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...

Graffiti

The former elementary school nearby had a playground which was one of the dog's favorites.

The city of Atlanta public schools has decided to use that space, so they have Winter Construction busy making a kindergarten for Morris Branden Elementary right now. Hopefully, that will help boost property values.

Last fall, I noticed that we were getting some graffiti on the Winter Construction sign. I was walking the dogs every morning and at least some evenings at that point. I would see it almost every night, but it was ALWAYS gone by the next morning. I became intrigued because it reminded me of the chapter about the New York subway in The Tipping Point, by Malcolm Gladwell. The subway authority cleaned the cars EVERY night, until the graffiti artists finally gave up.

The folks at Winter Construction must have read that book, I thought. I was even on the lookout for the truck that had the new signs. It must be expensive to put new signs out every night, but what a statement it was making. I was looking for the manager of the construction project to compliment him on his perseverance.

I mentioned this whole pattern to Mary Anne and got her to come on the walk with me one evening. Sure enough, there was the graffiti again. As always, it was the same symbol. Kind of a sideways "V", with a vertical line through it. I didn't know what gang that represented, but it had to be something, despite the fact that this really isn't a neighborhood full of gangs. Anyway, when she looked at it, MA said "What graffiti?". We walked closer so she could see it better. Then she said "That's the shadow of the street sign caused by the street light".

The angle from this light

through this sign

leaves this shadow


As herself says, I'm a freakin' genius.

The Bucket Test

Buckets can be used for a lot of things. The girls used to think they were great hats.



It must have stuck with me, because when I interview people, I give them "The Bucket Test". I borrowed it from Die Hard 3. It has 2 correct answers, so it's interesting to see if people can get them both. I have even taken to giving homework of the second answer if an interviewee does well enough with the first answer.

As I phrase it, the question goes like this:
"I'm going to give you two buckets, a three gallon bucket and a five gallon bucket. They are both empty. You've got all the water you can use. I want you to give me back precisely four gallons."
Herself is by now very tired of the way I say "precisely" whenever this gets discussed at home.

Most of my daughters' boyfriends have had to take the bucket test. As with the job interviews, mostly I'm just watching to see how folks react to a difficult question.

Before tonight, I had last looked up this problem on the internet a few years ago, and didn't really find anything. By now, like everything else, it's on Answers.COM. No clicking that link if you ever want to work for me (or date my daughters).

Once you've figured out (or cheated using the link above) the first way, just start again, filling the other bucket first. The second answer needs to take the same number of steps as the first answer. Let me know if you need some help.

Teddy Shapou and the three day pack of cigarettes

I first told this story to Mary Anne on June 26th, 1980, the night we met. She had been showing me around the Navy base on our first day in Charleston and we ended up sitting on her front porch with me telling funny stories trying to impress her.

This is my favorite piece of family lore, and one of the reasons I started this blog. Kent wrote this rendition of the story to his son Val in 1994. Vertrees is, of course, TGP. Ken is good old Dr Brown. The two of them later became partners in a medical practice at St. Lukes in Georgetown (see TGP's autobiography)

The closest picture to 1955 that I have is from 1959 below. Left to right are: Hall, Denzil (Grandfather), Vert, Donn, Kent

KENT HOLLINGSWORTH
ATTORNEY AT LAW

May 15, 1994

Dear Val:

School is out. I finished grading final exams on Tuesday. Now I am vacationing for three months and am free to do all the little things I have postponed, odd projects set aside until I had more time, like checking the spelling of the name of a predecessor in title to our property. This was a 15-minute job, and I stepped off briskly toward the court house. Got to flipping through old deed books, reading wills, drawing plats of parcels beginning at a point in the centerline of the Crawfish Pike and running thence South 13 1/2 degrees East for 31.6 poles and 16 links... until the county clerk came into the vault and advised it was closing time. Good grief, I had spent the whole day in there! I scooted right home. Missy wanted to know where in the in the world I had been. Oh, I had to pick up some pipe. What?! Casing, actually..

Family tradition of the 15-minute job began about 40 years ago. (Ed note: 1954) Your Uncle Donn was setting tobacco at The Hollys

and we were all standing around talking about how dry it was. Without irrigation, the plants would surely die. Your Grandfather posed a rhetorical question: Whatinhell are you standing around for? There's plenty of water in Elkhorn Creek, and a culvert down there near the mailbox, so you can run a line under the road right into this field.

