Dead Stop

"Which one is faster?" is my salutation to the small group.  Two rented Chevy Suburbans in the Public Works parking lot are being loaded with luggage, under the watchful camera of Channel 4 news.  Three days on the road are about to begin and the speed with which we cover 1,500 miles is not an inconsequential concern.  The pragmatic greeting draws chuckles from those I’ve traveled with before.

I’m assigned the white one.  Mayor Gluba, Landscape Architect Zach Petersen and Web Content Specialist Darryl Cross ride with me.  The silver Suburban carries LIC Director Steve Ahrens, Alderman Bill Boom and Levee Commissioners Bill Ashton, Ann Corbi and Audrey Linville.  When I fill both vehicles with gas as everyone eats at Culvers, I find the silver leviathan is newer and nicer.  What it is not, is faster.

Chicago used to boast it was the undisputed architecture capital of the world.  These days, everything is disputed.  Dubai, Shanghai and Brasilia today all compete for the crown.  Dispute amongst yourselves, as I’ve another take on it.  The undisputed architecture capital of the world is … Columbus, Indiana.  Per capita, that is.

Columbus has a remarkable array of public and private architecture.  Much of it was underwritten by Cummins engine philanthropist J. Irwin Miller, who wanted to live in an interesting city.  He put his money where his mouth was (remember those guys?) and paid the architect’s fees for public buildings.  The collection of work is worth a five minute detour off the droning Interstate.  Just turn at the one bridge that looks interesting, and you’ll find it.

I had made the detour a few times before, and with Zach and Darryl in the car, thought we should take a closer look at what I had previously interpreted as public art.  The courthouse square has a monumental piece of work that I had thought was sculpture.  It is twenty-five columns of limestone, some forty feet high.  If you had spent any time swimming in limestone quarries as a kid, it beckons.  I described it to Zach at Culvers as “the most Indianian piece of public art in the state”.  It was meant as a compliment.

I was wrong.

We took a quick lap through town and marveled at the collection of 20th Century Masters.  Then, we parked on the courthouse square and walked toward the quarry sculpture.   I was wrong.  It is far more than sculpture.  It is a veteran’s memorial, our second of the day.

This is difficult to believe until you experience it, but the Bartholomew County Veterans Memorial may be more impactful than any memorial you’ve ever experienced; even our nation’s most visited.  The Gettysburg Memorial is solemn.  The WWII memorial is heroic in scale.  The Korean War memorial, at night, in snow, is haunting.  The Vietnam Memorial, drawing you in with each inscribed name, and then drawing you down to the horror of names over your head, is elegantly, powerfully, poignant.

The Bartholomew County memorial adapts the idea of including all names of veterans killed in service but adds something you’ll never forget; simple stories of everyday life.  Inscribed along with the names are letters to and from soldiers, sailors, Marines and airmen.  You read what was their last letter home and they are, always, so honest, unassuming and hopeful.

Then you read the date the veteran was killed.   You are deep in this abstracted Indiana limestone quarry, and the first time you read a full column, you stumble backwards and regain your bearings only when the column behind you catches you.  You then turn and read that column.  A sailor hoping to see his child soon.  Dead, the next day.  An airman coming home to be married in two weeks.  Killed in action.  A soldier worried if the money he owes his grandfather has arrived.  Dead.  You cannot help but tear up.

It is a staggeringly powerful piece of work.

We respectfully walk through the columns and read each one.  You could not do anything but.  The speed with which we move no longer matters.  You owe it to these brave men and women to read their stories and say a prayer of thanks and mercy.  You find yourself looking to the sky.  It’s an involuntary reaction.

All these bright lives, stopped short, so we may be free.  They must be honored.  They are, in an extraordinary way, in Columbus, Indiana.  So too should they be in Davenport, Iowa.  1,150 more miles of road will roll by in the next three days, and there is much discussion about how to add resources to the Veterans Memorial in Davenport as we hurtle through six states.