Law enforcement beyond this point

 

I have an affinity for driving two-lane highways. Avoiding interstates comes at a cost, of course. But the rewards of captured views, small town living, and general reduction in my stress level more than make up for the extra time required for driving. Such was the case when I needed to go from my home in northern Indiana to a conference of state byways in Metamora.

Highway 27, running north-south along the east edge of the state, isn’t the most rural of Indiana two-laners, but it served my need…my need for less speed. I left myself a two-hour cushion for arrival, which, I get, is a luxury some don’t have. I also needed to return some archival documents to folks in Decatur. They recommended we meet for lunch at the West End Restaurant, where they also recommended the tenderloin. Indiana being what it is, where it is, who it is, and what it produces, requires an unholy reverence of the tenderloin. And I, being terribly Hoosier, have been on a mission to find the best tenderloin. The waitress asked for my order and I said, “tenderloin..” and glancing at my fellow diners, added “of course” for which they were well-pleased. And it was good.

Highway 27 used to run through the center of Decatur. It’s what connected all the seats of government for counties stacked along the eastern border with Fort Wayne and Richmond near the north and south ends. 27 passes such notable landmarks like the giant Swiss clock-tower in Berne, and in Geneva, Gene Stratton-Porter’s home on the edge of the Limberlost. Then there’s Fountain City, where the Coffins ran a railroad, of the Underground sort. Big chunks of 27 have bypassed towns now to the east or west, often with four lanes, so it takes some effort to find the nostalgia of Hoosier life I look for on blue highways.

One of these bypasses threw me while driving 27 around Winchester several years ago. I knew the first time I went through, I, well, went through, on a genealogy adventure while in college. But on my return trip some 10 years ago or so, I realized that I was going around Winchester. Winchester is the county seat of Randolph County, probably best-known-for me anyway-as the place where several senior calendar girls bared all to raise funds to save their majestic courthouse. My first project in Randolph County was writing a National Register nomination for a one-room schoolhouse in Ward Township, which I detoured to in order to get a great post-restoration photograph. But this time, on my way through Randolph County, I wanted to visit two family cemeteries.

Based on previous research on that genealogy trip years ago….and what college kid doesn’t take genealogy trips-I knew the location of one. It was the Neff Cemetery on the south side of Winchester where old 27 and the 27 bypass come back together. I had spied it long ago and kept my eye on it each time I passed through. You see, there’s an issue with this cemetery. It is a small, graceful burial ground of my ancestors perched at the edge of a bluff, in the middle of a massive cow pasture, with no access lane, and owned by Randolph County. This is why I never stopped. It became part of the Randolph County Infirmary when the Neff’s land was purchased by the county in the mid-1800s to build a poor house. I first learned this when I visited the un-bypassed Winchester in the late 1980s. And I remembered this when the new owner of the county infirmary contacted me during my time as county commissioner since we were also in search of a new owner for our complex. Randolph’s owner was operating it as, as I understood it, a place for paranormal research and cinematography. That wasn’t going to play in Peoria, or, Plymouth for that matter.

With this new owner information, I plotted my visit to Randolph County’s old poor farm. There was no discernable drive to the family plot based on my satellite imagery snooping, but I thought that a drive may appear before me, like crossing the Red Sea. I slowed, turned into the drive of the vacant infirmary complex, and paused to note that there was no vehicles on the premises. I had the owner’s name as a way to sound legitimate if needed. But it seemed that just ghosts were home. And the cows. Several buildings make up the complex, which is impressive in its own right since so many counties have done away with their infirmaries altogether. During the mid-1800s, counties were required to care for their poor and indigent and most built large dormitory style homes at which the poor were required to work the farm, kitchen, or other duties as a way to earn their keep if they could. The farms were, essentially self-sustaining and usually composed a few hundred acres. By the late 1800s, due to deteriorating conditions of many poor houses, Indiana instituted design requirements for new buildings. These, along with orphanages and other social safety nets came under the auspices of the State Board of Charities. And, consequently, many of the county poor houses took on a certain look due to required programmatic layout. I’ll share a story about my involvement with our poor house in the future.

