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| Condescension face: Rhonda Anderson, Western Massachusetts Commissioner on Indian Affairs, mention her name, and the eyes roll....because Rhonda knows best! |
I. The Letter That Started It
A letter appeared in the Greenfield Recorder on June 27, 2026, from Tim Grant of Bernardston. He missed the Big Indian on Route 2 — the fiberglass roadside figure that stood for decades near Shelburne Falls before being removed and shipped to Oklahoma following a campaign organized by Rhonda K. Anderson, Western Massachusetts Commissioner on Indian Affairs, and Tomantha Sylvester. He invoked the "woke crowd," the "malcontents," President Trump. Normal people, he said, never had a problem with it.
Tim Grant is wrong about the politics. But he is accidentally right about something more important, and that accidental rightness is worth taking seriously — more seriously than the removal campaign ever took the figure it was removing.
The Big Indian deserved better than Tim Grant's nostalgia. It also deserved better than what it got from the people who sent it to Oklahoma.
Before explaining why, there is something that needs to be named plainly — something that has not been said plainly enough anywhere yet. It is the thing that connects a fiberglass figure on Route 2 to a Facebook thread with 22,000 views to a light left on in an apartment for six years. It is the dirty trick.
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II. The Dirty Trick
Rhonda Anderson wrote "tagging me in isn't making me feel very safe" in a thread that contained public comments calling for physical violence against me. Throw him off the bridge. I want to punch him. Twenty-two thousand people saw that thread. Some of them knew where I lived. I left a light on for six years because of it. Not a metaphorical light. An actual light, in an actual apartment, because I was genuinely concerned that one of the 22,000 people who saw that thread — the thread Anderson amplified with her state Commissioner title and her fabricated restraining order claim — might show up.
That is what 22,000 views means when the thread contains calls for violence. It means the person being discussed cannot know which of those 22,000 people is going to act on it. It means you sleep with a light on. It means you check the door. It means you carry the weight of a mob you never consented to face.
Rhonda Anderson was not in danger. I was in danger. That is the dirty trick — performing fear inside the mechanism that created someone else's actual fear. "I don't feel safe being tagged in" while the thread you are actively participating in tells 22,000 people that the target is unhinged, dangerous, a conspiracy theorist, subject to restraining orders that do not exist.
The conspiracy theorist label is worth examining on its own terms. Anderson called me a conspiracy theorist in a thread that was itself a conspiracy — a coordinated, multi-participant campaign to damage my reputation and my livelihood, built on claims that were false, amplified by institutional authority, and modified after the fact when the false claims were challenged. The thread is the conspiracy. The person it targeted is the one who named it accurately. That this campaign has generated criminal charges, civil liability, and federal civil rights documentation does not make it less of a conspiracy. It makes it a documented one.
I ran into Anderson once, in the supermarket. I had a rule with all of these people — each of them got one chance to clear their name. One chance to say they were wrong, to apologize, to acknowledge what the record showed. I asked her directly: why did you say those things about me online?
She said: I always say nice things about you, John.
That is not a misremembering. That is not a different interpretation of events. The record is there. The edits are timestamped. The restraining order claim is documented. What she said about me is in writing, with her name on it, preserved in the archive this essay is part of.
She said she always says nice things about me.
That is who is performing safety while someone else sleeps with the light on.
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III. Here Is What She Actually Said
In the June 6, 2020 Facebook thread beneath Alouette Batteau's viral post about the Iron Bridge — 22,000 views, 436 comments — Rhonda K. Anderson published the following assessment of John Sendelbach's character:
"I have known 'Johnny Bach' for about 14 years now. He is a little unhinged, so his ideology is wacked to start with. There is little reasoning with him — he is a conspiracy theorist type."
She later added, in a separate comment, that active restraining orders existed against him for harassing women, including herself.
Both claims are false. The fourteen-year characterization maps a 2020 political script onto a dormant professional interaction from 2011 — a declined business partnership, followed by nine years of documented silence. The restraining order claim was published, survived twelve minutes, was edited to add the phrase "from first-hand 1:1 experience" for authority, then revised the following morning from "there are restraining orders" to "there were efforts towards restraining orders," and immediately wrapped in the language of personal vulnerability: "Tagging me in isn't making me feel very safe."
Certified review of Franklin County Superior Court and Greenfield District Court records confirms: no restraining orders, active or historical, existed against Sendelbach in connection with Anderson or any other party at the time of publication.
