45 minute read
Blood for
Two new players in the infamous Hatfield-McCoy feud sparked an escalation of violence
B L O O D for BLOOD
SUMMARY OF PART I
Since the turbulent times of Civil War along the Border States, there had been hard feelings, punctuated by acts of murderous violence, between the Hatfields of West Virginia and the McCoys of Kentucky. The former, under the leadership of the powerful William Anderson “Devil Anse” Hatfield, seemed by far the stronger and more financially stable, benefiting from Anse’s canny business sense and political contacts within his home state. For his part, Randolph “Old Ran’l” McCoy had always struggled to support his large family on land that was unyielding and unforgiving.
At one time, the clans had seemed compatible. Members of the two families intermarried, shared friendships, and often worked together. Devil Anse himself employed several McCoys as laborers in his timbering operation. Beginning during the Civil War, the series of events that led to the savage taking of lives reflected a set of unwritten laws and traditions that left little room for the proverbial turning of the other cheek. In 1887, when Old Ran’l found himself outmaneuvered by Devil Anse, he turned to his in-law, politically connected and vengeance-minded lawyer Perry Cline, for help.
This was precisely the opportunity the ambitious Cline had been looking for, ever since Devil Anse had finessed him out of some 5,000 acres of prime timber property. Further adding to Cline’s thirst for payback, Anse’s son, Cap, was directly responsible for the shooting death of Cline’s nephew, Jeff McCoy. Q
1887: CLINE UPS THE ANTE
Perry Cline’s first order of business was to have Kentucky reinstate the five-year-old murder indictments and arrest warrants against Devil Anse and several of his friends and relatives for the execution-style killings of three of Ran’l’s sons. Aware that Anse’s West Virginia political connections were certain to fight extradition, he announced significant Kentucky state bounties on the Hatfields and hired “detectives”—glorified bounty hunters—to ford the Tug River and bring them back to Kentucky by force.
Tom Wallace, Cap Hatfield’s accomplice in killing Jeff McCoy, was among the first to experience Cline’s wrath. Bud and Jake McCoy, Jeff’s brothers, captured Wallace and conveyed him to the Pikeville jail. He escaped and was working a moonshine still when two of Cline’s bounty hunters came upon him. This time, all that was returned to Pike County for the reward was Wallace’s scalp.
Meanwhile, Cline was using his considerable political influence and connections to see Kentucky gubernatorial candidate and former Confederate Gen. Simon Bolivar Buckner elected. He managed to deliver a large portion of the state’s votes; when Buckner won the election, he followed Cline’s advice and put Franklin Phillips in charge of the campaign to arrest and return the Hatfields to Pike County.
It was an ominous choice. Phillips called himself “Bad Frank,” and few who knew him would have questioned the moniker. He was a career troublemaker and lawbreaker, currently serving in the unlikely post of deputy sheriff of Pike County, Kentucky. Phillips had been indicted for crimes in three states, walking free only through the influence of his foster father, Col. John Dils, the most powerful political figure in Pike County. Oral tradition has him riding with Frank and Jesse James in his youth, pointing to the fact that he named one of his sons Jesse James Phillips.
Approachable when sober, Phillips reportedly could become instantly homicidal when in his cups—which occurred with greater frequency as time passed. He was, in the words of one chronicler, “a flamboyant egotist, mean on drink and full of his own self-importance.” He had acquired thousands of valuable acres on both sides of the Tug and was relatively well-to-do. Yet, despite being financially comfortable, Frank had developed a reputation over time as a hired gun—and he was apparently well-suited to it. As historian Dean King wrote, “Despite some obvious flaws, Bad Frank was driven, single-minded, and fearless.” He was precisely the type of man Perry Cline was seeking to lead the incursions into West Virginia in search of Hatfields.
Perry Cline was demonstrating to Devil Anse in the most effective way possible that times had changed; the Hatfields were now facing the very real possibility of a legal reckoning. In response, a letter arrived on Cline’s desk reading, in part, “We … do notify you that if you come into this country to take or bother any of the Hatfields, we will follow you to hell or take your hide … If you don’t keep your hands off our men, there is not a one of you will be left in six months.”
Cline was undeterred—as was Bad Frank when he received a like warning. With the Pike County election of 1887 imminent, according to King, “The Hatfields … sent word to [Phillips] to stay away or, failing that, to come unarmed and without warrants. Otherwise, they warned, they would kill him.” Unfazed by the death threat, Frank Phillips advised the Hatfields in return that he would indeed attend the election, with warrants in hand. Should any Hatfields show up, he “would either capture or kill them.”
THE CAMPAIGN AGAINST THE HATFIELDS
Meanwhile, an exchange was taking place at a much higher level. Newly elected Gov. Buckner wrote to West Virginia Gov. Willis Wilson, requesting that he arrest the Hatfields under Kentucky indictment and turn them over to him for trial. Wilson refused. Further assisting the Hatfields’ case was John B. Floyd, the state senator whom Anse had helped to elect. After several back-and-forth communications, the result was a stalemate.
