Posey Magazine July/August 2013 by J. Bruce Baumann

A magazine for and about

Posey County, Indiana

“Living a spiritual life may not be easy. It demands total authenticity. It brings you to dance to a unique song that only you can hear fully, and sometimes you dance alone because no others can hear the music.” — Debra Moffitt “Some of us aren’t meant to belong. Some of us have to turn the world upside down and shake the hell out of it until we make our own place in it.” — Elizabeth Lowell “Though the road’s been rocky it sure feels good to me.” — Bob Marley “I made up my mind not to care so much about the destination, and simply enjoy the journey.”

— David Archuleta

Cover story

J. Bruce Baumann is the founding editor and publisher of Posey Magazine. “The World Of My Backyard” culminates more than three years of photographing the geography, the flora and fauna, and the graphic abstracts that he found at Grand Chain Farm in Posey County. “We spend so much time surrounded by beautiful things, but not taking note of them. We miss what the world has to offer all of us,” he said. Baumann is the retired editor of the Evansville Courier & Press, and, in addition to Posey Magazine, has served as an adjunct professor at Southern Illinois University and Indiana University/Bloomington. He was inducted into the Indiana Journalism Hall of Fame in 2011.

“Wouldn’t take nothing for my journey now.” — Maya Angelou “All journeys eventually end in the same place, home.” — Chris Geiger “There comes . . . a longing never to travel again except on foot.” — Wendell Berry

Special thanks to the following for his help Joseph Poccia

ENCORE F. Scott Fitzgerald

reason I often miss what was meaningful famously wrote, “There are no second work. acts in American lives.” And he was at But I also agree with “The Lion least partly right. King” lyricist who wrote, “There’s more Our lives, especially our work to see than can ever be seen, more to do lives, seem to progress seamlessly toward than can ever be done.” retirement. And that once seemed a happy So it comes down, as with most prospect for the few who lived long things, to choices. You can use the enough to enjoy it. persistence of old age to your advantage. Nowadays not so much. These Countless really talented older people days almost a third of Americans between continue to produce some of their best the ages of 65 and 70 are still working; work after 65 or 70. Among them are even among people 75 and older, seven artists, poets, writers, photographers, percent are still on the job. And for musicians, architects. People such as Ray those who do retire, many complain of Bradbury and Pablo Picasso. increased difficulties in mobility and Others may choose another path to daily activities, an increase in clinical a more vital, meaningful life by pursuing depression and a decline in self-assessed a job that offers not just a paycheck, but health. also an opportunity to use their skills and As someone who has been retired experience to add or contribute to the for a number of years, I can say without greater good. hesitation that I agree with Teddy Still others may pick a path Roosevelt who once said, “The best prize previously not taken and pursue a that life has to offer is the chance to work purpose and a passion they hadn’t the hard at work worth doing.” And for that time for before.There are countless free,

or nearly free, classes and study sessions, book clubs and discussion groups available. Bill Gates said on leaving Microsoft, “It’s not about retirement; it’s about reordering priorities.” And it’s the reordering of priorities that allows us to choose what our second act will be about. I start to agree with myself about this when I realize that something about the language “second act” bothers me. There’s a sameness and a finality about it that I just don’t like. There is an alternative I’m happier with. I frequently have been at a concert with a friend who turns to me with a smile and says, “Sit back down. The house lights haven’t come up yet. They will be back out. They always save the best til last.” And she’s right. And that’s what I choose to have. Not a second act at all. But an encore.

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

POSEY POSTCARD

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

ÂŠ Photographed by J. Bruce Baumann

Peony

The World Of My Backyard A photo-essay by J. Bruce Baumann

Although I have traveled around the world,

I keep coming back to my small piece of the planet. Time is not on my side. I am in the shadows of my life. But the beauty that I am finding in everyday living sustains me for yet another day. No one lives forever. So it’s important to pack as much beauty into one’s time as possible. The world is magic. It offers so much for so little in return, yet we pass it by without much regard. That is never truer than the world of our own backyards. Oscar Wilde said, “One does not see anything until one sees its beauty.” I don’t remember if he was specifically referring to his backyard, but it certainly would apply. We lust after the grass on the other side of the fence, mostly finding our own grass a weekly nuisance. Cutting it down both literally and figuratively. Yet,

nature’s carpet acts as the canvas for birds, deer, squirrels, horses, trees, snow, coyotes, and flowers. It changes with the shadows and light. We must look at the whole and pick the parts. Walt Whitman would have been a great photographer. He understood not only the looking, but also the seeing. “To me every hour of the light and dark is a miracle. Every cubic inch of space is a miracle,” Whitman said. Over the past few years I’ve turned my camera to the land that the creator asked me to watch over. My backyard. I don’t believe that any of us can actually own the land. We can only be caretakers. My wife, who died last year, wrote a poem that may have inspired me for this body of work when she wrote, “Thank you making the world even more beautiful than it needs to be.”

