Powell Liberty Historical Society: Preserving Community Memory and Material Culture”

When I stepped inside the Martin-Perry House—the home of the Powell Liberty Historical Society (PLHS)—I was struck by how much history fits into a single home. Built in 1889, the house itself is as much an artifact as the objects it shelters. Its creaking floors, narrow staircases, and wallpapered rooms set the stage for Powell’s memory. It was never meant to be a formal archive, but it has become one. A place where community identity is preserved in the folds of dresses, the lines of maps, and the stories written in family albums.

The Martin-Perry House, built in 1889, now serves as both a landmark and a keeper of Powell’s history.

I moved to Powell a couple of years ago, and until this visit, the Martin-Perry House was just a landmark I drove past. Coming from a small town myself, I wanted to see how communities like ours hold onto memory with limited resources. This visit gave me a new perspective: community archives may be small, but they are mighty. In keeping both the grand and the humble, they capture what genuinely gives a community its soul.

The Story Through Objects and Rooms

On my tour, the archivist led me room by room. In the parlor, lace curtains framed black-and-white portraits of Powell families. In the kitchen, a Hoosier cabinet stood stocked as if a family still lived there; bins for flour and sugar, drawers for utensils, even handwritten recipe cards. Upstairs, closets held clothing: dresses and uniforms, ordinary garments transformed into historical records simply by surviving.

Everyday objects—like this Hoosier cabinet—show how families in Powell once cooked, stored, and lived.

Rolled maps filled an upstairs corner, labeled and sleeved, documenting how the land was parceled and used. Genealogical cabinets overflowed with folders, each marked with surnames familiar to anyone who has lived in Powell long enough. Open one, and you might find obituaries, marriage announcements, and newspaper clippings; scraps of life carefully organized so future generations can trace their roots. The archivist summed it up beautifully:

“Our collection is really the story of Powell told through the things people saved.”
– Sherry Carmichael

Maps and vintage piano where young hands once learned to play music.

Family Stories as Community Memory

What makes PLHS unique is that the archivist herself has family roots in Powell. Some of her own family records are part of the collection, blending personal memory with community history. She explained that this personal connection is part of what inspired her to take on the role. In a sense, PLHS is both her workplace and her family archive; an intergenerational record of belonging.

It reminded me of archival scholar Andrew Flinn’s observation that community archives are often built “by the people, for the people” (Flinn, 2007). The personal and professional merge. In Powell, the archivist is not only preserving her neighbors’ histories but also safeguarding her own.

When speaking to the archivist, one of the things that struck me most during our conversation was her quiet sense of purpose. Beyond cataloging or preserving, she sees this work as a way of honoring those who came before. As she put it,

“Sometimes, I ask myself what eternal significance this work has. But then I think of it differently: caring for this house and its objects is a way of honoring those who came before us. There’s something almost spiritual about it.”
– Sherry Carmichael

It’s that perspective; seeing memory not just as records, but as a living connection, that inspires her to continue, even when resources are limited and the challenges are many. At the same time, her reflections were grounded in simple reminders of everyday life. Looking at old photographs, she often tells herself, “They were all kids once. They had birthdays, they fought with siblings, they played sports.” That blend of reverence and ordinariness captures what makes the Powell Liberty Historical Society special: it preserves both the extraordinary milestones and the everyday humanity of those who lived here.

*Cabinets filled with surnames, clippings, and family trees.*

Whose Stories Get Recorded?

As I looked through the cabinets and displays, I found myself reflecting on whose stories we see most clearly. The settler families of Powell are represented in great depth. Genealogical files, photographs, and heirlooms tell their story well. But I wished there were more records of other groups of people who lived here, passed through, or contributed in quieter ways. How did diversity take shape in Powell? How did different communities leave their mark?

These silences are not unusual. Community archives, especially small ones, depend on what people donate and what has survived. This is not a fault of their own but the result of larger systemic patterns of whose histories were recorded, whose voices were prioritized, and whose materials were more likely to endure (Caswell, 2014).

Fragile but Mighty

The archivist was candid about the challenges. Environmental controls are difficult in a historic home; rooms get hot in summer and cold in winter. Digitization is happening through Microsoft Azure, but it requires outside technical help and grant funding. “Sustainability is always the hardest part,” she admitted. Even disaster planning, she said, exists “in theory” more than in practice.

And yet, there is resilience. PLHS is volunteer-driven, open to anyone who walks in with a question. As the archivist told me, “If someone has a question, we’ll find a way to help them.”

This spirit reflects what archival scholar Anne Gilliland calls the “small but mighty” ethos of local archives. Institutions that may lack resources but embody community trust and memory (Gilliland, 2017). PLHS may not have climate-controlled vaults or rows of digitized servers, but it has something just as powerful: a commitment to keeping Powell’s story alive.

Yours truly

Why It Matters

Visiting PLHS reminded me that memory is material. It is held in the everyday objects families chose to save—dresses, recipe cards, photographs, maps. These are not glamorous things, but they are powerful. They tell us who we are, and who we have been.

For me, the Martin-Perry House is more than an archive; it is a reminder that memory work begins with community. Small archives like PLHS show us that history is not only kept in national institutions but also in living rooms, attics, and cabinets. They may be small, but they carry the weight of identity. And in that sense, they are mighty indeed.

I certainly recommend doing a visit, checking out their growing online collection and make a donation!