Right. But it'll cost a couple of thou to buy the pipe. Tell ya what, Grandfather offered: Hall pulled that No. 9 well last year, and there's about 2,000 feet of casing just lying there on the Albany lease. You can have it for nothing. Just drive down there and pick it up.

The quick response to this was that we did not have a truck with a bed long enough to haul pipe; we had a Jeep. Upon reflection, Donn called his friend Bob Green, manager of Maxwell Gluck's Elmendorf Farm. Bob said sure, we could borrow a deuce-and-a-half from Elmendorf.

About that time, up drove Teddy Shapou, grinning, cheery as always. Teddy was a fighter pilot in World War II. Late one afternoon, he landed a P-47 some 25 feet short of the runway and jammed a gunsight into his forehead. This more or less amounted to a frontal lobotomy which freed Teddy of social inhibitions he may have had previously. When we would go to Jerry's Drive-in and the girl would bring out a tray of hamburgers and shakes, Teddy would flash that great smile and casually inquire if she were ready to hop into bed with him; as the girl's jaw went slack, Teddy seemed to continue along with the same line, but he really was asking about mustard.

We had known Teddy since 1939, when he was a lifeguard at Johnson's Mill. This was a commercial enterprise Willet Groover had built around the Elkhorn Creek dam across the Newtown Pike from us. It comprised a swimming hole with high and low diving boards, two floats, picnic grounds, horseshoe pits, snack bar, dance floor, and a Nickelodeon. Mr. Groover closed the place every night promptly at 10 o'clock, by simply throwing the master light switch.
I spent seven afternoons a week with Teddy, working leaves and branches out of the net stretched across the creek above the floats, raking the horseshoe pits, and listening to his fascinating stories. I worshiped him before he was a war hero. He inherited his charm, ready smile, and dark complexion from a Lebanese rug dealer; he made his body himself, doing one-handed push ups and 40-yard wind sprints between stories. He played football at Georgetown College. He was small at 5-7, but solid at 185 pounds, with thighs bigger than his waist; he had Sylvester Stallone's chest, arms, neck, teeth, and wavy black hair. He was a running back, what was then known as a scatback. We raced a lot, and he always beat me, narrowly, no matter how far my head start; he did it running backwards, smoking a cigar.

He did not own a car then. He jogged the five miles from Georgetown to Johnson's Mill every morning at 10, and ran back in the dark at 10 that night. Mr. Groover shut down Johnson's Mill on Labor Day, when everybody returned to school. After football practice, Teddy had a job in the Sweet Shop on Main Street in Georgetown, jerking sodas for $20 a week.

One afternoon, he slipped away to Keeneland and happened upon a $900 Daily Double payoff. The next morning he jogged over to the Logan-Haggin-Cooper dealership on North Broadway to inspect, again, the elegant Ford Deluxe convertible in the front display room. Old Mr. Cooper, knowing Teddy was a scholarship kid at the college, asked him what he thought he was doing, opening and closing the door on that model. Teddy kicked a tire: How much? $650. Well, Teddy said nonchalantly, I just suppose I'll take it.

He drove it right off the floor, around the block, and parked it in front of the Sweet Shop, top down. When The Gorgeous Mary Jones finally came in, Teddy fixed her a fountain Coke, gave her the usual paper napkin, wrapped straw, and great smile, then casually inquired if she would be interested in going for a ride. Teddy, have you borrowed somebody's car?

Without a word, Teddy took off his apron and grandly escorted the most beautiful girl in Georgetown out the door. With a sweeping gesture, Teddy asked which one these numbers she would like to take a ride in. Oh... Without waiting for a more definite answer, Teddy stepped forward and opened the passenger door of the convertible. Let's try this one. They became engaged before Teddy had driven halfway down the block.

I do not recall what happened to that car, but after the spring semester, Teddy called Donn and asked if he could catch a ride to Lexington. We drove over to Georgetown in what may have been the last wooden-bodied station wagon, and picked him up at the PiKA fraternity house. Teddy waved to us from a second-story window, grinned, threw down a cardboard suitcase--what we used to call a grip--then bounded down the steps after it, and jumped into the wagon singing, "Off we go, into the wild blue yonder..." We took him to the post office in Lexington where he enlisted in the Army Air Corps.