Great blue heron

“Let us be silent, that we may hear the whispers of the gods.” —Henry David Thoreau

A fawn, only days old, was found hiding in a small pond

White tail deer

“There is no delight in owning anything unshared.” – Seneca

Dogwood early morning

“All art is but imitation of nature.” —Seneca

A poplar tree trunk reorganized

“The best way to know God is to love many things.” — Vincent Van Gogh

Grass carp

Henri Matisse’s “Blue Nudes” adds a touch of color on the horse barn

American Curlies

“A horse is a horse and a man is a man And neither can be the other And each can survive but is much better In the company of one another.” — Tomas O Carthalgh

“The flashing vibrant cardinal Trills his prelude to the day While radiant beams of sunlight Melt shadowy mist away.” —Rae Williams

Northern cardinal

Rain drops landing on the lake, in the midst of luminescent algae

“Rain is grace; rain is the sky condescending to the earth; without rain there would be no life.” — John Updike

Water finds its own design, reflecting patterns of visual imagination

“The most beautiful thing we can experience is the mysterious. It is the source of all true art and all science.” — Albert Einstein

A daffodil greets the morning sun...

“I wandered lonely as a cloud That floats on high o’er vales and hills, When all at once I saw a crowd A host, of golden daffodils; Beside the lake, beneath the trees, Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.” — William Wordsworth

...and fades when day is done

“The fog comes on little cat feet. It sits looking over harbor and city on silent haunches and then moves on.” — Carl Sandburg

Lacy, a 13-year-old American Curly mare, spends almost all of her time in the pasture

“As you simplify your life, the laws of the universe will be simpler; solitude will not be solitude, poverty will not be poverty, nor weakness weakness.” — Henry David Thoreau

The light dances on the water to enhance the beauty of these three ducklings and their proud momma

“For a squirrel the difference between possible and impossible lies in determination.” — Anonymous

“Whenever the pressure of our complex city life thins my blood and numbs my brain, I seek relief in the trail, and when I hear the coyote wailing to the yellow dawn, my cares fall from me — I am happy.” — Hamlin Garland

“The greatest gift you can give another is the purity of your attention.” — Richard Moss

Daylilies follow the tulips White tulips awaken after a sleepy night

“Life is really simple, but we insist on making it complicated.” – Confucius

Red-bellied woodpecker

Ruby-throated hummingbird

“If my love could be represented by a blur, it would be the beating of a hummingbird’s wings. Did you know that my love is the only love that can fly backwards?” —Jarod Kintz

“To finish the moment, to find the journey’s end in every step of the road, to live the greatest number of good hours, is wisdom.” — Ralph Waldo Emerson

Reflection of a white-tail deer

Grackle

“The grackle’s voice is less than mellow, His heart is black, his eye is yellow.” — Ogden Nash

Bare trees in the autumn paint an abstract on the shimmering surface of the lake

“Trees are poems that the earth writes upon the sky.” — Kahlil Gibran

“Sunsets, like childhood, are viewed with wonder not just because they are beautiful but because they are fleeting.” — Richard Paul Evans

“The first fall of snow is not only an event, it is a magical event. You go to bed in one kind of world and wake up in another quite different, and if this is not enchantment then where is it to be found?” — J.B. Priestley

Hackberry in winter

“Nature does not hurry, yet everything is accomplished.” — Lao Tzu

“Silent icicles, Quietly shining to the quiet moon.” — Samuel Taylor Coleridge

“I love to be alone. I never found the companion that was so companionable as solitude.” — Henry David Thoreau

“I prefer winter and fall, when you feel the bone structure of the landscape - the loneliness of it, the dead feeling of winter. Something waits beneath it, the whole story doesn’t show.” —Andrew Wyeth

J. Bruce Baumann has been photographing life on this planet for more than 50 years. He is the founding editor and publisher of Posey Magazine. A former newspaper editor, book editor, and staffer at National Geographic Magazine.