I pulled my truck up a little further scanning the lawn for any lane that appeared to lead toward and through the pasture to the cemetery. Only the drive I was on continued ahead. I moved ahead, with a bit of trepidation, and then saw that I was about to move to a point of no return since a sign posted on a building said law enforcement only beyond this point. I’ve had mixed interactions with law enforcement. I didn’t want to add trespassing to the mix, however, there I was, essentially between buildings and could see there was a turnaround ahead. So I inched forward, and there was a sheriff’s deputy. Crud.

Evidently the county still owned the property beyond that warning sign. And it was used as a shooting range for target practice. He shot me a look like I could be getting into trouble, but I figured I had a good and honorable reason for driving past the sign. I don’t think that I look threatening. Stupid maybe. But not threatening. I rolled down my window and, as if to complete the sign aloud, said “and there’s law enforcement.” Which barely brought a change in his demeanor. I continued with “is there any way to visit the cemetery on the hill?” He wanted to clarify I wasn’t looking for the poor farm cemetery, which is oddly marked by cheap, short ornamental fencing on the corners of the little square patch behind the infirmary. I glanced over at it and said, no, the one in the pasture….my ancestors are buried there. Assuming he knew something about the Neff family, and their connection to Indiana politics of the 1800s, I thought he might be impressed. Again, I appeared more stupid than threatening. It did seem to put him at ease.

He said he knew the veterinarian who leased the property from the county to graze his cattle, and said he’d give him a call to see if I could visit those long-dead family members. He talked to him a minute before he put him on speaker phone and the old vet began to tell me how to drive back to the cemetery. His directions went something like this, now, you’ll have to ford the creek and then continue back on the ridge, then turn and stay against the fence, stay on the ridge, and now there’s no bull in there, but stay along the fence until you can turn back to the hill the graves are on. Mostly I heard, ford creek, ridge, fence, and bull. No bull put me at ease but it was already too late because the thought diluted the other directions. The deputy asked how long I’d be….not more than 15 minutes I thought, so he said he’d help me out by opening and shutting the gate so I wouldn’t have to manage driving, gate opening, and corralling cattle.

Now, I don’t know if the deputy told the vet I had a truck, but anything less would not have forded the creek. I dialed over to four wheel drive and proceeded through the creek, or crick, as it were. I figured driving straight toward the fence which ran the ridge, made the most sense. I looked in the rear view mirror and I had a nice convoy of cattle following along behind. I’m guessing the vet also has a black Ford from which he delivers feed to his herd.

So, driving along the fence or ridge, or what looked like where I should go, led me so far, then I caught a glimpse of the cemetery way off to the side. By this time the herd had given up. I then drove in a straight line, now perpendicular with the fence to the cemetery, hemmed in itself by woven wire farm fence and a cattle gate. Arriving, I put the truck into park and sat there for a few minutes looking out across this little burial ground, barely any stones standing, overlooking the grand openness of the valley below and the grand brick mansion from 1899 for the poor and destitute to the south.

I decided to let the truck run. I could imagine losing the keys or it simply not starting after my visit. And that was a heck of a long walk back, with or without a bull pushing me along. I opened the door and hopped out and then within three steps, my heel grazed a cow pie. Now, I don’t want you to think that I’m so green to not have the sense to look around, but my grandad had horses, and those leavings are easier to spot and less, shall we say, sticky.

I rubbed my foot on the ground, then proceeded to climb the cattle gate up and over with a hop. After more than 30 years, there I was, standing in the family plot. I walked and read every stone, that was legible, maybe a dozen, and saw plenty of small stones knocked over, rather ingloriously, and lying flat. There were two other surnames located in the cemetery, but as I walked up and down the three or so rows, I saw no Neffs, none of my family. I assumed that these other names were also family but I was disappointed I didn’t find my family, though I kept in mind that they died in the 1850s. Clearly, over the years, the county didn’t provide any upkeep, for over 100 years. I snapped a few pictures, stood in the far corner, and tried to imagine what this place looked like, felt like 170 years ago.