Not long after that, Teddy was flying P-40s in China for Gen. Chenault's Flying Tigers. Between missions, the pilots and ground crews would choose up sides and play touch football. For the Georgetown Tigers, Teddy had done most of the running in the old single-wing offense; for the Flying Tigers he did most of the passing. New replacement pilots always were the, last to be picked when choosing sides. Teddy got stuck with a new last-pick and tried him on the first play from scrimmage; he fired off a short zinger on the flat. Well, the new pilot gathered that in easy enough, cut to his left, then to his right, ran through everybody, and scored with a sudden burst of speed that left startled defenders breathless. Teddy said Hey, you look like you can play this game all right--whatcher name? Tom Harmon. There he was, Michigan's No. 98, the Heisman Trophy winner of 1940, probably better known today as the father of a pretty good UCLA quarterback, Mark Harmon, recently voted the sexiest man in Hollywood, over Robert Redford, Sean Connery, Tom Cruise, Mel Gibson--those kinds of guys.

Anyway, we were standing there trying to figure who we could spare from setting tobacco to go over to Elmendorf and get the truck when here came Teddy, whom we had not seen since the previous summer. He volunteered. I'll get the truck. I've got nothing to do since I've joined the idle rich--100% disability, gotta silver plate up here, none of that cheap, dish-barn pottery for me. He grinned.

I'm tired of hanging around my in-laws' house, anyway. I told my wife I'd get some cigarettes for the father-in-law. (Mr. Jones is very high up in the judicial branch, Teddy confided, bailiff in Judge Church Ford's federal courtroom over in Lexington, so I figure it's wise I cater to him when we visit here, just the one week: out of the year, what the hell.) Told Mary I'd only be gone about 15 minutes; that's about all it should take to drive over to Elmendorf and get that truck.

And he got the truck. Took him a little longer than 15 minutes, though, because Elmendorf was a big farm, and Teddy drove around for a half-hour before he found Bob Green, then spent another half-hour looking for a truck nobody was using, and another half-hour to drive it to The Hollys because he could not shift into fourth gear and go any faster than 35 mph. Still, he returned with a truck, and a smile. Good ol' Teddy, thanks, pal. S'all right, glad to do it.

Now I need somebody to drive me back to Elmendorf to get my car. Right. But we can't do that just now, Teddy, we have to pick up the pipe. Where? Down in the oil field. Where's the oil field? Albany. New York? Naw, naw, just down the road a piece. But what about my car? Don't worry about it; we'll get it when we return the truck. Am I supposed to stand here in this field all by myself until you get back? Of course not, you can come with us. Just stay right there in the truck, drive it by the house and pick up the boys — Vertrees and Ken Brown are still asleep up there--then follow along behind us in the Jeep.

Teddy hesitated just for a moment. He cocked his head, thinking: Well, I guess I can buy cigarettes in Albany--I never told her where I was going to get a pack. So he roused the boys and headed south through Lexington, to Nicholasville, where both Vertrees and Ken cried halt, pointing out that noon is lunch time. Teddy bought. The quest then was resumed, south through Stanford to Somerset, then west at Burnside, and south again through Monticello to...Where the hell is this Albany? We really don't have to go all the way to Albany, because the lease is just below the post office at Aaron. That's fine, because I'd like to call my wife from that post office. She's probably been worrying about my wristwatch. I told her I'd only be gone 15 minutes, and that was about eight hours ago.

The post office was the only structural evidence of Aaron, Kentucky, other than a huge crude-oil collector tank standing right next to it. The post office occupied a portion of a multi-purpose building whose front screen door advertised Nehi. Next to a Wanted poster was a wall telephone with a crank. The party line was in use, and while waiting for someone to hang up, Teddy chatted amiably with the taciturn post mistress. He told her he had driven that truck 120 miles in third gear to buy a pack of cigarettes, and wondered if she had any in stock? No, just stamps, crackers, bologna, and warm pop. Teddy smiled and shook his head.