ÂŠ Photograph by J. Bruce Baumann

Poetry THE PERSISTENCE OF CREATION In the beginning, when he left it in the quackgrass by the driveway, with the alternator dead and the radiator cracked, and even later, when the fanbelt frayed into riotous flower, and one by one the tires collapsed with weariness and rot, they believed when he had a chance, when he had the time, the money-sometime soon, he would have it up and running in a week or two. But somehow, after an ice storm sent an oak limb through the windshield, when trumpet vines waved from the windows, and mushrooms erupted in the floorboard, it became for them like a natural thing, an inexplicable outcrop of the Indiana earth, and they mowed wide circles around it, let weeds grow up—no longer expecting it, or anything, to change. And there, under the tangle of wild grape and ironweed, deep in the crevasses of the engine block, in pools of old rain swirled with gasoline, bits of mold and moth scales, the severed feet of tiny spiders, there in the sheltering dark, languorous tendrils of carbon and nitrogen drift through the afternoons, reaching and twining, rubbing their flanks on electrons of water, charging themselves on ions of sodium, coupling endlessly, fearlessly, months into years— until from the warm stew, amazed, a bubble pulsing with unworldly energy streams upward and transforms the world. It could happen. No one knows these things— what goes on in dark, familiar places.

—© Alison Baumann

Feathers/By Sharon Sorenson

In Posey County, July and August peak with summer gold—

American goldfinches, that is. Breeding males wear brilliant gold, joyous spots of color in an already colorful blossom-filled summertime yard. Goldfinches nest late. While cardinals and Carolina wrens started their first nests in April, or even late March, even the most experienced female goldfinches don’t set up housekeeping until mid-July. A month later, the first-of-the-year youngsters make their debut at backyard feeders, recognized by their incessant monotonous twitter, still begging to be fed. Nesting period peaks, however, when first-time goldfinch moms start nesting in late July or early August. Backyard niger-seed feeders go empty at record rates as goldfinches gorge to meet burst-of-energy needs for nest building and egg production. Then, suddenly, female goldfinches at the feeder become a rare sight. They’ve gone nesting! Late nesting, however, doesn’t mean goldfinch girls are ©All American goldfinch photographs by Charles and Sharon Sorenson

A female American goldfinch feasts on sunflower seeds.

Thistle seedheads include soft fluff that female goldfinches prefer for nest lining.

Winter -plumaged American goldfinches lack the summer gold plumage, but their distinctive wing pattern shows year-round.

The distinctive wing patterns show on both male and female goldfinchs. lazy. No, they’re just particular. They prefer certain plant materials to build nests, especially thistle seed fluff. And being pure vegetarians, they prefer certain seeds to feed their babies; so they await maturation of those seeds. Think grasses and composites—as in the daisy, aster, goldenrod, zinnia, or

sunflower families, all late bloomers. Indeed, unlike most other bird species, goldfinches pluck no bugs for their babies. But last year this time, when August wound down, I watched a female goldfinch gather nest material. Most likely, given the late date, her first nest failed. Under those

circumstances, late August re-nesting isn’t all that unusual. What was more intriguing than her late gathering, however, was the subject of her gathering. Goldfinches weave a compact little nest, built in three layers, so tight that it’s

firm to the touch. They lash a foundation to a triangle of forked branches using spider web, form a cup of rootlets and other plant fiber, and line the cup with thistle or other plant down. But opportunists that they are, goldfinches, like other birds, often substitute readily available materials for the more traditional. This female obviously merited the opportunist label. Her opportunity for substitute materials came as the result of a moth. In early fall, fuzzy orange caterpillars called webworms build long-stranded silken masses that look like cotton candy hanging from the ends of branches. The caterpillars eventually turn into moths. Last week as I sat in the early morning cool watching just such a webworm nest, I noticed a female goldfinch alight. While spider webs abound throughout the yard, stretched taut between bushes, across windows, and among flowers, this goldfinch chose, for whatever reason, to repeatedly visit this webworm nest. She picked and tugged at the web, hopping up, hopping over, separating strands and yanking out whole clumps, rearing backward, stretching the web, taking another bite, fluttering, legs braced, head upright. Then she would pause, her bill so filled with web that she looked as if she were sporting a bushy mustache, and off sheâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d go, apparently not far, returning in less than two minutes for more. Maybe this goldfinch is starting a new trend in nest buildingâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;one Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d welcome if it reduces the number of webworm nests in our trees. 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.

When breeding season begins in late summer, niger seed feeders like this one are swarmed.

seems unlikely that a dead man could become a murderer, but that’s exactly what happened in Mount Vernon during the spring of 1873. In fact, the Ohio River itself became a Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde figure, providing commerce and sustenance to the residents along its banks, but also becoming their executioner. Sitting on one of the highest points along the Ohio between Louisville, Ky., and Cairo, Ill., the city of Mount Vernon was thought to be protected from the hazards found in low-lying areas. All around lay rolling, fertile farmland, not the swampy areas normally associated with contagion. According to genealogytrails.com, because the town was high, dry, and clean, with natural surface-drainage, there were “no cesspools breeding pestilence.” However, the people of this Posey County town were soon to find out that cholera knows nothing about geography and does not discriminate when choosing its victims. The citizens of Mount Vernon had heard that Kentucky was being ravaged by the disease, so they became exceedingly careful with regard to their cleanliness. However, when a Mr. Decker, a citizen of the town, succumbed to the epidemic while visiting Memphis, Tenn., his brother and his business partner traveled there to retrieve his body. His corpse was shipped home on the steamer Pat Rodgers, which arrived on May 26. The casket was taken to the residence of another brother, F.C. Decker, who made the mistake of opening the casket before the burial. The next night, the brother who had traveled to Memphis was stricken with severe diarrhea, which Dr. E.V. Spencer diagnosed

