by Jim Noles
The results, while indirect, were horrific. Female pelicans contaminated with DDT or equally insidious chemicals such as PCBs laid hopelessly thin-shelled eggs that, too often, were accidentally crushed by their distraught fathers or mothers long before being ready to hatch. By the mid-1960s, the population of pelicans in Texas and Louisiana had shrunk from some 50,000 birds to scarcely 100 pelicans fighting for survival along the Texas coast. In Louisiana—the so-called Pelican State—the species was virtually extirpated.
Confronted with this threat to the species’ survival, the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service, on October 13, 1970, listed the pelican as endangered pursuant to the Endangered Species Preservation Act—a predecessor of 1973’s Endangered Species Act. Arguably, even more practical protection came in 1972, with the U.S. Environmental Protection Agency’s banning of the use of DDT and its subsequent restrictions on the use, handling, and disposal of pesticides such as endrin.
Meanwhile, determined to take active measures to rebuild Louisiana’s brown pelican population, the Louisiana Department of Wildlife and Fisheries joined with the Florida Game and Fresh Water Fish Commission to jointly implement a restoration project. From 1968 to 1980, the agencies reintroduced and monitored a total of 1,276 pelicans at three release sites in southeastern Louisiana. Eventually, restored nesting populations were established at North Island in the Chandeleur Island chain and at Queen Bess-Camp Island in Barataria Bay. Although the project suffered a tragic setback in 1975 when a pesticide spill killed 260 of the birds, the numbers of nesting pairs have generally trended reassuringly upward.
Elsewhere, the brown pelican staged an even more remarkable comeback and, in 1985, the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service was able to declare that the species was no longer endangered outside of Texas and Louisiana. Meanwhile, progress continued to be made in Louisiana, where, in 1990, the state’s Department of Wildlife and Fisheries surveyed approximately 1,333 nests. By 2007, there were 3,600 nesting pairs identified on Raccoon Island alone. The numbers offered a stirring testament to the successful reintroduction effort focused on the bird’s recovery there.
Nevertheless, challenges remain. The U.S. Fish & Wildlife Service lists human disturbance of nesting colonies, birds being caught on fish hooks and subsequently entangled in monofilament line, oil or chemical spills, erosion, plant succession, heavy tick infestations, and hurricanes as continued threats to the species’ survival.
In fact, in 2001, the pelican was not even assured of a place on Louisiana’s state quarter. To select a design for the coin, Governor Mike Foster, Jr., established the Louisiana Commemorative Coin Advisory Commission, which solicited design suggestions from Louisiana residents. From the 1,193 residents (80 percent of them schoolchildren) who responded, Foster chose five finalists to submit to the U.S. Mint. In addition to the brown pelican, they included commemorative depictions of the Louisiana Purchase, an iconic Mississippi riverboat, and the Cabildo, the historic seat of the Spanish municipal government in New Orleans.
In the end, the final Louisiana quarter design incorporated not only the image of a brown pelican but also a trumpet with musical notes (symbolizing the state’s jazz heritage). It also included an outline of the Louisiana Purchase territory (which, in 1803, delivered not only New Orleans but also 828,000 squares miles of western territory to the United States at the bargain-basement price of three cents an acre) and the explanatory inscription “Louisiana Purchase.”
“The launch of the Louisiana quarter is one of those moments that makes me proud of Louisiana,” said Governor Foster at the quarter’s launch ceremony in New Orleans. Fittingly, that ceremony was held at the historic site of the New Orleans Mint, where gold dollars were first minted in 1838.
19
INDIANA
Gentlemen, Start Your Engines
Kudos to the state of Indiana. Without its foresight, that overwhelming symbol of American industry, economy, and individualism—the automobile— would never have found a place on any of the fifty state quarters.
Apparently, Indiana did not make its decision lightly. The Hoosier State’s selection process began at the Indiana State Fair on August 17, 1999, when the first lady of Indiana, Judy O’Bannon, requested design concept submissions for the Indiana quarter. Her request garnered 3,736 submissions.
Culling through the responses, the Indiana Quarter Design Committee narrowed the field to seventeen semifinalists and asked Indiana residents to vote for their favorites. The response of 160,000 voters led to a quartet of final designs being approved by the U.S. Mint. Two of the designs included a collection of sports icons and state symbols.
