The Northern Township Papers: A Found Manuscript

No one could remember who had placed the box upon the highest shelf of the old records room in the Sycamore County Courthouse. The label had nearly disappeared. Dust had settled into the cracks of the cardboard. Had the courthouse roof leaked one more winter, the papers inside might have been lost forever. It bore no official seal. No inventory number. Only three words, written in fading ink upon the lid.

Northern Township Papers

Inside were folded newspapers, church bulletins, meeting notices, handwritten letters, and several pages tied together with worn cotton string. The earliest paper was dated March of 1911. Its heading read simply:

Petition Concerning the Proposed Manufacturing Works

To the Honorable Board of County Commissioners:

We respectfully request that approval be withheld for the manufacturing works proposed for the northern townships of Sycamore County.

Such a structure is without precedent anywhere within Sycamore County. Its size alone recommends caution. It will alter the appearance of the countryside, require changes to our roads, and permanently affect the quiet character of the surrounding farms.

Once these things are changed, they cannot be restored.

We therefore ask that the proposal be denied until its consequences are more fully understood.

Nearly four hundred names followed.

The next document was a newspaper editorial.

---

The Sycamore County Sentinel

March 28, 1911

SHOULD SYCAMORE COUNTY REMAIN SYCAMORE COUNTY?

There are moments in the life of every community when the question before it is not merely what shall be built, but what shall become of the place itself.

The structure our readers have taken to calling the Great Brick Building is unlike anything previously contemplated within our borders.

If approved, it will not simply occupy land.

It will forever alter the character of our community. That is a matter worthy of thoughtful debate.

---

The following week, citizens gathered in the basement of a country church.

The clerk who recorded the meeting displayed little interest in speeches but remarkable devotion to accuracy.

His notes survive.

A farmer observed that the building would stand where his grandfather had once harvested wheat.

"Applause."

A widow remarked that the view from her porch had remained unchanged for forty years and wondered whether progress always required surrendering something beautiful.

"Applause."

A merchant questioned whether one undertaking ought to reshape an entire community.

"Applause."

A schoolteacher cautioned that history rarely rewarded communities that embraced every novelty without question.

"Applause."

The clerk never once recorded laughter.

Nor anger.

Only neighbors speaking earnestly of the place they loved.

Tucked among the meeting minutes lay two letters.

The first had evidently been intended for publication.

It never appeared.

---

Dear Editor,

Much has been said by those favoring the Great Brick Building.

I do not question their sincerity.

Yet sincerity alone has never built a wise community.

Decisions of permanence deserve extraordinary care.

The building may prove beneficial.

It may prove troublesome.

Either way, our grandchildren must live beside the choice we make this spring.

I ask only that we proceed slowly.

— A Citizen

---

The second letter had no envelope.

It appeared to be a reply, though perhaps only to the times themselves.

---

My Friend,

I have attended every public meeting.

What strikes me most is not the disagreement.

It is the certainty.

Those in favor know precisely what tomorrow shall bring.

Those opposed know precisely what tomorrow shall prevent.

I envy them.

I have lived long enough to distrust certainty.

Perhaps our obligation is not to predict the future.

Perhaps it is simply to be ready to govern it, should it arrive.

There is little glory in such work.

It is tedious.

Yet civilization has generally advanced not because one side defeated the other, but because ordinary people undertook the tedious and unfashionable work of negotiation.

But I suspect it is the work all the same.

— E.W.

---

The remaining documents from that spring contained no dramatic revelations.

Announcements of church suppers.

Advertisements for seed corn.

Baseball scores.

A notice seeking bids to repair a bridge.

Life, it seemed, had continued while the debate occupied men's thoughts.

The next surviving newspaper was printed fifty years later.

It commemorated the anniversary of the Great Brick Building.

The article recalled families whose livelihoods had begun beneath its roof.

Roads that had been widened.

Neighborhoods that had grown.

Public improvements that had followed.

It also remembered years when the building had brought challenges the county had not anticipated.

New standards had been written.

Mistakes had been corrected.

The article concluded with a sentence underlined in pencil by some unknown reader:

Time revealed that nearly everyone had been right about something, and no one had been right about everything.

At the bottom of the box rested a single sheet bearing the letterhead of a local historical society.

It contained only this note.

---

Collection Note

The foregoing papers concern the public debate held in Sycamore County during the spring of 1911 regarding approval of what residents called the Great Brick Building.

Construction proceeded later that year.

