D Vertrees Hollingsworth 1937-2012

The Great Pha died this morning, peacefully leaving us in his sleep.  

San Diego Command, 1998

Characteristically, he wrote his own obituary:

DVH Obit

D Vertrees Hollingsworth died on February 14, 2012, at age 74. He lived a fortunate life, doing things for which he was reasonably prepared and appreciated, thereby gaining a wonderful family, a happy and adventuresome life and genuine pleasure in every day granted him.

He grew up on a Kentucky horse farm near Lexington during World War II and learned the value of hard work and how to ride thoroughbreds.  He was the last of five children of a playwright and an engineer and so learned early on to love both sciences and the arts.  He was graduated from Yale University with a degree in American Studies, from the University of Cincinnati College of Medicine as a Doctor of Medicine and completed an Internship at Receiving Hospital in Detroit, MI. During that era he met and married the love of his life, Alice Elizabeth Broadbent, with whom he begat four delightful children.

Dr. Hollingsworth served in the US Navy as a Lieutenant in the Medical Corps for two years in the Vietnam era, followed by a resignation of his Reserve commission and an entry into the private practice of Family Medicine on the same day Medicare took effect: 1 Aug 66.  After 14 years of care for rural patients (“the skin and its contents”), he took his wife and three of his children off to serve his county (to Teach, to Travel, and to have some Time Off) as a Naval Officer – first teaching young physician graduates the specialty of Family Medicine, then medical students at the F. Edward Hebert School of Medicine in the Uniformed Services University of the Health Sciences for nine years.  Dr. Hollingsworth was graduated from the Naval War College and Salve Regina University with a Master’s degree in Management and went on to serve as Commanding Officer at three Naval medical treatment facilities.

In 1998, he and his wife retired to Pinehurst, NC, where he spent seven years as a family physician at Fort Bragg and as an emergency physician in Laurinburg, NC.  He was active in his church, Brownson Memorial Presbyterian in Southern Pines, NC, and joined his musical wife in several community chorus efforts in every community in which they lived.  He was an amateur actor in numerous productions for more than 60 years.

He was predeceased by the sad loss of a beloved granddaughter (10 year-old Liza Hollingsworth) but is survived by his wife of 51 years, Alice B. Hollingsworth, and by four children:  Eben L. Hollingsworth and family of Georgetown, KY, Sophia G. Hollingsworth of Charlotte, NC, Dunn D. Hollingsworth and family of Mt. Pleasant, SC, and E. Piel Hollingsworth and family of Milton, MA.  At his death he had five grandchildren: Eleanor, Caroline and Jordan Hollingsworth as well as Maxwell and Lucy Hollingsworth-Hays.

“You only live once, but if you work it right, once is enough”

A memorial service will be held at Brownson Memorial Presbyterian Church, Southern Pines, NC, on Saturday, February 18, 2012 at 11am with a reception to follow.   There will be a gathering in honor of Dr. Hollingsworth’s life at Georgetown College’s Thomas & King Conference Center in Georgetown, KY, on Saturday March 3 from 2:00 to 4:00.

In lieu of flowers, contributions may be made to: Plowshares Institute, PO Box 243 or 809 Hopmeadow Street, Simsbury, CT 06070

The world will be a lesser place without him.

So Said Kent

Last I wrote, we were leaving Pinehurst for some house building time in Lexington.  That happened, and I will post some other day with more pictures of that project.  

Facebook has taken some of the steam out of blogging.  


However, Mary Anne and I are now back in Pinehurst.  Pha can't get himself out of bed and Muv can't pick him up, so it's time for us to be back to help until the end.  He is still not in pain, but he's certainly past even his ability to enjoy his time.  God has gotten us all to the point where we are ready to say goodbye.


This may be the last picture of all five of Denzil and Polly's children together.  I have it dated 1995 and it was taken outside of Mt. Horeb church.

As we reminisce, I thought it would be good to share the "So Said Kent" letter.  My uncle Kent was in New York state in 1949, learning about horses and life.  As he was away from the bluegrass on the occasion of his little brother's twelfth birthday, he wrote the missive below.  The end sayings are classic Hollingsworth lore; I rarely make a long interstate drive when I don't apologize to Kent for getting cut off by another car (learn to see a pocket...).  The picture below

hangs in the houses of my siblings and many of my cousins.  


We were also touched on this round of re-reading of Kent's letter by the references to the Hollys.  Cousin Hunter apparently calls the house we are building the Taj Mah Holly.  Whatever anyone calls it, it should soon be home.  We look forward to hosting family and friends there.


Enough intro, here's the letter:

Shipped into Belmont park yesterday afternoon on one of the hottest days of the year.  Long Island looked like a populated prairie.  Beautiful parkways are scorched, Jamaica’s infield looks like a huge egg shaped sand pit.

Buddy, Arnold Firckland, and I drove up from Delaware and it was like riding a race all the way; Buddy jockey for positions, Arnold shouted when it looked like we were going to be cut off, we rounded the field, and in a few scary moments, squeezed through on the inside.  Race riding must really be tough.