A third design depicted Michikinikwa—also known as Chief Little Turtle—hardly a household name but revered nonetheless as the last chief of the Miami Indians. In 1791, on the banks of the Wabash River near present-day Fort Wayne, Little Turtle inflicted arguably the bloodiest defeat on the U.S. Army at the hands of any Indian foe.
Even Chief Little Turtle, however, could not muster the historic horsepower capable of besting the final design selected by Governor Frank O’Bannon. O’Bannon’s choice featured the inscription “Crossroads of America,” a circle of nineteen stars signifying Indiana as the nineteenth state admitted into the Union, and a race car, intended to symbolize the Indianapolis 500 race, superimposed over an outline of the state.
“We are very proud of this coin, and we think people around the country will instantly think of Indiana when they see it,” Governor O’Bannon said. “Our state played a significant role in the expansion and development of the United States at its crossroads, and this coin signifies that importance.”
Do people around the United States really consider Indiana to be America’s crossroads? One has to wonder. But it is hard to disagree that, if asked to identify the most legendary motor-racing event in the United States, the typical American would likely waste no time naming the Indy 500—the so-called greatest spectacle in racing. By choosing to commemorate what is officially called the Indianapolis 500-Mile Race, O’Bannon honored a racing tradition dating back over nine decades in Indiana’s capital at the Indianapolis Motor Speedway.
Built in 1909, the speedway was a 2.5-mile track originally constructed for automotive research purposes. Although it is still used for research, the speedway’s claim to fame comes from hosting the Indy 500, which it first did in 1911. By then, the track’s original surface of crushed stone and tar—a challenging and, frankly, deadly surface at high speeds—had already been replaced with 3.2 million bricks. Fittingly, approximately 90 percent of them were manufactured in Indiana by the Wabash Valley Clay Company. The bricks were laid on their side in a bed of sand, staggered in rows, and separated by an approximately one-inch gap filled with mortar. Eventually, they were paved over with asphalt, the current surface of most of the track.
Today, only three feet of bricks remain exposed at the start–finish line. Nevertheless, the nickname “the Brickyard” endures for what is arguably the largest and highest-capacity sporting facility in the world. The speedway has a permanent seating capacity of more than 257,000 people. Infield seating boosts capacity to an approximate 400,000 spectators.
Fewer spectators—but an impressive 80,000 nevertheless— attended the inaugural Indy 500 in 1911. With an intimidating forty cars crowding the field, race founder Carl Fisher reasoned that a standing start—as was usually done at the time—would be impracticable. Instead, he used a pace car to enable a rolling start, an innovation that was destined to become commonplace in races to come.
Other innovations could be found in the cars themselves. Ray Harroun, a talented race-car designer destined to win the first race, piloted a Marmon Wasp—a car believed to be the first to use a rearview mirror. With his newfangled rearview mirror in place, Harroun was able to dispense with a passenger-mechanic riding with him. Such co-pilots were a convention in racing at the time, intended not only to keep an eye on the car’s gauges but also to serve as a lookout for other racers. Harroun’s decision to g
o solo raised the ire of many of his fellow drivers, who felt he was compromising their safety.
The other drivers’ mood did not improve when Harroun claimed the checkered flag after six hours, forty-two minutes, and eight seconds of racing. He averaged seventy-five miles per hour (today’s racers reach speeds approaching 238 miles per hour) and took home a winner’s purse of $14,000.
As the years passed, tradition seemed to become as important as innovation. Today, the Indy 500 is the oldest auto race in the world, having been run every year since 1911 except during the two world wars. The race, sanctioned by the Indy Racing League, is held every Memorial Day with a field of thirty-three racers. On race day, prior to the firing of the competitors’ engines, the crowd is serenaded with “Back Home Again in Indiana.” As the final notes fade away, a massive armada of multicolored balloons is released skyward.
