Home Sweet Home

I imagine it was at one time, home sweet home.  This log cabin is located in Hamilton, Indiana on a country road somewhere. There was an addition to the house in the 1800's according to the style of the structure. Can you imagine living there? I am such a city girl that I cannot fathom living way out in the "sticks".

When I was little, my parents took us to the ridges in Tennessee to see Uncle Horace and Aunt Dude. They lived in a log cabin. I remember sleeping there and the lulling sound of the rain pinging on the tin roof during the night. Those were sweet times. Waking up to bacon,eggs, biscuits and gravy for breakfast. Drinking spring water from a pail with a dipper was normal.The smell of the fresh chopped wood pile that lay on the ground next to the porch still lingers in my memory.  

As a friend and I drove around the countryside a couple of weeks ago, I was a little saddened at the shape of the barns. A part of history is falling down around us and we are not paying attention. The barn is a symbol of life and hard work.  Where people actually raised the food that they ate. Many were not rich but had enough to be satisfied.  As time passes, things change, and so do our ways. We build bigger and better structures with farm equipment that can do the work of 20 men. But somehow it is comforting to pass an Amish man still plowing his field with the strength of a mule. 

Rural Indiana

A friend and I went on a four hour tour of Dekalb County, Indiana last Sunday. My friend was donned in jeans, cowboy boots,and a baseball hat. Then we climbed into his old pickup truck for a ride. The truck didn't have any air conditioning and it had winged windows, in order to open them you had to push a button and slide the metal handle up for additional air flow. We drove up and down roads I had never been on before. Then we came upon this scene and I was taken aback. I hadn't been on a dirt road in years. The rusted tin roof of the barn caught my eye and the curve of the road added charm to this nostalgic view. This is how country looks and feels. "Stop the truck!", I shouted. I couldn't miss this opportunity to capture a beautiful shot. 

Interiority Complex = Queendom

Up until the age of five we are authentically ourselves and then when we become wrinkled the same thing happens again. But it is the in between stage that messes us up.  We worry so much about what other people think of us that we lose sight of our uniqueness. Self perception plays a major role too. This is where the comparison game comes in.  We look at ourselves and see lack, then look at others and think that we should be them instead of ourselves.  If only I were like so and so then I would be happy...

I used to think that I was shy, and I was at one point. Then I thought that I wasn't talkative, again, that is how I saw myself.  The list goes on and on. We tell ourselves lies and then believe them. At this point in my life I am well on my way to being authentically me. And this makes me very happy. The video below is very encouraging because we need to grow up with a greater sense of self. 

Chief Richardville and a case of burning at the stake in Indiana?

I am a member of the DAR (Daughters of the American Revolution). A few weeks ago a tour of the DAR markers around town was arranged and I decided to go along.

The very first marker was of  Chief Richardville who rescued a man from burning at the stake, the Miami Indians were accustomed to frequently burn their prisoners, according to the book, The Pictorial field-book of the War of 1812 by Benson J. Lossing. I thought that burning at the stake happened only on the east coast to those accused of being witches. 

Jean Baptist Richardville also known as Peshawa, (meaning wildcat) was the son of Joseph Dronet De Richardville, a Frenchman, and Tacumwah, the sister of Miami Chief Little Turtle. 

About 1792, a white man was bound at the stake and the Miami Indians were ready to light the wood on which the man stood. Richardville, a young man at the time, his mother implored him to free the prisoner as she shoved a knife in his hand. Asking him to step up to the plate and claim his place as future chief. With diligence the prisoner was freed and taken secretly in a canoe down the Maumee River. Many years afterwards the prisoner ran into Richardville at a small town in Ohio thanking the Chief for his bravery and that the prisoner's life was spared. 

Richardville is said to have been buried on the grounds of the Immaculate Conception Cathedral in Fort Wayne, Indiana. At the time of his death his worth was estimated at $1,000,000, which is about $23 million at today's standards. He was not only the richest man in Indiana at the time but the richest Native American. 

Additional source: History of the Maumee Valley by H.S. Knapp