Frustrated with the political war of words, Perry Cline sent Frank Phillips across the Tug River to bring in the Hatfields and their indicted accomplices. Over the next several months, he would repeatedly cross the Tug into West Virginia, sometimes with the proper extradition papers, sometimes not, with posses that varied in number from two to 40 men. Meanwhile, the Pike County sheriff fired Phillips, ostensibly for putting too much energy into
capturing Hatfields and not enough into his deputy’s responsibilities. Nonetheless, Bad Frank continued in his dogged pursuit with increasingly successful results.
Cline and Phillips had succeeded in getting Devil Anse’s attention. The patriarch was now fully aware that the combination of the law and a group of determined bounty men posed a real threat to his family and supporters. It was at this point that the Hatfields perpetrated the most heinous act of the decades-long conflict: Someone—tradition has it that the author of the plan was Anse’s younger brother, Elias (ironically known as “Good ’Lias”)—determined that, in order for the family’s legal woes to disappear, Old Ran’l McCoy and his family had to die.
THE RAID
In the light of a full moon on a brutally cold Jan. 1, 1888, a party of nine or so Hatfield men, reportedly emboldened by drink and under the command of Devil Anse’s uncle, “Crazy Jim” Vance, dismounted and crept up to the clearing in which sat Ran’l’s dogtrot home—two cabins joined by a covered walkway. Inside the main cabin were Ran’l; his wife, Sally; their 25-year-old son, Cal; and a small grandson. In the smaller structure—the kitchen—slept three of McCoy’s daughters and his 5-year-old granddaughter. The oldest daughter was 29-year-old Alifair.
Earlier, word of the Hatfields’ plans had been leaked to the McCoys, but inexplicably, Ran’l had done nothing either to spirit his family to safety or to prepare for the attack. And now, it began. At around 10:30 p.m., Vance ordered the McCoys to come out; when they refused, the attackers opened fire and battered open the front door of the kitchen. They then set fire to the main cabin.
The McCoys returned fire, Ran’l at one point shooting the fingers off one of the torchbearers. But they were hopelessly outnumbered and outgunned. When Alifair appeared in the kitchen doorway, Cap Hatfield took deliberate aim and fatally shot her in the chest.* Cal McCoy managed to wound one of his attackers before breaking for the surrounding woods, but a rifle ball to the head ended his flight. As Sally attempted to run to her stricken daughter, a blow from Vance’s rifle butt broke two of her ribs. Still, she was trying to crawl to Alifair, when a crazed Johnse Hatfield brought his pistol down, fracturing her skull.
Meanwhile, the flames were swiftly engulfing the main house. When they ran out of water, the desperate McCoys poured buttermilk on the flames, but their efforts were futile. Finally, they ran from the house, Ran’l still in his nightshirt and wielding a double-barreled shotgun. He managed to wound two more of the attackers before running into the woods and out of danger. Miraculously, the other children survived, stunned but unhurt.
The members of the Hatfield party made their way back to their mounts and rode off into the night, having failed in their attempt on Ran’l’s life. Across the nation, newspapers railed against the actions of what Louisville’s
*Although Alifair clearly identified Cap as her slayer before she died, blame later fell on young Ellison “Cotton Top” Mount, the mentally challenged, illegitimate son of Devil Anse’s late brother, Ellison. And there, in the eyes of the law, the blame would remain.
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Courier-Journal referred to as a “murderous gang.” The repercussions of this night’s action would haunt the Hatfields for years to come and cement in the minds of the reading public the image of the backwoodsman as a mindless barbarian.
THE BATTLE OF GRAPEVINE CREEK
Rewards soon were posted for the capture of those responsible for what was now being referred to as the New Year’s Day Massacre. Of more immediate concern to the Hatfields, however, was the increased activity of Bad Frank Phillips and his cohorts.
Even as Kentucky Gov. Buckner was again requesting from his counterpart, West Virginia’s Gov. Wilson, that the parties indicted for the earlier killings of the three McCoy brothers be surrendered forthwith, Phillips was continuing what one chronicler described as his “lightning raids” into Hatfield territory. “If the governor of West Virginia is determined to continue the protection of his murderous pets,” he self-righteously declared, “I will protect the citizens of Kentucky or die in the
attempt.” Within days of the two young McCoys’ burial, and in the unshakeable conviction that he was the arbiter of the moral right, Phillips raised a 24-man posse that, according to oral tradition, included an understandably vengeful Ran’l McCoy.
Over the days that followed, the posse—acting on Phillips’ orders—seized anyone, including women and children, who might warn the Hatfields of their approach. Meanwhile, the fugitive Hatfield raiding party had spent several days hiding in the woods, receiving aid from relatives and neighbors. Eventually, Cap Hatfield, Jim Vance and his wife left the group and set off on their own, only to run directly into Bad Frank’s posse.
Vance decided to stay and fight but insisted that Cap try to escape. After a brief exchange of gunfire with Phillips and his men, Cap broke for freedom, leaving Vance to stand alone against more than 20 men. Things could end only one way. Finally, a bullet from Phillips’ powerful, .45-90 Winchester took off the top of Vance’s head. Meanwhile, Cap borrowed a horse from a local farmer and rode directly to Devil Anse’s cabin to sound the alarm.
