Nearly two weeks of rafting in the Grand Canyon’s veins, camping on the riverbank with her family every night under the bare stars. Finding char in cave crevices of the Ohio River Valley, a sign someone who lived before flashlights had been inside. It could have been yesterday, telling stories around the campfire, embers drifting.
Cheryl Munson embraced humankind and its history. She loved the world and was determined to leave it a better place, not letting anyone get in her way.
And Cheryl’s life was one full of adventure and pure tenacity. That led her to reelection to a fourth county council term at 80 and researching with an old student this summer who, after a lengthy career, had retired.
Her energy and passion had become so embedded in the fabric of the county that her death this past week left local civil servants shocked. She leaves behind a family in grief and a community unsure how to go on without her.
Cheryl Munson rides a camel in the Sahara. Cheryl and her husband Pat spent their honeymoon on a research trip in Mauritania.
Cheryl died peacefully on Dec. 10, surrounded by friends and family.
Born in Denver in 1944, Cheryl studied anthropology at the University of Arizona and later at the University of Illinois-Urbana, where she met her husband, Pat. Her career would focus on the human experience and its past — she became a research associate at IU's Glenn Black Laboratory of Archaeology soon after moving to Monroe County in 1971.
She joined Pat on a research excursion in the Sahara for their honeymoon. Afterward, Cheryl led archaeological projects throughout Indiana and Kentucky. That sparked her first major involvement in government — protecting historical sites and archaeological research.
Cheryl ran for the Indian Creek Township Board of Trustees in 1994 and won, her first position in public service, where she would serve for 16 years. At the time of her death, she had worked on the Monroe County council for three terms.
She had two children and four grandchildren. Her daughter Jennifer and son Ted said they were lucky to grow up like they did. Their mom was an excellent cook who made “legendary” gourmet meals, Jennifer said.
Most of her recipes were impossible to replicate. Jennifer said they would have lists of ingredients without measurements and always had to have fresh eggs and homegrown herbs. She made 18 kinds of cookies for Christmas and gave away most of them.
Cheryl loved foraging and mushroom hunting. At the last count, Jennifer said, she had consumed 35 species of wild mushrooms — 20 of which she ate on a regular basis. State Senator Shelli Yoder said she still dreams about Cheryl’s creamed chanterelle mushrooms over penne pasta.
Cheryl Munson and her family look up at the solar eclipse on April 8, 2024. Cheryl loved doing activities with her granddaughters, especially arts and crafts.
Shelli, who now represents most of Monroe County, was just one of Cheryl’s numerous “county government daughters.” She taught Shelli how to be brave by example. Even when Shelli messed up, Cheryl would be right there to help pick up the pieces.
Cheryl was also county councilmember Kate Wiltz’s “county government mom.” She taught Kate how to be precise, data-driven and compassionate: the difference between politics and public service.
“What makes this especially sad for us as a community, was she, yes, she was older, she's lived an amazing life, but she still had a lot more to give. She really did,” Kate said.
She volunteered for local youth organizations, The History Center and Planned Parenthood — which her family recommends people give to in lieu of flowers.
Among the most important projects Cheryl was involved in, her colleagues said, was heading the Sophia Travis Community Service Grants.
“That committee, you're taking not enough money and divvying it up a bunch for a lot of needs, and she made it as easy on us to do that as possible,” council president Trent Deckard said.
The grants program — which is accepting donations in Cheryl’s memory — was named after Sophia Travis, a former county councilmember who had died unexpectedly in 2012. Cheryl was caucused into her seat and felt an affinity for Sophia.
Cheryl made things easy on decision-makers, Trent said. And she never underestimated the importance of the program to peoples’ lives.
A young Cheryl Munson stands next to glyphs. Cheryl dedicated much of her life to anthropology and archaeology.
Ellen Sieber knew Cheryl as a mentor, a colleague and a friend. She taught Ellen how to do excavations, how to do archaeology. Cheryl was such a presence, Ellen said, that it’s hard to imagine life without her.
Incomprehensible energy backed Cheryl’s passion for humanity. It’s hard to imagine just how she was able to do everything — archaeology, gourmet cooking, gardening, teaching, not to mention county government.
Cheryl just didn’t sleep much. Ellen would notice her tenacity even in the mundane artifices of home life — always watching her shows while folding clothes. She loved “Dallas,” “Saturday Night Live” and IU men’s and women’s basketball. More recently, she was enamored with IU football.
Cheryl and Pat’s house was their masterpiece, by all accounts the Indiana Daily Student heard. It overlooked the rolling hills of rural Monroe County with flowers, mushrooms and other sorts of plant life. She had a Coleus that’s lived pretty much since she’s lived in Monroe County.
“It was the epitome of a warm, welcoming home,” Kate said.
Jennifer described Cheryl’s energy as superhuman. If she thought something would make a neat portrait, she’d just paint it. Once she had granddaughters, her focus shifted to them. She would make all sorts of crafts with them, take them caving with her.
“She lived for making those memories and making you feel special and loved,” Jennifer said.
Still, you wouldn’t have wanted to make her mad at you. She was steadfast, brave and, as Jennifer said, “always right.”
Cheryl and Pat kept an old farmhouse right by their home. There, they would house students and anyone who didn’t have a place to stay. Ellen had stayed there herself for a couple of years after returning from fieldwork in Nigeria.
Cheryl Munson kneels down at a crystal sorting bed in Mammoth Cave in central Kentucky. Cheryl loved taking her children and grandchildren caving with her.
Her compassion extended to everyone she knew, especially to her students.
Ken Tankersly was the first person in his family to go to college more than 40 years ago. He came from a middle-class Appalachian household. That made him different from most students, especially at the time.
“I had no one showing me the way,” he said.
The Glenn Black Laboratory of Archaeology funded Ken’s graduate program. And there, he met Cheryl, who he said became like his bigger sister. She insisted his name go first on papers they published, helping jettison his career. When she noticed an open position at the University of Cincinnati, she helped him apply.
At one point, Ken’s wife was laid off from her job as a mining geologist. He didn’t know if he would be able to continue with school — but sure enough, Cheryl had found her a position.
Ken said he owed his doctorate to her. And his life.
Ken had been experiencing pains in his back while in school. He wasn’t planning to, but Cheryl had insisted he go see a doctor. It turned out that the pains were from stage four lymphoma. As Ken woke up from surgery to remove the cancer, Cheryl was there, holding flowers from her farm. That’s the kind of person she was.
They met at her country farm overlooking Monroe County's rolling hills just this summer. They were studying a mineral common in the Ohio River valley. After more than three decades, Ken said it felt just like old times.
All those years hadn’t passed — a retired professor, a student again. And now, a forever-student among countless others trying to find their way without Cheryl.