Two hundred laps and 500 miles later, the winner is wreathed in a garland of thirty-three ivory-colored Cymbidium orchids with burgundy tips and thirty-three miniature checkered flags, intertwined with red, white, and blue ribbons. In homage to a tradition started in 1936 by three-time Indy winner Louis Meyer (whose mother had told him that buttermilk was good for him on a hot summer day), the winner chugs a cold bottle of milk. It was a tradition temporarily— and notoriously—upended in 1993, when winner Emerson Fittipaldi chose instead to drink orange juice to promote Brazil’s citrus industry. Regardless of his drink of choice, the winner thereafter receives the Borg-Warner trophy, upon which the face of every winner is sculpted in bas-relief, and the keys to the race’s pace car.
One tradition, however, may not be destined to survive. To date, every Indy 500 winner has been a man. Nevertheless, a female face may one day appear on the Borg-Warner trophy. Janet Guthrie became the first female driver to race in the Indy 500 in 1979, followed by Lyn St. James, and then Danica Patrick. In the 2007 race, a record number of women—Danica Patrick, Sarah Fisher, and Venezuelan Milka Duno—joined the field.
Nevertheless, tradition remains an integral component of the Indy 500, offering a stark contrast to the technologically cutting-edge attributes of a modern Indy car. An IRL IndyCar Series car, with horsepower four times that of an average car, accelerates from 0 to 100 miles per hour in less than three seconds. At 220 mph, it generates enough aerodynamic downforce so that, technically, it could run upside down if that speed were maintained. Its tires, with tread depth only slightly thicker than a credit card, approach the temperature of boiling water when running at speed—and actually become tarlike in consistency in order to help the car stick to the track. Of course, all of that speed and power comes with a price— which includes gas mileage figures of less than two miles per gallon.
On August 8, 2002, one of those same Indycars, joined by a lumbering Brinks armored car, rolled down the brickyard in a most unusual convoy. The Indycar delivered Governor O’Bannon; the armored car delivered the first of the Indiana state quarters to a waiting public.
On that celebratory day, however, an American racing fan might be forgiven for pointing out a fly in the proverbial ointment. Two months earlier at the Brickyard, Brazilian Helio Castroneves had claimed his second back-to-back victory in that year’s Indy 500. But perhaps the Indiana quarter helped inspire America’s racing cadre to rise to the challenge. Arizonan Buddy Rice won the race in 2003; Ohioan Sam Hornish, Jr., quaffed a celebratory glass of milk in 2006.
Nevertheless, foreign competition remains strong, as was evident in 2007, when Scotland’s Dario Franchitti captured the checkered flag—but at least his wife (actress Ashley Judd) is an American. Franchitti’s prize money amounted to $1,645,233, a mere drop in the bucket compared to the $172,450,000 worth of Indiana state quarters minted in 2002.
20
MISSISSIPPI
Steel Magnolias
Although the Civil War was the crucible of the modern United States, that episode in American history gets short shrift in the 50 State Quarters® Program. Not a single coin commemorates either the Blue or the Gray. Nevertheless, Mississippi’s state quarter, with its blossoming bouquet of magnolia leaves erupting across the coin’s reverse, provides an indirect but potent reminder of the bloody conflict that forged today’s America.
The embers of that forge flared to life on January 9, 1861, when Mississippi became the first state to follow South Carolina’s lead and secede from the Union. Two weeks later, on January 26, 1861, the state unveiled its new banner. Mississippi’s flag was white, with a five-pointed white star in a blue canton. A magnolia tree was painted or embroidered on the flag’s white field. Even in the nineteenth century, the romantic southern magnolia—Magnolia grandiflora, named after famed eighteenth-century French botanist Pierre Magnol—had already seduced the Southern psyche with its spectacular fragrant white flowers and lustrous green leaves.
In the spring of 1861, however, Mississippi was focused on war, not love. With enthusiastic companies of troops being raised for action across the state, a host of martial nicknames proliferated— such as the Rough and Readies, the Quitman Grays, the Pettus Rifles, and the Panola Vindicators.
Meanwhile, in northern Mississippi’s Calhoun County, several dozen farmers, tradesmen, and laborers converged on the small hamlet of Sarepta. On April 23, 1861, they elected John M. Lyles as their commanding officer and, in homage to Magnolia grandiflora, christened themselves the Magnolia Guards.