Anse, along with a handful of friends and relatives, rode to Vance’s rescue, only to find his body lying where it fell. Meanwhile, Phillips continued his hunt for Hatfields, cornering six fugitives, including another of Anse’s brothers, and returning them to the Pike County jail. For the time being, the news publications generally favored Phillips and his men, painting them as righteous instruments of the law.
With popular opinion behind him, Phillips mounted yet another raid, this time crossing the Tug at the head of a 33-man posse. They rode straight to Cap Hatfield’s home on Grapevine Creek, where Devil Anse, Cap and nine other armed men waited. Among them were two state-sponsored lawmen. Gov. Wilson had issued arrest warrants on Phillips and his posse for Jim Vance’s death, and he had sent a constable and a special deputy to serve them.
Gunfire broke out and lasted for some two hours. The Hatfields were outnumbered by more than three to one, and once again, the outcome was predictable. Four of their party were wounded, including the special deputy, Bill Dempsey, who suffered a shattered leg. All but Dempsey fled into the woods, leaving the deputy at the mercy of the posse.
The badly bleeding Dempsey, who had had no part in the feud, told Phillips that he was unarmed and dying, and begged him not to shoot anymore. Nonetheless, Phillips, ignoring the protests of some posse members, drew his pistol and literally blew the lawman’s head off.
Suddenly, the wind of popular opinion shifted. As both sides placed hurry-up orders for more guns, the formerly pro-McCoy newspaper editors now condemned the coldblooded actions of Phillips and his manhunters. No one on either side, it seemed, was to be perceived as a “good guy”; to the rest of the nation, both families had displayed a savagery utterly foreign to the tenets of a modern, civilized society. The feud itself was far from over and would take a few unexpected twists and turns before the guns were stilled.
COMING IN PART III
Although the so-called Battle of Grapevine Creek represented the last full-blown shooting confrontation between the two sides, it certainly did nothing to put an end to either the bitter feelings or the violence. As Bad Frank Phillips continued his relentless hunt for the indicted Hatfields, the law stepped in to bring a reckoning to the years-old killings of the three McCoy brothers. Now, with his own brother and an uncle dead and another sibling behind bars, Devil Anse Hatfield was forced to take stock of what the feud had cost—and was yet promising to cost—him and his extended family. For his part, Ran’l McCoy had lost five children before their time and would soon lose another. Finally, in one dramatic act, the courts took a drastic step to ensure that the war between the Hatfields and the McCoys was over. The question was, would it work? Q
Part III of “Blood for Blood: The Hatfield-McCoy Feud” will appear in the August issue.
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View From a Virus
Lexington-based author, life coach and motivational speaker Eugenia Johnson-Smith says the COVID-19 pandemic is an opportunity to reboot our lives
Yeah, sure, I’m a bad mother … No cure. I’m just a little virus that has totally turned the world upside down in as little as a few months. But what have I really done? I’ve made some people sick. I’ve even caused some to pass away. I’m not proud of that, and for that, I am sorry. But I have also caused some positive ripples to flow from me through homes, neighborhoods, cities, countries and the world. Ripples like people helping each other, ripples like watering the seeds of creativity that once lay dormant in the souls of so many, ripples like forcing you, society, to jump out of the boxes you were so content with living in. It was I, COVID-19, that prodded you with the hot poker, making you get out of your comfort zone.
But there are many other viruses you human beings have been content to let run rampant through your neighborhoods, cities, countries and world. Viruses like hatred, intolerance and gun violence. Divisions based on race, religion, sexuality, socioeconomics and politics.
You, society, were OK with those things hurting and killing as long as the victims didn’t look like you, think like you, believe like you, dress like you, or vote like you. Yeah, those viruses were OK because they didn’t touch you, your family, your friends or your pocketbook. But I, COVID-19, can’t see race, sexuality, party lines or class.
When society could have done something about the viruses that plagued your neighborhoods, cities, countries and world, you did nothing. Society just stood there and watched. Watched as citizens were abused and gunned down in the streets. Watched as places of worship were burned, bombed and shot up. Watched as women doing the same jobs as men were paid less. Watched as teachers were turned into babysitters, psychologists and miracle workers. Watched as the homeless begged, walked and slept in your streets. Watched as those who thought, looked and believed differently became victims of hate crimes. Watched while children were stripped from the loving arms of their parents and locked in cages, scared and alone.
Society watched as those in high-powered positions took advantage of those they were entrusted to protect. Watched as politicians elected to be the voice of the people, for the people were struck with amnesia, only to seek personal gain, glory and popularity while in office. Watched as millions were denied health care and higher education because they couldn’t pay. Watched as the pharmaceutical companies held medication for ransom from those who needed it to live. Watched while thousands starved to death in one of the wealthiest nations in the world.
These are viruses society has the ability to defeat, yet you do nothing.