As I walked back, I noticed in the lower corner a small stone I had not read. I walked over, stooped down, and could make out the name Cordelia Neff, a daughter of my ancestors who died young and was placed in the family plot. It was both sad and comforting. She alone was left to represent the name for which the land was first opened and cultivated, the name by which the cemetery was called, she alone, at least at this place, represented a name revered in early Indiana politics. I knelt there for several minutes, with my hand on the small marble tablet, gazing down at the traffic whipping by below the bluff on 27, then again at the brick home. I wondered about all the things Cordelia has seen from up there on the bluff since she was placed there in 1847. And I was proud to have met her, and acknowledged that she represented our family well as the sentinel on the hill.

And then I heard that guttural sound of a bleating cow. Then more. It appears the herd had found me, or maybe it was their time of the day to wander over to the bluff to pay their respects. It spooked me, as you can imagine, and then I laughed to myself and walked back to the gate, climbed and descended with a hop. The cows didn’t care. I drove back to the fence, then back to the creek and sped up a little to ford it with a splash this time. The deputy was waiting and opened and closed the gate behind me. I got out of the truck to thank him, and then asked for directions to the second graveyard to visit that day. He said he had heard of it, then brought it up on his screen fixed to the dash of his patrol car and told me to lean it to see it. I thanked him again, then drove away with a smile as I took the truck out of four wheel drive. The visit couldn’t have been timed better.

The second stop was longer, but admittedly had less of an impact for me. My Wheeler ancestors, who were Quaker, had been buried at a graveyard by a church that had been built almost 20 years after they passed in the 1840s. The church belonged to the Mt. Zion Methodist congregation, but I imagined because of the way the graveyard was split in two, the Methodist church probably replaced a Friends Meeting House at the same location. The small, white frame church was perched into the hillside that allowed the graveyard to rise up behind it. I scouted it out, realizing the Wheelers would be in the older section. I found them within five minutes of looking, resting there beneath some aged old trees that helped to frame the church in orange and yellow in their fall glory.

The Wheelers and Neffs were joined in marriage by the 1840s, and had come to Randolph County in the 1820s. They were Quaker before some descendants, my ancestors, joined the Brethren church in Elkhart County. My Anabaptist roots are pretty deep in Indiana, but more on that later. John Neff, who established the cemetery on his farm at the passing of his daughter, Cordelia, was also the father of Colonel Neff of some Civil War military notoriety, and grandfather of John E. Neff, Indiana’s Secretary of State in the 1870s.

It was a good day, a beautiful late fall drive, stress-free, entering some of Indiana’s prettiest landscape in the east central valley. Visiting the land of my ancestors, and paying respects, made my heart full and grateful, and probably put me in the right state of mind to join other Hoosiers that night as we talked up our beloved heartland to each other.

Home away from home

 

I find myself in Southern Indiana on a regular enough occasion that a few years ago, I started to line up site visits over the course of a few days and then use a cabin rental agency in little Nashville for lodging. Nashville is about perfect for this. Its midway between I-65 and I-69 and US 37 which act like giant spokes to get me to most of the south half of the state. And it’s far enough away that I can make stops on the way down and get there before dark, or, when pressed, leave at the end of the work day and get there before it’s too late. I’ve stayed in about 10 different legitimate log cabins, most pretty secluded, some very old and others fairly new. I have my favorite, which I’ve stayed in about a dozen times, at the foot of a few hills and perched between two creeks. It has a massive Civil War-era fireplace, and any time I walk in the door, it feels like I’m coming back to my second home.

“lil’ Nashville” as it’s called, has held a special place in my heart for a long time, stretching way back into my junior high days of the 1980s. My grandparents had season tickets to IU basketball games and we’d often land for supper or lunch in Nashville. My folks also enjoyed going to this little burg in Brown County, and took us often to stay, eat, and shop. It stretches back in my mind more than any other location in Indiana apart from my string of hometowns in Marshall County, so with an increase in work in the region, I try to land in my second home as much as possible. It’s frequent enough that the wait staff at one restaurant know my drink order, which is made special for me.

