by Richard McGowan, Ph.D
I traveled back to my childhood hometown, Shoreham, New York, for the Fourth of July celebrations this year. From the town’s western border, the Long Island Sound, I could — and did — use my cell phone to capture the fireworks in Connecticut. Shoreham to Connecticut is a swift 35-minute boat ride for a sturdy Boston whaler.
The trip meant seeing my old haunts and being with lifelong friends, producing in me a sense of the past and a touch of nostalgia. In other words, my history and, dare I say it, identity originated in Shoreham. It was good to be back and good to revisit my youth. The same sentiment applies to our country’s past.
When I was a boy, I had little historical knowledge of Shoreham’s area. I might have had a greater understanding of the town’s history had there been more markers and plaques explaining the people and events.
Then I would have learned ages ago that I grew up no more than two miles from Nikola
Tesla’s laboratory. The man whose mathematical and mechanical mind made microwaves possible and alternating current practical, now has a historical marker and a statue, dedicated by the president of Serbia, where his lab stood.
Or I could have learned about William Floyd, lord knows how many miles I put on as boy
driving the William Floyd Parkway on the way to the south shore’s Atlantic Ocean.
William Floyd was one of the signers of the Declaration of Independence. British forces
confiscated his property during the Revolutionary War. Willian Floyd’s friends, Thomas Jefferson and James Madison, visited him in June 1791. That meeting certainly merits a historical marker. Yet, neither Tesla nor Floyd had much local recognition in my youth. Plaques did go up in 1992 and 2013, well after my departure from the area. Tesla now has a little, commemorative park, erected around 2019.
However, the little village of Shoreham has no plaque or marker at the house where Tesla
lived while making all those breakthroughs. It’s a shame. Plaques and markers make history come alive. They suggest that history is worth knowing, that history matters, not just for individuals visiting their old hometown but for the community and the country. Those plaques and markers explain how people used to live, thereby providing a comparative understanding of how we live today.
Plus, they tell stories, they entertain. In Montana, my family got a better understanding
of the hardships of pioneers. The plaque explained the Crazy Woman Mountains. The travel drove a woman to run screaming from the wagon train. She was never found.
On our way to Billy the Kid’s grave, my son and I encountered a plaque in New Mexico.
The history marker told of “the last train robber,” Thomas Edward “Black Jack” Ketchum. He was hanged in Clayton, New Mexico, on April 26, 1901, after being wounded during a train robbery near Folsom. The hangman failed to account for the weight he put on in prison; the “drop” decapitated him.
Philadelphia is, as I tell folks, an adult playground for anyone with an interest in our
country’s past. I rode a bicycle from my son’s house to the tree where William Penn made peace with the indigenous population. Walking the streets, I encountered the only Catholic church in the British empire, circa 1750, and the site of a long gone church where Washington’s funeral was held, the ceremony where Henry “Lighthorse” Lee eulogized him by saying “First in war, first in peace, first in the hearts of his countrymen.”
The plaques honor history and their absence dishonors our past. For my money, the more
history markers and plaques Indiana has, the better to help people know and understand the
state’s history. As it is, I am pleased to report that Indiana does a good job of preserving and
presenting its past, ranking in the middle to upper tier of states nationwide. It is not without a lacuna or two: there appears to be no plaque in Richmond for Marion E. Horn.
Who? His history, his story, deserves acknowledging. He was born on Aug. 21, 1853, in Richmond and worked as a laborer before enlisting in the army and becoming a field nurse for the 7th U.S. Cavalry. His duties included managing medical supplies, helping doctors with surgery and caring for the ill and wounded.
Nonetheless, Private Horn was a fully trained soldier and expected to engage the enemy in
combat as needed. Serving under Captain Myles Keough in Company I on June 25, 1876, his help was needed. Company I came to the aid of General Custer when his troops were overpowered by Native Americans at Little Bighorn. Keough’s men faced the most intense fighting; Private Marion died along with his entire company. He is interred on Last Stand Hill.
I humbly suggest that Private Marion deserves a plaque in Richmond:
• Name: Marion E. Horn
• Birth: August 26, 1853, in Richmond, Wayne County, Indiana
• Death: June 25, 1876, at age 22 during Custer’s Last Stand at the Little Bighorn in
Montana
• Military Unit: Private, Company I, 7th U.S. Cavalry.
Richard McGowan, Ph.D., an adjunct scholar of the Indiana Policy Review Foundation, has taught philosophy and ethics cores for more than 40 years, most recently at Butler University.
