James M. Redwine

Jim Redwine

Do You Believe In Magic?

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Loyal fans from 2013 IU game.

My first experience with Indiana University football was in 1963 when the United States Air Force sent me to IU to learn the Hungarian language. IU lost six out of nine games that year. As is the case with most Indiana Alumni, I have clung to a hope IU would somehow, sometime, win a game in the fourth quarter rather than lose. Peg and I have attended many games filled with enthusiasm but left crushed by reality.

The cruelty of an Indiana winter’s sleet, snow and rain coupled with IU football faux pas has been an almost unrelenting Hoosier heartbreak for sixty-two years. We did finally reach the Rose Bowl in January 1968, but O.J. Simpson ran over us as easily as he later did the California justice system. Almost every one of those long journeys into darkness called an IU football season has been as fruitless as Linus believing Lucy would let him actually kick the ball. After about the first thirty-one years of ennui Peg and I resigned ourselves to the gods’ destiny for Indiana football and attended games just for the tailgate parties.

Hopeful IU fans at the tailgate party! Photo taken by Diane Selch

Of course, Bloomington, Indiana and the IU campus are beautifully accented by pristine limestone, beautiful fall leaves foliage and great college hangouts. We long ago quit watching for a football star in the east and returned to campus to relive those halcyon days of books and beer. So, Gentle Reader, imagine our amazement in 2024 when IU, that’s right IU, made the first college playoff. We were so mesmerized by the real-life fairytale we even celebrated the last two losses after the first ten wins.

Then along came November 08, 2025 and our game against Penn State, at Penn State, a place at which IU had never won. Peg and I were too attuned to IU’s history of hard play and last-minute losses to believe the so-called experts who predicted a two touchdown, easy IU victory. Our pre-game prayer was any victory by any score. And, while IU’s first nine victories this season somewhat lulled us into believing the hype, we never relaxed; we were right!

As had happened to us fans many times with Hoosier football, we marched right along into the end of the third quarter looking like the fabled Four Horsemen or Mr. Inside and Mr. Outside or even like Jim Thorpe had arisen to lead us. However, as had almost always happened before, the fourth quarter brought the enemy to life and was poised to sound the death knell for us. Peg and I were sanguine; we expected it. Once again, the pigskin devils had stricken IU to have us snatch defeat from the jaws of victory.

But with seconds to go and trailing by four points, our Cream and Crimson heroes donned their capes and scored by one toe. It was truly a miracle! Shame on us for ever doubting. Now all I can say is watch out Ohio State and “Holy ‘smokes’, where’s the Tylenol?”

At the IU Bookstore. Photo taken by Peg Redwine

Dad’s Birthday

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Photo by Peg Redwine

 

Gentle Reader, it is possible you have heard or read some of this Civil War type story before. But Peg and I are going to spend this coming weekend at the re-enactment of the Civil War Battle of Honey Springs which was the largest Civil War battle west of the Mississippi River involving Caucasian, Black, and several Native American tribes in a desperate struggle for the control of Fort Gibson, the main installation that controlled the western supply route along the Texas Road. I do not know if my Grandfather Redwine fought in this battle which occurred July 17, 1863 near what is now Checotah, Oklahoma. If he did, it would have been as a teenager on the side of the Confederacy. However, as he eventually ended up in this particular area immediately after the Civil War, I choose to believe that scenario. Anyway, as with many families, our history wanders through numerous thickets of possibilities. In this regard I am returning to what I choose to believe may be a part of the Redwine lore. Should you have seen or read the story before, I hope you will indulge me.

My father was born in 1905 in Indian Territory, what later became Oklahoma in 1907. My grandfather Redwine was born in Georgia in 1848, 13 years before the Civil War began. After the war he moved to Indian Country, declared himself a minister and sought to save souls among non-United States citizens. At a makeshift church-camp meeting he was preaching from a wagon hitched to a team that bolted. Grandpa was thrown off the wagon, hit his head, died from the fall and was buried by his flock right where he fell. The location of his grave was slowly forgotten by all but a few of his family.

During the Viet Nam War the anti-war protestors raised so much Cain our government sought to ease the pressure by honoring deceased veterans from prior wars. As the great Woke Movement had not yet begun, sometimes “veteran” included Civil War soldiers from both sides. As my paternal grandfather was a Georgia teenager during the war years 1861-1865, he must have been counted as a war veteran. The details of his allegiance were not noted.

However, Gentle Reader, my maternal great, great grandfather who was born in La Grange, Indiana served with the Iron 44th of the Union forces. My family was rather ecumenical. Regardless, Grandfather Redwine was included in the whole class and was deemed entitled to a bronze marker for his grave only 100 or so years after his service.

Therefore, the War Department sent out a representative to Oklahoma but he could not locate Grandpa’s grave. So, he contacted my first Cousin, Pal Gene Redwine in Wilburton, Oklahoma to enlist his help. Pal Gene was an accommodating and friendly guy who had been to our grandfather’s grave. He agreed to help but suggested that our Uncle Henry might be even more knowledgeable and brewed excellent moonshine besides. They proceeded to Uncle Henry’s still.

