The path to finding Ernie, part I

Reader alert: this blog is a bit rambling, but if you choose to read it all you may find some interesting, educational, emotional and perhaps even amusing information.

One of the touchstones of my journey was to revisit the Ernie Pyle home and museum in Dana, Indiana. A year before, my husband, Don, and I visited it as an extension of a trip to spend a couple of days with my brother, Don, and his wife, Vicki in Henderson, Kentucky. My interest in Ernie was piqued when I read a book written by long-time friend, Sharon Hatfield. Her book, Never Seen the Moon, The Trials of Edith Maxwell is the true tale of a free-spirited young woman accused of murdering her alcoholic father in 1935 in the tiny town of Pound, in Wise County, Virginia. Pound is within spittin’ distance of the Kentucky border, in that narrow southwestern part of Virginia where the state just sort of peters out as it is squeezed between Kentucky and Tennessee. In the 1970s Sharon spent time as a young journalist covering stories in the same Wise County Circuit Courtroom in which Edith was tried.

In her book Sharon mentions that Ernie also spent time in Pound, talking with residents and principals involved in the infamous trial. This was during the five-year period when Ernie scratched about the United States unearthing stories about everyday women and men. After working at a desk job for Scripps-Howard for three years, Ernie couldn’t sit still any longer. He convinced his newspaper, The Washington Daily News, to let him “cross the road and see what was on the other side.” His promise of six columns a week was amply fulfilled, published regularly in The Washington Daily News and made available to 23 other Scripps-Howard newspapers.

Numerous national media venues had produced stories about the trial and the subsequent imprisonment of Edith Maxwell. It seems that quite often Pound and Wise County inhabitants were portrayed as quaint, backwoods hillbillies, who embraced a “mountain code” that allowed the beating of grown children (and presumably wives) and who were just plain mean, cantankerous folk.

Ernie was one of the most beloved and respected traveling journalists during the 1930s and well known for his downhome ways. According to Sharon, Ernie arrived in Pound “admittedly skittish,” since his newspaper had already reported that Pound was a “hard, suspicious place.” Still, he waded into a group of men, some of whom were erecting a building and the lot of which were loafing and watching.  He said to an elderly carpenter named Lee Greear, “I’ve heard that Pound isn’t a very friendly place for reporters. But here I am, so go ahead and shoot if you must.”

Instead of getting shot, Ernie got interviews and a real insider’s view of the people of Pound, common folk like Ernie, common folk such as you meet if you travel anywhere.

Just as famously, Ernie was a World War II correspondent beyond comparison. I had always admired his work and I was curious about his early life.

Knowing that Pyle had grown up only one state border away from my Ohio hometown and that there was a museum, childhood home and farm to explore, I had to see it for myself. Having visited the museum in 2014, I decided Dana would be the perfect launchsite for my exploration of the twenty-first century United States and citizens. But more than visiting the museum and house again, I wanted to walk on the soil where young Ernie lived the mostly solitary life of a farming family. I wanted to soak in the very atoms he had breathed.

So it was that the second day of our trip Lyla and I made our way to the far western side of Indiana. We had stayed in a multi-story motel in Terre Haute the night before and Lyla had her first elevator ride (four stories) up to our room. She handled the disturbance of sudden gravity shifts exceedingly well and even had the presence of mind to cordially (though politely) greet other elevator riders.

The next morning, as we took the road toward Dana, we experienced an exercise in contrast to the peaceful fields we were headed for in that farming area. A half-hour or so before we reached the outskirts of Dana, a tiny town of about 600 souls, we were “treated” to a very noisy burst of go-kart racing in Clinton. With a population just shy of 5,000, Clinton was founded in 1829 and named after former New York governor DeWitt Clinton. Italian immigrants made up almost a third of the early settlers, who mostly came to work as coal miners.

According to a Wikipedia entry Clinton hosts an annual Little Italy Festival, a four-day Labor Day Weekend celebration of the area’s Italian and coal mining heritage. If you’ve ever wanted to stain your feet purple by stomping grapes (ala, Lucille Ball Ricardo, but maybe without a fistful of grapes in your face), apparently you can do so at this festival, which also features Italian and carnival-style food, and a grapevine-roofed wine garden. And what annual town festival is complete without free stage entertainment? This festival also boasts the largest Italian-theme parade in the Midwest. Want to experience the Indiana Bocce Ball championship, or see one of the few coal mining museums in the nation as well as one of fewer than 400 genuine gondolas in the United States? Clinton is your destination!

