secret work. Both of us dizzy with visions of blooms that will come in another season. We know what beauty lies beneath the surface. What it is to wait. One day, we too shall know this splendor disappear to where the crocus waits. Where nothing matters but the will to flower. The great pushing up. —Jessica Thompson (“Where the Crocus Waits” was first published in Tiferet, a Journal of Spiritual Literature)

But now, two-faced January has turned his head, and the world has grown fangs and fur— an albino wolf, howling at the eaves. And we’re left to wonder about the gulls. Picture them, lifting off in the storm, their wings fluttering in disarray, a blizzard of feathers, and for just a moment, one might think that the snow has been resurrected, reborn, taking flight, from earth back to sky. — Linda Neal Reising

Out In The Back Of Beyond/Editor’s Notebook SOME THINGS I THINK I THINK I think life is a lot more complex than what they let on. I think life would be awfully lonely without a dog. I think most people have never read the Constitution. I think country roads are built that way for the benefit of my mechanic. I think war is a futile act, carried on by old men who don’t have to fight. I think people who throw trash out their car windows are trash. I think we don’t challenge ourselves as much as we should. I think the best food is home grown. I think snow covers a multitude of sins. I think teachers are underappreciated. I think just because you believe something, it doesn’t make it true. I think dying is the last act, making the prior acts more important. I think we don’t understand everything there is to know about ourselves. I think you should be able to understand the words in any song. I think everyone needs one good friend.

I think mean people are not all that bright. I think most people have something to offer all of us. I think politics is vastly overrated, and governance is vastly underrated. I think politicians who say, “This is what the American people want,” don’t have a clue. I think that drivers in pickup trucks should wave at people in cars, too. I think children are our future, and we should treat them as our most valuable asset. I think indigo buntings are the most beautiful birds I’ve seen. I think a promise should be kept. I think people should listen twice as much as they speak. I think whoever invented indoor plumbing was a genius. I think life is too short for some — and too long for others. I think Frank Sinatra rules. I think the secret of beauty is in the light. I think you should be more concerned with the people below you than the people above you. I think someday these will be the good old days. I think not everything will be OK. I think only time will decide if I’m right. — J. Bruce Baumann Editor Posey Magazine poseymagazine@aol.com

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