Even the Israelites didn’t get it. They could have made it to the promised land in two weeks, but it took them 40 years to figure it out. Hopefully, it doesn’t take society 40 years to stop watching, to come together, and to take action—the kind of action you have taken against me, COVID-19!
Think of me as your time in the wilderness. Think of me as your reset button on life. Think of me as your reboot, your do-over. You may be thinking you had a good thing going and don’t want a do-over or a reboot. That may be true for you. But for many, a reset, a reboot or a chance to start over with a fresh new look on life might not be such a bad thing. And if you really think about it, was the life you were living really, truly your best life? Could you do better? Should you have done better? Will you now do better with this chance?
I once heard that a problem is just an opportunity for growth or transformation. Growth and transformation are not always easy, fun or quick. But in the end, it is worth it if the focus is on the outcome and is not lost while on the journey.
There will be times of uneasiness and despair, and the clouds of doubt will creep in like weeds trying to block out any light of hope.
The citizens of the United States are getting restless while waiting to get back to normal—a normal that, if you open your eyes and really look at it unfiltered, would be a normal to which many people would not be in favor of returning.
I didn’t do all this to have you, society, just go back to business as usual—the status quo.
I, COVID-19, am your come-to-Jesus moment. I, COVID-19, am your teaching moment. I, COVID-19, am your life-changing moment. I, COVID-19, could be your final moment. I, COVID-19, am your wake-up moment. I, COVID-19, am your defining moment. I, COVID-19, am your unifying moment. I, COVID-19, am your conversation moment. I, COVID-19, am your hopeful moment. I, COVID-19, am your new normal.
The new normal is where Gov. Andy Beshear reads the numbers of your fellow Kentuckians I have touched, and the number I have caused to pass on. You also hear the hope of those who have recovered from my infection. But they are not just numbers, not just statistics. They are your friends, families and co-workers. In the words of the governor, “We will get through this; we will get through this together.”
You will not be getting back to the way things used to be any time soon. I, COVID-19, am here. “You can’t be doing that!” I am your new normal.
The new normal is where masks and gloves are worn whenever you leave your homes. The new normal is where your temperatures are taken as you enter restaurants, workplaces, medical facilities and churches, and before you are granted access to public transportation. The new normal is tele-health appointments, staycations and Zoom meetings. The new normal is where social distancing and 20-second hand-washing are a must. The new normal is where, if you are exposed to me, you will have to selfquarantine for 14 days. The new normal is where you long for a simple handshake, a hug from a friend, and the opportunity for mass gatherings.
I, COVID-19, hope that society’s new normal will be better than the old normal. I hope the creativity, unity and ingenuity I have sparked in the hearts and minds of so many Americans continue. I hope I ignite the passion that lights the fires to start the movement of being better together.
Working better together is no longer watching and waiting to take action against the societal viruses that have plagued you for so long. Action is required to move from normal to a new normal that is a better normal—a new normal filled with hope, love, unity and compassion for all. Q
Creating a Culture of Excitement
Students begin their FNU journey with an orientation session held on our Versailles, Kentucky, campus. This important first step gives students an opportunity to connect with other students and faculty and energizes them to go home and begin their studies. We’re excited to welcome students to our new campus in late 2020.
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Vintage Recreation
During the late 1800s and early 1900s, Americans flocked to regional amusement parks, where they would find live music, rides, games and picnics. Although the parks’ attractions were much simpler than today’s hair-raising, lightning-fast rides and tech-heavy simulator experiences, they were great places for recreation— something with which many hardworking folks were unfamiliar.
Part of the Images of America series, Lost Amusement Parks of Kentuckiana focuses on the Louisville and southern Indiana region. The image-heavy 127-page book is full of photos of people, places, events and memorabilia from Glenwood Park, Rose Island, White City, Fontaine Ferry and Kiddieland, some of which stayed open until the late 1960s. There are also photos of a steamboat named Idlewild, which would transport patrons to the amusement parks across the Ohio River. If the old steamer looks familiar, it’s because the steamboat has since been renamed the Belle of Louisville.
Author Carrie Cooke Ketterman is a Louisville native with a fascination for vintage amusement parks.
By Deborah Kohl Kremer
Lost Amusement Parks of Kentuckiana By Carrie Cooke Ketterman Arcadia Publishing, $21.99 (P)
Men of Industry
From 1870 to 1900, America grew because of the Industrial Revolution. As this growth was taking part across the country, the same was happening in Louisville. This 150-page book focuses each chapter on the man or men who dominated their respective industries that resulted in the Louisville we know today.
This history includes an in-depth look at Paul Jones Jr., who trademarked the name of his bourbon company, Four Roses, which remains a leader in the industry. John P. Morton got his start as the manager of a bookstore that also published a small newspaper. Through mergers and name changes, that paper grew to become The Courier-Journal. Many names and companies in the book are still prominent in Louisville today, and it is interesting to see how time has shaped the industries over the last 100-plus years.
Historian Bryan S. Bush of Louisville has written magazine articles and history books pertaining to the Civil War and Kentucky. He served on the board of directors and as curator for the Old Bardstown Civil War Museum and Village and is an artillerist in Civil War reenactments.
