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
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:
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