It was an honor to work on the town’s National Register district. This followed a state byway project that ran through town and down Highway 135 to US 50. It was great to learn about the history of the town, its arts and cultural connections, and its folky architecture that’s pretty unique in Indiana. This brings me back to log cabins. I’ve always wanted to live in one, or at least have one as a second home. Maybe it’s the feeling of nostalgia, false or real, or the smell of timbers, or the feeling of being surrounded by solid wood-I don’t know. But I have a real connection to cabins as a building type. This is probably why I spied a log church on the north edge of Nashville a few years ago while working on their scenic byway. My intern convinced me to pull over one weekday during a visit one summer. As we looked around the outside, another gentleman pulled up and asked if we were a contractor that was supposed to meet him there. We explained to, I think the pastor, that we were not and that we were just curious. So he gave us a tour of the building.

The building was constructed as St. Anne’s Catholic Church in 1945. It’s a simple building with a few details that identify it as a church, like the apse in the north end, and a niche for statuary in the stone chimney on the front of the building. Inside, it has a low-pitched but open heavy timber frame and simple stained glass windows that cast pastel light in the dark sanctuary. A few years ago, the building sold to a Presbyterian congregation who renamed it Brown County Presbyterian Fellowship.

If log construction seems like an odd choice for a church in the 1940s, you’re right. Except in Nashville. The town, terribly rural into the early 1900s, is surrounded by hills dotted with old log structures from the 1800s. Then the first wave of artisans came, and with them, the first wave of rustic rebirth. Then when the state park was created, a second wave of rustic style cabins began to populate the hills and vales of Brown County. Then by the early 1940s, the architectural language of Nashville shifted to rustic revival embrace in a big way which included live-edge scabbed siding, brownstone rubble walls, log and heavy timbers, all with an eye to the rural romantic.

So, the Catholic congregation that conceived the log church were in keeping with newfound appreciation for the folk craft of building cabins. These 75 plus years later affirm that it was a solid idea. I’m in Nashville enough on weekends that last year, while on a work trip with my nephew who was providing me with drone footage of a few of my bridge projects, I suggested that we visit the now-Presbyterian Church. He grew up in an evangelical church, like me, and wasn’t sure why we wouldn’t be sleeping in on a Sunday if it wasn’t “our” church. But he humored me, and we made plans to leave our cabin to get to the church cabin in time for services.

We pulled in, walked up the sloped drive to the front entry, and within 10 seconds were recognized as guests. Presbyterian churches, like many outside of evangelical circles, require diligence in following the service, so we picked up programs to guide us through and sat down, after a number of handshakes, near the front. A classically-trained pianist was quietly playing in the raised platform located in the apse. The wood pews matched the rest of the log cabin surroundings, and everything creaked in a way to make one feel welcome. A family of people who appeared to have some handle on Presbyterian ways came in and sat in front of us, and introduced themselves. This was important because with all the sitting and standing, and congregational response, I told my nephew to follow what the guy in front did. During introductions, the speaker recognized us as guests and then asked if we wanted to share our names, or remain anonymous. I spoke up and suggested anonymous sounded ominous, so I introduced my nephew and myself, and said we were in Nashville for work.

That Sunday happened to be Christ the King Sunday and the pastor, a stand-in who grew up in the church, mentioned that she had a problem with the idea of the observance, because Christ wouldn’t want to be thought of as King. But then she shared the history, which was the result of an edict by the pope during the 1930s as fascism began to break out throughout Europe. Christ the King was to remind us all that our hope was not in politics, that our allegiance was not to a man, or country. And all of a sudden, this observance was as timely today as it was in Hitler’s Europe.

We missed our cue to sit down when the pianist started his postlude of Bach, I believe. We quickly caught up with the rest of the church. The small congregation was welcoming, and we both received coffee mugs as gifts with an encouragement to come back. I assured them I would when visiting again on weekends. It felt like home. But then, shouldn’t most churches?