Hall began to fidget. It was getting late in the afternoon and sunlight might not reach down to the wells by the time that party line was free. Down to where? Just out back of the post office here, down that draw cut by a wet-weather stream about a mile and a half, into the hollow down there; these hills can shut off sunlight quicker than you might want. We really ought to get going. Teddy nodded, said he would stick with the truck and follow Hall in the Jeep. The Jeep was small and could bounce down the dry streambed without too much difficulty, but the truck was wider and taller; thick tree limbs barred its path. The transmission growled when Teddy shifted into first gear and lurched forward. Small branches snapped, but larger ones dented the truck's fenders and cracked the windshield as Teddy cascaded off six-inch ledges. Jesus! This is worse than trying to land on a field while it's being straffed and bombed! By the time everybody made it to the bottom, darkness enveloped old well No. 9. We could not see to cut the casing into smaller sections for loading on the truck. We had to wait for morning's light. We spent the night in Albany's Smith Hotel, took all four rooms.

Teddy finally got a call through to his wife. What have you been doing all day? Trying to buy a pack of cigarettes for your daddy. Where are you? I dunno, maybe in South America, in the Andes. Teddy, you come right home; you know you're supposed to be the honor guest at a fishfry at Harrington Lake tomorrow at 6 p.m. Oh, I'll be home long before that; we're gonna get up early—the Hollingsworths and the Shapous have pretty much taken over the the whole second floor of the Smith Hotel here—and we figure to load some pieces of pipe onto my truck and be outta here by noon. Just a 15-minute job, so I'm told.

Actually, it took longer than that. The pipe was rusty and hard to cut. The load was heavy. We had to winch it back up the series of stone steps in the streambed 10 yards at a time. Okay, now wrap that cable around the next higher tree—no not that little one, the big one over there. It was very hot. Everyone was filthy with rust, sweat, and cable grease. About 3 p.m. Teddy, in an aside, noted that he probably should be getting back to Georgetown so he could scrub-up for a fishfry. Vertrees and Ken jumped right on that idea, reminding Donn and Hall that they also had to get home, so they could find out if their Tuxedos fit for the Junior Prom that night. Teddy proposed that he take the boys home in the Jeep. Oh, all right.

Teddy was arrested in Stanford for having no tailight; he lost some time trying to find a Justice of the Peace who would accept payment of a fine and let him go. After dropping off the boys, taking a shower in Georgetown and changing into clean party clothes, Teddy drove 42 miles back to Harrington Lake, arriving at 10 p.m. Everybody had eaten and gone home.

The next morning we unloaded the pipe at The Hollys, and while Donn and Hall went to work on a mud-caked water pump, I drove over to Georgetown and picked up Teddy, so we could take the truck back to Elmendorf and exchange it for his car. Teddy's car was not where he had parked it. We drove the truck around the farm, asking men mucking stalls if they remembered seeing a blue Buick...no. We found Bob Green. Blue Buick, left behind the carriage barn? I had that towed away-not knowing whose it was, of course. Where was it towed? I really don't know—you might ask the police. Teddy nodded.

He called his wife instead. Teddy said she not only was the most beautiful woman in the whole world, but also the most understanding. She borrowed her father's car, picked us up at the Elmendorf office, and without a word, drove to the police station in Lexington, paid the $179.50 towing and storage fees, and obtained a release. We drove down Manchester Street to a lot enclosed by a formidable chain-link fence topped by barbed wire. There they were, the smashed, the abandoned, the illegally parked.

With a sweeping gesture, she asked which one of those numbers he would like to take a ride in. Teddy flashed that great smile. I wonder if they've got a 1939 Ford Deluxe convertible.

In memory of all the 15-minute jobs we worked together, and the prospects of more to come when you return.

Father (Kent)

The other really fun part of the story is that we named our first dog Teddy Shapou, in honor of this story. Note the part earlier where Teddy is described as stocky with wavy black hair and cocking his head; our Scottie had the same characteristics. We were having dinner with Eleanor and Caroline and Aunt Leslie and Gene Waterfill when Eleanor mentioned Teddy Shapou. Leslie was surprised to hear the name, because she thought of Teddy as the man that came and helped them paint little house. We had fun sharing stories.

MS Walk 2009

Just back from the Walk. We have raised a little over $3000 so far. It's great to see such an outpouring from people that care about Mary Anne.


Sparky came with me. He thought it was a race, so we ended up near the front by the time we made it around the park.

A beautiful day at Piedmont park here in Atlanta and the most worthy cause I know. Many thanks to those of you who gave. MS Walk 2009

Gaga

Every small child has a favorite object. Niece Jordan had a stuffed dog named Homer. Caroline had a blanket named Bubble.


Eleanor had Gaga.