Broke away late yesterday morning after watching low and high work a slow 5/8, sweated out an hour wait for the Staten lsland ferry but made it up here in four and a half hours.

All of Buddy’s Belmont friends are giving him the business now.  We ate last night in the restaurant where he and Helen always had dinner and I didn’t think we were going to get through it.  He was pretty good down in Delaware, but he’s getting right back to what he was when I first came up; silent, stares, red eyes, hollars a lot at the guineas, already scratched one, another on the way, nervous and jumpy as a fly.

We have a room, just across the road from the track.  Cowboy and Beetle--one of the exercise boys-- live in the same house.  Our room is not much bigger than the hall closet.  Two beds and a dresser cover the floor like an all over rug.  We both can’t put our shoes on at the same time.  The small window at one end that takes up the whole wall, allows light an air to leak in sometimes.  It is clean though.

Vertrees -- happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday dear Vertrees, happy birthday to you. (hum a little tune has you read this and smile for you have received acknowledgement of your twelfth anniversary from your brother Kent).  I thought perhaps of sending you a yacht , or complete baseball attire, or a lifetime subscription to Looney Tunes, or a speedometer for your putt—putt, or a suit from Abercrombie and Fitch, or even a small motor car, but then I thought, psaw, this isn't the low type fellow who would want nasty old material gifts; he would find joy only in the thought.  Rejoice quickly for I am about to change the thought to another paragraph.

As the 4th of July is a day of festivities, I took a day off and went to the races.  Sure of the good thing in the 6th, I laid the whole of Kent Hollingsworth’s estate on Mark High's big fat nose.  I might just as well have lit a fire cracker with it; I’m sure I would have had more fun.  Arnold broke late on him and he just could not catch up in time.  Mark High hasn’t got much heart any way.  If I ever tell you to bet on him again, even if he is picked all the way across the form, forget it.  Damned half-miler.

Dorcas-- am in the big town now.  Buddy and I finagled two handsome tickets to South Pacific.  Yet to see them though.  Saw the Statue of Liberty, rode on the ferry, swore at a cab driver, feel like real big New Yorker now.  Wish you were here etc.

Got my first letter from my father today.  Am about to return it this minute.

Sunday afternoon passes slowly at the race track.  Got up late this morning, dragged out to the track, walked all the horses. Buddy walks all the horses on Sunday if he can, believes even horses like to have a break once a week.  Got through with the work early, came back, had "over light, ‘tatas, coffee with", read three papers and the form, napped until 1:30, wrote my mother.  A guy can bear with anything as long as there is a home in his mind he can look back at.  It's a real support.  Those big, strong pillars standing sturdily on their rock foundations, have a value far exceeding the puny $125,000 bills some peanut would like to exchange for them.  They are big, secure, warm, home.  They are because my mother made them so.

Without them, I would look around all the squalor and filth that I am walking through, and think, "what am I gunning for?  What’s it getting me?  Is it worth it?"  With them, I am learning, liking what I’m doing. I'm camping out.  You and father did a great deal when you invested your money in that home.  I hope I can do as much for my children.

Buddy has no home you know.  No family.  Man asked him who he was going to change his bonds and securities to, now that Helen had died, and he was struck dumb.  Said, “why I haven't got a person in the world" almost to himself after breathless minute.  He hasn’t got a thing to live for right now.  It sure is thin up here.

It’s dark and rainy out.  The first rain in over a month beats against the petrified sod, rolls off, slobbers at the mouths of sewers.  Loaded cars splash by on the highway below, heading for the tip of the island and a washed out holiday.  Everyone is in a hurry. I wonder why.

By heart alarmed everyone yesterday, pulled ahead at the head of the stretch, faltered, was whipped to the wire by two others, a half of a length separating them.  A terrible race, the next one was run three seconds faster; Arno surprised me by breaking so well, but when he came back he told me that he had just happened to nudge her as the gates opened, give him a length jump on the rest.  First time I’ve ever seen it happen, usually his mount is backing up or just sleepy when the bell rings.

Rags to Riches worked a good half yesterday; been going hard with this big sluggish thing, Arcaro asked for him- so bones, his agent, says he has no reason to hustle mounts -- I believe he'll be right there his next out at $5000.

Letter from father said he could get no form, heard about a horse a week after he won.  Sent him the address of Georgie Wolf’s brother, who lives in Calgary, who bets, wears spats, purple vests, derbies, plays cards.

This is the day of my brother Vertrees' twelfth birthday.  I hope that he, in the next eight years, has as many good times, lucky breaks, laughs, loves, and lumps, as I have had, and one more candle to grow on.  Son, listen to your old brother and heed:

l) There are no cinch bets.

2) Don't tear up your tickets until the official is flashed.

3) Learn to see a pocket before you're in it.

4) It’s the guy with the kick in the last eighth that gets the glory.

So Said Kent

The originals, with typos and all: