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An undeveloped area just east of downtown was the hottest place in Indy during the sweltering summer of 1873. Middle-class families seeking to escape the grime and bustle of the city were eagerly buying up lots in the new neighborhoods of Arsenal Heights and Highland Park.  And for the more affluent, James O. Woodruff was putting the finishing touches on a “residential park” that would feature stately homes, landscaped esplanades, marble statuary, and cast-iron fountains.


As The Indianapolis News had predicted the previous December, “No direction is looked upon with more favor at the present, than the East of our city……The east must, and will, become the location for better class of residences.”


The Indianapolis News, Dec. 4, 1872; The Indianapolis News, December 3, 1872.
The Indianapolis News, Dec. 4, 1872; The Indianapolis News, December 3, 1872.

But the newspaper’s sunny prediction was put to a test in October 1873, when 17 women moved into a palatial brick home directly across the street from Woodruff’s idyllic retreat.


On that day, as the saying goes, there went the neighborhood.



The day started out on a high note, as the new neighbors were welcomed with considerable pomp and circumstance. A police escort accompanied them from the train station.  A group of politicians and prominent citizens were on hand to greet them, including Gov. Thomas Hendricks and his wife.


Unusual? Yes, but certainly warranted, given the fame — or more accurately, the infamy — of the new arrivals, which included:


  • Sarah “Aunt Sallie” Hubbard, who helped her husband murder a family of 7;

  • Mary Ann Longnecker, who poisoned her husband with white antimony; and

  • “Blue-eyed” Mary Lewis, who bludgeoned another woman to death with a shovel during a drunken bar brawl.


The Weekly Indiana State Sentinel, April 15, 1855; The Indianapolis News, Sept. 23 1872
The Weekly Indiana State Sentinel, April 15, 1855; The Indianapolis News, Sept. 23 1872

All told, the 17 original inmates of the Indiana Reformatory Institution for Women and Girls at 401 N. Randolph Street included one forger, 10 thieves and six convicted killers.  They were soon joined by more women inmates with equally auspicious backgrounds, as well as 21 girls ranging from ages 10 through 14.


Over the next 136 years, thousands of female felons lived across the street from Woodruff Place, including Gertrude Baniszewski, convicted in 1966 for the torture slaying of 16-year-old Sylvia Likens, and Paula Cooper, who became Indiana’s youngest Death Row inmate in 1986 when she was sentenced for the stabbing death of Bible teacher Ruth Pelke.


In 2009, however, the state Department of Correction decided to relocate the women’s prison to the former Indianapolis Juvenile Correctional Facility on the city’s west side.  The old prison was repurposed as a transitional facility to help soon-to-be-released male offenders prepare for their reentry into society. Then, on June 14, 2017, DOC announced that the 15-acre prison campus would be shuttered for good.


For the past eight years, the site has sat vacant, the remaining buildings vandalized and splattered with graffiti.


The former prison chapel as seen through a chain link fence on April 5, 2025
The former prison chapel as seen through a chain link fence on April 5, 2025

Most years when I go to the Woodruff Place Flea Market, I park on Randolph Street next to the prison.  There, I’ll see families unloading strollers from their cars and couples heading back from the sales with their arms full of newly purchased treasures. No one seems to notice the razor wire glinting in the sunlight.


But sometimes I ponder how a prison came to be the next-door-neighbor to one of the city’s most elegant neighborhoods.  Didn’t Woodruff and his neighbors cry “NIMBY” when the state decided to build a prison in their backyard? Surely they did.



But as it turns out, it was Woodruff himself who made the decision.


In 1867, a group of Quakers visited the Indiana State Reformatory at Jeffersonville, where female offenders were housed in quarters adjacent to the men’s prison. There, the visitors heard harrowing tales of sexual abuse and mistreatment by the all-male staff, especially when the women took their weekly baths. As one of the visitors, Rhoda Coffin, later related in her memoir:

On Sabbath afternoons the women prisoners were brought out and compelled to strip, and thus exposed, compelled to run from the opposite side of the court and jump into the water, the guards using, if necessary, their lashes to drive them out to the howling amusement of their guards and their friends who were permitted to be present; keeping it up as long as they pleased.