For nearly seventy years the building helped shape Sycamore County's economy, roads, neighborhoods, and generations of local families.

The building was known thereafter as Sycamore Automobile Works, one of Indiana's early automobile manufacturing facilities.

No further explanation has ever been added.

Perhaps none has ever been needed.

---

Chip Keller is a small business owner and serves on the Morgan County Council. The views expressed are his own.

The preceding documents are fictional. The questions they raise are not.

When Morgan County Welcomed a Power Plant - How local newspapers covered one of the county's largest industrial projects

 Today, proposals for major industrial developments often generate vigorous public debate. Questions about farmland preservation, infrastructure, environmental impacts, tax policy, and quality of life are common, and appropriately so. Modern citizens expect transparency, public meetings, and opportunities to weigh competing interests before major projects move forward.

Nearly eighty years ago, Morgan County faced a project that would permanently transform hundreds of acres of farmland north of Martinsville. The project was the Indianapolis Power & Light Company's White River Generating Station, later known as Eagle Valley.

The local newspapers from 1946 through 1950 offer a revealing glimpse into how our community viewed economic development during a very different era.

On September 18, 1946, the Martinsville Daily Reporter announced that Indianapolis Power & Light planned to build a $7 million generating station on approximately 600 acres of farmland about four miles north of Martinsville.

The article explained that the plant would require between 50 and 60 railroad cars of coal each day, would transmit electricity to Indianapolis over a new 132,000-volt transmission line, and would create substantial employment during construction and operation.

Interestingly, the newspaper noted that rumors of the project had circulated for several weeks before the official announcement. Despite those rumors, I found no reports in the newspapers of organized opposition, public protests, lawsuits, or petitions challenging the project.

Company officials consistently cited two primary reasons for selecting the site. The White River provided an abundant supply of cooling water for the generating equipment, while the nearby Pennsylvania Railroad reduced freight costs by allowing coal from southern Indiana mines to reach the plant more economically.

Speaking to the Martinsville Kiwanis Club in October 1948, Indianapolis Power & Light representatives explained that locating the plant near Martinsville would save approximately 40 cents per ton in coal freight costs while the White River provided water at a suitable temperature for cooling the generating equipment.

Throughout the coverage, the project was presented not only as essential to Indianapolis's growing demand for electricity but also as a significant economic opportunity for Morgan County.

A February 1947 article illustrates that prevailing attitude.

To accommodate the project, a portion of Blue Bluff Road needed to be relocated. Rather than questioning whether the change should occur, the newspaper reported:

"The locating of the Indianapolis Power & Light company plant in this area will give the county a much higher tax revenue."

It concluded:

"The changing of the road will be well worthwhile financially to the county even with the expense of making the new road."

Today, relocating a public road for a private industrial project would likely involve extensive public discussion. In 1947, the newspaper framed the decision primarily in terms of anticipated economic benefit.

Construction began in March 1947 and quickly became one of the largest industrial projects ever undertaken in Morgan County.

Newspaper accounts described a project of remarkable scale. Approximately 500 construction workers were employed on site. More than 600 acres were under development. Massive excavation and concrete work reshaped what had recently been farmland. Railroad sidings were constructed specifically to deliver coal and building materials, and storage facilities were built to hold approximately 160,000 tons of coal, enough for roughly 90 days of operation.

One feature highlighted in Indianapolis newspapers was the enormous "coal chute" that carried coal uphill from railroad cars into elevated storage bins, a technological marvel at the time.

By 1950, Indianapolis Power & Light had announced approximately $10 million in investment at the White River Generating Station, an amount roughly equivalent to about $140 million today. At the time, it ranked among the largest private capital investments ever made in Morgan County.

Rather than organizing protests, civic organizations invited company representatives to explain the project.

The Martinsville Kiwanis Club devoted an entire program to the White River Generating Station, where engineers discussed construction progress, employment, fuel supply, future expansion, and answered questions from members.

The newspaper coverage reflects curiosity and enthusiasm about the engineering involved rather than concern about industrial development itself.

One of the most memorable individuals to emerge from the newspaper coverage was Mrs. Flora J. Hoss, whose farm adjoined the new plant.

Rather than moving away, she remained in her home after Indianapolis Power & Light acquired the surrounding property. Company officials invited her to open the first turbine by turning the steam valve during the plant's ceremonial startup in February 1949.

Mrs. Hoss remarked:

"I feel that my farm has passed into immortality."

