Invisible Cities of Woodford County

s i i b v l n e I Cities

of Woodford County

Compiled & Published By Art, Design and Voice & Community Activism WCHS

Table of Contents Page #

Title

4 6 7 11 15 17 19 28 35 37 46

Introduction: Luke Allen Frame Narrative (Water): Hannah Edelen Frame Narrative (Fire): Maggie Sunseri Pisgah: Noah Ridgeway Roots: Hannah Edelen First Settlers: Renae Collins Lily and Ethel - 1801: Rebekah Alvey Millville: Luke Allen Filling His Shoes: Brianna Parks Uncle Louis: Nolan Whitaker Huntertown: P.A.S.T Academy Members - Dylan Brown, Brooke

Cissell, Makenzie Delmonico, Maddie Gatewood and Annabelle Savage

52 56 58 63 68 72

May in the Winter: Janet Dake The Train Waits: Kate Brown Labels: Sadie Downs Frame Narrative (Water): Hannah Edelen Mundy’s Landing/Clover Bottom: Jacqueline Kowalke Victor, Victoria and Lucretia: Natalie Heigle

02 | TABLE OF CONTENTS

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Title

74 77 87 94 96 98 102 107 112 114 117 118 127 133 136 139 144 144

The Landing: Sarah Souers and Ashley Peterson These Four Walls: Natalie Heigle Mortonsville: Hannah Edelen Lessons Learned at the River: Kate Brown Mortonsville School - 2009: Olivia Smock The Night Riders: Sarah Pierce Frame Narrative (Fire): Maggie Sunseri Clifton: Noah Ridgeway The Ferryman: Nolan Whitaker The Meeting: Jessie Lause Charred: Noah Ridgeway Flood: Olivia Smock Wallace Station: Noah Shuck A Simple Reflection: Ashley Peterson Pillars of Salt: Noah Shuck An Old Train Town: Michaela Hood Frame Narrative (Water): Hannah Edelen Frame Narrative (Fire): Maggie Sunseri

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Introduction to Spark Luke Allen

The city of Versailles is located in the heart of Woodford County. In order to keep it pumping, the Spark project was conceived as an effort to build and invigorate Versailles. Thanks to the efforts of our volunteers and partners, we’ve been able to establish a solid base for improving the town. But this year, we realized that this isn’t enough.

Versailles is only one part of the larger system that is Woodford County; towns and countryside, farmers and commuters are all inseparable parts of our community. As we discussed ways that Spark could engage everyone, we realized there was a common theme: most Woodford residents, even those of us who have lived here for years, don’t have much of a connection to the outlying parts of the county. This book is part of an attempt to change that.

The namesake of our project is Italo Calvino’s novel Invisible Cities, which served as a loose inspiration. In the spirit of that work, our goal is to show all the communities in this county which are so close to us, yet almost unseen to so many. We want to help rebuild Woodford County’s connection to the deep history which shapes us to this day, and show the potential that our county has for the future.

The “cities” were chosen to reflect a wide diversity in our county’s geography, culture, history, and economy. Mundy’s Landing is a river town, while Pisgah is a farming community. Millville and Wallace have prosperous futures ahead, while Huntertown survives only in memory. All of them are integral to the identity of Woodford.

The culmination of this project is our book dedicated to “The Invisible Cities of Woodford County.” It is divided up into sections for each of the communities we have researched. First, the book draws inspiration from Italo Calvino’s Invisible Cities, and contains a framing narrative spread throughout the book. This narrative explores the themes of fire and water present within each community’s history, and serves to connect the work as a whole. Each section then continues with a short but detailed history of the area and it’s significance. Immediately following

04 | INTRODUCTION

these histories is a collection of three creative writing pieces honoring the communities and their stories. These pieces expand on characters, objects, and places detailed in the historical summary. The framing narrative is intended to be philosophical, whereas the histories and creative works are hyper realistic, and are looked at from a historical perspective. Throughout the book you can also find a variety of historical and contemporary photographs from each of these seven areas.

As with the rest of Spark, the Invisible Cities project is entirely student-run. Classes including “Community Activism,” “Art, Design and Voice,” “Theatre II,” “Theatre Touring Company,” “PAST,” and these individuals from “Engineering Design and Development,” Evan Williams, Tyler Popovitz, Ryan Mix, Caleb Chapman, Kyle Hamlin, and Justin O’Nan, led this initiative. However, our work would not have been possible without all the help we received from the school and the community. We would like to thank our teachers Kyle Fannin, Laura Benton, Sioux Finney, Ken Tonks, Jean Porter, and Dan Ruff for their guidance, as well as Scott Hawkins, Jimmy Brehm, Rob Akers, Jennifer Forgy, John Darnell, and everyone else at the administration for their support. We would also like to thank everyone who helped us gather information and organize visits, including Ouita Michel, Jake Jacobs, John Watts, Marti Martin and all the authors of our original sources. All historical pictures featured are courtesy of the Woodford County Historical Society, and we are incredibly grateful for their help. Ms. Benton would like to thank the Bread Loaf School of English, Bread Loaf Teacher Network, Middlebury College, the C. E. and S. Foundation and Michael Armstrong for all the inspiration and support. Finally, we are indebted to Italo Calvino for our inspiration and everyone who has helped or donated to Spark.

