Deadly streams -- Part 1

What we know about the streams that were downstream from Fairfield is that from the earliest recorded memories, flooding occurred.

There isn't evidence of much flooding on the East Fork of the Whitewater at Fairfield, though high water downriver was, more regularly than not, significantly more than a nuisance.

I looked into flooding from the other end of the river with a snapshot glance of Dearborn County's known history, as recorded in 1915 by Archibald Shaw. Shaw's work doesn't differ in format from a similar work by August Reifel that covers Franklin County history. Since the works are from the same year, one presumes a coordination of effort. That's irrelevant.

Shaw says the first authenticated "considerable" flood in the Ohio valley was during the winter of 1788-89.

"The great height attained by the water prevented the troops arriving at the mouth of the Great Miami from occupying Fort Finney. This same flood deluged the little settlement at Columbia, above Cincinnati, only one house escaping the deluge. The soldiers there were driven to the loft of the block-house and from there to the one boat they had."

Prior to that, the native Indians were not inclined to much care about flooding on the Ohio River, since they simply waited till the water receded, then used the stream. The earliest settlers in the Whitewater Valley were somewhat more impetuous.

Shaw's research says the next most important flood was in 1825, but it's not well documented.  He moves on to 1832, where we are beginning to spot a trend: The Ohio River could sometimes be a little nasty.

 "During January of that year there had been a heavy and continuous fall of snow and by February 1st the ground was thickly covered, but the weather turned mild and a rapid thaw set in.

"About a week later a mild rain began, which continued without cessation for four days and nights. Very soon the rise in the river grew alarming. Merchants along the river front at Cincinnati were compelled to move their goods to second stories."

Shaw asserts that the river took a heavy toll on "nearly every town" between Pittsburgh and Louisville.

"Houses, barns, fences and anything about lowland farms that would float were seen passing down in the turbulent stream. On the 24th the river had so far receded that it returned to its banks, the flood having lasted 12 days."

Lawrenceburg, which took the brunt of most flooding over the last 200 years, was about 8 feet under water at the crest of the flood.

It couldn't get much worse than that, right?

Ah ... wrong.

With the rule not being the exception, the Ohio River and its upstream streams flooded nearly every winter or spring. Some years, not so bad.

Some years, downright frightening.

Our 20th century notion of the three great floods were 1913, 1937 and 1959. Shaw's work was published in 1915, so he can't compare anything later than that.

There's no need. He has plenty to work with.

"The next flood of serious consequence was that of 1847. This flood stands out unique in that it is the only flood of record that occurred during the month of December."

Within a few days' time, the river rose to a then-record 63-feet-7 inches. "The water had broken the record for suddenness, but the damage done was not so great as that of 1832."

But wait, there's more.

Like ...

1882.

etc.
etc.
etc.

When one flood isn't enough, do it again and again until you get really sick of it.

The 1882 flood had been developing for several weeks, and sandbagging in late February was designed to hold back the rising Ohio. As the swollen Whitewater and Miami rivers kept dumping into the Ohio, the heroic efforts soon failed.

"The screams of the people in the lower parts of town, when they were aroused to the fact that they were surrounded by the flood of waters, were distressing in the extreme. The mayor had arranged for giving a signal of alarm by the ringing of the church bells, and when it was known that the flow was coming the bells pealed forth their terrible warning."

Um, pretty scary stuff.

"It is surprising how many families were driven so hastily from their homes, on account of the sudden rise of the waters within the city limits, which in its mad career seemed to wash, upturn and drive everything before it." Shaw says only one known death occurred as a result of the 1882 disaster.

Yes, there's more.

Much more.

Look for that in Part 2. (Hint: The photo is a clue.)

SOURCE FOR PHOTO

A Rose is a Rose ....

If you look at old histories and maps of Franklin and Union counties for the period anytime after 1817, you see the name of Rose in scattered areas.

It seemed to be a durable family, mostly agricultural with a few notable distinctions.

Including Roseburg.

The town, if that can be attributed to the crossroads, was apparently named after the Rose family. Actually Roseburg might not be the smallest community in Union County, so there's that to work with. (Roseburg is in Liberty Township.)

Plus the dip in S.R. 101 is worth the experience.

An 1884 Union County Atlas describes one of the original Roses, who came to Fairfield Township in 1817, although that area was part of Bath Township, Franklin County, at the time.

That would be General John B. Rose.

Most very early settlers in the area, for what it's worth, came from the South, mainly the Carolinas, so the New Jersey connection would seem to be unusual. Apparently, however, it was not.

"Gen. Rose, one of the leading spirits of the county in the early day, enlisted in the War of 1812, in the Fifteenth United States Infantry, under Gen. Pike, and soon thereafter was commissioned Second Lieutenant, and served two years in the war, participating in the battles of Little York, Sackett's Harbor, Lundy's Lane, Bridgewater and Chippewa. he came to this vicinity in 1817, and it is said assisted in the organization of Union County, of which he was three times elected sheriff. (I have no idea when he actually became a general.)