The newspapers portrayed her not as someone displaced by progress but as a respected neighbor who had watched the transformation from cornfield to power plant and had become part of its story.

A 1948 feature in the Indianapolis Star offered an even more personal portrait. It described Mrs. Hoss as a fiercely independent widow who chose to remain in her farmhouse after selling most of her land to the utility. Construction workers frequently stopped to visit with her, and the article portrayed her not as a reluctant holdout but as someone who accepted that the landscape around her was changing while remaining deeply rooted to the place she called home.

Several articles emphasized the project's effect on Morgan County's finances.

The Reporter noted that increased assessments from the power plant would help stabilize local tax rates. County officials anticipated higher taxable valuations, particularly in Washington Township, and viewed the new industrial investment as a significant addition to the county's tax base.

Economic development and tax benefits, rather than environmental concerns, dominated the newspaper coverage.

Indianapolis Power & Light's investment in Morgan County did not end in 1950. The White River plant, later known as Eagle Valley Generating Station, served central Indiana for nearly seven decades. The original coal-fired generating units were retired in 2016, and in 2018 AES Indiana completed a new 671-megawatt natural gas generating station on the same site. Today, the Blue Bluff Road property continues to serve as a major electric generating facility for central Indiana.

Reading these newspapers today is not intended as an argument for or against any current development proposal. Instead, they provide a window into how one generation of Morgan County residents understood a transformative industrial project in their own time.

Modern environmental laws, public participation requirements, property rights protections, and expectations for transparency are far different than they were when the White River Generating Station was built. Likewise, public concerns today extend beyond economics to include water resources, emissions, land use, and long-term sustainability.

Yet, the historical record remains valuable.

It reminds us that Morgan County has been grappling with the opportunities and challenges of major infrastructure projects for generations. The questions we ask today may be different, and the public process certainly has evolved, but balancing economic growth with community values is not a new conversation.

The newspaper record from 1946 through 1950 captures a moment when one of the largest industrial projects in Morgan County history was widely viewed as a symbol of progress, prosperity, and confidence in the future. Those articles remind us that every generation weighs the promises and costs of change through the lens of its own time. Preserving that history does not tell us what decisions to make today, but it helps us better understand how our community arrived where it is.

Ode to 145 Bailliere

 An Ode to 145 Bailliere Drive

For twenty-four years, you have been more than a house.

You have been our gathering place, our refuge, our front-row seat to life's most precious moments.

Behind your doors, children grew, families gathered, friendships deepened, and memories were made that can never be packed into boxes or loaded onto a moving truck. Your rooms echoed with laughter during birthday parties, holiday celebrations, and countless conversations around the dinner table. Thanksgiving feasts filled your kitchen with warmth and tradition. Christmas mornings brought joy, anticipation, and the glow of lights reflected in happy faces.

Outside, summer seemed to belong to you. The pool became the center of endless celebrations—family reunions, neighborhood gatherings, and carefree afternoons that stretched into warm Indiana evenings. Friends arrived as guests and left as family. The sounds of splashing water, music, laughter, and children playing became the soundtrack of a life well lived.

Yet what made you truly special was the view beyond your windows.

The peaceful lake that has reflected every season of our lives carried a deeper meaning for me. To live on the lake named for my great-grandfather, Harry DeTurk, was a gift beyond measure. Every sunrise over the water, every quiet morning with a Diet Coke, every glass-like evening reflecting the sky connected me not only to nature's beauty, but to my family's story.

You gave us a setting that felt almost too beautiful to be real. The stillness of the water. The changing colors of the trees. The calls of geese overhead. The gentle rhythm of the seasons arriving and departing year after year. Through life's celebrations and challenges, that view remained constant—a reminder of where we came from and what truly matters.

A house is built with lumber, brick, and stone.

A home is built with memories.

And by that measure, 145 Bailliere Drive has been the richest home we could have ever hoped for.

As we prepare to turn the page and begin a new chapter, we leave with grateful hearts. We will miss the lake, the pool, the parties, the holidays, and the countless ordinary days that became extraordinary simply because they happened here.

Thank you for sheltering our family.

Thank you for holding our memories.

Thank you for twenty-four wonderful years.

You will always be part of our story.

With love and gratitude,

Chip, Michelle, Emmah & Ben Keller; George & Marty

Keller Family History in Morgan County

 When I think about where my story begins, it doesn’t start in Martinsville. It starts in 1826, in Baden-Württemberg, Germany, with my third great-grandfather, Frederick Keller.

