Experiencing Nature in Warren County, Indiana 1

Heading west on State Route 26 from West Lafayette toward Pine Village, Indiana, we cross from one world to another. Behind us is a land of green, rolling hills interspersed with level farms stretching across the south-central portions of Indiana all the way to Chillicothe, Ohio. Ahead are farms flat as tables, fewer trees, and soil comprised of black loam so black that, on an overcast day, the clouds reflect the darkness. The startling transition occurs between Goose Creek and Little Pine Creek. I never fail to be moved by the change in terrain.

On the Edge of the Prairie

Drawing by Edmund H. Garrett (1853–1929)

Engraved by Samuel Smith Kilburn (1831–1903)

In The Closing Scene

Philadelphia, J. B. Lippincott Co., 1887

I am a writer, not a geographer, so I am only guessing. I suppose that the black soils are drained marshes that formerly laced the stands of prairie grass. Across the nearby border of Illinois, the prairie once lay like a fantastic ocean, its waves a reflection of the winds waving the tops of the tawny coral and reddened stems. Islands of the grass extended eastward into the Hoosier fens (and, farther to the north, as eastward as Ohio). My Quaker ancestors established a farm in Warren County, Indiana, in 1826 and 1827. They saw the prairie and the bog, as well as the wooded inlets just to the south of Warren County’s northern boundary. I can hardly imagine what they witnessed, but the ebony soil and the level fields of my childhood near Pine Village are no less obvious today. They signify a distinctive landscape with its own qualities.

Growing up, I felt that life on the former prairie had been tougher, demanding more than was required in the gentler landscape to the east. The winter wind howled with greater menace, and the blizzard threatened to snuff out life. The lightning of the spring storms flashed with the constant and blinding flicker of battles. Tornadoes called for vigilance and quick action. Our inner springs were wound tightly so that we might respond mechanically to danger.

Simultaneously, the beauty of the place enriched our lives. Many a hectic traveler rushing northward along Interstate 65 considers the landscape a monotonous and boring horizon of treeless fields. Inhabitants know how to discern details the commuter overlooks. Subtle variations in elevation and color of the soils delight the eye. Out-of-the-way streams afford magnificent views worthy of painters and photographers. And the sky changes by the hour with deepest blues at the summer zenith, through great billows of clouds like sails on clipper ships, to breathtaking sunsets and sunrises! Add wildlife and wildflowers to these pictures, and we have plenty of beauty to balance the gloom of the loam.  

Christmas

A child in the late 1950s, I was accustomed to Christmas presents that were fewer and less expensive than those received by children of the generation after mine. One of the best presents that Santa left for me was a collection of hand puppets. For years, I told stories with them. Those cuddly toys helped me become a writer later in life.

My Family Visiting Santa at Sears in the 1950s

But I am ahead of myself, for this blog is about the days leading up to Christmases when I was a kid. Each year, the music teacher at the school planned a program of celebration, and, as a piano student, I was expected to perform. Each year, in the week before the event, I fell ill with flu and stayed home. Throughout grade school, I was never well enough to attend the Christmas program. I was not shirking my responsibilities; I was just a flu target.

I always recovered a few days before Christmas. Every year, my parents zipped my brother and me into our parkas, bundled us into the back seat of the 1957 two-door Chevrolet Bel Air, and took us to see the Christmas lights in Pine Village and Oxford, Indiana. As I could get car sick in the back seat, I had to take precautions, secretly rolling down the window a little so as to obtain fresh air, but I always enjoyed seeing the lights. In those years in such small towns, the light displays were modest. Outdoor strings featured large bulbs in primary colors. Wrapped around a living pine tree, such lights filled my heart with delight. Often, we could see the family Christmas tree with smaller lights and lots of crinkly metallic tinsel just inside a bay window or a picture window. I still remember the year when the Oxford doctor outlined the roof and windows of his ranch-style house in blue lights. We marveled at the color, as we had previously seen only multiple-colored strands. Also, we had rarely run across a house with its architectural features outlined in that way.

A day or two closer to Christmas, my parents took my brother and me to the Masonic lodge rooms on the second story of an old building on State Route 55 in town. The stairs were in the back and were dimly illuminated. I found them scary, creaking at every step. When we entered the main hall, we found the huge pot-bellied stove radiating tropical heat, melting the frost on the tall windows. The chairs were pushed back around the walls, and we kids sat quietly, waiting for Santa. Soon, we heard him ho-ho-hoing. He burst upon the gathering to the applause of the adults. Quickly, he handed small toys and candy to the assembled children. I looked upon him with awe.