The horrific treatment of the women was reported to Gov. Conrad Baker. A legislative investigation was launched that confirmed the details in the Quaker report and discovered even more extensive abuses.  Gov. Baker and the Quaker women lobbied for passage of legislation to construct a separate prison for women.  A bill establishing the Indiana Women’s Reformatory for Women and Girls became law on May 13, 1869.


A site was selected on state-owned property east of the city. By November 1869, excavation had begun for the first prison in the United States that was built exclusively for women.


Remnants of the prison’s old iron fence with its limestone base were still visible in 2017 but have since been removed.
Remnants of the prison’s old iron fence with its limestone base were still visible in 2017 but have since been removed.

The main building of the new prison was nearly completed in 1872 when Woodruff purchased 77 adjacent acres to build an exclusive residential park which would later be named “Woodruff Place.” Soon other developers set their sights eastward.


Lots were quickly snapped up in the newly platted Arsenal Heights and Brookside neighborhoods. Stoughton Fletcher broke ground on a new housing development east of his opulent mansion on Clifford Avenue (now 10th Street).


Even Isaac Hodgson — the architect of the women’s prison — got in on the action, announcing in 1873 his plans to plat a new subdivision called Rose Vale on the north side of Clifford Avenue just east of Woodruff Place.


Construction of these new east-side neighborhoods stalled for a few years following the bank panic of 1873, but the area rebounded in the 1880s as the economy improved.  And although “location, location, location” was just an important in the 1880s as it is today, prospective home buyers seemed undaunted by the fact that their expensive new homes would be located within spitting distance of a state prison.


This apparent lack of concern was likely rooted in the prison reform movement of the late 1800s. The original building that housed the female prisoners bore little resemblance to a prison. Instead, it was designed by Hodgson to be “graceful and imposing,” with interiors that looked more like a middle-class residence than a jailhouse. Reformers believed that by exposing wayward women to religion and refinements, they would lead a straight and orderly life upon release from prison.


But within a few years, it became clear that many of the inmates would never comport themselves in the ladylike manner envisioned by reformers. To make matters worse, the prison was overcrowded, and young girls of a tender age — including many children whose only “crime” was homelessness” — were jammed in close quarters with adult inmates.


In its wisdom, the legislature recognized that it was bad public policy to house children with hardened criminals, so in 1899 the General Assembly established the Indiana Industrial School for Girls. At the same time, however, it failed to fund a new facility.


This 1902 map shows the original sites of the 3 state facilities that legislators sought to relocate in the early 1900s.
This 1902 map shows the original sites of the 3 state facilities that legislators sought to relocate in the early 1900s.

In 1901, Sen. Fremont Goodwine of Williamsport sought to fix the funding dilemma with an innovative plan.  Demand was growing for land within the city of Indianapolis, so Goodwine proposed selling the 15 acres adjacent to Woodruff Place, along with the property at Washington and State Streets where the Indiana Asylum for the Deaf and Dumb was located and the two city blocks downtown that housed the Indiana Asylum for the Blind.  The proceeds for the sale would be used to construct new, modern facilities at cheaper locations outside of Indianapolis. The bill failed.


The following session, Goodwine proposed a slimmed-down version that focused on selling the east side property and separating the girls from the women. Michigan City was the front runner for the site of the new prison. That proposal failed too.


Another four years would pass before funding was finally provided to build a separate reform school for girls. But the women’s prison stayed put on the near east side.


The Indiana Industrial School for Girls, later renamed the Indiana Girls School, was located on the far west side of Marion County on the eponymously named Girls School Road.  The facility was permanently closed in 2009.
The Indiana Industrial School for Girls, later renamed the Indiana Girls School, was located on the far west side of Marion County on the eponymously named Girls School Road. The facility was permanently closed in 2009.