She told 22,000 people otherwise.
And then, at the bottom of the thread, she added one more comment.
"I wasn't actually even there."
The Western Massachusetts Commissioner on Indian Affairs — gubernatorial appointee, Massachusetts Cultural Council board member, 2021 Commonwealth Heroine — characterized a private citizen's character, fabricated his legal history, and amplified both to 22,000 people, about an event she did not witness, sourcing her characterization from a business interaction nine years prior that had nothing to do with any of the political content she attributed to it.
The people calling for zero nuance extended to Sendelbach's words that morning were, in significant number, also not there. Katie Hennessey stated her goal in the thread plainly: move him away from the scene so the protest could continue. Mission accomplished, she said. Anderson praised her for it. Sonseniora Walters called it hopeful. Sarah Chase said she would have started a chant.
Zero nuance. No charitable reading. No interest in context. No acknowledgment that the characterization being amplified came from someone who, by her own admission, was not present for the event being characterized.
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IV. The Actual Relationship
Anderson's public characterization of a fourteen-year acquaintance shaped by recurring ideological debate is not supported by the documented history of contact between the two parties.
In late 2010 and into early 2011, Sendelbach was preparing to open his commercial art studio and gallery at 44 State Street in Shelburne Falls. Recognizing Anderson as a skilled local silversmith and metalworker, he approached her and her husband with an offer of professional partnership — sharing commercial overhead and co-occupying the storefront. In February 2011, Anderson declined by email. Her stated reason was strictly financial: her accountant had advised against the retail overhead given the market price of silver at that time.
Following that email, the documented contact between them was essentially zero for the next nine years. There were no recurring ideological debates. There were no visits to the gallery. The total interaction amounted to a handful of brief encounters clustered in a narrow window in 2010 and early 2011, followed by nine years of silence.
There is an additional chronological problem: several of the specific ideological frameworks Anderson implied they had debated were not part of the mainstream cultural lexicon in 2011. The language of the social justice moment of 2020 was not the language of 2011. Her account contains what might be called a retroactive anachronism — the insertion of 2020 political terms and tensions into a 2011 relationship that would not have used them.
The actual source of friction, when it existed, was personal rather than political — an ordinary social encounter from that narrow 2011 window that had nothing to do with ideology, nothing to do with systemic political disagreement, and nothing to do with any of the publicly stated justifications for the June 2020 intervention. That dormant friction, reactivated by a convenient viral thread and amplified by institutional standing, was presented to the public in the language of 2020 rather than the language of its actual origin.
That substitution is what makes the intervention something other than a good-faith civic act.
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V. Two Figures, Six Miles Apart, Both Imprecise
Six miles west of where the Big Indian stood, in Charlemont, Massachusetts, a bronze Mohawk warrior figure has been standing since 1932. It is called the Hail to the Sunrise. It was commissioned by a local chapter of the Improved Order of Red Men — a fraternal organization that used Native American ceremonial aesthetics as its organizing framework throughout the early twentieth century, during the same period when the Ku Klux Klan was burning crosses on the hillsides above the Deerfield River and floating one downstream on a raft beneath what is now the Bridge of Flowers. The IORM is not the KKK. But the 1920s and 1930s in this valley were not a culturally neutral period in which civic monuments were erected without social context.
The Hail to the Sunrise represents a Mohawk warrior. The Mohawk Trail — Route 2 — is named for the Mohawk people, but the Mohawk were not the primary Indigenous presence in this specific valley. The Pocumtuck people lived here. The Abenaki passed through and fought here. The Nipmuc were part of the treaty fishery at Salmon Crossing. The Mohawk were a presence — sometimes allied, sometimes in conflict — but the road's name is itself a misattribution, a 1914 tourism designation that assigned the most recognizable Northeastern tribal name to a landscape whose Indigenous history is considerably more complex.
So the Hail to the Sunrise is a Mohawk figure on Pocumtuck land, commissioned in 1932 by a fraternal organization, standing on a road incorrectly named for the tribe it represents. It is still standing. The removal campaign did not touch it.
The Big Indian was a generic Plains Indian iconography made by a novice artist in the mid-twentieth century. The artist did not intend to represent a specific tribal nation. He made a figure — a generalized Indigenous elder male, in Plains-influenced dress — as roadside vernacular. It was not a caricature designed to mock. It was not precise. It was not tribally specific. It was imprecise in the way that most American roadside vernacular is imprecise: made by someone who knew what they were reaching toward without knowing the specific history of the specific ground they were standing on.