Notable people who were born, lived or died in Clinton include:

•       Charles Edward Jones, an astronautical engineer who was killed aboard American Airlines Flight 11 in the September 11, 2001 terrorists attacks (in December 1986 Jones had been scheduled to go into space on mission STS-71-B , but the mission was cancelled after the Challenger Disaster in January 1986).
•       Ken Kercheval, an actor best known for his role as Cliff Barnes on the television series Dallas.
•       Serial killer Orville Lynn Majors, a licensed practical nurse at the Vermillion County Hospital, now known as Union Hospital, who was convicted in October 1999 of six counts of first-degree murder. Although convicted of killing six hospital patients, the exact number is unknown and may be as high as 130. He was sentenced to 360 years in prison.
•       Henry D. Washburn, who practiced law in Newport, Indiana, then became a Civil War general, U.S. Congressman and explorer. As surveyor-general of the Montana Territory in 1870 he led the first government survey – the Washburn—Langford—Doane Expedition – of what would become Yellowstone National Park. Mount Washburn in the park is named after Henry D.

And, as I discovered, yet one more attraction brings folk in from the countryside to Clinton — although go-kart racing is not exactly mentioned in the Wikipedia entry.

Racers and helpers can easily push go-karts.

I was getting used to following directions dictated to me by the female voice of my new GPS system and trying my best to follow her advice to navigate through this medium-size town next to the Wabash River.

I don’t usually name inanimate objects in my life and I didn’t name “her” then, but now it occurs to me that the perfect name is “Female,” which I think I will address her as throughout these pages. This would be pronounced “fee-mal-ee” and it comes from an old story from my mother-in-law, Winny, who was an elementary school teacher among many other careers. She once had a student with the name Female. When she had a chance to gently ask the origin of the name (pronounced as above), she was told that when her mother, who had not chosen a name for the infant, received the birth certificate, she sighed relief that a name had already been chosen, for there on the certificate was the official “Female.”

And so my nav system is now referred to as Female, with the above pronunciation, please. Now I am at heart a map person. I LOVE maps! There is something ancient and viceral about spreading out a three-foot piece of paper with varying colors of lines for different kinds of roadways and blocks of colors to designate our notions of geographical divisions such as states or provinces. If you think about it mammals, birds, insects, fish, all have mental maps – how to find the nearest waterhole or food, where a sheltered spot may be. Native Americans are said to have had signal trees – trees they bent as saplings to point to places of interest. Petroglyphs may have also provided directions. Deer and other forest animals wear out the earth underfoot to produce easily-followed trails (even our dogs have trails they have made through our yard which they run on over and over as they chase toward a disappearing deer tail beyond the fence). Birds follow their own internal mapping system to fly thousands of miles to wintering or breeding grounds. Fish follow ancient urges to return to spawning grounds. Even insects, such as ants, use sun and shadows to “map” their way to food and home again.

In a recent newspaper article I was again reminded that any number of people have over-trusted their in-car nav systems onto deserted desert roads, into oceans and off cliffs. The article suggested that folks today may have eroded their “cognitive maps” because they are not processing information used to move through our landscape. In fact, I have noticed that most younger people do not know how to read a map and may have never even seen one.

While I embrace learning new technology, my relationship with Female was one of uneasy trust – the front seat next to me was loaded with maps of all states I would visit, an atlas and a couple of versions of United States maps as well as some regional maps I picked up along the way. And yes, I usually refold them accurately again for storage.

The Wabash River flooding at Clinton, Indiana

The Wabash River, which we got to see multiple times because of the routing situation in Clinton, was running brown and more than bank-full, thanks to plentiful rain during July in this area. In a small park along the river, trees that should have been handy for males dogs to spray on, were instead awash with flood waters. We got to see it over and over not because Female was malfunctioning, but because the route we needed to proceed on was blocked by multiple emergency vehicles. Firetrucks, medic vans, police cars. I was sure we had stumbled into a major fire or crime scene and was watching carefully to make sure I made all the detours required. Unfortunately, the detours circled a downtown area repeatedly, and with Female shrilling in my ears and several versions of police vehicles blocking the way I was a bit unnerved.