In 1909, newly elected Gov. Thomas Marshall joined the fight for construction of new women’s prison.  Proponents of Marshall’s plan believed that the east side property could be sold for $100,000, which would completely offset the state’s cost to build a new prison on larger acreage at a different location.


At a Senate hearing on the bill, the city building inspector testified that the prison was a firetrap and the conditions he found there “made his hair stand on end.” A number of persons who lived nearby also testified in support of moving the prison, claiming that their sole interest in the matter was the safety of the inmates.  But just like its predecessors, this bill failed too.


The Indianapolis News, Nov. 29, 1928
The Indianapolis News, Nov. 29, 1928

Despite renovations, the aging prison remained a safety concern. In 1929, the prison’s trustees unsuccessfully sought $320,000 for construction of a new facility at a different location in central Indiana. Two years later, a group of east-side civic organizations also failed to gain passage of a proposal to move the female prisoners to the Indianapolis Hospital for the Criminally Insane in Julietta, a small hamlet on the far-east side near the Hancock County line.


This time, the prison’s neighbors were frank in expressing their concern about the impact of the prison on their property values.  If the bill passed, they hoped the vacated prison property could be redeveloped with new homes or used as a park.


Over the next few years, the Department of Public Welfare studied several different proposals for relocating the women’s prison.  But the Great Depression had emptied the state’s coffers and robbed the eastside property of any resale value.  Instead of the long-anticipated move, WPA workers razed the old building that faced New York Street and constructed new cottages, a hospital, an administration building and a stately chapel at the same location.


The 1970s brought another push to move the women’s prison out of the city limits, to either the grounds of the Indiana Girls’ School in Clermont or the Indiana Boys’ School in Plainfield.  But after a two-year legislative study, Gov. Otis Bowen announced in 1974 that the $1.5 million price tag was prohibitive. The best course of action was renovation, not relocation.


The century-long debate over relocation finally came to end in June 2017 when DOC shut down the prison. Now, a new use for the site is finally being considered. The city of Indianapolis acquired the 15-acre former prison property from the state in 2024, and last week the city of Indianapolis announced that it had entered into a contract with the Urban Land Institute to evaluate potential uses of the historic property where convicted murderers once lived alongside some of Indy's wealthiest families.


A glimpse of razor wire topping a chain link fence, as seen from Woodruff Place in July 2017.
A glimpse of razor wire topping a chain link fence, as seen from Woodruff Place in July 2017.

A version of this article first appeared on the HistoricIndianapolis site in 2017.

Entire city blocks submerged in water. Families trapped in their attics, calling out frantically for help. Children forced to abandon their dogs when rescuers finally arrived, and as the waters began to recede, a star-studded benefit to help rebuild the city. It may sound like a scene from post-Katrina New Orleans, but the year was 1913 and the place was Indianapolis.


The torrential downpour started on Easter Sunday, and did not let up for five days.  By the time the skies began clearing over Indianapolis, more than 7,000 families had lost their homes and at least 25 people had lost their lives. More than 100 years later, the Great Flood of 1913 remains the city’s most devastating natural disaster in modern times.


Rescue canoes paddle through the future site of the IUPUI campus. The building to the left was the Grocers Baking Company, located on the corner of New York Street and present-day University Avenue. The photo above was taken on March 25, 1913.
Rescue canoes paddle through the future site of the IUPUI campus. The building to the left was the Grocers Baking Company, located on the corner of New York Street and present-day University Avenue. The photo above was taken on March 25, 1913.

The first hint of disaster came on Good Friday, March 21, when a violent windstorm swept through Indianapolis.  Dark rain clouds hovered low in the sky throughout Saturday, but because it would be seven more years before the city had a radio station and decades until the advent of doppler radar, most families just went on about their business, unaware of the gathering storm.


Indianapolis residents woke up to a downpour on Easter Sunday. By midday the sodden ground — already saturated from heavy rains — began to flood. Still, residents were not overly concerned, and the 11th Annual Auto Show opened at the fairgrounds on Monday as planned, albeit to a smaller-than-expected crowd.