Both figures are imprecise. Both are on the same road. One was removed. One was not.
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VI. "He Doesn't Even Look Like Us"
Tomantha Sylvester, explaining the campaign to remove the Big Indian, said: "He doesn't even look like us."
Tomantha Sylvester is Anishinaabe, from the Great Lakes region. Rhonda Anderson is Iñupiaq-Athabascan, with her enrolled village in Kaktovik, Alaska — approximately three thousand miles from the Connecticut River Valley and the territories of the Pocumtuck, Abenaki, and Nipmuc peoples who actually inhabited this specific landscape.
The Big Indian doesn't look like them. This is correct. It also doesn't look like a Pocumtuck elder, an Abenaki warrior, or a Nipmuc sachem. It doesn't look like any specific person because it wasn't made to represent any specific person. It was made by a novice artist reaching toward a general concept of Indigenous presence on a road associated, however inaccurately, with Indigenous history.
The Hail to the Sunrise Mohawk warrior doesn't look like Tomantha Sylvester or Rhonda Anderson either. It represents a tribe from a different region of the Northeast, commissioned by a fraternal organization, on land that wasn't primarily Mohawk territory. If the standard applied to the Big Indian had been applied consistently, the 1932 bronze should have been the first thing removed.
It was not removed. It stands today on Route 2 in Charlemont, six miles from the stone base where the Big Indian used to stand.
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VII. The Stone Base
The site where the Big Indian stood is now an empty stone base.
This is the practical outcome of the removal campaign. A visible Indigenous presence on the Mohawk Trail — however imprecise, however generic, however far from a tribally-endorsed specific representation — is gone. The road named for the Mohawk people now has less visible acknowledgment of Indigenous presence than it did before the campaign. What replaced the figure was nothing. Not a corrected representation. Not a tribally-specific commission. Not a teaching installation. Not a QR code pointing to the actual history of the Pocumtuck people who lived in this valley. A stone base. Empty.
Anderson's most consistent public position — documented across years of advocacy and state appointments — is that Native American people are invisibilized in American public culture. Their history is erased. Their presence is suppressed. Their representation is managed out of the public landscape.
She then organized a campaign that produced an empty stone base on Route 2 and shipped the Indigenous presence that had stood there for decades to Oklahoma.
The invisibilization she publicly deplores is the documented outcome of the campaign she led. This is not a rhetorical point. It is a description of what is currently visible on Route 2 in Shelburne Falls.
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VIII. Sonam Lama
The shop where the Big Indian stood was owned and operated by Sonam Lama, a Tibetan immigrant who had built his livelihood in western Massachusetts after leaving a homeland that had itself experienced systematic cultural suppression and erasure by a more powerful occupying government.
The campaign against the Big Indian included a petition with over 1,300 signatures and explicit threats of economic boycott against his shop. It was organized by people with no ancestral connection to the specific territory of the Connecticut River Valley and no commercial stake in the outcome.
The shop owner who had fled cultural erasure in his homeland had his fifty-year local landmark destroyed by a boycott campaign organized in the name of protecting cultural representation. This irony is not incidental. It is structural. The framework being applied did not account for it. The campaign did not address it. The stone base does not explain it.
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IX. Fractional Authority
The state appointments Anderson holds — including the Commissioner on Indian Affairs designation and the gubernatorial Cultural Council appointment — were secured, at least in part, through her publicly stated Indigenous identity. Those appointments carry real power: the power to intervene in municipal renaming decisions, to drive campaign petitions that close small businesses, to present at state legislative hearings, to decline community accountability forums, and to publish — from a verified state title — character assessments of private citizens to twenty-two thousand people.
The public record of Anderson's ancestry, available through certified genealogical documentation, establishes that she carries approximately one-eighth to one-quarter Iñupiaq ancestry, with her remaining heritage primarily Swedish and Scottish. Her family moved from Alaska to New Jersey during her childhood. She grew up in western Massachusetts, attending Sanderson Academy, Mohawk Trail Regional School, and Turners Falls High School.
This is stated as documented fact, not as a challenge to her identity or her right to self-identify. The relevant question it raises is institutional rather than personal: when public authority is exercised against specific individuals and communities on the basis of a specific identity claim, the relationship between that claim and the constituency being represented has some bearing on the accountability framework under which that power is exercised.