By Deborah Kohl Kremer
The Men Who Built Louisville: The City of Progress in the Gilded Age By Bryan S. Bush, The History Press, $21.99 (P)
An Intense Journey
Even with the urging of his wife, it took P. Shaun Neal 27 years to finish, but Nicholasville construction worker Neal’s novel Mama’s Song, set in rural 1949 Rowan County, is a crafty work of art.
In this compelling book, Colby Grayson learns that coming-of-age is sorely more than a passing formality in his eastern Kentucky farming community. On his 13-year-old shoulders rests the nearly impossible task of helping his family survive after the untimely death of his father, Vernon. The circumstances are daunting, even for the strongest of mature adults. He knows there is a tobacco crop to raise and a household of hungry mouths to feed. And then, there’s the matter of Mama’s singing, which is consequential to a family secret.
Steeped in the sense of place and traditions of the past, where “hardship was more than tolerated, where it was expected and accepted,” the community reaches out to heroic Colby and the Graysons—both overtly and stealthily. But what beckons, the good folk find, is eerily more than their assistance in the fields and help with financial resources; it’s their help in confronting the harsh reality of Mama’s need to sing.
By Steve Flairty
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A Bald-Headed Man Can Never Have Too Many Hats
If you look at pictures from the early part of the 19th century to about 1960 or so, most men wore hats in public or at work. The styles varied: fatigue, porkpie, fedora, flat top, bowler and western cowboy. Ladies wore wide-brimmed hats to church, and men wore business hats most everywhere. Baseball caps with logos were worn only by baseball players. The names Stetson and Panama come to mind.
During this same time span, women wore hats whenever they went out of the house—not only to church but also shopping or to most any function in public. Women’s hats sported artificial flowers, feathers and other ornaments. Some small hats atop their lovely heads were called pillboxes. Other styles included the beanie, the beret (also worn by some men, particularly in France, I suppose), the floppy straw hat, the trilby … the list goes on, certainly outnumbering the styles available for men.
Today, there is only one lady in
our church who wears a hat every Sunday, and I see few women with hats on Easter. My wife cannot recall the last time she wore a hat and gloves.
I recall, way back in the 1940s and ’50s, farmers coming to my father’s welding shop in Shelbyville wearing straw hats in various states of decline. Both of my farmer grandfathers wore old “Sunday-go-tomeetin’ ” hats to labor in the fields, with the crowns disintegrated away from sweat produced in their farm labors. I recall wearing a baseball-bill hat in the old welding shop, turned around backward when I wore protective goggles.
In the latter part of the 20th century, formal hat-wearing seemed to suddenly cease. I wonder why. Was it a matter of style? Today, people wear headgear in bad weather, but the styles vary. Baseball-style caps are available in various colors, depicting sports teams and businesses from hardware to fishing equipment to beer brands. g g g
People collect all kinds of things— souvenirs and memorabilia. My parents had a great desire to travel, but not early in their marriage, when my father worked for $20 a week at the Kentucky Utilities gas plant in Danville in the early 1940s.
After Pop got out of the Army in 1946, we took a long motor trip to Miami, Florida. That whetted their appetite for travel. Somewhere, my parents bought me a hat with a dolphin on it. It is long gone, but I still recall it. Every once in a while, we took weekend trips after his welding shop closed down for the weekend at noon on Saturday. I still have a carved wooden letter opener from an overnight stay at Natural Bridge State Park when I was a little kid around 1950.
What do you collect? I don’t mean something of real value; rather, something reminiscent of your life that applies to no one else. I reckon you can tell from the picture that I have quite a hat collection—mostly the baseball type with a bill to keep the sun from burning my skin. Some people have said I am thin-skinned.
I am one of untold millions of “follically challenged” males in this country. I have tried to let grow what hair I have on my head to an optimum length, but it curls around my ears in a clownish fashion. Therefore, I have resigned myself to cutting the fuzz on top of my head down to my bare skin. Officially, I have more hair in my nose and ears than on my head.
It has become fashionable for mature men to shave their heads, often complementing this look with a full beard. Did this all start with actor Yul Brynner? The vicissitudes of life have been fairly kind to me. My hairline began receding when I was burning the midnight oil at Georgetown College. Then I got married and had kids, a mortgage, car payments—you know the routine.
My naturally thin red hair, what’s left of it, is now almost white. As a kid, we did not use sunscreen, an omission for which I have paid dearly. I have had several minor skin operations to remove pre-cancerous growths. I am much more careful now than ever before. My SPF 70 sunscreen sometimes distracts my golf opponents, one of whom recently said: “Now I know what it feels like to play golf with a ghost.” g g g
I recently counted my hats, and I have at least 70. (There could be others hiding under books and old clothes.) These range from winter caps with earmuffs to a broad-brim Tilley hat for the golf course, fishing and other outdoor adventures. My baseball-style caps come from many sources. Almost all of them appear to have been made in China, thereby encouraging the Chinese to purchase our corn and soybeans, I suppose.