The rains continued all day Monday, and earthen levees along White River, Fall Creek and Eagle Creek began giving way, unleashing torrents of water onto surrounding streets.  On Tuesday, floodwaters breached the Indianapolis Water Company’s pumping station, shutting down water service to the entire city. At a time when most Indianapolis residents would have welcomed a beer, brewer Albert Lieber generously invited the public to draw “pure water” from the 15 wells on the grounds of the Indianapolis Brewing Company.


On Tuesday evening, hundreds of spectators who had gathered on the near west side to watch the river rise were forced to flee when the Morris Street levee broke. Rescuers who spent the night searching the flooded district reported cries for help “that suddenly became hushed as though overwhelmed by the oncoming water.”


By the time the river reached its crest on Wednesday, March 26, an estimated 10,000 homes had been flooded.  The hardest hit part of the city was West Indianapolis, an industrial suburb roughly bounded by Washington Street, White River Parkway, Raymond Street and Belmont Avenue.


Streetcar service to all parts of the city was lost as water flooded the power house at the Indianapolis Streetcar Company. After the Washington Street bridge collapsed, West Indianapolis was cut off from the rest of the city, which in turn was cut off from the rest of the world by damage to the railroads and to the telephone lines.


Cars and carriages weave through debris left in the wake of the Great Flood of 1913. Photo from the author's collection.
Cars and carriages weave through debris left in the wake of the Great Flood of 1913. Photo from the author's collection.

Tomlinson Hall was turned into a relief station, providing food and medication to victims of the flood.  Nearly 500 refugees were housed in Emmerich Manual High School, the Boys Club, and St. Vincent’s Infirmary.  Another 500 flood victims took shelter in their attics, refusing to leave, and 300 persons sought refuge at School 16, located on Market Street in the near-westside Stringtown neighborhood.


While the damage was heaviest along the White River, Fall Creek was flooded up to 13th Street, washing out Fall Creek Boulevard and forcing near-northside residents from their homes. Capitol Avenue was the only route open to the northern suburbs, because the flood had either destroyed or seriously damaged bridges on Meridian, College and Northwestern Avenue, and Illinois Street was underwater for several blocks south of the bridge.



The Great Flood of 1913 was so powerful that it ripped out the concrete on the Meridian Street bridge over Fall Creek. Photos from the author's collection.
The Great Flood of 1913 was so powerful that it ripped out the concrete on the Meridian Street bridge over Fall Creek. Photos from the author's collection.

On Wednesday, water began to lap against the front porch steps of houses in 3200-3300 blocks of Park, Broadway and College.  In an effort to stop the rushing water from reaching their homes, a few of the remaining residents who had not fled to higher ground built a make-shift dike that temporarily redirected the flood waters away from their homes and down Broadway Street.  Not surprisingly, this un-neighborly action enraged the people who lived on Broadway. Before the altercation could escalate into violence, however, the waters breached the earthen levee and the entire neighborhood was submerged.


More than half of Broad Ripple was also underwater by Wednesday as water rose more than 12 feet above the Broad Ripple dam. Throughout the day, dozens of men frantically carried sandbags and other materials to build up the locks on the canal to prevent the rest of the town from being flooded.


In the early hours of Thursday, March 27, patrol boats heard a terrifying crash. When daylight came, they saw that the Vandalia Railroad Bridge had collapsed into the White River, along with 10 coal-laden freight cars that had been placed on the bridge in an unsuccessful effort to steady it against the raging waters.


Photo from author's collection
Photo from author's collection

The waters began to recede on Thursday but the post-flood problems were just beginning.  Numerous reports of looting prompted Governor Samuel Ralston to call out the National Guard.  Their orders were to shoot any thieves on sight. The temperature had also dropped down into the low 20s. Combined with a bitter wind, the harsh weather endangered the lives of both the flood victims who were stranded in their unheated homes and the rescuers who were trying to save them.