Another Rose, Ezekial, was also born in New Jersey, in 1800. Ezekial's father, Uriah, came to Harmony Township in 1814. (Remember, it wasn't really yet called Harmony Township. I use the name for reference.)

"Ezekial was reared on his father's farm, receiving but an indifferent education," the Atlas asserts. He married Harriet Colson in 1829. She had also come to Indiana in 1814 when she was about 5 years old.

They had nine children.

It would appear that the Rose family had something more than an anecdotal relationship with Fairfield and doubtless participated in local government activities while the new counties and townships were being formed.

Without doing any genealogy, I can't determine Gen. John Rose's relationship to Uriah, although Uriah Rose was the father of a son named John, who was born in 1816. Gen. John Rose was evidently not a brother to Ezekial.

Most of the Rose family is buried in Bath Springs Cemetery, in Harmony Township not far off the road that leads to Hanna's Creek Landing, which is the original S.R. 101.

The New Jersey connection is interesting since virtually every family name in the cemetery has a New Jersey or eastern Pennsylvania heritage, according to a Union County genealogy research website.

I learned that many of the Rose family were Presbyterians, or anti-slavery. It is reasonable to assume that many from that area were influenced by the abolitionist cause.

Oddly, a 1911 landowner map of Harmony Township shows no land being owned by anyone named Rose. Most of the land around Roseburg was owned by people named Hollingsworth, DuBois, Smith and Betts.

Perhaps we will uncover more Rose tidbits. Just having a town named after you is worth a mention, even if all it has is a dip.

Living with death

It's perhaps a wonder we survived at all. The 19th century offered challenges that seemed daunting at the time, impossible to imagine today.

The idea that whatever did not kill you probably made you stronger is less an adage than a fact for the early settlers of the Whitewater Valley, on into the end of the 19th century.

Various history books explore the nature of public health, concluding that little or no progress was made toward improving it. Realistically, it was nobody's fault. It wasn't as though Indiana somehow rejected the concept of modern medicine.

It just didn't exist.

Well, it was beginning to exist but there were few qualified doctors in the rural valley, and most diseases were difficult to recognize until it was too late. The "consumption" killed too many people. As if a falling tree or snakebite wasn't enough.

Logan Esarey, in his 1918 history:

"The influence of the medical schools was beginning to be seen in the changed attitude of the people toward the herb doctors. However, it was not customary to call a physician until the patient's life was in danger or until a case of pneumonia, typhoid fever or some usually fatal illness became well defined."

Sanitation was generally hit-and-miss, and such scourges as cholara, typhoid, malaria and influenza spread more through ignorance than indifference.

"Typhoid fever would scourge a whole community until its mysterious course was arrested by the autumn rains or winter. As if to aid its deadly progress, all the well persons of the neighborhood, in relays of four or five, would sit up with the patient without ever suspecting that they might thereby contract the disease."

Childhood diseases such as croup, whooping cough and dysentery were dreadful.

"Infantile mortality was high. While the statistics are not at hand, it seems that half the children in the family died before reaching maturity. There were very few public cemeteries at this time. Each farm, as a rule, had, somewhere near the house, a small plot which was used as a family burying ground."

Where went the poor?

Photo: County
historian Don Dunaway 

One of the more unfortunate parts of early pioneer life in the Whitewater Valley was, coldly, where do we put the poor?

And the poor were always abundant. Even those who came prepared to survive in the cruel Indiana wilderness, at times it just didn't work.

August Reifel's 1915 history of Franklin County, explores the uneasy custom of "farming out the poor."

Reifel writes:

"According to the custom which prevailed throughout many of the older states of the union, in the early part of the present century, the poor were farmed out (i.e.) cared for by whoever would undertake the duty for the least money."

It was certainly not something an elderly or downtrodden person would want to face. Typically, it was the women and the children, those unable to find suitable work. Losing the home was typically the first order of business.

"Each township had an officer entitled an Overseer of the Poor. Sometimes there was a board of two or three of these officers, who were either elected by the people or were appointed by some authority, such as the court, or by the Board of County Commissioners.

"The first record of this nature appears under date of May 15, 1813, at which time George Cain was allowed the sum of  $18 for board and clothing for Abel Perry, a pauper, from January 1 to May, same year."

In those early days, Fairfield Township would have been represented by George Hollingsworth and John Templeton.

"From this time forward until 1824, the system seems to have been in use by 'common consent,' and without the necessary statutory regulations for all the details which might arise from time to time."

In 1824, the Indiana General Assembly passed legislation that clarified management of the county "poor farm" process. The legislation essentially enabled the older laws but simply made it a statewide procedure.