I purchased most of my hats and caps over the years going back to the 1980s. As I look at each, I am reminded of some time and place in my life. Several are from trips within the United States and abroad to Ireland, Scotland, Iceland, New Zealand, Norway, Sweden and other distant places. I recall a trip to see polar bears in Churchill, Manitoba, on the Hudson Bay; a cruise to Greenland, where I bought the last faded hat in the shop; a fishing trip to “Wally’s Place” in Manitoba, where I had a magical day catching brown and rainbow trout and smallmouth bass on mosquito-infested lakes.
I cherish three hats that belonged to my deceased Georgetown College football teammate, Tom Dowling. They were given to me by his widow. Thanks, Mary Ann. Every time I wear one, I recall Tom and the old days of playing for Coach Bob Davis.
Two hats were given to me by Webb Dunlap, a classmate and fraternity brother at Georgetown College, class of 1962. The logo “U.S. Stands for US” is a plea for civility in our deeply divided nation. The mission statement of U.S. Stands for US is, “We believe in the essential unity of the human race when its members express what they know to be the best within them … And we believe in Community.” Webb told me U.S. Stands for US is “expressly not a political or religious statement. Rather, it is a call to action on behalf of community.” You can check out the website at usstandsforus.com.
I suppose some of our readers also collect hats and other ephemera from trips to places far and near. I know ex-servicemen who wear hats denoting their military units or service area. Drop me an email with a story and a photo of your favorite hat. 71 2020
O U T D O O R T H E A T R E & C A M P G R O U N D
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Wash Your Hands, Gently
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Plan a Victory Garden Next Year
By the time you read this, I hope coronavirus is just a bad memory. But as I write this in early April, it is still raging and messing with our lives. You know anything that moves the Kentucky Derby to fall has been disruptive!
If there is anything good at all to come from this virus, it’s that people are taking a look at becoming more selfsufficient. Empty shelves and long lines just to get in grocery stores will do that. The spring of 2020 found people scarfing up not just toilet paper but vegetable and herb plants of every description. When I visited a local garden center in early April to buy cabbage, broccoli and cauliflower transplants, the shelves were absolutely empty. (I knew I should have started my own from seed!) People were letting the flowers sit and were instead going for anything that could be grown to eat.
While the memory of long lines and empty shelves is still fresh, why not take time now to start planning a food garden for next year? It’s too hot to work outside all day anyway. Sit a spell and plan a Victory Over COVID-19 garden for next year.
Some Planning Tips
Build one or more raised beds. A 4- by 8-foot raised bed will fit in even the smallest yard and can produce a remarkable amount of food. Build several and you can feed your family all year with the produce you grow. Plans for raised beds are all over the internet, but the simplest ones require only three 8-foot by 6-inch boards, with one board cut in half to form the ends. Use eight brackets on the ends for added support, and you have your bed. I’m no carpenter, but I can make these in less than an hour.
Start a compost pile. Buying enough soil to fill a raised bed can be expensive, so make your own soil. Food scraps (no meat), grass clippings, leaves, etc. piled up eventually will produce compost. Turning the pile every week or so moves the process along faster. You can fill your raised bed next spring with a ready-to-grow medium. Build a bin to house your compost or just leave it in a pile—perhaps in an out-of-the-way place in the yard so as not to incur the wrath of neighbors.
If space is limited to one or two raised beds, grow vegetables that are efficient in small areas. Those would include all of the leafy greens, onions, carrots, beets, cherry tomatoes, peppers and bush-type summer squashes. Let those with more room grow the space hogs like corn and melons.
If both space and money are in short supply, choose vegetables that are not only space-efficient but are also the most pricey to buy at the grocery. Carrots and dried beans, for example, are space-efficient, but they are relatively cheap produce. If you want the biggest bang for your buck, go for cherry tomatoes, leafy greens and peppers.
Use vertical space. Adding wire frames to the sides or ends of beds enables you to grow upward, doubling or tripling the space you have for vegetables. Cucumbers, pole beans and climbing peas are good choices for growing vertically.
Plan to order early. If this season is any indication, seed supply outlets and farm stores are going to sell out of seeds and plants early. Get your lists ready and order seeds in early January. If you don’t want to fight the crowds for transplants next year, grow your own. (How to do that is fodder for another column.)
Succession Planting
The key to growing a lot of food in a little space is to do what’s called succession planting, which means following one crop with another so that the bed is always in production and never idle. Spring crops go first, followed by summer crops, followed by fall crops. If you really want to be productive, you can use bent-over PVC pipe and a row cover to grow leafy vegetables such as spinach and lettuce all winter long.
Succession planting requires knowledge of the best season to grow vegetables in our Kentucky climate and a willingness to map out a plan that takes advantage of the best growing conditions for your crops.
Here are a few possible growing scenarios that would work in an 4- by 8-foot bed:
Plant leaf, butterhead or Romaine lettuce in early spring. Follow that with green beans that will give you two or three pickings. After the beans are spent (throw the pulled-up plants on the compost pile), follow with broccoli and cabbage or cauliflower—all three of those grow better in fall than in spring.