TGP, Gaga, Eleanor, Mary Anne


Uncle Tom

Gaga arrived from Uncle Tom on her first birthday. Gaga was a frog puppet; from July 1987 and for several years afterward, he was rarely off of Eleanor's hand.

One night in the crib, Eleanor was inconsolable, which was not like her. She was standing up and crying and would not go to sleep. After quite a while of this, as part of the inspection parents do in situations like that, we removed Gaga from her hand, or at least attempted to do so. Turns out that the nylon thread inside the back of Gaga's head had gotten wrapped around Eleanor's finger. The finger was a little bit blue, but came back just fine after we unentangled it.

We moved to Charleston when Eleanor was around 2. Eleanor's first plane flight was shortly after that when we flew back to DC to see Colm Wilkinson in Les Miserables. We had bought tickets before we knew we were moving after herself saw an interview on 20/20 which closed with the line: "I knew the play was about finding God, but I didn't know they had cast him as the tenor lead". Colm is indeed glorious when he sings Bring Him Home. Listen to it if you never have.

Anyway, boarding the flight, I was carrying Eleanor and she was, of course, carrying Gaga. The flight attendant greeted us and asked Eleanor what the name of her frog was. She said, very clearly, "Gaga". The attendant looked puzzled and turned to ask me. I replied, "Yes, the frog's name is "Gaga".


Bruce and Eben on YGC winter tour in 1983

We enjoyed the show and had a great trip, despite last minute changes that left friend Bruce babysitting, long before fatherhood had blessed him. I remember him working so hard at keeping Eleanor's face clean between every bite in the high chair. Fast forward several years, and I was at his house watching him feed his own 2 year old twins, Sam and Sophie. He turned to me in all seriousness and said, "I don't know how people with triplets do it". It's all in your perspective.


Gaga was close at hand for many years, despite developing a bad case of gingivitis. The pink felt in his mouth deteriorated until it was pretty much gone. We couldn't find an adequate substitute frog, and Eleanor would not have wanted a different one anyway.

You never know which object is going to become a one year old's fascination. It's part of the fun of watching them grow.

Uncle Kent writes about Grandfather Denzil

The letter below is from uncle Kent to cousin Tish in 1996. I've been working with OCR (optical character recognition), so expect several of these old missives over the next few months. The 4 page addendum mentioned has Grandfather Denzil's work history and will be posted separately later. The letter is long and perhaps only of interest to my blood relatives, but I am thrilled to have the heritage hereby preserved.

In this and all future "Old Letters" posts, my words are blue, Kent's (or TGP's or whoever the original authors are) will be in black

Kent Hollingsworth

September 11, 1996

Dear Tish:
Here's that letter. I would like to tell you about your Grandfather, my Father, but this is no easy thing, for I never really knew him.

Oh, I knew about him. Mother forever talked about him in his absence, when he was off somewhere on a construction job, about how tall and handsome he was, how neat and well dressed he always was. How very smart he was, and how hard he worked. Mother said he would get to the job early, return home late, dead tired, and fall asleep; then wake up in the middle of the night, get out of bed to check the job again, to see how the night shift was working under lights.

Also, how athletic he was. Mother said he was marvelous at golf, and he did have a picture swing, but he never broke 80. Mother reminded that he was good enough to swim on the varsity team at the University of Illinois. In an era when Johnny Weissmuller's flutter kick won Olympic golds by lowering the 400-meter freestyle record by more than 22 seconds, and by becoming the first swimmer to do 100 meters in less than a minute, with that little flutter—Father had an outboard-motor kick, thumpa-thumpa-thumpa, gutters awash, here he comes, you children better get out of his way!

While Mother conceded Weissmuller's chest was as big as Father's (when the star showed up for an exhibition at the Missouri Athletic Club pool) she noted that Father certainly was better spoken. Weissmuller's movie lines were limited to "Me Tarzan. You Jane." And while Clark Gable did have a mustache and parted his hair in the middle like Father, he had enormous ears, so there really was no comparison...

At home, I was instructed that my Father was a nonpareil. At school, I further learned that he was rich. In the Great Depression of the 1930s, "rich" was pejorative, used by sneering schoolmates to separate me from the crowd, at an age and place where one desperately wanted to blend-in and be an inconspicuous part of the crowd.

Anyway, I grew up knowing my Father only by reputation. I never really knew who he was as a young man, what he did, how he did it. We had photographs, proving he was every bit as handsome as his adoring wife thought he was, but I had no admissible evidence as to what sort of person he was when he began making his own way in the 1920s and 1930s. For all that Mother, and Donn, and Hall told me about Father before I was old enough to look at him and listen to him myself, I understood nothing of the inherited and environmental bases on which he built whatever he was. I had no facts, just hearsay, and conclusions from non-expert witnesses.

I needed some first-hand data. So I went first (hand) to the U.S. Census records and found that in 1870, my great grandfather, Joe Hollingsworth, at age 28, and wife Ellen, age 23, were living on a farm in the Allison Prairie Township near Lawrenceville, Illinois. In 1880, Joe, age 38, and Ellen, age 33, were still living there, together with their four children: Charles H., age 9; Ethelbert C. my grandfather, then age 5; Dollie D. (also known as Daisy), age 3, and Joseph J., age 1; plus two live-in workers, Belle Gannen, age 9, and George Kronkenberger, age 20.

The 1880 census for Bishop Township, near Effingham, Illinois, about 50 miles northwest of Allison Prairie, showed that another of my great grandfathers, August Piel, age 41, and wife Sophia, age 40, both born in Germany, had immigrated in 1862 to Illinois where six of their seven children were born, the youngest being Bertha, my grandmother, then age 3.

Most of the 1890 census records have been lost in a fire. The 1900 census, however, reveals that during the last two decades of the 19th Century, Ethelbert, age 25, had married Bertha Piel, age 23, and they still lived there on the family farm in Allison Prairie with their son, listed as Maurice D., then age 1. (Donn said Mother could not stand the name Maurice, and used his middle name, Denzil; Father promptly switched, signing on as Denzil M. Hollingsworth in high school.)
In checking the census for Illinois and Indiana, in the genealogical library at the University of Vincennes, I happened to peek into the town marriage-license book and discovered that Bert Hollingsworth had married Bertha Piel in Vincennes, Knox County, Indiana, about 10 miles east and across the Wabash River from Allison Prairie, on February 10, 1898.

Five years ago, Donn, Hall, and I drove over to Lawrenceville, Illinois, looking for some record of Father and his family in the Lawrence County Courthouse. We found that on July 27, 1870, great grandfather Joe Hollingsworth paid $2,500 [equivalent to $24,625 in 1994 dollars] for a 160-acre farm about four miles east of Lawrenceville in Allison Prairie Township. This farm was in two 80-acre tracts about a quarter-mile apart, one with no improvements, for it cost only $500, the other tract probably having a house on it, costing $2,000.

This, as Old Home Places go, may not have been majestic, considering what $20,000 today would get you on 80 acres—maybe a second-hand mobile home. Be that as it may, Joe worked that 160 acres for 11 years, until he died at the age of 39 on Nov. 7, 1881; his widow Ellen raised three boys and a girl in that trailer, and lived off that flat prairie farm for another 18 years after her husband died.

At the age of 23, my grandfather Bert built a $500, two-story, frame house on the back portion of the farm, married Bertha, and apparently became involved in a family squabble over who owned what. Bert was named defendant in a lawsuit filed in 1898 by his older brother, younger sister and brother, and his mother, to partition the family farm they had shared for 28 years. Pending final order in this suit, Bert's mother, Ellen Jones Hollingsworth, sold the unimproved 80-acre tract to Charles E. Jones, perhaps a relative, for $500, what Joe had paid for it 29 years earlier.

The court then awarded Ellen her old house and 10 acres, valued at $1,000 as her homestead, and another 10 acres as her dower; the remaining back 40 acres were partitioned equally among the four children, Bert getting the 10 acres on which he had built his house two years earlier.

Last month I drove to Allison Prairie to see this house where Father and his younger sister, our Aunt Dorothy, were born. It was unimposing. It was the only house in sight, surrounded as far as one could see by irrigated soybeans and tall, corn, directly south of the Lawrenceville-Vincennes International Airport. In weathering a century on a windswept plain, the clapboard house had lost some paint, but was livable. A young couple and their children were having lunch under a large shade tree beside the house. The young man said he did not know how old the house was, but he understood his grandparents had lived there when they were young, before World War II, and his Father had been born in the house. He said he and his brother farmed some 500 acres on this side, and the other side of Highway 1100N, which the house faced.

