Eclipse Place Cattle Roundup

This story is over 15 years old, but it still makes me smile. The Hollys is pictured in earlier stories. Cousin Tish has movies of Eclipse Place during the move in described below; the kitchen floor was dirt on that first day. And as those of us that spent the night on the farm will recall, that sulfur water smell was much more persistent that Uncle Kent's story would imply.

KENT HOLLINGSWORTH
ATTORNEY AT LAW

June 13, 1994

Dear Val and family:

Have at hand your April recollection of cattle roundups at Eclipse Place
and the want of real cowhands. Apparently, this was occasioned by Tish's letter indicating she was excited about a man who fools with cattle.
(Ed Note: Uncle Kent means Steve)

Quite possibly you and I have the most vivid memories of separating our Black Angus from the Rawdons' by affixing chain tags in the upper barn, because the girls were too young to participate in a material way.

In 1962, we were city dwellers with a pretend farm on the side--Dorcas and Jeff's 50 acres at the end of the blacktop on Beacon Hill Road—where our first horse, Aristides, grazed with the colossal Calico.

In our tiny city house, we were cramped. When we built it in 1956, it was adequate, 700 square feet on the first floor, with two bedrooms and a bath upstairs. In 1957 Randolph arrived, requiring that you and she share a 10x12 bedroom, which was do-able. In 1961, however, Amery's crib and the twin beds left precious little floor space for maneuver.

Then, too, we were making up things for you to do. We signed up for Little League baseball, Cub Scouts, choir; we made you walk all the way home, 2.2 miles, from University School with Randal--contrived devices to keep city children busy and away from pioneer television.
Hey, we have to get out of town! We have to move to the country where there are some real things to do, where our children can grow up learning the value of physical endeavor. We need to teach them, show them how to work, let them realize monetary gain from work commensurate with the quality of work devoted to a project. We needed more space, physically and mentally.

In the spring of 1963, Dorcas and Jeff sold their town- farm and moved to The Hollys. Mother and Father gave Dorcas the house and yard outright; for the rest of the farm, Jeff paid off the $20,000 mortgage and agreed to give the tobacco income to Mother and Father for their lives. Father then had no place to graze his Black Angus.

In June of 1963, Tish arrived; but there was no room for her. We had to build a wing on the tiny house in town, or move to a big old house in the country. Dick Compton showed us several farms in Scott County, but none of them would do. Talked with Joe Mainous and his sapient partner, Dan Midkiff, who had been in the business of trading horses and farms for more than a half-century.

Mr. Midkiff said he thought Floyd Clay might be ready to trade a little farm above Georgetown he had traded Francis MacKenzie for a year earlier. Francis was the farm manager at Castleton Farm and had fixed up his farm, just a little bit, with plank fence and a few sheds as a quarantine farm for saddlebred mares shipped in to breed to Castleton stallions.

Floyd Clay was the oddball grandson of Cassius M. Clay, known as the Lion of White Hall because he was a sturdy 6-foot-3 and roared a lot; he also was undefeated as a Bowie -knife fighter; further, he was rich, and an abolitionist, all of which set him apart from the Madison County set. During the Civil War, President Lincoln appointed Cassius Clay ambassador to Russia--where he met the ballerina who became Floyd's grandmother.

Anyway, Floyd Clay (the Clay of Clay-Wachs Stockyards) liked to trade as much as Mr. Midkiff did: "Now Floyd," Mr. Midkiff began the negotiations on my behalf, "this young man here has been trained in the law, but he doesn't know much about trading farms, so I've come along to settle things, like--now, Floyd, we'd appreciate your leaving the light bulbs in the barns; and I'm hoping you'll not take the gates with you just because they're not fixed to the land the way the gate posts are..."

"But now Dan, I'm atakin' them sheep racks in the upper barn because Ben Ford bought them off the warehouse floor to feed our sheep we're raising on shares, and... I don't believe the young man will need them gates, because he's never said nothin' about havin' any stock..."

This went on a hour or so, Mr. Midkiff smiling, Mr. Clay frowning, my not saying anything, until it was agreed that Mr. Clay would take our little house in town valued at $20,000, we would take the 67 acres in Scott County valued at $1,000 an acre, we would assume Mr. Clay's $20,000 mortgage on the farm with Equitable, Mr. Clay would take a $25,000 second mortgage on the farm payable by us in five years, and then came the tricky part--Mr. Midkiff demanded $2,000 to boot. Mr. Clay wrote out a check and handed it to me without a word.

In reviewing this terribly informal "closing", it seemed to me that I owed Mr. Clay $2,000, rather than the other way around, but Mr. Midkiff shook his head. He said Floyd Clay wrote out the check quickly because he figured he was getting the best of it, making off with those sheep racks, and fully intending to steal all the tobacco sticks, which were never mentioned. Mr. Midkiff grinned, said it was a good trade, both sides confident they had beaten the other out of something.

So, on October 15, 1963, we unloaded all our furniture from 1,050 square feet of 1 1/2 floors in town, and we lost it in the expanse of 4,200 square feet plus portico in the country; came to one chair, or one table, per room. On that very same day, however, Uncle Hall, Aunt Becky, Bryan, Leigh, and Berkeley arrived from Florida with two truckloads of furniture. That filled the house. Then Father shipped over his Black Angus and they filled the fields.

Saw Francis MacKenzie at a Farm Managers Club meeting and he said he had heard I had taken up his old place above Georgetown. Good water, he said. Used to be a dairy farm, had to have constant water, you know, for dairy cows. Back in 1934, that dry spell? The dug well commenced to going dry, you know, so they had to drill for water. The dug well goes down 45 feet, you know. They drilled right next to it, went down 97 feet as I recall, put the pump on the drilled well. If you mind the sulfur—only taste it every now and then—why all you have to do is switch that pump over to the old dug well, which aerates that sulfur outta there. Good farm. Not much border fencing though.