Uncle Henry was as affable as Pal Gene. He insisted his latest vintage be taste-tested before they went to find Grandpa’s grave. The federal man and Pal Gene felt it impolite to refuse such hospitality so a few hours were spent trying to get directions to Grandpa’s rural resting site. Of course, such mental exercise required chemical assistance.

Eventually, Pal Gene and the Veteran’s Affairs official left Uncle Henry’s with Grandpa’s marker and sought the mysterious grave. They never found it but did manage to lose the marker somewhere along the search. Talk about honor in the breach, or, just desserts if one is not a Rebel.

Photo by Peg Redwine

 

The Public Forum

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I have subscribed to The Posey County News and its progenitors for about forty years. At the request of the then editor and owner, Jim Kohlmeyer, in 1990 I began writing “Gavel Gamut”. Current editor Dave Pearce continued to publish my column after he and his wife Connie took over the paper. Neither Jim nor Dave nor Connie ever sought to censor any of the more than 1,000 columns I have written.

Gentle Reader, you are undoubtedly aware of how rare it has become for news outlets to provide a true forum for the exchange of differing views. The Posey County News provides such a forum. The Posey County News is a beacon to the First Amendment at a time that such beacons of illumination are under attack from several powerful and diverse sources. Our republic will not survive as the America our Founders envisioned if our citizens cannot freely express conflicting views, especially on deeply felt issues. As newspapers throughout our country continue to be subsumed by major news outlets, we need more than ever the courage of such local papers as The Posey County News.

Our republic’s free flow of ideas has been the major driver of our desire for “a more perfect union”. There was a time only 21-year-old, white, male citizens could vote. Due to the most vigorous of public debates, now 18-year-old citizens can not only be sent to war, they can vote on who sends them. My first vote for president was when I turned 21 even though I had already earned my honorable discharge from the Air Force.

My grandmother could not vote until 1921 after millions of Americans had demonstrated for her right to do so. It took a Civil War to get Blacks citizenship and many Native Americans are still in a struggle for the right to self-determination; but public outcries are forcing progress.

Therefore, when I opened my October 15, 2025 edition of my Posey County News and saw that Reverend Norman Martin had written a respectful and measured disagreement to one of my columns I was elated. There were no aspersions or threats, just calm opposing views. Thank you, Reverend, for reading my column. I am truly grateful you and I both have the right and, thanks to The Posey County News, the ability to publicly state our views without fear or expectation of favor.

We are all aware of our current climate of uncivil behavior among citizens of differing viewpoints. It may just be my age but I believe our culture was at one time able to discuss without cussing and disagree without canceling. Reverend Martin and I may never have the opportunity to have a cup of coffee and vigorously and respectfully exchange views, but thanks to one of America’s bedrock institutions, The Posey County News, if we ever have the chance, I bet we can do so.

News On Our Doorsteps

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According to our new Bible, the Internet, local, independent newspapers are rapidly going the way the American bison did in the 19th century. I researched these facts via the Internet. The last time I entered a public library was about the time Ted Turner unleashed CNN in 1980. However, the last time I received a non-amalgamated view of the news was only today when my October 01 and October 08, 2025 editions of The Posey County News arrived in my post office box.

Some cynics might opine that my view of our fine local newspaper is colored by the fact this column appears every week. Maybe so, but I submit my long-time personal friends, Editors and Owners Connie Redman Pearce and Dave Pearce, are upholding one of America’s essential building blocks of our republic.

At a time when Rodney King’s 1992 plea of, “Can’t we all just get along?”, is belied by the facts of societal anger and hate-speech, America needs its local newspapers to help bind us together in spite of strongly held opposing views. Talking heads on television or Facebook might as well be artificially unintelligently generated. We do not know nor can we evaluate their information. But in local newspapers writers are both known and accountable. We can weigh the pros and cons.

I have been writing the “Gavel Gamut” column since 1990. Over 1,000 of my columns have appeared in Dave and Connie’s paper and not once have they censored, or approved of, one word. I write what I think and it appears for the reader’s analysis, acceptance, rejection or lack of interest.

On the Opinion Page, Dave and Connie explicitly state the content of the columns and cartoons are solely those of the contributors. When I saw the cartoon by Joe Heller in the October 08 edition about “local news” and “community spirit” and the October 01 cartoon by Andy Singer about America’s shameful abetting of the Zionist genocide against Palestinians, I knew the tradition of Benjamin Franklin and Will Rogers was still vibrant.

Thank you, Connie and Dave, for helping to preserve one of our essential liberties!

Lessons Learned

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Peg and I used to live on 12 acres just outside of New Harmony, Indiana. We enjoyed taking care of it ourselves. We now live just outside Barnsdall, Oklahoma on a small acreage we do enjoy but find its care occasionally more of a challenge. Such was our recent experience. In fact, we almost got nostalgic for town living when we decided to attack the repair of our mower. It all seemed so simple, in theory.

