Rep Bischoff
I contacted you several months ago about our concerns for the upkeep of
our pioneer cemeteries in the state of Indiana and how there are NO laws
that actually govern the care of these cemeteries.
It was very disturbing today to read in the Indianapolis Star about a
pioneer cemetery in Indianapolis and can see how this can and will
eventually happen in our area.
These cemeteries contain the remains of the families that helped tomake
what we have today.....frankly if it were not for these people, WE WOULD
NOT BE HERE!!!
Our group would like to discuss with you a couple of proposed changes in
Indiana Law that would create protection for such cemeteries. Please
feel free to contact me at anytime in the future. If we don't do
something now....our history WILL be lost forever....
I have also attached a copy of the article for your information...
Respectfully,
Randy Klemme
722 Western Avenue
Connersville, Indiana 47331
Coordinator of the Franklin County Pioneer Cemeteries Restoration
Project
The Death of a Cemetery
23-Aug-1998 Indianapolis Star
Wayne Township graveyard destroyed for warehouse shows final resting
places
aren't so final under state law.
By Bill Shaw
Indianapolis Star/News
INDIANAPOLIS (Aug. 22, 1998) -- Sometime in 1844, James Rhoads, a
prominent
Wayne Township farmer, died. He was 70. His family members and friends
buried
him in a grove of walnut trees on a hill overlooking a little creek.
It was the first burial in what would become Rhoads Cemetery. During the
next
half-century, 43 members of the Rhoads, Foltz, Shute and Rude families
would
be sent to eternity in the walnut grove.
The tiny cemetery was the scene of extraordinary grief over the years as
members of the four families repeatedly journeyed in horse-drawn wagons
across
the sweeping fields and up the lonesome hill to bury their children.
Thomas B. Rhoads was 7 months old in August 1849 when he died of an
inflamed
brain. Elmer Shute was 2 when he died of a bowel infection in August
1859.
Hiram Foltz was an infant. George Foltz was 1. Lillian Rhoads was 2 and
died
of whooping cough on Aug. 13, 1878. Casey Rhoads died of an inflamed
brain
when he was 2. Emma Rude died at 18 months.
On and on they died until there were 35 children buried in the peaceful
cemetery on the hill.
By the dawn of the 20th century, the burying ceased as the four families
either died out or drifted away from southern Wayne Township. Nobody
paid much
attention to the old cemetery anymore.
The cemetery and surrounding farmland changed owners several times. Each
new
owner farmed the fields and tended the old cemetery out of respect for
earlier
generations of Hoosier families. The farmers could have knocked down the
trees, plowed under the tombstones, planted corn on the graves and made
a few
more dollars at harvest.
But they didn't.
The pace of change in Wayne Township picked up dramatically in 1931 when
the
Indianapolis airport opened on 900 acres, gobbling up farmland and
triggering
a development explosion in western Marion County.
Still, the land around the old cemetery remained untouched, save for the
annual spring plowing. The burying ground remained unmolested, decade
after
decade, hidden on the hill in a 60-foot-wide opening in the walnut grove
Danny J. White grew up in the Lafayette Heights neighborhood, just south
of
the cemetery. In the 1970s, the field around the cemetery served as a
dirt
bike track for White and his teen-age buddies. He crossed it many times
walking to Ben Davis High School. The old dead-end dirt road served as a
teen-
age lovers' lane. Neighborhood families held picnics beneath a massive,
gnarled oak tree just east of the cemetery.
White, 41, is a tool and die maker and an Indy Racing League mechanic.
He
helped fabricate the car Eddie Cheever drove to victory in the 1998
Indianapolis 500.
Every day driving to work along I-465 near the airport, he'd glance to
the
east through the sprawl of hotels, office buildings, warehouses, parking
lots,
gas stations and fast food joints, and take comfort that the solitary
hill and
the dark grove of trees remained in this mass of concrete and asphalt.
"Even when I was a kid the cemetery and the area surrounding it was
breathtaking," he recalled.
In the name of development
By 1995, the fields that stretched to the horizon when James Rhoads was
buried
so long ago had shrunk to 21.2 acres.
Now jet planes scream overhead, and the rumble of nearby I-70 and I-465
is
constant. Cement trucks and construction equipment line the old lovers'
lane,
and new buildings seem to appear daily, landscaped with skinny stick
trees,
surrounded by acres of asphalt.