In 1834, the legislature modified the law when "an act to authorize an Asylum for the poor of the counties of Franklin, Fayette and Union" was passed.

"The commissioners of these three counties or any two of them were required to meet at the town of Fairfield on the first Monday in June of that year, and then and there take into consideration the expediency of erecting an asylum for the joint use and accommodation of the counties included."

The three-county commissioners agreed to establish a poor farm on 208 acres in Jackson Township in Fayette County. "A small brick building was erected at a cost of $500, and in the spring of 1835, the property was occupied by the regular inmates."

The joint asylum was abandoned in 1856 when Franklin County purchased a farm owned by Thomas H. Stringer near Brookville and "erected suitable buildings for the establishment of an asylum. Since that time, some important additions and other necessary improvements have been made, which make the property extremely well ordered and pleasant."

As well, the townships had begun to enact a poor relief program to help the unfortunate and in some cases, preferred that over sending people to the county farm.

An 1884 lithograph of the Union County poor asylum, 

which was located in Harrison Township, 

just northeast of Liberty, near Kitchel.

The Union County poor farm, 1884.

Franklin County poor farm, 1882 (where the fairgrounds is located now)

Fayette County moved its poor farm northwest of town in around 1856. Map that shows where the original 3-county asylum was located in Jackson Township.

My achin' back!

As much as life on the frontier was for the hale and hardy, it also took its toll on the settlers in the valley.

Indiana University professor Logan Esarey, in his 1918 history of Indiana, does a quick hit on 19th century medical science, far far away from the local hospital or clinic.

Long days of clearing fields, hunting for food or just building fences ... the sore back was probably the least of the Fairfield settler's complaints.

"In almost every household there was some old Hippo, broken either in body or spirit, or frequently both," Esarey writes.

"Ague, perhaps, had robbed him of the vitality necessary to compete in the hard struggle. He could name a dozen diseases working on him. From his ailments, he had constructed a science. His corns and his rheumatism warned him of approaching changes in the weather. The pale, red, setting sun foretold a disastrous plague, most probably smallpox or 'yaller' fever."

Even today in some rural climes, the locals claim the weather has an effect on their joints, and there's plenty of science to prove that weather changes have an effect on blood pressure and breathing.

Not that anybody in rural Indiana in 1820 paid much attention to that.

"The crackle of the burning backlog announced an approaching snowstorm. The thick corn shuck, the low-hung hornet's nest, the busy woodpeckers and squirrels were sure signs of a hard winter."

It would be a few more decades before the Farmer's Almanac made a profit from being almost as accurate. Old Hippo was the man to trust when it came to weather.

"In the art of forecasting he was the successor of the seers, soothsayers and astrologers, last and least harmful of all the parasitic train."

Science has usurped Hippo's throne, though traces of his reign still linger. "By his shrewd observations, his persistent guessings and "I told you so's" he gained a vast influence over the unscientific community. Hippo was also a medical man. His specialty was bitters."

In other words, if it doesn't kill you, it will make you well.

"On fine days he would potter around the premises gathering roots, leaves and bark and concocting his nostrums. At other times he ventured as far as the store or to some neighboring crone where he compared theories, observations and experiences in the interest of his compound science of prophecy and pharmacology.

So complete was his sway in this field that few homes could be found without its jug of bitters and so persistent has been that influence that few of us today are able to defend ourselves against the patent medicine fakers who cater to our inherited weakness."

Women in the Indiana frontier

As life evolved in the Whitewater Valley, so did the role of women. One can assume that survival and adaptation was pretty much the same from farm to farm. Societal changes factored in, some components of life were invariably similar.

Logan Esarey, a professor of Western History at Indiana University, undertook a significant study of life on the frontier in his tome, "Indiana History 1850 to Present." In Esarey's world, the "present" was up until 1918.

He writes:

"The woman's sphere in pioneer life was large and indispensable. Outside the house she, together with the children, looked after the sheep, caring for the lambs in the early spring, shearing the sheep, washing, picking, carding, spinning, reeling, winding, knitting and weaving the wool into cloth and making the cloth into coverlets, blankets and clothing.

"In a large family, and nearly all were large, this was an endless task, lasting from early morn till late bed time every day in the year except Sundays. Very few persons now living have the knowledge and skill to do this routine work which every pioneer girl learned as a matter of course."

From the goose to the gooseberry, women and their children were forced to adapt. And, adapt they did.

"It required a flock of two or three dozen geese to furnish the huge feather beds and pillows that were such an attractive feature of the pioneer home. Besides this, every child, when it was married off, was presented with a feather bed and four pillows, and many a baked goose found its way to the Sunday dinner table. Enough chickens, say one hundred, had to be raised to furnish eggs for the cooking."

