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This article was in today's Indianapolis Star....THIS IS WHY WE STARTED
THE "PIONEER CEMETERY RESTORATION PROJECT".....to try to prevent this
from happening. It is now time to lobby our lawmakers to get the laws
changed.....I am sending this to State Rep Bischoff and State Rep
Hoffman also....
Randy Klemme
Franklin County Genealogy and PCRP Coordinator
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Subject: The Death of a Cemetery
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Can you believe this one? Cripes!
Cheryl
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.
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