One day about 18 months ago, Danny J. White was driving to work and
glanced
toward the familiar hill and the concealed cemetery. He was startled to
see it
surrounded by yellow trucks, graders, backhoes and dirt scrapers.
He raced immediately to the cemetery and felt his stomach heave. The
tombstones were gone. There were ugly gashes in the earth. The big
yellow
machines had pulled the graves from the earth.
"It was sickening," he recalled. He was furious. He made dozens of phone
calls
and fired off angry letters to an assortment of government officials
seeking
an explanation.
He got one.
It was all quite legal, according to state officials. Now go away and
quit
bothering us, Danny J. White.
He wondered how such an abomination could occur in conservative,
family-values
Indiana where, he, like most Hoosiers, was raised to respect the dead
and
revere their hallowed, final resting place.
"How did this happen?" he asked. "You don't mess with graves."
Well, here's what happened, Danny. They do mess with graves.
James Rhoads, Thomas, Henry, Casey, Elmer and the other children and
eight
adults who rested more than 150 years in the safety of the walnut grove
became
the property of Duke Realty Investments Inc.
Duke, which owns or manages 60 million square feet of real estate in
eight
states, bought the 21.2 acres and the 360-square-foot cemetery in 1995.
"We purchased the land for development purposes," explained Donna
Coppinger,
the helpful vice president of marketing for Duke. "We couldn't develop a
site
with a cemetery on it."
Why?
"It wasn't what we wanted to do," she said.
Duke will soon level the hill and build a 458,000-square-foot bulk
distribution warehouse on the 21.2 acres, obliterating the
one-tenth-acre
Rhoads Cemetery.
It's legal
Nearly two years ago, after they bought the land Duke hired an
archaeology
company called NES Inc. in Blue Ash, Ohio, and together they filed the
necessary forms with the Indiana Department of Natural Resources
Division of
Historic Preservation and Archaeology to dig up the Rhoads, Foltz, Shute
and
Rude families.
State laws, which are made by the 150 members of the Indiana General
Assembly
with extensive guidance from corporate lobbyists, allow property owners
to
demolish old cemeteries they find on their land. Throw away the
tombstones,
plant corn or build a warehouse on the graves. It's legal.
DNR's chief archaeologist Rick Jones is monitoring the Duke demolition.
He
said his agency issues about 10 cemetery relocation permits a year. How
many
cemeteries simply are destroyed, he doesn't know. "We have no way of
knowing,"
he said.
But throwing away tombstones and paving over graves doesn't require a
permit.
Just do it. It's legal. In fact, old tombstones often end up in flea
markets.
"Most people think cemeteries are forever," Jones explained slowly and
uncomfortably. This is not a topic most state officials enjoy
discussing. "In
Indiana, cemeteries are not forever. If you own the property, you can
bulldoze
them down. Basically, in Indiana, nothing is sacred."
Digging into graves and moving them does require some paperwork, except
for
farmers who are exempt from even that minor inconvenience.
"Farmers can just throw away the tombstones and plow up the graves,"
said
Jones. "And they do. The Indiana Farm Bureau got the legislature to
exempt
farmers."
A couple years ago, DNR proposed a bill to offer some mild protection
for old
pioneer cemeteries. Corporate lobbyists smothered the bill in committee,
and
it never received even token consideration.
The end of Rhoads
Anyway, Duke's cemetery demolition project proceeded under DNR Digging
Permit
960062.
NES Inc. archaeologist Jeannine Kreinbrink directed the removal of
"remains,"
once known in another life as James Rhoads, Elmer, Thomas, Casey and
others.
Kreinbrink, who now works for Natural and Ethical Environmental
Solutions Inc.
of Liberty Township, Ohio, did not return phone calls.
She did submit a preliminary report, as required, to the DNR's Rick
Jones.
It's a haunting document, complete with photographs of the "remains." In
many
cases, much remains of the remains, like the perfectly preserved bones
of
little children, their arms crossed, lying in tiny hexagonal coffins.
Pieces
of shoes and clothing remain.
The report also contains a diagram of each grave's location, the shape
of the
coffin and what was in it. Each former person is identified by a letter
and a
number.
For example, C-2 was the "well-preserved remains of an adult. Sex
unknown.
Head to west. Arms at side."
B-10 contained the "well-preserved remains of an adult. Arms folded with
hands
over waist."
Mr. D-1 was obviously a wheat farmer because he was buried with a wheat
scythe
and a small plate.