Learning to cook with what was available became an art form of sorts, Esarey concludes. Fried chicken was a staple at nearly every festival and Sunday gathering. Cornbread was as good as gold. The milk cow provided everything except the eggs, which of course came from the chicken. Which came first was probably a dinner discussion when the parson came a'callin.

"In the kitchen the woman was sole monarch and together with her daughters was the whole working force. Providing for the table required a foresight beyond our conception at present.

"The grocery store was no assistance to her. She had to plan a year ahead. The men assisted with the house work to a small degree, but the family mother furnished all information and gave the general directions. The father looked after the meat and bread, but beyond that his knowledge and skill were limited."

According to the modern television commercial, not much has changed. Stereotypes are rooted in history.

"Canning fruit was not widely practiced, but there was no end of preserves, made of apple, peach, quince, crab apple, watermelon and citron; jams, marmalade, jellies of all varieties, maple syrup and sorghum, dried fruits, green fruits stored in cellar, spice brush, sassafras, balsam, sage, alder blossoms, buckeyes, catnip, pennyroyal, ditna and scores of other things to be gathered, prepared and laid away, some to be used in cooking, others as medicines, others as charms, or as flavors, for soups, meats, or cake."

Esarey says:

"It was a whole science in itself."

Dinner is served

They didn't rush out for bread and milk when the weather report suggested a snowstorm was headed their way.

Life for the pioneer family was one of enterprise when it came to food consumption. As it turned out, they got to be pretty good at it.

A 1986 account by James B. Madison called "The Indiana Way" describes the domestic life of the Hoosier settlers.

"No one starved, but obtaining food was the major focus of life for the pioneer family. Not only their physical well-being but the content and rhythm of their days and years depended on the manner an means by which they put food on the table."

Obviously those who could hunt could obtain wild game. A rifle or bow and arrow would have been essential. Learning to trap wild game was a learned skill, though many of the early settlers brought that skill with them from the Carolinas and Virginia.

Hunting and fishing were skills that preceded a 24-hour supermarket.

"A rifle was an essential tool brought to the frontier, and all men could and did use it as a part of their work-day chores. The simple single shot long rifle proved an adequate tool on the early frontier partly because wild game was so plentiful.

Huge herds of deer were apparently common, large flocks of wild turkeys and geese and wild pigeons. Deer meat was the common staple for most Indiana settlers.

"No unusual skill was required to kill these and other animals, though the scarcity of powder and lead put a premium on marksmanship," Madison's book says.

Naturally, as the population grew, the numbers of wild animals decreased and, along the way, the settlers had cleared their fields and planted crops.

The settlers also learned to harvest nuts, berries and root crops. Some fruits grew wild, including the paw paw, persimmon and crab apple. "Children became adept at locating and gathering these wild foods, and natural forest honey was used to sweeten them."

Molasses from sugar maples also served as a sweetener though sugar production was not common until the 1830s.

"Culturally, the pioneer was not a hunter or gatherer but a farmer," Madison writes. "His first task was not to plant but to chop. Nearly everywhere, trees covered the land. The abundant virgin timber provided many items necessary for family life, including shelter, tools, fences, utensils and fuel. Indeed, so essential were trees to the material culture that emigrants were reluctant to settle on Indiana's treeless prairies."

But the trees presented their own obstacles, unless one considers stump removal a worthwhile and fun hobby.  "The farmer's tool was the woodman's ax, a tool as important as the rifle. With it alone, he felled trees from three to as much as ten feet in diameter, though the larger trees were often girdled by removing the bark, causing them to die."

Madison says the first crop planted "was invariably corn, the base of pioneer agriculture, as it was for the Indians and as it would remain for generations of Hoosier farmers down to the present."

Corn was ideal for Indiana's soil and climate and was an efficient grain for corn meal which was converted to various forms of corn pone, cornbread or mush. It was also quite useful in the production of sour mash whiskey. One traveler reportedly said whiskey "was drunk like water even though it smells something like bedbugs."

Livestock usually included a milk cow and a flock of chickens. Hog farming was popular though those early swine were far from the rotund creatures we know today. The "razorbacks" were quick and able to protect themselves. They were frequently left to forage on their own, eventually becoming something of a problem for settlers when they turned wild.

Vegetable gardens were obviously a necessity with peppers, beans, squash and root crops all carefully tended. Pioneer women were adroit at preserving their food for the winter. Root cellars were a necessity.

"Providing food was the major occupation for the pioneer families and they did it with increasing success," Madison writes. "They did without some desirable foods such as sugar, coffee, apples and salt, and their culinary culture was limited to boiling and frying, long and hard."

A standard dinner: Salt pork, beans and cornbread.

Yep, it tastes just like chicken.

MORE ABOUT THE RAZORBACK HOG