Remarkable Markers 3

In Oak Dale Cemetery in Urbana, Ohio, stands a splendid monument to Simon Kenton (1755–1836). In 1777, Kenton saved the life of his friend Daniel Boone. Kenton served as a scout for Europeans and was captured by Shawnee during the year 1778. Kenton served as a scout for George Rogers Clark during the American Revolutionary War (1775–1783) and with “Mad” Anthony Wayne during the Northwest Indian War (1793–1794). As a Brigadier General, Kenton reprised his rôle as scout—and led a militia group—during the Battle of the Thames in 1813.

Statue of Simon Kenton in Urbana, Ohio

In 1997, donations paid for a life-size statue replicating a smaller one by famous Urbana sculptor John Quincy Adams Ward (1830–1910). The sculpture stands atop a stone plinth, or base, erected in 1884.

Sculpture by John Quincy Adams Ward

Commemorating the Sculptor

Elsewhere in Oak Dale Cemetery

The monument is well worth a visit, as imposing and somber as it is. While Eleanor Y. Stewart and I looked at the statue on a weekday morning in the summer, additional visitors arrived.

Page 39 of the History of Allen County, Ohio (Chicago: Richmond & Arnold, 1906) says, “In the forests of Ohio Kenton had confronted Indians, bears, wolves and panthers. On the south face of the monument is carved, life-size, the head of an Indian chief … ; on the west face is the head of a bear, as life-like as stone can be, and appearing as if the head had just been thrust through the face of stone; on the north side is the head of a wolf similarly carved; and on the east side is the head of a panther. The design is by J. Q. A. Ward, the celebrated sculptor, now of New York, but a native of Urbana. His grandfather originally owned the land on which Urbana is built, and for many years the elder Ward and Kenton were intimate friends.”

Bear on Simon Kenton Monument

I will vouch for the lifelike qualities of the heads thrusting forward from the sides of the grand base. It was a little difficult for me to photograph the faces because they engaged me in what could be described as confrontations.

Panther

Native American

Wolf

I leave it to qualified historians to sort out the complicated issues separating the real Simon Kenton from the legendary one. While I studied the Kenton monument, I admired the work of J. Q. A. Ward, whose statues capture life in ways that I, as an illustrator, can admire but cannot produce. Ward was an exceptional artist!

Wandering away from the solemn shadow of the monument, Eleanor Y. Stewart and I found a bur oak nearby. We collected several acorns to present to the squirrels in Eleanor’s yard back home. Finding the choicest acorns in the sunny grass took our minds off the menacing heads protruding from the Kenton monument. By the time we had hauled our harvest to the car, we had resumed our cheerful, chattering selves. 

Good Morning, Springboro! The Giant Sycamore

Springboro, Ohio, is two hundred years old. This blog installment is the first of six that will feature my original watercolor paintings depicting scenes in the vicinity of Springboro. If you would like to purchase one of the paintings, send me a message through my website at roberttrhode.org or via Facebook. The art measures 5″ by 7″ and consists of Cotman Water Colours by Winsor & Newton on acid-free Montval watercolor paper.

Giant Sycamore Near Springboro, Ohio

Original Watercolor Painting by Robert T. Rhode

 

Not far from the charming downtown is a gigantic sycamore tree. My mother always urged me to create a painting of a sycamore, and I have finally gotten around to honoring her request that was made so many years ago. The patterns and colors of the bark fascinated my mother, and she loved the curves of the heavy limbs.

One day, I had parked to appreciate the majesty of the giant sycamore, and, from across the street, a resident called to me, “That tree is over two hundred years old.” Imagine that! A tree older than Springboro itself! A tree that was already growing in that location before the Quakers had come to build blacksmith shops, houses, and mills to form a community! The resident said he had lived nearby for fifty years and that, when he first moved to that location, he had conversed with a woman who was approaching a century; the woman had told him that her father had said that the tree was standing there when he was a boy.