Infant D-6 was buried beneath 2.8 feet of dirt in a decorative metal
coffin
called a sarcophagus with a glass viewing window.
E-7 was an older adult male with a engraved tulip on his coffin and the
words
"Rest In Peace."
A-1 was the "poorly preserved remains of an infant, sex unknown. Few
scattered
post cranial remains."
B-1 was an "adult female 20-35 years. Well-preserved remains."
And on it went in graphic detail. Most people were buried under only 2
feet of
dirt, symbolically facing the setting sun, the western horizon.
"I feel a connection with these people," Rick Jones said quietly,
flipping
through the depressing document. "You feel something looking into a
child's
grave after 150 years. These are people that used to live, walk around
and
breathe. We're literally looking into the past and I feel a profound
sense of
respect."
He paused, blinked a couple times.
"This is a serious thing."
Once Elmer and the others were dug up, labeled with numbers and letters,
they
were shipped to anthropologist Stephen Nawrocki at the University of
Indianapolis on the Southside.
He was hired by Duke under terms of digging permit 960062, which
required an
"osteological" investigation by an anthropologist. That is a study of
the
bones and "artifacts" for historical significance.
"I haven't been cleared by Duke to discuss this with reporters. I'm just
a
sub, sub contractor," said Nawrocki. Jeannine Kreinbrink called and told
him
not to talk, he said. Her firm is paying his fees.
When will your report be done, doctor?
"I don't know."
Once his report is complete, DNR will either order Duke to rebury the
"remains" somewhere else or they will "be kept in a lab for future
study,"
said Jones.
Last December, Blair D. Carmosino, Development Services Director, Duke
Construction Inc., fired off a stern letter to DNR officials.
"Duke's schedule for construction start-up in this project area is
rapidly
approaching, so it is imperative that the (DNR) properly issue a
clearance
letter for this project area."
Part of the reason for delay was DNR's displeasure with Jeannine
Kreinbrink's
preliminary report. Jon C. Smith, director of DNR's Division of Historic
Preservation and Archaeology, found about 40 points in her report he
wanted
explained, corrected or expanded upon -- like what did Duke plan to do
with
the "unwanted" headstones they dug up?
On July 22, DNR issued a conditional permit to begin "ground disturbing
activities" but demanded an archaeologist be present in case additional
"human
remains" are uncovered.
"We'll probably start drainage work and soil things soon," said Donna
Coppinger, the Duke marketing person. "Site preparation before winter
means if
we can get the site ready, we construct our industrial warehouse product
this
winter. The building will be 1,032 feet long and 440 feet wide."
This is good news? "It is good news. We're good corporate neighbors,"
she
said.
Property of Duke
The other day Danny J. White visited the old cemetery one last time
before the
ancient walnuts and solitary oak are bulldozed, the hill flattened and
the
"final" resting place for 35 kids and eight adults is erased from the
face of
the earth.
He hiked through the alfalfa field, brimming with buzzing bees,
butterflies
and summer wildflowers and up the hill. He rummaged around through the
dense
brush at the edge of the cemetery. Day lilies planted 150 years ago
around the
graves still flourish.
"Look what I found," he said suddenly, emerging from the brush with the
broken
top half of a tombstone bearing the words "WIFE OF JAMES RHOADS. DIED."
He
found it in a bulldozed pile of dirt between two old tires, beer cans
and soda
pop bottles.
What to do? Surely the DNR would want Mrs. Rhoads' broken tombstone. It
couldn't be left in the pile of tires and broken glass. Somebody might
steal
it. It might be demolished in "site preparation." It could be lost
forever, a
historic treasure, the last poignant symbol of a person's life,
sacrificed on
the altar of economic development and corporate neighborliness.
A quick phone call to DNR research archaeologist Amy L. Johnson provided
the
answer.
"Put it back," she said firmly.
What?
"Put it back," she said again.
Why?
"It belongs to Duke. It is their property."
James Rhoads' wife's name was believed to be Hannah, and she died on
July 24,
1849, at age 85. Her husband, remember, was the first person buried in
the
cemetery in August 1844.
Her broken tombstone, which was carefully placed in the Hoosier soil
during
solemn, no doubt tearful, ceremonies 149 long summers ago, was returned
to the
pile of bulldozed dirt, tires, broken glass, beer and pop bottles.
It belonged to Duke.
It's the law.