My grandmother Bertha apparently did not care for this house, and its surrounding 10 acres, although she had caused her husband to deed over all his rights in it to her in 1899. Also, she did not care for the lifestyle out there on Allison Prairie. Further, she doubted her handsome young husband (Mother said Bert looked like Hall) had any sense of upward mobility, and suspected he was not going anywhere--certainly not upward, socially or economically, and not even to town, geographically.

One evening, Bert returned and was stunned to find the house empty. No wife, no children, no furniture. He was soon to learn that she had sold the property, cleaned out the bank account, and had gone—to where, he knew not. The 1901 St. Louis City Directory lists Bertha Hollingsworth, forewoman, as renting an apartment at 3505 Itaska Street in south St. Louis. (Randolph says a forewoman was a supervisor of other women in a sweatshop; Bertha was making her own way sewing lace.)

Three weeks ago, Dorcas and I drove to St. Louis, checked land and marriage records in City Hall, city directories in the library. Dorcas took pictures of buildings still standing where Father, Mother, Bert, Bertha, Uncle Jim Addis, Chum and Grandmother resided from 1901-40. The neighborhoods around Tower Grove Park, where Father and Mother grew up, contain multi-family brick dwellings built in the early decades of this century. Mother indicated they were occupied by low-income German and Italian immigrants. Now these neighborhoods are all black, save Flora Place,

six blocks with center parkway, leading west from Grand Avenue to the old entrance to Shaw's Garden on Tower Grove Avenue.

Bert did not catch up with Bertha until 1903, when the St. Louis City Directory lists him, as a laborer, residing at 3435A LaSalle Street, a building now razed, in a business zone. At the same address in 1905, we find James T. Addis, listed as a contractor. In 1906, Bert, then and thereafter listed as a locomotive fireman, moved with Uncle Jim a few blocks over to Park Avenue.

We could not find a record of Bertha's divorce from Bert in the St. Louis Civil Courts Building, but we did obtain a copy of Bertha's and Uncle Jim's marriage license, showing the marriage was performed by a justice of peace in St. Louis on Nov. 11, 1908.

The City Directories did not show where Bertha and her children lived from 1902 through 1908. Father told me that he remembered his mother had placed him and little Dorothy in a St. Louis orphanage when he was four or five years old; it was just for a few months, until his mother could find a job and place to live. After a week or so, Father thought she had abandoned them forever, and he had a hard time comforting his younger sister, who cried a lot. Dorcas recalls Father saying they lived for a while in Clayton, a St. Louis suburb just west of Forest Park (site of the 1903 World's Fair which celebrated the Centennial of the Louisiana Purchase).

After Bertha's marriage to Uncle Jim late in 1908, it may be presumed she moved with her children to Uncle Jim's address at 2900 Park Avenue. This was not your usual New York Park Avenue flat. Urban renewal has razed many of the old tenements in this area, but Dorcas was able to take some pictures of young black residents of 2900 Park Avenue. Father probably lived in an apartment at this address for four years, until he was 14; then Bertha moved Uncle Jim and her children to a house of their own, in a little better neighborhood, three blocks west of Grand Avenue, one block south of Tower Grove Park, at 3924 Juniata Street.

Father lived in this two-story red brick house for the next nine years, while going to high school and college; he listed it as his residence on his marriage license in 1923. Dorcas' photograph of this house, shows it was situated quite close to a neighboring house. Donn said Bert worked his way up between these two houses, climbed through a second-story window, snatched Uncle Jim out of bed, told him if he ever drank whiskey at home, in front of his children, he, Bert, would kill him. Uncle Jim recognized the earnestness in this threat and Donn said he believed Uncle Jim never had another drink at home. Which must have been tough, for he was an Irishman, and whiskey fueled his crew of Irishmen who wrecked buildings as a business.

Father said his father never drank or smoked, "but he sure gave women hell”; then he would laugh, embarrassed, and slap his knee. Father said Bert lost his job with the railroad many times, usually for fighting, or arguing with his superiors. Father said Bert was not tall, only about 5-foot-8, but he was robust, very strong, and athletic. Father remembered Bert's lifting him on his shoulders, and jumping off a street car before it stopped, running as fast as Olympic sprinter Archie Hahn, to keep from falling on his face with his top-heavy load. Bertha heard about the stunt and got a restraining order to keep Bert away from her children, and Uncle Jim.