Plant green peas in early spring. Follow with bushtype summer squash (yellow or zucchini), followed by beets, carrots or turnips.
Plant spinach or lettuce in the spring, followed by tomatoes (if you put them in cages, you can get six in a bed), followed by spinach and lettuce again. Or follow the peas with peppers, followed by a root crop such as carrots or beets.
The combinations are nearly endless and depend on what your family can use.
You may have seen the comments on social media: “Our grandparents were called to war; you are called to sit on the couch. You can do this!” I say, why sit on the couch when there’s a Victory Garden to be planted?
The trip was planned for early March, she said, and would consist of about a dozen people, including a handful of media types, an outfitter/ guide and a few industry folks. The late winter timeframe came with the promise of friendly weather while avoiding the sizzling summer temperatures for which Death Valley is famous. Coronavirus, with the death and havoc it would bring, was an insignificant blip on the national health radar. I signed on, unsure of what exactly to expect.
Death Valley National Park is about a two-hour drive from Las Vegas’ McCarran International Airport and sprawls across 3.4 million acres along the California-Nevada border. All but a sliver of the park is in California. It is the largest national park outside of Alaska. Hemmed by mountains, the valley floor stretches nearly 150 miles. Most of the park is designated wilderness, much of which is surprisingly accessible via a maze of unpaved, hardscrabble roads. A few are accessible only by fourwheel drive or all-wheel drive, but many are family-vehicle friendly.
We spent our first afternoon in a trio of rented Jeeps crawling along Titus Canyon Road, a 24-mile-long, one-way trek that follows a craggy, winding path through a fold between Funeral and Grapevine mountains. About halfway through the lonesome, rocky route, we encountered a family of three in an aging Nissan Altima, a sedan that struck me as more suited to the Watterson Expressway than Titus Canyon. We paused to offer help, but no help was needed. They were picnicking.
Death Valley is a land of extremes. It has sand dunes and sidewinders, scorpions and ghost towns. It is the hottest recorded spot on the planet (134 degrees F on July 10, 1913) and the driest place in North America, with an average of less than 2 inches of rain annually. (Kentucky is drenched with about 45 inches of rain annually and is relatively cool by comparison, with a recorded high heat mark of 114 degrees F on July 28, 1930, in Greensburg.)
Safe at Home with Your Takibi S everal months ago, when something called coronavirus was barely garnering a 6-inch story on page 4 of the local newspaper, my computer beeped with a message from a colleague in California by way of Montana with an invitation to participate in a camping trip to Death Valley National Park.
Rare but intense Death Valley thunderstorms generate flash floods that can move boulders the size of cars. Its most visited and well-known spot is Badwater Basin, which—at 282 feet below sea level—is the lowest point in the continental United States. But about 16 miles west of Badwater Basin, snow-capped Telescope Peak towers 11,331 feet above the valley floor and is the park’s highest point. The park is a dazzling, desolate and sometimes dangerous place speckled with piercing light. Nighttime also sparkles with starlight and moonlight, earning Death Valley a designation as an International Dark Sky Park.
We emerged from Titus Canyon and traveled south along the valley floor; crossed Panamint Mountains; and finally, in the fading light, made camp and prepared for Takibi time.
Our hosts had camp mostly set up by the time we arrived. I stowed my gear, dug through my pack for a jacket against the evening chill, and returned to the crackling fire, where camp cook Meredith Terhardt was marinating pork steaks for the grill.
We were camping just outside the park boundary, and the fire was the reason why. Inside the park, campfires are restricted to designated fire rings, and one of the things our hosts wanted to demonstrate was the fire pit—officially the Takibi Fire & Grill.
It seemed a nifty setup—something of a collapsible pit, well made from stainless steel with a simple design. I gave it little mind. The fire was roaring and the steaks sizzling under a cloudless sky awash in starlight.
The next evening, following a day roaming through a park nearly surreal in its landscape and natural lighting, I watched while Wayne Coxen took about 30 seconds to assemble a Takibi and another couple of minutes to get a fire going in it. This time, I was more attentive. Watching Coxen, I realized this would be a near-perfect tool for river camps, shore lunches and deer camp. It weighs 24 pounds, is nearly indestructible, and comes with a lifetime guarantee. A carrying pouch is included. It is as simple as it is functional and has apparently been a staple for camping, cooking and general outside gatherings in Japan for decades. Now, it is being given a fresh push into the U.S.
You can add a slew of accessories (oven, grill pan, coal bed and more), but the basic unit (base plate, fireplace, grill bridge and grill net) are all that’s really needed.
“There have only been two returned during the entire time they’ve been in production,” said Coxen, content coordinator for Snow Peak USA, the company that makes the Takibi. “I have mine set up in my backyard right now, but I use it on road trips and when camping. And I use it on the river.”
A couple of days later, I flew home. Within weeks, the world was engulfed by coronavirus and its deadly manifestation, COVID-19. Kentucky and most of the country was in lockdown. Death Valley National Park was closed due to the virus. Gov. Andy Beshear was reminding citizens daily to be safe at home.
I glanced at the bag in the corner of my office and recalled what Coxen had said. “I have mine set up in my backyard.”