By Friday, life slowly began to return to normal in those parts of the city that had not been damaged by the flood.  The Indianapolis Water Company resumed water service and hundreds of freshly bathed people jammed the English Opera House to watch a “monster benefit performance for flood sufferers” arranged by The Indianapolis Star.  Meanwhile on the near westside, families returned to their ruined homes and began the painful process of piecing their lives back together.


Photo from author's collection
Photo from author's collection

Meteorologists have dubbed the Great Flood of 1913 a “500 Year Flood Event.”  I sure hope they’re right. When the White River crested at 7 a.m. on the morning of March 26, 1913, its height was estimated at 31½ feet – more than 19 feet above flood stage. Ironically, the exact height of the river during Indianapolis’ most infamous flood is unknown because the gauge washed away when the water reached 29½ feet.



Photos from author's collection
Photos from author's collection

A previous version of this article was published in Historic Indianapolis.


The Indiana General Assembly met for the first time in Indianapolis 200 years ago today. Even though the legislature voted to move the capital from Corydon in 1821, Indianapolis was a capital in name only for the next four years as state lawmakers apparently felt no urgency to make the move themselves.


Both politics and pragmatism played into the protracted delay. Southern Indiana lawmakers were loathe to relinquish their power base and were reluctant to travel several days on horseback to a mosquito-infested backwoods town. Indianapolis also lacked representation at the Corydon statehouse. This was rectified in 1823 when James Gregory of Shelby County and James Paxton of Marion County were elected to the Senate and House, respectively, after what historian W.R. Holloway described as a spirited campaign of “child-kissing, dinner-eating, wife-flattering electioneering.”


The duo traveled to Corydon in November for the start of the session, and by January 1824 had managed to convince their fellow lawmakers that it was finally time for Indiana government to move to its permanent home.  Their cause was aided by legislators’ growing discontent with the price-gouging tactics of Corydon innkeepers.

Washington Street in 1825 as envisioned by Thomas Glessing in an 1870s painting.  A sign on a log cabin reads "Kalop Skudder Kabinet Maker." In the distance a wagon brings the government records from Corydon.
Washington Street in 1825 as envisioned by Thomas Glessing in an 1870s painting. A sign on a log cabin reads "Kalop Skudder Kabinet Maker." In the distance a wagon brings the government records from Corydon.

The citizens of Indianapolis were jubilant in victory, and feted Gregory and Paxton with a banquet upon their return to Indianapolis.  The city was literally drunk with the promise of prosperity that would follow when the legislature came to town. Some years later historian Berry Sulgrove wrote that the settlers’ dreams were eventually fulfilled, “but not until all who were old enough to take part in the festivities were in their graves.”


State Treasurer Samuel Merrill officially moved the capital from Corydon to Indianapolis in November 1824.  Meanwhile, Indianapolis readied for the arrival of the “big bugs,” as legislators were commonly called in those days.


The first Marion County Courthouse, as sketched by artist Christian Schrader
The first Marion County Courthouse, as sketched by artist Christian Schrader

The Legislature had appropriated $8,000 for the construction of a courthouse that would serve the General Assembly until a state capitol was built. Thomas Carter opened a tavern on Washington Street across from the courthouse, while James Blake and Samuel Henderson built Washington Hall.  And in an effort to raise the level of discourse in the frontier town, the leading men of Indianapolis established a mock legislature that for the next 12 years would debate many of the same issues confronting the real legislature, with the information and arguments from the faux body’s debates often determining the outcome of the real thing.


The first session of the General Assembly to be held in Indianapolis was gaveled in on the morning of January 10, 1825.  Although “gaveled in” might not be the correct term, because it appears that the courthouse lacked a table for the Speaker of the House. 


The House Journal reflects that shortly after the session was opened with “a solemn prayer and thanksgiving to Almighty God,” the House Doorkeeper was dispatched to procure for the use of the Speaker “a common sized plain table, with a drawer, and a lock and key to the same.” Whether the Speaker was able to use his new table for the entire legislative session, however, remains unclear.