Ordered to Corinth shortly thereafter, the company joined the Seventeenth Mississippi Infantry Regiment, was redesignated Company K, and immediately set forth to distant Virginia. Company K’s baptism of fire came at the First Battle of Bull Run—a fight that cost its regiment two dead and ten wounded.
After Bull Run, both sides, unsettled by the chaos of that first battle, fell into a period of watchful unease and regrouping. The lull was shattered on October 21, when Union forces landed along the Potomac River at Ball’s Bluff, near the town of Leesburg. In response, Company K and its regiment joined in a fearsome counterattack.
“The whole line marched forward in the most admirable order upon a vastly superior force,” recalled Colonel Winfield S. Feather-ston, the Seventeenth’s regimental commander, “reserving their fire until within the most effective range; then pouring it in with deadly effect and rushing forward over ground broken into abrupt hills and ravines, and covered with thick woods, without a single halt or waver, until the enemy was literally driven into the river.”
At Ball’s Bluff, the regiment again lost two men; this time, however, it captured over 300 dejected blue-clad prisoners in one of the most resounding Confederate victories of the war’s early days. After the battle, Featherston left the regiment, leaving it in the command of W. D. Holder.
The following summer, Holder led his regiment through the Seven Days Battles outside of Richmond, Virginia, culminating in the desperate charge against Malvern Hill. A bloody cataract of shell, grape, canister, and minié balls poured into the attacking Mississippians, killing or wounding close to one-third of them and knocking Holder out of action with a broken thigh.
The regiment’s next big fight came at Sharpsburg on September 17, 1862. Marching to the sound of the guns, Lieutenant Colonel John C. Fiser (barely twenty-four years old) led the foot-weary Seventeenth into battle, leaving its stragglers behind and pushing the Federal forces so far back into the woods to their front that, in the end, the regiment was in danger of being cut off and captured. The regiment suffered nearly 100 casualties that day.
Three months later, the battle of Fredericksburg saw the regiment and the men of Company K in the thick of the fight once again. This time, Fiser’s regiment found themselves fighting one of the classic defensive battles of the war. Posted along the town’s riverbank in or behind rifle pits, cellars, windows, and fences, for twelve hours the Mississippians fought off Union efforts to successfully bridge the Rappahannock River. Giving way only in the face of a punishing artillery bombardment, Fiser’s men retreated street by street before joining the rest of the Confederate
force arrayed along or on Marye’s Heights.
In the summer of 1863, the Gettysburg campaign brought further hard fighting—the heaviest the regiment and the men of Calhoun County had seen yet. On the second day of the Battle of Gettysburg, the regiment joined in the assault on the Union army’s southern flank. Fighting like demons, the Mississippians tore into the peach orchard held by the Federal troops, only to be nearly overwhelmed by sheer numbers. In the end, the remnants of the Seventeenth had no choice but to retreat, leaving forty killed and 160 wounded on the field of battle.
Following General Robert E. Lee’s retreat south, the Confederate high command shifted the Seventeenth into the war’s western theater of operations, arriving in Georgia just in time to fight in the Battle of Chickamauga. Captain A. R. Govan was the acting regimental commander at the time; he paid for the honor with the loss of a leg. In all, the fight at Chickamauga cost the regiment twelve killed and seventy-five wounded.
Unbeknownst to the erstwhile Magnolia Guards, the Seventeenth Mississippi Infantry’s toughest fight of the war still lay ahead of them.
In the wake of its defeat at Chickamauga, the Union army retreated to its bastions of Chattanooga and Knoxville. A fortification known as Fort Sanders protected the key approach to the latter. Undeterred by Fort Sanders’s formidable defenses, Lieutenant Colonel Fiser pushed for a decision to storm the fort. Unfortunately, his argument was successful and an attack against Fort Sanders’s southwest salient was ordered.
On November 29, 1863, the assault began, with two parallel columns of the Thirteenth and Seventeenth Mississippi Infantry Regiments leading the way. Ignoring snipers and cannon fire, the Mississippi troops hacked and twisted their way through 150 yards of a tangled abatis. Upon clearing the abatis, the regiments paused only momentarily to regroup before rushing across a patch of open ground toward the fort.