“Let’s try this,” I suggested to my wife. We did. You should, too.
The quarantine caused by the pandemic has been rough on sports fans. Weeks have turned into months—without even highlights. The other day, I caught myself watching strangers playing computer baseball games on ESPN.
Brad McNew, Rockcastle County’s baseball coach, must be suffering, too, because he organized a 12th Region baseball tournament online, using MLB The Show 2020. “It generated a sense of community across our region,” said the Rockets’ Ethan Fain.
Not having an NCAA Tournament in March and April was devastating. In case you missed it, a Twitter user took projections from ESPN bracketologist Joe Lunardi and simulated the tournament, telling John McCarthy of The Louisville Cardinal, “I used advanced statistical algorithms.”
The University of Louisville defeated No. 1 seed Kansas 74-69 to win the title. As in 2013, there will be no banner to recognize the 2020 champs, but Shively Sporting Goods has commemorative T-shirts.
I was there for the 2013 championship (that never was). As proof, I grabbed confetti from the Georgia Dome floor following the 82-76 win over Michigan. “I am grateful we were students at UofL during the golden age of basketball,” wrote Bar, after news that the Cards were again under investigation for misdeeds during the Rick Pitino regime. “We enrolled on the heels of the 1980 title and were there when they won in ’86. Between, there were two Final Fours and the original Dream Game! Those banners are still hanging in the rafters.”
I sent Bar some of that confetti. A few years later, when Crawford Gym, STEPHEN M. VEST Publisher + Editor-in-Chief
where those great UofL teams practiced, was torn down, Bar sent me a piece of one of the nets, which sparked memories of my personal highlight reel, two of which came in Crawford Gym.
Clip No. 1: I was 12 and playing center field for the Beechmont Rams. We were up by 1, but speedster Jimmy Friend had reached third. His father, who looked like Michael Landon in Little House on the Prairie (dark curly hair and all), was coaching third. The batter hit a drive to left-center that should’ve been deep enough to score Jimmy, but I had a bead on it. I made the catch, and for the first time in my life, I turned left (as I should), and as I came out of my 360-degree pirouette, I fired the ball to our catcher, Mark Nemes (the state senator’s brother). My throw one-hopped into Mark’s glove, and he tagged Jimmy out at the plate. Pa Ingalls was dejected. My dad leaped for joy.
Clip No. 2: I picked up my dribble in the backcourt in a game against Phi Kappa Tau. Bar and I had just pledged Kappa Sigma, and Mic Wilson, a University of Kentucky graduate and our adviser, was coaching our team. When the Phi Taus backed off, leaving me alone in the backcourt, my only option was to heave it and hope a teammate caught it. As I drew back, I could see Phi Tau Paul Shaughnessy laughing and Mic stomping his feet, screaming, “Noooo!” Too late. The ball left my hand and soared.
Days passed. Nothing but net. As SEC television commentator Joe Dean would have said, “T’was string music, folks. String music.”
Clip No. 3: I took a badminton class with Robbie Valentine in Crawford Gym. The teacher, who was a professional badminton player, said he would spot anyone 18 points in a game to 21, and if they beat him, he’d give them an “A.” Ambidextrous Robbie said he needed only 15 points if he had a partner. The teacher agreed, but only if he (the teacher) could pick the partner. The teacher chose me. Robbie placed me at the net and said, “Little fella, you stop any dink shots, and I’ll handle the rest.” At 6-foot-6, the former Radcliff star could reach each sideline by switching the racket from one hand to the other. I stopped two or three dinks. We won 21-19.
Clip No. 4: I told fellow UofL sports information staffer Mark Coomes about Clip No. 2, and he said not only could I not have made that shot, he bet me $5 I couldn’t even throw a basketball from the location I described. Fans were filtering into Freedom Hall for the 1986 Metro Conference Championship, which the Cards won 70-69, but they had not yet started warm-ups. I walked to the general area where I said I had picked up my dribble. Cardinal Bird Kelly Everman told me to get off the floor. Coomes passed me a ball and said: “Prove it, bucko.” I drew back and chucked it. As I scurried out of the way of the oncoming teams, the ball came down—nothing but net.
“I was a witness to Clip No. 2! It was a Jimmy Chitwood moment,” Bar said, comparing my shot to the gamewinner in the 1986 classic Hoosiers. “If anybody doubts it, I’m happy to supply a signed testimonial.”
Clip No. 5: I was crossing the Calhoun School playground in a summer rain when a local athlete whom I recently had regaled with the tales of Clips No. 2 and 4 called me out for the same reasons shared in Clip No. 4. “Hey, Vest, 10 bucks says you can’t hit the rim,” he yelled as he threw me a warped, blisterd ball.
As before, I drew back to shoot. Images of Mic, Paul and Mark flashed before me. For a second, I could hear Kelly yelling, “Get off the floor.”
I chucked it as I quick-timed it to my car to get out of the rain. Again, days passed. I was putting on my seat belt when the ball came down— nothing but net.
I guess he was right about me not hitting the rim.
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