But, it was during the singing of the doxology that emotions swept over me. I grew up in a large charismatic church, of a few thousand, with a venerable, commanding pastor more gifted in the gospel than anyone I’ve known. But, for all the non-liturgical leanings of this megachurch, there was one piece of liturgy Pastor Sumrall insisted on, and it was singing the doxology as the close of every Sunday service. Imagine the old, leathery voice of a tv preacher belt out Praise God from whom all blessings flow….with a sustained “flow” in full vibrato. Imagine a few thousand people singing it. And now imagine a small congregation gathered in a cabin with wood pews where Praise God bounced off all the walls punctuated with soft stained glass. And my voice began to crack under the lump in my throat. And my eyes teared up just a little. I don’t think it was the emotionally-charged memories of every Sunday for 25-plus years of my formative young life. It was something deeper, and it was something I experienced before in other churches.

I think churches can stir emotions, particularly for those of us rooted in a faith, with an appreciation for those roots. My old family church in Bremen was contemplating demolition in favor of, essentially, a pole barn church and I was asked to walk through the grand brick building with a structural engineer and develop a report. A distant cousin walked me through the building, in which I attended nursery school and had been in a few times in my life. He pointed to the pew in which my great grandparents sat and then to the brick ledge on which my great grandad would place his cigar outside of the building to wait for him during service. He was a little less religious than my great grandmother who was a short determined German woman whose personality, and grit, towered over men twice her size. I soaked in those moments in the sanctuary, and in the end, the building was saved.

A few years ago I prepared a presentation in observance of the 75^th anniversary of the Battle of the Bulge. My great uncle, my grandma’s brother, died on Christmas Eve in the battle, having just turned 19 years old the month before. It was a moving presentation that I was able to give at the Culver church that the family had attended and at which his memorial service was held when his body was finally returned to the States. I had never been in the brown-brick church, so walking in, I half-anticipated some level of reflection. But I must admit, it nearly overwhelmed me. I sat in one old pew near the front and ran my hand over the wood end panel over which hundreds of hands had worn the finish down over the century. The light, diffused in colors of gold and green from stained glass that punctured the walls did the same to my soul that day as I thought about my family that wept in those same pews.

In the last year, our family began attending a high-gothic Brethren church in which my wife and I were married nearly 25 years ago. I remember the first Sunday or two, as we sang, a lump in my throat as the tall internally-lit white cross bejeweled by diamonds of stained glass would catch the corner of my gaze. I couldn’t help but to follow it up to the heights of the rafters. We’ve had a lot of hurt in our faith journey, yet the cross seemed to be holding it at bay-immovable, impenetrable.

Last year, I sat in a tiny Quaker meeting house outside of Salem that was built in 1814. A gentleman with us, a historian of the faith, had taken a seat near the front of the building and had grown quiet while the rest of us talked about the building. Then he said, I remember most vividly, “I can feel the Friends here.” Savor that for a moment. Over 200 years of living, loving, and dying. Of hoping through all life throws at us and in those moments of national upheaval. In this tiny building, in a valley of cornfields and forests. I can feel the Friends here.

We all live divided lives. Both politics, maybe mostly politics these days, and churches have divided us into smaller and smaller camps often locked into four walls and that was never the intent of a life of faith. No, we weren’t meant to be part of something larger, in communion with each other and in the spirit that should bind us together. Do we not feel better when we connect with those around us? Do we not feel whole when we join with others in sharing moments of joy or sadness? God intended for us to be whole, with Him and each other. We are the ones who deviated from the plan. I listened, and still listen to Garrison Keillor from time to time. He was addressing a small congregation and discussed how, even in tumultuous times, he could unify people in singing a few stanzas of America the Beautiful, or in joining everyone in singing Christmas hymns. People felt whole, with each other, as we were supposed to be.

For all the warmness of the Brown County Presbyterian congregation assembled that day, for all the beauty of the service, prelude and postlude, and the message about Christ the King Sunday, the most valuable lesson I learned that Sunday was one of a longing for wholeness with other people. I walked away thankful for a family of faith that knows no walls, despite their dovetail-notched beauty.

One day I hope to have a log cabin of my own. Nothing big, frankly, the smaller, the better. Whether that’s my day-in-day-out home, or a place I escape to in the hills of southern Indiana, or a small retreat or office workspace, it’s a goal of mine. I wonder sometimes if that’s not one of the first steps toward being a hermit. There are probably worse things to be.