Frederick was born into a world far removed from rural Indiana. In the 1840s, he made the brave decision to leave Germany and come to America, joining many others who crossed the Atlantic in search of opportunity and stability. He eventually settled in Brown Township in Morgan County and established a home in the area now known as Keller Hill Road. Every time I pass that road, I’m reminded that it represents more than a family name; it marks the place where our roots in Morgan County first took hold.

Frederick’s decision to settle here anchored the Keller family to this community for generations. His children and grandchildren built their lives in Morgan County, becoming part of its farms, businesses, churches, and civic life. Among them was his grandson, Morton Vance Keller, my great-grandfather, who would leave a particularly notable mark on local history.

In 1932, during the depths of the Great Depression, Morton was elected Sheriff of Morgan County. It was a difficult time to hold public office. Families were struggling, jobs were scarce, and law enforcement faced enormous challenges. During his tenure, Sheriff Keller housed the infamous bank robber John Dillinger in the Morgan County jail. That single fact often captures people’s attention when they hear our family name. For me, it is more than an interesting historical footnote; it is a reminder that my family once stood at the intersection of national headlines and small-town responsibility.

When Morton became sheriff in 1932, he moved his family to Martinsville, the county seat, so he could better carry out his duties. That move proved permanent. While this branch of the Keller family in Morgan County began in Brown Township, from that moment forward Martinsville became home. The Kellers have been residents of Martinsville ever since.

My grandfather, Robert L. Keller (known to many as “Big Bob”) continued the family’s deep presence in the community. Before becoming known locally for his leadership and involvement, he served his country during World War II as a Lieutenant Colonel in the United States Army. Like many men of his generation, he answered the call during a time of global crisis. His military service reflected a commitment to duty that seemed to run in our family, from law enforcement to public service to national defense. It is a point of pride for me that his life was marked not only by local devotion, but by service on a much larger stage.

After the war, he returned home and married Dorothy Grizzle. Together they raised two children: my aunt, Kay Keller O’Neal, and my father, Robert Keller II. Through them, the Keller name carried forward not only in family records but in the everyday life of Martinsville.

As Frederick’s third great-grandson, I see our history not simply as a collection of dates, but as a steady thread running through Morgan County’s story. It begins with a young immigrant from Germany willing to risk everything for a new start. It continues with a Depression-era sheriff entrusted with public safety at a time of uncertainty. It includes a World War II officer who stepped forward in defense of his country. And it carries on through generations who chose to remain in Martinsville, building lives, raising families, and contributing in quiet, lasting ways.

Nearly two centuries after Frederick first set foot in Morgan County, our family is still here. Roads have been paved, buildings replaced, and eras have come and gone, but the commitment to this place has remained constant. I am proud to be part of that legacy; a legacy rooted in hard work, public service, and an enduring connection to the community my ancestors chose so long ago.

What Real Courage Looks Like - Bill Nutter

 My grandfather, Bill Nutter, was a quiet hero from right here in Martinsville, Indiana. I still keep his old Marine Corps photos on my desk, along with that faded V-mail letter he wrote home during the Battle of Iwo Jima, dated March 4, 1945. In it, he tried to sound cheerful for my grandma Harriet, mentioning he was on a "little rock" called Iwo Jima, how things were "swell" all things considered, and how much he loved getting their pictures to keep in that battered frame. Reading those words now, knowing what was really happening, the savage fighting, the black sand, the caves full of danger, I can only imagine the strength it took to shield his family from the worst of it.

After graduating from Martinsville High School in 1940, he spent a year at DePauw University before enlisting in the United States Marine Corps. Like so many young men of his generation, he answered the call without hesitation. He served in the Pacific and was there on Iwo Jima from February 19 to the end of March 1945, one of the bloodiest battles in Marine Corps history. He came home, built a life, married my grandma, raised a family, including my mom, and lived a good, steady life in the town he loved. But he carried those memories quietly. He passed away in 1989 when I was 18, and I've missed him every day since. There are so many things I wish I could ask him now, about the war, about what it felt like to stand on that volcano after the flag went up on Mount Suribachi, about the buddies he lost.

I remember and thank those who have sacrificed so much by serving our country, not just my grandpa, but every veteran who faced the unknown so the rest of us could live free. His service, his letters, his pictures; they're a reminder to me of what real courage looks like: not loud or boastful, but enduring, loyal, and deeply tied to family and home. He taught me, without ever saying it outright, what it means to be proud of where you come from and grateful for the freedoms we enjoy.