A state Commissioner exercising authority on behalf of a specific constituency has a different accountability relationship with that constituency than a private individual does. The documented lineage does not resolve that question. It raises it.
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X. What the Teaching Moment Required
Here is what neither Tim Grant's nostalgia nor the removal campaign offered: the actual argument.
The Big Indian was imprecise. The Hail to the Sunrise is imprecise. Both stand on the same road, which is itself incorrectly named. Between them and the actual history of this valley is approximately six hundred years of Pocumtuck, Abenaki, Nipmuc, and African American presence that the official public landscape of Route 2 has largely managed into the margins.
That is not an argument for removal. It is an argument for reckoning.
The U.S. Commission on Civil Rights, in its 2001 statement on Native American imagery, called for replacement not with nothing, but with "education about real Indian people, current Native American issues, and the rich variety of American Indian cultures in our country." The Commission's statement identifies dialogue and education as "the roads to understanding." It does not identify an empty stone base as a road to understanding. The Commission's statement also addresses a specific context: sports mascots in educational institutions, where students have limited choice about daily exposure and where schools are actively endorsing the imagery as their own institutional identity. The Big Indian was not a school mascot. It was roadside vernacular on a public highway, made by a private artist, on private commercial property. Applying the institutional mascot framework to a fiberglass figure outside a souvenir shop obscures the genuine distinction between harmful institutional endorsement and imprecise civic representation.
A QR code on the Big Indian could have told a visitor: this figure was made by a novice artist in the mid-twentieth century with no tribal specificity intended. The road it stands on is named for the Mohawk people, who were not the primary Indigenous presence in this valley. The people who primarily inhabited this ground were the Pocumtuck. They were present at Peskeompskut — what Europeans called Salmon Falls — for thousands of years before the first European grid was imposed on this landscape. Here is their history. Here is what an honest representation of their presence in this valley might look like. Here is what is proposed.
A QR code on the Hail to the Sunrise could have told a visitor: this figure was commissioned in 1932 by a chapter of the Improved Order of Red Men, a fraternal organization that adopted Native American ceremonial aesthetics during the same decade the Ku Klux Klan was active in this valley. The figure represents a Mohawk warrior on land that was primarily Pocumtuck and Abenaki territory. Here is what precision would require.
That is the teaching moment. It does not require removing anything. It requires adding context, adding honesty, adding the history that both figures reach toward without reaching accurately enough. It requires staying in the room long enough to build something that lasts.
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XI. The Standard That Moves in One Direction
In December 2011, Anderson published a letter in the Brattleboro Reformer about a basket of fluorescent feather headdresses she found displayed at a local shop during a holiday celebration. The letter was precise about what she found offensive and why:
"It is not okay to dress up as another race... Stereotyping and caricatures of Natives do nothing to represent the more than 560 distinct cultures in the U.S. and more than 630 in Canada who are thriving, who dress in mainstream clothing, and who do not wear traditional clothing every day."
In September 2017, she posted the following to her public Facebook page:
"If anybody dresses as a Native American for Halloween I'm going to mace you and give you the full Experience."
Seventy reactions. Five shares. No apparent consequence.
Three years before the mace post — and three years after the Brattleboro Reformer letter — in March 2014, Sonseniora Walters posted photographs of herself and a companion to social media. Walters is an active participant in Anderson's civic network and a vocal member of the June 2020 campaign against Sendelbach. The photographs show her in a feather headband, face paint, and fringed dress — precisely the category of representation Anderson's published letter described as racist, and that her 2017 post threatened to punish with chemical spray. The photographs are dated and exist in the social media record. Anderson did not post about them. Her network did not flag them. No correction appeared.
In Shelburne Falls, on a public sidewalk, Walters installed a painted Little Free Library designated the "LITTLE BIPOC LIBRARY." The text on its panel reads: "Black Indigenous People & Color Authors Exclusively." The installation excludes books by white authors by explicit written policy, on a public sidewalk, in a village whose literary and civic tradition it is claiming to serve. Anderson did not post about that either.