One final disclaimer: because we are students, it’s possible that there may be mistakes in our research or our writing. We apologize in advance for any issues and would be happy to hear any feedback. Please send any and all feedback to our email wlitmag@woodford.kyschools.us

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Water

Hannah Edelen

Whenever a child is born, there is water. You can hear it in their infant babble, while searching for words they haven’t learned yet; and can see it in the cross the priest purposefully molds on their foreheads. So, too, water was here in the birth of the frontier; settlers followed rivers to the four corners of the continent. Some of the settlements were grand, while others only consisted of two men, three women and five goats, but they all lived off the original element. It crept into their lungs, and under the pores of their skin. They used it first to grow crops, and then to build businesses.

Woodford County was built on and around the river: that pulsing body of dark water and energy. It pumps through the distilleries in Millville. Ferryboats, from Clifton to Mundy’s Landing, make their journeys along it. The offsprings of the river, too, are always present. Children played alongside the creek in Mortonsville. In Huntertown, women trekked to the water pump, to help their children grow, tall and strong. Homes, too, are built from the river. In every place there is love, there is water, of course, because love is it’s own kind of beginning.

Water is the morning. Water is the way the sun feels warm on the skin. Water smooths over the rough edges, clears our faces of grime and dust. Water never asks for anything in return. And, most importantly, water will continue to flow, despite any rocks or debris.

06 | FRAME NARRATIVE

Fire

Maggie Sunseri

Fire is the ending--the time to say goodbye, the time to draw a final breath, watching the embers fade to black. Fire watches from the shadows, gathers strength from the night’s darkness, and rises up from abandoned dreams and memories.

Fire attaches herself to your deepest desires, fears and passions, feeding off of every pleasure and pain alike. Consuming love and bitter anger make her flames rise. Anyone who holds these infernos in their eyes are made of Fire. From the violent, angry citizens that each city has seen, to each pair of impassioned lovers and struggling workers. Starting with Pisgah and ending with Wallace, Fire has left a visible trail of sparks.

Fire is there when you find the work that sets your soul aflame, she is there to warm your hands and heat your food, tending to you like a mother and punishing you for your anger and greed with the sting of burnt flesh. For the passion and creative spirit Fire provides, she also gives you a darker side--the pit of violence and insanity where humanity finds themselves trapped time and time again, either digging their fingernails into the icy walls, or digging the hole deeper with bare hands. Like with Little Sodom of Wallace, the night riders of Mortonsville, and the smokestacks of Clifton, Fire has either strengthened or destroyed. With this chaos comes purpose; for Fire is never without her reasons.

It is said that humans are born from water, but it’s the Phoenix that emerges from Fire’s charred remains, pushing smoke from his scorched lungs and taking off into the crisp night air. The Phoenix represents strength, courage and rebirth. Thus, from Fire, you and your cities are reborn.

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Pisgah

Photo by Shelby Wright

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Photo by Lindsay Anderson

10| PISGAH

Pisgah Noah Ridgeway

In order to discuss Pisgah, one cannot only discuss the town itself. Nor can one only discuss the picturesque scenery and its history, which is as old as Kentucky itself. One must talk of the church, which is the town’s roots, and from there on, the rest branches off naturally.

The town was founded in 1783 by the Dunlap, Gay, and Stevenson families. Eager to utilize their Revolutionary War Bounty Warrants (land grants), they left their comfy Virginia homes to colonize the new West. After spending a harsh winter at Fort Garnett (in what is now Lexington), they set off to establish a home for themselves. The result was the small town of Pisgah.

Just a year after its founding, the Pisgah Presbyterian Church was formed. But the congregation did not have a dedicated building until 1785, when one was erected out of logs. Finally, in 1812, a stone building was created. The church was and is of the Presbyterian denomination. It was one of the first of its kind in the territory, and thanks to that fact it attracted much attention.

In 1794, Reverend David Rice broke off from the Transylvania Seminary to form the Kentucky Academy. He was also followed by some of his peers who were concerned about “waning Presbyterian influence” in the Lexington area. The academy was located uphill from the church and taught many students in its short time there. The two entities operated separately until 1799 when the schools merged into Transylvania University.