as being a symptom of cholera. Only two or three days later, three of F.C. Decker’s children were overcome with the same ailment. Quickly, the illness spread to a child living behind the Decker house. Within a few days, both he and two siblings were dead. One can only imagine the helplessness and grief of the parents as they watched not one, not two, but three of their children die. During this same time, the steamboat Eddyville from Nashville, Tenn., stopped to take on corn. While loading, the Russel family who lived near the landing decided to tour the boat. In only a day or two, Mr. Russel came down with cholera, but he was able to recover. When his wife became ill, Russel took her to the home of her father, Isaac Cully. Mrs. Russel was sick for several days, but her father became ill and died the same night. A nearby farmer named Mr. Pickles had checked up on the patients at the Cully farm. Within three days, he was another victim of the epidemic that seemed to be spreading like a field fire in a year of drought. His mother also became ill, but she managed to recover. However, Mrs. Schwalm, a German lady who washed the bedding for Mrs. Pickles, fell ill and died. In turn, the woman who had cared for her, Mrs. Alsted, was also taken sick and died. A man named Himmel and his wife were staying at the Alsted house, and they also died. When George S. Koonce helped bury the Himmels, he and his daughters both lost their lives. It didn’t pay to be charitable in the time of cholera. Cholera continued to ride the rivers, too. The Pat Rogers and the Eddyville were

only some of the first carriers. On May 30, the steamboat Mary Houston stopped to unload freight, along with new cases of cholera. When the steamboat James D. Parker landed on June 22, all on board, except the captain and a clerk, were sick. On July 21, the steamboat Camelia brought from Nashville, Tenn., a group of black men to toil at the Grand Chain, a government work on the Wabash River. One worker died on arrival, and a second shortly afterward. By July 12, the panic-stricken people of Mount Vernon began to scatter from the infected area. Within a week, two-thirds of the city’s inhabitants had fled, some traveling into the country, while others went to family members and friends living in other states. Perhaps one of the hardest-hit families can be traced to a young man named Woody, who had been traveling on the river and came home with diarrhea. He was boarding with his brother, sister-in-law, his sister-in-law’s sister, and her four nieces and nephews, including a baby. Forty-eight hours after he became ill, Woody died. Before the cholera was done, nine members of Woody’s family, including his mother and sister, would be dead. It seems ironic that just a few short years after the Civil War, the people of Mount Vernon would be required to fight the greatest

enemy of their time, a foe they could not see and against whom their weapons were many times ineffective. In the end, however, many of the residents did win the war against cholera and lived to tell stories of those who were lost.

— Linda Neal Reising

Posey Portrait

Dennis Blackburn, orchardist, at Farview Orchards, 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.

ÂŠ Photograph by J. Bruce Baumann

Out In The Back Of Beyond/Editor’s Notebook

his issue of Posey Magazine completes three years of a one-year commitment to the magazine. Math was never one of my strong points. The goal was to produce a strong documentary on Posey County, highlighting the people and the land in this part of Indiana. I think we met those criteria with each issue, with the benefit of the talented regular contributors including Alison Baumann, Joseph Poccia, Linda Neal Reising, Sharon and Charlie Sorenson and contributing editor Charlene Tolbert. From the mail we receive, you must think so too.

We are very grateful. While Posey County is our focus, we have enjoyed the company of folks all over the United States and from more than 70 foreign countries. That strikes us as being special. Posey Magazine doesn’t accept advertising or have pay-walls. As we’ve said many times before, this is a labor of love. So we couldn’t reach all those readers without you passing our address along to family and friends. Your sharing is the only marketing we do and we thank you. This issue of the magazine is the

largest we have ever published. The photoessay, “The World Of My Backyard,” focuses on just 45 acres of land that I started photographing during the early days of the magazine. Pictures that I found beautiful and interesting. These are personal pictures that served to give me a sense of place, a lot of pleasure, and a reason for being. Walking and waiting for moments — photographs. Plato wrote this while referring to Socrates’ ideas, “By means of beauty all beautiful things become beautiful.” For me — I think in pictures.

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

“Let the beauty we love become the good we do.” –Rumi

www.poseymagazine.com

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