One thing I have learned about driving in an unfamiliar area is that after several passes you start to have a feel for the topography, whether that be streets, back roads or interstate highways. As a passenger in a car, that doesn’t happen so easily. At any rate, after seeing the same police cruisers, ambulances and fire trucks a half-dozen times (and knowing they had observed me) I widened my circle and discovered an obscure roadway that actually led out of town. It also led to the staging area of the go-kart racers.

Ok, I told myself, I have said I will be spontaneous on this trip. So, although go-kart racing is not a passion of mine, I parked in a small field near railroad tracks to have a short explore. As I stepped from the van a group of women approached holding out a small plastic bag with two homemade cinnamon cookies, which they pressed into my hand. With a friendly smile they suggested I have a blessed day. The cookie package label explained why they didn’t keep their hands out for a donation: “God Loves You! Clinton United Methodist Church.”

When I first saw the tiny racing cars I imagined they were toys for kids. The wheels were the size of a midget car hubcab. With about one inch of ground clearance, the miniscule three-foot-long vehicles didn’t even look big enough to house an engine. As it turned out, an engine, steering wheel and seat is about all there is to a go-kart. According to a couple of fellows changing tires on a go-kart (since it looked like rain was imminent the tires had to be quickly switched) one could pay just about anything for the privilege of sitting a couple of inches in front of an engine that sounds like a locomotive approaching a crossing. $3K, 5K, 10K. These fellows, by the way, looked as if their legs would fit better in a full-size 1950s Cadillac.

Drivers change tires on a go-kart as rain approaches.

Almost immediately, Lyla and I faced the challenge of passing a car with a hound hidden beneath staring balefully at us. We managed to circumvent the sourpuss dog and headed toward the “track,” which it turned out was several downtown blocks of roadway and which also explained why streets were blocked. Given the presence of so many emergency vehicles I expected to begin seeing pileups immediately. Rectangular foam blocks about 18-inches high lined the race course, flanked by orange snow fence to keep spectators back. To my left, young children braved the edge of the snow fence to get a better view of the racers skidding around the city street corners and to my right a family of mom-with-baby-strapped-to-her-chest, dad and three young ones leaned against a substantial brick building – downtown Clinton is designated a Historic District on the National Register of Historic Places.

Lyla endures go-kart racing

I tucked Lyla into a doorway alcove, vowing to stay for only one or two races in order to spare her ears. She didn’t complain, but with each passing blast of sound I felt more guilty about her having to endure the discomfort. Within a few minutes a child driver (it turned out there were races for both children and adults) spun out of a corner turn and upset his go-kart against a barrier a few feet from us. Emergency personnel swarmed the scene, helped the unhurt driver to his feet and lifted his vehicle out of the raceway.

The race is on!

Spectators of all sizes watch the races.

Having seen enough of how a portion of my fellow citizens choose to spend a Sunday afternoon by consuming gas, making a lot of noise and closing city streets I decided to get underway to my real destination – Dana. But Lyla and I still had to traverse the course of the hidden hound, who was tied to the axle of the vehicle parked by our van. We practiced our “look-at-me” game from about 50 feet away and were finally successful in getting back into the van without incident.

The “look-at-me” game was one of many strategies taught to us by Shana, the Ohio State University Veterinary College animal behaviorist Lyla and I worked with for several months before our trip. Using “high-value” treats the dog’s person asks the dog to look at them, whereupon the dog then receives the treat. (I’ve been told the treat is not “high value” if it doesn’t make your hands slimy and almost gags you. One of Lyla’s favorite is cooked beef or chicken, but because we were on the road with limited cooling containers, I opted for the tastiest packaged dog treats I could find.) The object is to teach the dog to refocus on something other than what is worrying him or her. It takes a lot of practice and patience, but we had done it numerous times and it helped in situations like this.

Next: we finally reach our destination – the Ernie Pyle farm and homestead in Dana.