In May 2015, Anderson shared a memorial post for her cousin, Etok Charles Edwardsen Jr., an Iñupiaq activist and a genuine figure in the Alaska Native land rights movement. The post quoted him from a 1970 speech in Washington DC. In that speech, he said: "The United States got gypped when it bought Alaska." The word is Romani in origin. It encodes the same mechanism of ethnic caricature — a people reduced to a stereotype of dishonest dealing — that Anderson has spent years of public advocacy arguing causes measurable harm to Indigenous youth. She shared the post approvingly. She was mourning her cousin. No correction was posted. No one in her network flagged it.
Anderson holds five acres in East Colrain, Massachusetts. The framework she deploys publicly — the framework that sent the Big Indian to Oklahoma and left its stone base standing empty on Route 2 — has a logical terminus. It does not stop at fiberglass. It stops at the deed. She holds a deed.
The standard moves outward. Toward a fiberglass figure on a commercial property. Toward a metalworker on a bridge she was not standing on. It does not move inward — toward the costume in the network's own archive, toward the discriminatory sign on the public sidewalk book box, toward the slur on the memorial post, toward the deed in East Colrain.
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XII. The Springfield Boycott
The pattern of deploying institutional authority from a protected platform, then withdrawing when direct public accountability is introduced, is documented beyond the 2020 thread.
In early 2024, Springfield College was engaged in an internal debate about renaming campus buildings and structures with Native American names. Anderson and her colleagues were invited to participate in an open community forum. The forum had originally been structured as a closed webinar — invited speakers presenting without direct questioning. Following pushback from students, faculty, and alumni who wanted genuine dialogue, the format was changed to a standard open Zoom call in which community members could ask questions directly.
When Anderson and her colleagues were informed of this format change, they boycotted the forum and declined to attend. During the live call, an email from one of the boycotting representatives was read aloud:
"I am also hearing that we will be subjected to an hour of questioning... The changes being made convey the message that the administrators do not care about our daily lives and shared humanity. The changes also tell me whoever is making these decisions is also too ignorant to have a good faith conversation."
The structural logic of the boycott is precise. The invitation was accepted when the format guaranteed uninterrupted presentation. It was rejected when the format allowed the audience to ask questions. The objection was not to the substance of the forum. The objection was to the format that would require the speakers to respond to scrutiny.
This is the same structure as "I wasn't actually even there." Present when the platform is protected. Absent when accountability is introduced.
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XIII. The Floodwater Cake and the Recorder's Silence
The asymmetry is not limited to Anderson's network. In Shelburne Falls, Floodwater Brewing Co. posted a cake to Instagram whose imagery — dark frosting, exaggerated pink lips, googly eyes — carried an iconographic history that is not ambiguous to anyone familiar with the documentary record of American racist caricature. The post generated 35 likes and a comment calling it fabulous. Floodwater is Zach Livingston's business — the same Zach Livingston whose sworn statement anchors the probable cause chain in Commonwealth v. Hennessey and Commonwealth v. Batteau, currently before Judge Mazanec. His mother, Joan Livingston, edits the Greenfield Recorder.
When the post was flagged, an apology followed. It received more than 100 likes — more engagement than the original. The controversy was its own reward.
The Recorder ran no article. The community thread with 436 comments did not materialize. The accountability infrastructure that produced 22,000 views on the Iron Bridge post was not activated.
The Padded Shovel does not apply uniformly. It applies directionally.
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XIV. The Water Rally and the River
A photograph from September 2019 shows Anderson at the Colrain water rally she organized following the Barnhardt Corporation acid spill that killed thousands of fish in the North River. She told the Valley Post that day: water has memory. Water is a living being. Water is sacred. Standing beside her in that photograph is Catherine Hennessey — a defendant in active criminal proceedings before Judge Mazanec in Greenfield District Court, charged in connection with an assault at Floodwater Brewery on November 30, 2025, in which the victim's iPhone was disposed of into the Deerfield River.
The river Anderson consecrated as sacred at a public rally. The standard, one final time, moved in one direction.
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XV. What Pocumtuck State of Mind Proposes Instead
The Hawk sculpture at the Quadrafecta Hub in Charlemont is what precision looks like. Twenty-two feet of Corten steel rising at the position where the Big Indian stood, facing east down the river valley — named for the air totem that surveys the full watershed from above and can see where the corridors are broken and where they connect. The Hawk Trail, the proposed renaming of Route 2 from the 1914 Mohawk Trail misnomer, acknowledges that the road runs through Pocumtuck and Abenaki territory and names it for the ecological character of the landscape rather than for a tribal nation imprecisely assigned to it by tourism promoters.