I had just finished mowing the high hill we call “Mogul Margaret’s Mountain” and was going back down the trail along the side of the mountain when the zero-turn mower controls quit controlling. I was headed into a ravine. I pushed the brake and stopped the mower just before taking the plunge. Since I had left my cell phone in the Cabin, I could not call for Peg to jump in the 4-wheel drive dune buggy and bring me a towing chain. So, I walked down the half-mile trail and found Peg working in the vegetable garden. We devised what appeared to us to be an easy solution to a rather mundane maintenance situation. We jumped in the dune buggy after throwing a chain in the bed and headed back up the mountain.

When we got to the disabled mower, I surveyed the damage and drew upon my vast knowledge of mechanics. I related the complexity of our modern mower to the walk-behind push mowers my brother, Phil, and I used to use to mow yards a mere seventy years ago. I remembered how we would sharpen the blades with a file, change the oil in ten minutes and repair the engine with a screw driver. Well, Gentle Reader, due to the great improvements in technology, our zero-turn mower now resembles a simulation of a spaceship. D.I.Y. has been usurped by, “What’s that and where does it go?”

Anyway, my first idea was to get the mower down to the line shed (the barn) so I could stare at it in puzzlement indoors and out of the heat. Here’s what I did. Oh, by the way, Peg has disavowed all responsibility for my approach. First objective, get the mower away from the ravine and the other side of the mountain, which is an even bigger drop-off. I had to ease the dune buggy past the mower so I could get it turned around. This required that Peg, staying far away, edged along the trail so she could guide me. She did and I managed to not slip off the side into oblivion.

Then I attached the chain to the mower and dune buggy. I asked Peg to slowly ease the dune buggy down the trail as I guided the mower with just the brake. Of course, the main problem was the tires could not be turned, so only the brake stood between me and an Olympic ride down the ridge. Fortunately, Peg did not see me, as yet, as dispensable so she skillfully eased me between the ravine and the hillside as I rode the mower like a mechanical bull.

When we got the mower to the line shed, I did rely upon my years of book-learning and referred to the repair manual. What my expert analysis was? I had no idea how to fix the problem, whatever the problem was. However, I did remember an important lesson from my past mistakes and decided to call the service department of the Scag dealer. They will be out tomorrow.

Ever Again

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Maybe it is because I was born and grew up on an Indian reservation and had many Native American friends, including my Osage Sunday School teacher, but there are things involved in the Gaza Peace Plan claimed by President Trump that remind me of the treaties between the United States government and numerous American Indian peoples. In general, those treaties put Indians out of sight and white people in possession of Indian lands. Although many of those peace plans did contain magnanimous conditions and gratuitous language such as, “As long as the rivers flow, etc.” It turned out those were a secret code that meant, until gold, silver or whatever thing the dominate culture wanted was discovered, say Riviera type real estate along the Mediterranean Sea or lush farmland along the West Bank of the Jordan River or holy sites in East Jerusalem.

While the Zionists of Israel assert the destruction and occupation of Gaza was a response to an attack by Hamas, Palestinians believe the initiation of the current invasion by Israel began in 1917, resulting in a Nakba (a catastrophe) in 1948 and became a full-blown Israeli occupation in 1967 that was exacerbated in 1973 and continues to today. For many Palestinians, October 7, 2023 was an act of resistance to Zionist occupation and oppression.

Many Jewish people feel a deep connection to that part of the world called Palestine. The reasons are historical and cultural and, for most, do not require a genocide of the original inhabitants. However, as with many non-Native Americans in the United States from 1492 until contemporary times who believed Indians were an impediment to Manifest Destiny, many Zionists see Palestinians the same way.

Peace negotiations in such an atmosphere may bring a momentary pause, but the conflict will never resolve until all Palestinians are eliminated or they have their own, fully functioning and self-governing state. It is a moral imperative upon all of us to recognize this reality and guarantee Palestine’s establishment. President Trump’s Peace Plan is a poorly disguised effort to accomplish only Israel’s objectives. A true, lasting peace in the Middle East must start by the U.S.A. recognizing the autonomous, independent, self-governing and self-securing State of Palestine along the borders set forth in 1948. If President Trump makes such a declaration, a real peace process can succeed. If not, the current peace plan is a chimera designed to accomplish Israel’s dreams of a country “from the river to the sea” without any Palestinians but one in eternal turmoil with its neighbors.

As our American Founders discovered, being some other country’s colonies leads to permanent second-class status and “taxation without representation”. America, better than most of the 157 countries that have already officially recognized the State of Palestine, should recognize President Trump’s peace plan “… is full of sound and fury, signifying nothing…” but more endless conflict. It is like ice cream on a hot day, momentarily sweet and cool, but soon melted into a faint memory and maybe a sop to the forgotten “noble savages” whose aspiration for freedom and independence have gone the way of the Little Big Horn and the Trail of Tears. Or for Palestinians, the Nakba and genocide.