Semper Fi, Grandpa. I carry your story with me, and I'm honored to be your grandson. Thank you…for everything.

Kuwait Comes to Martinsville

Growing up in Martinsville, Indiana, I thought our life was fairly ordinary. We were a close-knit family in a small town where everybody seemed to know everybody. My grandmother, Harriet Nutter, worked as an interior decorator at Kittle’s Furniture in Indianapolis. To me, that simply meant she had good taste and an eye for detail. I had no idea at the time that her gift for hospitality and friendship would open a window to the wider world for our entire family.

Around 1980, a couple from Kuwait walked into Kittle’s looking for furniture. Their names were Dr. Khaled Al-Nassar and his wife. What began as a professional interaction soon grew into a genuine friendship. My grandmother had a natural warmth about her. She didn’t just sell people sofas and dining tables; she connected with them. Before long, she had invited the Al-Nassar family down to Martinsville for dinner.

Looking back, it still amazes me. In a small Indiana town in the early 1980s, our extended family gathered around the table with a family from Kuwait. There were no grand speeches about cultural exchange or global understanding. There was simply food, conversation, and laughter. I remember how kind they were, how curious we all were about one another, and how natural it felt despite the miles and cultural differences between us. Over the next 10 years, the al-Nassar family visited us several times.

One of Dr. Al-Nassar’s daughters even attended Martinsville High School for a day with my sister, Mimi Keller Boyd. For Mimi, it was probably an exciting change of routine. For the rest of us, it was a glimpse into how big the world truly was. Those moments felt special, but in a child’s mind, they were simply part of the story of our family.

Then, in 1990, the world changed.

In October of 1990, after Iraq invaded Kuwait, Dr. Al-Nassar provided significant witness testimony before the United States Congress regarding atrocities committed during the occupation. His video testimony is still available to view on CSPAN.  I remember realizing that this was the same man who had once sat at our dinner table in Martinsville. The same father whose children had laughed with us and posed for pictures in our living room. The conflict that dominated headlines and nightly news broadcasts was no longer distant. It was personal. During their last visit, I’ll never forget how grateful they were to the United States for coming to Kuwait’s rescue. Over the years, I've searched for any trace of the al-Nassar family, hoping to reconnect, but I've found nothing.

As I look back now, I see how unique and fortunate we were. In a small town in Indiana, we were given a firsthand connection to people whose lives would soon be caught in a major world event. We were reminded that history is not just something that happens in faraway capitals or on television screens. It happens to families. It happens to friends.

My grandmother probably never imagined that inviting customers to dinner would one day connect her family to a pivotal moment in international history. But that was Harriet Nutter. She believed in welcoming people in. Because of her, I learned early on that the world is both larger and smaller than we think.

And I remain grateful for that lesson. 

Remembering Blandell Hutson: A Life That Tells a Fuller Story

 

Growing up in Martinsville, I didn’t learn about my hometown from headlines or reputation. I learned about it around the dinner table.

And more often than not, Blandell Hutson was sitting there with us.

Blandell was a regular guest in our home, holidays, birthdays, the kind of gatherings where stories are told and retold. As a kid, I didn’t think much about it. He was simply part of our extended circle. It was only later, as I got older and became more aware of Martinsville’s reputation as a “sundown town,” that I began to realize how much his life quietly challenged that narrative.

Because the truth is, Blandell Hutson didn’t just pass through Martinsville. He lived here, worked here, built relationships here, and by all accounts, did well.

Born in 1906 in Martinsville, Blandell was a lifelong resident of Morgan County. His roots ran deep. Newspaper clippings from as early as 1912 place him here as a child with his family. He graduated from Martinsville High School with the Class of 1925 and remained connected to his classmates for decades, attending reunions well into later life. That alone tells you something. He wasn’t isolated. He was part of the fabric of the community.

Like many of his generation, Blandell answered the call to serve during World War II. He spent more than two years in the Army, including time overseas in England and France before returning home to Martinsville. After the war, he resumed his work and his life here. Not somewhere else, not in a place that might have seemed more welcoming, but right here.

And he worked. Blandell was known throughout Martinsville as a shoe shine man, a trade he began as a young man and continued for decades. For over twenty years, he shined shoes at Coffey’s Barber Shop just off the square, becoming a familiar and dependable presence in the daily lives of countless residents. He built a steady clientele and a reputation for reliability. There’s dignity in that kind of work, and respect earned the old-fashioned way.