One of the first laws of lawmaking is that every law is passed for a reason. So my curiosity was naturally aroused when I saw that one of the first bills passed by the General Assembly in Indianapolis dealt with the subject of state furnishings.


Early in the 1825 session, the Legislature adopted a law requiring the Secretary of State to procure a branding iron to brand all tables, desks, chairs, candlestands and anything else that might be moveable with the initials “PSI” (Property of the State of Indiana”).  Given the urgency of this legislation, I would not be surprised if the Speaker had arrived for session one morning only to find out that his table had walked off during the night.


The legislators’ living conditions during that first session were rough. Although Indianapolis had four years to prepare for the onslaught of activity that accompanies a legislative session, the town was ill-equipped to handle the nearly doubling of its population brought about by the arrival of more than 100 men — some accompanied by family members — along with curious onlookers and various hangers-on with axes to grind. To make matters worse, Carter’s Tavern burned down in February, forcing many lawmakers to flee and seek refuge in primitive cabins where their colleagues already were sleeping three to a bed.


Although the addition of several new taverns made lodging more comfortable the following year, the courthouse quickly proved to be too cramped to accommodate the needs of the Legislature.  Hearings were regularly held in private homes, as the courthouse lacked space for the work of the various legislative committees.  Less than six  years after its first session in Indianapolis, the Legislature voted to build a new Statehouse.

The first Indianapolis Statehouse
The first Indianapolis Statehouse

While the completion of the new Statehouse in 1835 brought a certain gravitas to Indianapolis, overall the city’s selection as the state capital failed to fuel any meaningful economic development.  As a practical matter, it made no sense for private businesses to make a substantial investment in infrastructure to serve a General Assembly that was only in town for three months each year.  In fact, during their early years in Indianapolis, state lawmakers devoted considerable effort to the passage of relief measures for property owners who had unwisely bet on the come and paid inflated prices for the lots in downtown Indianapolis.


According to historian W.R. Holloway, the selection of Indianapolis as the state capital was akin to a “fairy’s bad gift,” which would only do one thing while blocking the recipient from doing anything else.  It was not until the first train roared into the station in 1847 that the pioneer era ended and Indianapolis really began to grow as the center of commerce.

Floor plan for the House and Senate chambers in the first Indianapolis Statehouse
Floor plan for the House and Senate chambers in the first Indianapolis Statehouse

I have always been fascinated by pioneer-era legislation, perhaps for the same reason I enjoyed watching a certain TV show about survivors struggling to re-establish civilization after a zombie apocalypse. In both situations, a group of people are handed a blank slate and given the opportunity to create a new system of laws and government.  The choices that they make and the decisions that they avoid making could determine the course of society for decades, even centuries to come.


Some years ago, I started assembling a collection of statute books from the early sessions of the Indiana General Assembly.  So far, 1828 is the earliest year that I have been able to find at a reasonable price. These books are beautiful to look at but even more interesting to read because they tell the back story of the Indiana that we know today.  Counties were established and named in those years – and sometimes renamed, as in the case of my home county, Howard, which was originally established as Richardville.  Complicated laws on banking and taxation were passed in the same years that state funds were appropriated for the purchase of wolf scalps.  And law after law was passed during the pioneer era that continues to benefit the city of Indianapolis and the people who live here.

The Indiana General Assembly returned to Indianapolis this week for the start of another legislative session.  Their horses have long since been replaced with SUVs, but the basic purpose of the Legislature remains unchanged: to enact the laws by which the state of Indiana is governed.


Perhaps in another 200 years some future history buff will be reading laws from this session and will marvel at the foresight and vision of the 2025 General Assembly. Or perhaps they will laugh at the folly. Only time will tell.  I just hope that when the time comes, the bills and acts and statute books that I can read on paper today haven’t vanished into the cloud.


 

An earlier version of this article was posted in 2013 in HistoricIndianapolis.com

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