Father did not seem to inherit much from his father, in the way of physical features, mental acuity, or cultural awareness. He had no chance to learn anything from his father, because he never lived with him, never saw him except for brief, uncomfortable visits which his mother
discouraged.

Father probably inherited his drive from his ambitious mother. Bertha devoted all her energies and street smarts to make her handsome son into someone important, whose success might reflect on her. She abandoned a dusty, Illinois prairie, and her unpromising first husband, for the excitement of a big city, and she latched on to a man who had his own company, and who could provide her and her children with a solid brick home.

To expand her social contacts, Bertha formed a sewing circle, inviting the most attractive ladies in the neighborhood; among these was the beautiful and elegantly mannered young wife of a university-educated physicist— Blanche Parrott and Chum. He was graduated from the University of Michigan, with honors in mathematics; while teaching in Saint Johns and Saginaw in Michigan, he had written several scientific articles that brought him some out-of-state notice. In 1909, he accepted an offer to teach at McKinley High School in St. Louis, and moved with his wife and 11-year-old daughter into a nice duplex at 3867 Utah Place.

My grandmothers, Bertha and Blanche, became friends and during sewing circle sessions, exchanged glowing reports on their children. They arranged for Mother and Father to be introduced to each other. Soon thereafter, Father suffered a broken leg playing baseball in Tower Grove Park, and asked Mother to visit him in the hospital.

According to family tradition (compiled mostly by Mother) neither looked for love elsewhere, ever after. Mother was born in June, eight months before Father, and while they were the same age February through June, every September Mother remained an academic year ahead of Father.

In the fall of 1916, Mother matriculated at the University of Missouri in Columbia. While she was gone, Bertha began looking around for a better prospect for her son. To insure that Mother could not tie him up in Columbia, Bertha insisted that Uncle Jim pay out-of-state tuition for Father and shipped him off to the University of Illinois at Champaign-Urbana in the fall of 1917. Mother transferred to the University of Illinois for her junior and senior years, and there, the twain having met again, they never were to part--Rudyard Kipling notwithstanding.

I have annexed hereto, a four-page chronology of Father's construction work and financial success, abstracted from Father's 1943 application for a commission in the Navy SeaBees. These are facts, over Father's signature, interspersed with my parenthetical notes intended to amplify stark data; I have converted 1920 and 1930 dollars into 1994 dollars, using the U.S. Labor Department's Consumer Price Index table, to place in current perspective Father's earnings in his business-active years.

Father's initial success in the construction business cannot be attributed to his stepfather's guidance. Jim Addis ran a building-wrecking crew of Irishmen, pick-and-shovel men who moved dirt with horse-drawn drag buckets in the first decades of this century. Father ran grades, laid out the work, and supervised the men for his stepfather while he was in college; but he thought in terms of machines and mechanical advantages, and he spoke the language of a university-trained civil engineer, a language Uncle Jim did not fully comprehend. They did not work together long.

Measured in today's dollars, Father earned $147,610 at the age of 26, during his first year of business as his own boss. His stepfather and father never got within 31 lengths of that kind of money. That he was able to buy a $293,000 house
(left to right Blanche, Dorcas, Denzil, Kent, Donn, Hall, Polly, Chum)
two years later at the age of 28 was an indication of precocious business success, attained sooner and in greater measure than anything realized by his forebears, or his descendants. He earned some $321,000 at the age of 32, and he earned about $5 million at the age of 40, from his own physical efforts, his own thought processes, his initiatives, his inventions. No one handed this monetary success to him in a pay envelope. No board voted him a stock option. He earned it, by himself, without apparent benefit of inherited and environmental influences.

For much of my professional writing career, I have been pointing out the incidence of exceptional performers in the pedigrees of successful race horses; and I have emphasized the importance of environment — good food and care during the early years, expert training, and adherence to a well designed strategic plan — to attain success in any endeavor.

I see little of this in my Father's background. He may have been guided, motivated, by his mother and his wife, but many individuals have been guided and motivated toward success, yet failed to realize it for want of other essential ingredients in the mix. Father did what he did mainly on his own. His success was self-made.

I sorely regret that I never really got to know him, that I was so self-absorbed in making my own way, I did not appreciate my Father during his last 25 years, when I had the opportunity to walk at his side.

So I have set out for you here, some of the things your Grandfather did when he was young, about your age, that you might perceive a vague image in the mist from whence you came.
With love,

Father (Kent)