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Today’s Excerpt: The Preface

Logansport, Ind., in the 1970s and ’80s was like most any small Midwestern town, with one important exception that, for me, catapulted its relevance high above all others: It’s where, on a hot summer night in 1972, I entered this world, and where I would spend the next 24 years trying to figure out why.

A town of around 19,000 hard-working folks — most of whom toiled away in factories making any numbers of things (springs, batteries, automotive parts, processed pork), tended to their farms, or cared for the insane at Longcliff state mental hospital — Logansport’s collar was as blue as its clean open sky.

Technologically, it was a transitional era for the nation and, like most sleepy towns that dotted the country’s midsection, my home town was always a couple of years behind the trends. Our phone had no buttons, but a rotary wheel (or, if I was really bored, I could use the old cast-iron phone in the living room, on which I would tap out numbers as if signaling a far-off ship in Morse code).

We had every channel on our television — all 12 of them — plus the “racy” ones I could occasionally glimpse through snowy reception when I adjusted the knob to fall between channels. When I first played the game “Pong,” I imagined that the world was on the brink of Buck Rogers-style technological advances that would change life on Earth forever.

Back then, the main sources of entertainment were inventions of the mind. So, I did what all the other kids did to stay out of trouble: I played in the dirt — and it was gloriously rich, moist, and fertile. The time I spent building bike paths and tunneling miniature thoroughfares beneath the trunks of ancient trees (through which my Hot Wheels cars could pass during imagined cross-country races) brought as much joy to me as my iPod, iMac, HDTV, cell phone, and other contraptions of the Electronic Age do today.

Nestled in a quiet valley about halfway between Chicago and Indianapolis as the crow flies, Logansport was an idyllic place to grow up. Doors did not need locks. A thirst-quenching drink of water was only a garden hose away. The school yard across the street was safe at all hours of the night. Mac’s candy shop, down on the next corner, provided all the sugar a growing boy needed for only a quarter (but I always used my exceptional skills of persuasion to procure 50 cents from Dad, or, if I was really lucky, a Susan B. Anthony dollar). After-school activities were plentiful, as were opportunities for camping trips with the Boy Scout troop.

In later years, the theater became my oasis, thanks to a sizable donation to the community years earlier by lawyer and Logansport native Frank M. McHale that funded the high school’s auditorium. Even though the city was barely large enough to appear on national road maps, the theater rivaled those of most big colleges and drew the likes of Ray Charles, Lou Rawls, Marie Osmond, Peter Nero, and even The Amazing Kreskin.

At some point during my adolescence, doors started locking. Parents demanded that their children be home before dark. For most extra-curricular activities, waivers were required. More fast food chains were popping up along busy U.S. 24 on the East End of Logansport. More downtown storefronts were empty.

It was the beginning of a slow decay from within — a subtle, slow-moving fog that began to envelop the community and gradually stifle its growth. Its methodical pace made it nearly undetectable. Most who did see it were transfixed by the perception of progress — as if the death of a few family businesses was a fair price to pay for the convenience of nationwide chain stores.

During a trip home in 2007, I had the opportunity to talk to old friends and family members and to drive around town. What I saw was: A downtown that was empty and desolate; a mall with an occupancy rate of less than half; for-sale signs on homes all over the city; even abandoned homes (which I was used to seeing in some parts of Philadelphia, but rarely in Logansport). Many of the businesses that once gave the city a unique charm, local flavor, and friendly service — some of which sponsored the Little League teams of my youth — had closed.

That is not to say that there weren’t some signs of increased pride in the community. One particular point of great enjoyment for me was a new set of trails that flanked the north side of the Eel River — part of a state-funded nature walk that will eventually meet up with a similar path along the larger Wabash River. I spent hours walking these paths and breathing in the peaceful fall air. There were signs of reconstruction on some of the few remaining historic buildings and homes in the downtown area as well.

But, in many ways, these cosmetic attempts at change seemed no more effective than those of an old man who rises each day, lubricates his trusty comb, and slowly pulls what remains of his hair across his barren scalp — the damage was done, and more money seemed to be spent attempting to hide that fact than trying to truly change things.

It was as if the home town that brought so much joy to me as a child, encouraged me as an adolescent, and prepared me for my exploration into manhood was gone — nothing now but a memory, barely visible through a new, bleaker reality.

I felt compelled to learn more: About the history of my home town; about the causes of its downward spiral; about the people who stayed and lived through it while I moved away to follow my ambitions; about the long-term effects this malaise had on that once-idyllic childhood home.

As I began to research the issues surrounding Logansport’s stagnation, it became clear that the city had no lack of dedicated individuals who actively and tirelessly worked to save what was left of its history. Likewise, I would soon learn that this decline was not confined to my home town, but was typical of small communities that lost their former industrial base as the economy shifted from a neighborhood focus to a global view.

So began a journey of discovery — both of my home town and of myself. As a journey through history, it would lead me to a new-found appreciation of Logansport’s significance and its turbulent past. As a personal journey, I hoped it would quench a nostalgic thirst — one that inevitably burdens all those whose roots have slowly withered. •