I wonder what the tree could tell us if it could talk. In a way, it does talk: that is, it expresses itself through the artistic arcs of its branches and the dappled canopy of its leaves. The immense trunk amazes me! Despite the colossal size of the sycamore, the tree comforts me. Even though I am a writer, an explanation of what I just wrote will not be easily conveyed. Something in the softly varied tones of the bark, in the leaves spread like broad hands, and in the steadfast posture of the tree lends a feeling of security. The sycamore is parental. It gathers its happy children beneath its branches.

The township has provided a table or two for picnics in the shade of the mammoth tree, and, when driving past, I have noted people enjoying lunch beneath the towering sycamore.

Creeks are favorite spots for sycamores to become established, and (Sure enough!) Clear Creek runs its sparkling course just behind the picnic area.

The patriarchal sycamore may well have been growing near Clear Creek during the American Revolution. Miami or Shawnee people may have camped beneath it. The tree could easily have been standing there when Ohio became a state in 1803 and was almost certainly in place when the War of 1812 began. Thinking of how many sunrises this living tree has witnessed dwarfs my imagination. It has stood serenely in one spot for so many days, while I have darted hither and yon in my hectic life. By comparison to the tree, I am a firefly flashing across the landscape for relatively few summer nights.

Peace is the message of the sycamore, which yet celebrates the rolling seasons. The tree stands as a tranquil philosopher—as nature itself, proving day by day a good way to live.

My Sacred Places: Angel Mounds

Each of us has visited places that we regard as sacred. Cathedrals, burial grounds, and monuments to soldiers fallen in the line of duty readily come to mind. When we broaden the definition of “sacred” to include any place inspiring our loftiest ideas and our highest respect, we have a host of consecrated locations. This series of blogs is dedicated to a few of my sacred places.

My India Ink Drawing of Woodland Mound,

Which I Made for Dr. Conard Carroll

When my brother and I were enrolled in one of many summer sessions at Indiana University, we decided to spend a Saturday at Angel Mounds. After AD 1000, a large settlement of Native Americans thrived beside the Ohio River; the impressive civilization lasted until 1450. The inhabitants farmed the area for miles around. The site boasted a dozen impressively large structures including various mounds and a palisade.

As it turned out, my brother and I had chosen a stiflingly hot day. At approximately 11:00 a.m., we parked our car and walked through a weedy field toward a reconstructed section of the palisade wall, which once had bastions at rhythmic intervals along the half circle that stretched from the river, around the village, and back to the river again. The sun beat down on our heads. We were standing on soil that crayfish loved. Every inch of ground was steamy. Even while standing still to read the markers interpreting the archaeological site, we felt sweat beading on our foreheads and dripping down our backs. We weren’t being baked; we were being boiled!

We had come to see the mounds, and we were going to see them, no matter how sweltering the day might be! We went from one to the next, surveying each in its torrid splendor. Not a breath of air cooled our perspiring faces. All was breezeless and scorching. We were the only visitors to the park. Others were wiser. Others were enjoying themselves in air-conditioned rooms somewhere. We trudged from a platform mound to a conical mound. We could have wrung the moisture from our shirts.

We found appealing the thought of climbing above the tropical bottom land, so we scaled the cone before us. We dragged our feet through tangled grasses, our tendons pulling hard as we scrambled up the steep embankment. When we reached the top, we sat down to drain. The view was spectacular. The turquoise haze of southern Indiana lay above the land bordered by motionless trees. The great river lay beyond with scarcely a trace of movement as if it were a lake instead.

For a long time, neither of us spoke. I felt that we were becoming one with nature.

Just then, with a sarcasm that only my brother can wield, he jeered, “It probably took them a long time to make this mound. I bet they wish they could have had our modern earth-moving equipment. With a good bulldozer, they could have scraped this mound together in less than a day.”

Out of nowhere, a furious wind suddenly crashed against us. We took one look at each other, jumped to our feet, and dashed pall-mall down the slope, nearly falling several times in our rush toward the level plain. Once we regained our breath, I said, rather accusingly, “They didn’t like that very much!” Contritely, my brother said, “No. That stirred up something we had no right to disturb.”

Neither of us felt safe. We abruptly concluded our visit by striding back to our vehicle. Since that day so long ago, we have journeyed to many prehistoric sites in Ohio, and, needing no reminder, we have kept a respectful attitude throughout our trips.