Indians still roamed the shores of the Clear Fork River in Mohican State Park in 1957.
As the mist lifted from the river at sunrise their campfire awaited the fish they were catching for breakfast. In the afternoon they could sometimes be seen, but not heard, as they moved silently through the underbrush, peering out at the white settlers who hiked the well worn trail leading to Big Lyons Falls. And toward evening, after the picnic crowds were gone, they could be seen swimming in their favorite pool of the river near the swinging footbridge that spanned the river downstream from their campsite.
My Mom, at five feet tall with her black hair pulled tightly back from her weathered face, looked and sometimes dressed like an Indian squaw. Our Stepdad was tall, slim, and an equally weathered