That last casual comment was critically true. We could not keep Father's cattle in, and we could not keep the Rawdons' cattle out, because of all the breaks in and tramp-downs of the rusty wire that may have been a serviceable border fence 40 years earlier.

In August of 1960, we all went down to Kentucky Lake
where Ralph Broadbent put up a raucous bunch from Yale and Scott County due in the area for the marriage of his daughter Alice to a guy named Vertrees, Vuttree—how'd anybody come on a name like that? Mr. Broadbent was very close—-by a nose, surely no farther back than a head margin --to being as fine a man you would ever want to meet.

By and by, Vertrees and Alice were out of med school, into the Navy, having Eben and Sophia, and thinking about getting out of the Navy to stamp out disease in Scott County. At the same time, grandfather Broadbent was having some heart problems, and began thinking about selling his farms in Western Kentucky, and relocating his insurance office in Lexington, where he and grandmother (Ed Note: Bebe) would be closer to the grandchildren.

So one hot day in 1965, the nicest person in the world was in the neighborhood, checking out kindly old Doctor Ken Brown, and he turned up the driveway at Eclipse Place just to say hello. He arrived amid tumult. Little children (Tish was two, Amery four) were jumping up-and-down on the second-floor porch and screaming about something; Randolph came running from her piano, slamming the hall door; Val and I collided trying to get out of the library door; your mother came out of the kitchen to greet the visitor; everybody was shouting now--They're loose! They're heading up this way from the creek! Grandfather's are over there!

What? Where? What!! Can I help? asks the wide-eyed greatest guy of all time. He takes off his hat and puts that on the seat of his car; he figures he does not have time to take off his coat or loosen his tie, because everybody else is running off somewhere. What can I do?

Why, hi there Ralph, good to see you. Oh, nothing much going on here. Just that the Rawdons have moved their wild black cattle down from their hill farms to their farm next door here, and they've run through the fence again. We'd like to keep them separated from Father's cattle. Which is no big deal: all we have to do is drive Father's cattle into the upper barn, close the door on them, then whoop-and-holler the wild ones back through the hole in the fence.

Ralph nodded, keeping to himself reservations about the ease with which the bunch of cattle that was stampeding by the yard fence—kicking, snorting, making loud noises--how this wild bunch could be kept separate from the mild bunch. They all were black.

Dammit! Who left that gate open? Alerted by the question, the Rawdon cattle veered, spotted the opening, and galloped into the barn field. There, Father's cattle casually lifted their heads to see what the commotion was about; uncomprehending who, what, or why, they became terrified. They turned and ran. Slowly. The Rawdon cattle dashed through them, caught them up in the excitement of the chase, and a massed bunch of some 40 black cattle raced around the barn field.

Boy, they all look wild now, hard to tell ours from theirs. Ralph nodded. Val said Grandfather's cattle all had neck chains and number tags. Randolph pointed out that several heifers had yellow paint on them. Val explained that meant they were stockyard cattle and must belong to the Rawdons, because Grandfather had bred all his. Ralph noted that distinction, but wondered about those with red ear tags. Val said they must be Grandfather's, because nobody in the world could have caught any of the Rawdon cattle and held them long enough to get a tag through an ear. Ralph nodded.

Let's just let them run around for a while, play themselves out. Then we'll drive them slowly by the upper barn there: Val, you and Randolph step in there, raise your arms, give them a little hoya-hoya, and cut out Grandfather's cattle. Ralph, you just stand there at the barn door; we don't want you to be running around with a bad heart. Ralph nodded. When Val and Randolph cut out Grandfather's, you just roll that big door back, then slam it close when Grandfather's cattle mosey into the barn. Okay?

Well, we circled that barnfield about 88 times, mostly jogging, stumbling a lot, shouting at cattle, Randolph, and Ralph—Open it! Now! Not Now! Close it! Aw, you let him get away...There's one, red tag! Aw...Amery and Tish, sitting on the fence, giggled from time to time.

After about an hour of running and shouting, we finally got them separated. The Rawdon cattle slowed to a walk, but they were ready to break for another run around the field if anybody made any sudden moves. Well, let's just look in the barn and count what we have in there--supposed to have 19.

Ralph rolled back the big old door one more time. We all peered in. The barn was empty. The door at the far end of the barn was open. Val walked through the barn, shaded his eyes from the hot sun as he scanned the horizon. There they are, Val reported, they must have tramped down the fence in the back field, because they're all over at the Rawdons' now.

Ralph nodded. Dust, moistened by sweat, streaked his face. Scampering cattle coming off fresh grass had splattered his shirt and trousers with green glob. Early on he had removed his coat and tie; he retrieved these relatively clean items from the fence, neatly folded them over a filthy arm, and said he guessed he'd be going now.

Ah, life down on the farm. But that was long ago. Now Missy still is in France, working on stories for the Thoroughbred Times and Town & Country. Uncle Donn called, invited me to Hopewell Church, where yesterday he performed the "laying on of hands" and formally ordained both Randal and Jay as Church Elders.

Holly was there, said she had been talking to Guy Graves recently about the famous trip to Saratoga for Heather Whitney's party. She related how you and she drove up in the blue mirage that was your Merce sports coupe, carrying the French edition of The Blood-Horse, and were stopped by a flashing blue light.

Where you going so fast? Saratoga. Of course. Who's the cute thing there you're taking across state lines? My cousin. Right. She over 21? Not yet. Oke Kay. What else you got? Some French magazines. Right. What are you going to do with them? Take them to the race track for promotional distribution. Okay buddy, how about stepping out here so we can sort this thing out...