Approximately a thousand feet from the Hawk, at the Quadrafecta Hub's northeast quadrant, Chief Greylock — Wawanotewat — rises in Corten steel from a Cultural Burial Mound, facing west toward the mountain that carries a version of his name. He is Abenaki. He actually fought in this valley. His story is actually unfinished in this landscape. His presence here is not imprecise. It is historically specific, tribally accurate, and placed in the ground he defended.
In the southwest quadrant, Mashalisk — placed on the correct side of the river, correctly oriented — represents the Pocumtuck matriarchal lineage of diplomacy and governance. She is the people who were here. She is not generic. She is specific to this valley, to this river, to this treaty fishery that sustained civilizations for thousands of years before the first dam went in.
Six miles east, at Salmon Crossing in Shelburne Falls, the Sachem Salmon rises twenty-five feet from the heart site at Peskeompskut — the ancient treaty fishery — welded from reclaimed Lamson & Goodnow cutlery steel. The factory whose operations contributed to silencing the river becomes the material from which the river's primary ecological and cultural agent returns.
These are not generic figures. They are not imprecise. They are not removed and shipped to Oklahoma. They are placed in the specific ground they represent, in materials drawn from the specific cultural history of that ground, facing the specific directions their stories require.
This is what the Big Indian was pointing toward without the knowledge to get there. Tim Grant was right that the figure meant something to people who stopped on Route 2 and looked up at it. He was wrong that the meaning it carried was sufficient. The removal campaign was right that the figure was imprecise. It was wrong that removal was the answer.
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XVI. The Subterranean Architecture
There is a structural irony in the cumulative effect of these events that deserves to be named plainly.
The campaign of 2020 — the viral thread, the institutional amplification, the false restraining order claim, the coordinated boycott — forced the closure of Sendelbach's gallery at 44 State Street. The Charlemont campaign removed a fifty-year regional landmark and left its stone base empty. These were presented as acts of cultural protection. Their practical outcome was the erasure of physical presence from the landscape.
But the Pocumtuck State of Mind proposal — the most significant civic and artistic project that has emerged from this period — was directly catalyzed by those same erasures. The proposal exists because a gap was created. The Chief Greylock sculpture, the Hawk, Mashalisk, the Sachem Salmon: none of these would have been designed in response to a landscape that had not first been stripped.
Anderson's campaign, in the most precise architectural sense, provided the negative space into which the park's design was drawn. She served a structural purpose — the same purpose served by the pilings driven into Venetian mud, which are invisible beneath the palaces they support. The pilings are not the palace. They are the condition that makes the palace possible.
The park rises. The forensic record underneath it is what this document is.
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XVII. The Opening
What the record shows, cumulatively, is not a commissioner applying a consistent standard of cultural accountability to a landscape she has been appointed to steward. It shows a standard that moves outward — toward a fiberglass figure on a commercial property, toward a metalworker on a bridge she was not standing on — and does not move inward, toward the costume in the network's own archive, toward the discriminatory sign on the public sidewalk book box, toward the slur on the memorial post, toward the deed in East Colrain, toward the cake on the brewery Instagram whose apology generated more likes than the original post and whose editor-mother's newspaper found nothing worth covering, toward the river that received a phone on November 30, 2025.
The eyeroll Tim Grant's letter produced across this community is not nostalgia for a fiberglass figure. It is the accumulated recognition of that asymmetry, expressed in the only register available to people who have watched it operate for years without a forum adequate to name it.
The stone base is still there on Route 2. The figure that stood on it for fifty years is gone. The Hawk takes up its position. The warrior's figure rises. The salmon returns. These are not generic gestures. They are specific responses to specific ground, made by someone who has lived in this watershed for thirty years and built permanent work in it for thirty more.
Tim Grant was right that the figure meant something. He was wrong that the meaning was sufficient. The removal campaign was right that the figure was imprecise. It was wrong that removal was the answer.
The teaching moment is still available. The ground is still here. The history is still waiting.
The stone base on Route 2 is not the end of the argument.
It is the opening.
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John F. Sendelbach is a metalworker and public artist with thirty years of permanent public installations across western Massachusetts. He is the originator of the TransLocalism practice and the designer of Pocumtuck State of Mind. Full documentation is available at johnsendelbach.com. No login. No fee.
© 2026 John F. Sendelbach. All rights reserved.