On Christmas Eve, my family visited the Methodist Church. I recall the flickering light of candles in the stained glass. The scent of evergreen wafted into the sanctuary. In the candlelight, everyone’s eyes appeared large and mysterious. The adults wore smiles but were quieter than they were at a typical service. In the hush, the minister invited the congregation to sing carols to the tune of the organ. Tears well up in my eyes when I recall my mother’s soprano voice singing good old Christmas songs while she stood beside me and held my hand in that church so long ago.

At home in bed that night and barely able to shut my eyes from anticipation, I was always surprised to discover that I had fallen asleep and that the sunshine of Christmas morning was streaming through the windows. Tossing the covers aside, I dashed into the living room to find that Santa had indeed visited our house and had left presents for my brother and me!

My father in his overalls had already done his chores on the farm and had shaken the snow from his boots. He sat in a chair beside the Christmas tree with his coffee cup in his hand. My mother had already served breakfast and helped us kids to open our gifts. My grandfather, who lived in Indianapolis, was on hand. His eyes sparkled with the joy and hope of the holiday. I wish I could help you see them all as I see them in my vivid memory, for they were wonderful people. Later that morning, my grandmother and my great aunt joined us for “dinner,” as the noon meal was called. And what a magnificent dinner it was, with yeast rolls, fresh butter from our dairy, ham, peas, carrots, corn, and every good thing that my mother had canned from her garden.

If only I could return to that close family circle again! The promise of the Christmas story is that, one day, I can, and I hope I will.

Halloween

In the 1950s, when I was a child, relatively few facets of life were commercialized. Take Halloween, for example. Almost no parents in my hometown bought costumes for their children. Masks may have been purchased at a dime store, but parents helped their children to build their own costumes around the store-bought masks. Hoboes might wear jeans with holes at the knees and carry poles with bandanas of belongings tied at the ends. Cowboys might wear hats and holsters. In my family, wrapping in a plain white sheet was considered costume enough, even if the mask had nothing to do with the sheet.

Carving Jack-o'-Lanterns on Halloween in the 1950s

One Halloween, my mother was shopping in Lafayette when I noticed a plastic mask resembling a collie’s head. The plastic’s outer surface felt fuzzy to the touch. I politely asked my mother if I could have the mask for Halloween. What joy! She consented! That year, as I skipped along the sidewalks of Pine Village, I wore my white sheet and my dog mask with tremendous pride.

We kids designed our own trick-or-treat bags from the brown paper bags that came from the grocery stores, such as the IGAs in Attica or Oxford, Smitty’s in West Lafayette, Marsh’s in Lafayette, or the A&P in Lafayette. Jack-o'-lanterns in orange and black crayons were favorite motifs, as were witches, black cats, owls, skulls, ghosts, and moons.

My classmate Alan introduced me to a noisemaker. He cut notches in the edge of a wood spool, which rotated on the end of a stick. When he pulled a string wrapped around the spool, the notched edge made a startling noise against a window pane. Of course, I had to make one immediately!

My parents preferred that my brother and I visit the homes of relatives and family friends, rather than asking for candy at the doors of people less well known. Even with such restrictions, we came away with bags containing more than enough candy! Three Musketeers bars were my favorite, but there were treats more exciting than commercially available candies.

My grandmother and my great aunt made popcorn balls that were out-of-this-world delicious! They were enormous, to boot! It seemed you were eating a popcorn ball almost as large as your head! Years later, I tried making popcorn balls. They were not nearly as good. In the process, I came to wonder how my great aunt and grandmother avoided burning the tips of their fingers, for I surely did! As far as I can tell, there is no way to form popcorn balls without coming into contact with the hot syrup. Could my ancestors have worn gloves? I doubt that they did. At any rate, the homemade popcorn balls far outdistanced the candy bars in flavor.

I recall the delightful strangeness of trick-or-treating. In the darkness, it was difficult to see where the roots of the old trees had tilted the squares of concrete in the sidewalk leading to my grandmother’s house, and I would invariably trip on them. Clouds raced across the moon, sometimes hiding it altogether. In front of my great aunt’s house were bushes that thrashed about in the cold wind. I felt there could be ghouls lurking behind them. One year, Elwyn Gray’s barn had burned not long before Halloween. The structure still stood, but there were large gaps among the blackened boards. The eerie shell stood across the street from my grandmother’s house. I was ill at ease from the scent of burned wood and the moonlight flickering between the cracks in the sides as I hurried past.

Eleanor Y. Stewart and I included many of my Halloween memories in the opening chapter of our middle grade novel Maggie Quick. Those Halloweens that I experienced in a less commercialized era are now enshrined in a book that has earned top reviews!