But Blandell’s life wasn’t just about work. He was part of a church family. He and his wife, Bessie, became members of First Baptist Church, where they were welcomed and embraced. One story recalled years later describes how Bessie was warmly received into what had been an all-white congregation. It was an act of simple but profound Christian kindness that left a lasting impression. Blandell himself was remembered as “a real gem” by those who knew him.

That matches the man I remember.

He was kind. Steady. Easy to be around. The kind of person adults respected and kids felt comfortable with. My family didn’t “make a point” of including Blandell. He was included because he belonged. Newspaper mentions from the 1970s and 1980s even show him listed among guests at our family holiday gatherings, just another name among friends.

That’s how I knew him. Not as a symbol, not as an exception, but as a friend.

I remember my father telling me a story that has stayed with me. One year, Blandell’s niece invited him to Christmas dinner in Indianapolis. He politely declined. When asked why, he simply said he already had plans. He was going to Bobby Keller’s.

That was our home.

That was where he chose to be.

None of this is to deny Martinsville’s complicated and, at times, painful racial history. That reputation didn’t come from nowhere. It is real, and it deserves to be acknowledged honestly.

But it is not the whole story.

Blandell Hutson’s life reminds us that history is rarely as simple as a single label. Even in places with difficult pasts, there are also stories of relationships, respect, and shared community. There were African Americans in Martinsville who built lives, formed friendships, contributed to the town, and were, in meaningful ways, part of it.

Blandell’s life stretched across nearly the entire twentieth century, from 1906 to 1996. Think about how much changed in America during that time. Through it all, he remained in Martinsville. That says something, not just about him, but about the place, too.

When I think of Blandell now, I don’t think about labels or reputations. I think about a man who sat at our table, who chose to be there, who lived a long and steady life in the same town I call home.

And I think about how important it is to tell the full story. Because places, like people, are never just one thing.

 

 

Sources

 

●     The Reporter-Times (Martinsville, Indiana), June 10, 1912, p. 4. (Reference to Blandell Hutson as a child with his family)

●     The Reporter-Times (Martinsville, Indiana), May 4, 1938, p. 1. (Obituary of Martha Louise Hutson, Blandell’s mother)

●     The Reporter-Times (Martinsville, Indiana), May 12, 1941, p. 1. (Selective Service listing including Blandell Hutson)

●     The Reporter-Times (Martinsville, Indiana), December 23, 1947, p. 1. (“Blandell Hutson Still Shining ’Em,” detailing his shoe shining work)

●     The Reporter-Times (Martinsville, Indiana), July 6, 1966, p. 11. (Obituary of Eva Hutson Bryant, his sister)

●     The Reporter-Times (Martinsville, Indiana), June 19, 1972, p. 1. (Obituary of Bessie Lee Hutson, his wife)

●     The Reporter-Times (Martinsville, Indiana), March 7, 1973, p. 15. (Estate notice for Bessie L. Hutson, listing Blandell as administrator)

●     The Reporter-Times (Martinsville, Indiana), August 7, 1975, p. 5. (Martinsville High School Class of 1925 50th reunion)

●     The Reporter-Times (Martinsville, Indiana), November 25, 1978, p. 3. (Thanksgiving dinner guests at the Keller home, including Blandell Hutson)

●     The Reporter-Times (Martinsville, Indiana), December 28, 1981, p. 3. (Christmas gathering at the Keller home, including Blandell Hutson)

●     The Reporter-Times (Martinsville, Indiana), November 20, 1986, p. 5. (61st reunion of the Martinsville High School Class of 1925)

●     The Reporter-Times (Martinsville, Indiana), January 22, 1991, p. 1. (Cultural Enhancement article describing Blandell Hutson as “a real gem”)

●     The Reporter-Times (Martinsville, Indiana), November 11, 1993, p. 42. (Notice of Blandell Hutson’s World War II enlistment)

●     The Reporter-Times (Martinsville, Indiana), November 17, 1995, p. 28. (Article noting his return from military service and work at barber shop)

●     The Reporter-Times (Martinsville, Indiana), December 27, 1996, p. 2. (Obituary of Blandell L. Hutson)

●     The Reporter-Times (Martinsville, Indiana), May 30, 2001, p. 3. (Retrospective article about First Baptist Church and the Hutsons’ role)