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Being 233 years old, Pisgah has had its fair share of stories and residents who went on to be extremely influential.

One of these was John Jordan Crittenden. Crittenden was born in Pisgah and studied at the Kentucky (Pisgah) Academy. He went on to serve in the State House of Representatives for 13 years, U.S Senate for 15 years, U.S District Attorney for 2 years, Attorney General of Illinois and the U.S for 6 years (cumulative) and as Kentucky State Governor for two years. He is one of the most remembered Kentucky citizens as well as one of the most historically influential.

Pisgah has not only created great politicians, but great men. Whitney Dunlap II was born in Kansas City, Kansas in 1932, but moved to Pisgah when his mother died in childbirth.

He attended and graduated from Woodford County High School and went on to study agriculture at the University of Kentucky.

After he received his Bachelors in Science for Agriculture, he enlisted in the Air Force, attaining the rank of Captain. He returned home soon thereafter to put his degree to use, and in conjunction with the University of Kentucky, they introduced no-till farming, double cropping, crop mapping and direct marketing techniques for farming. In doing so, he made a name for himself and gave credit to his hometown.

Among these great people from Pisgah are those who served in WW1. There were thirteen from the town who valiantly fought in the “Great War�. Their battle standard bore thirteen stars, twelve for the men and one for the woman who served among them. Even though most of them served overseas, none joined their 116,516 fallen brothers and sisters. Nor did they or anyone from Pisgah succumb to the influenza outbreak of 1918, which took the lives of 16 million people worldwide. The people

12 | PISGAH

of Pisgah are a hardy bunch and the town is even more so.

Today Pisgah remains much the same, and is better for it.

The scenic roads, flanked by oaks, lead through a stone gate onto a gravel path. The sun shines through the leaves and glistens onto the verdant grass, while the light reflects off of the excurvate stained glass. Discolored headstones of moss and granite stand aside their regal marble brothers. A place which has so much history and beauty is truly rare.

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Work Cited: “About the Revolutionary War Bounty Warrants.” About the

Revolutionary War Bounty Warrants.

N.p., n.d. Web. 03 Mar. 2016.

“Crittenden, John Jordan - Biographical Information.” Crittenden,

John Jordan - Biographical Information. Web. 03 Mar. 2016.

Historical Photograph. Versailles. Woodford County Historical

Society. Print.

Shewmaker, W. O. “The Pisgah Book, 1784-1909. A Memorial, a

Lesson, an Inspiration.” The Pisgah Book, 1784-1909. A

Memorial, a Lesson, an Inspiration. Web. 03 Mar. 2016.

“The Deadly Virus.” National Archives And Records Administra-

tion. United States Government, n.d. Web. “Transylvania University Early Documents,1783-1851.” - Kentucky

Digital Library. Web. 03 Mar. 2016.

“Whitney Dunlap II’s Obituary on Courier-Journal.” Courier-Jour-

nal. Web. 03 Mar. 2016.

14 | PISGAH

Roots

Hannah Edelen

One prominent landmark in Pisgah is a tree, across the street from the Pisgah Presbyterian Church, that has stood for over three hundred years.

I. There is a way that the October wind bends around leaves and trunks that feels like an embrace.

There are very few other professions in the world that require standing perfectly still for as long as you can, and never growing anywhere but up.

Sometimes, I feel branches pulling outward, as if reaching for something-II. I have seen boys fight with their fathers about lawn mowing. I have seen the way light reflects off Slow-moving water, the way dust gathers on stones that were meant to roll.

I have seen those things

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that are not meant to be seen, and those that can never be put into words-like the way it feels to have something pull you always back to where you came from-Hands and fingers and voices clamoring for attention.

III. I do not know names and figures and dates, but I can feel them in the parts of myself connected to soil and earth.

People here talk so much about roots. Sometimes, I do not know if they understand what they mean. Sometimes, although they do understand, there is still as misremembering, but at least they can feel the ground. At least they hear the soil when it calls out to them, rich and alive.

16 | PISGAH

First Settlers Renae Collins

Alexander Dunlap was one of the first settlers of Pisgah, as well as one of the founders of the Presbyterian church. He fought in the Revolutionary War before he was given a land grant for a thousand acres in Kentucky and built the Springdale farm. This is the story of Springdale.

When we first came here, We had nothing But the clothes on our backs And a land grant for a thousand acres, A place to plant our roots In Central Kentucky.

Springdale: Hundreds of nails, thousands of them, Driven into board after board after board.

Four walls, a roof, It was more than just a house; It was a fortress against attacks, A cradle for the slumbering youth.

It was warm, welcoming, and peaceful, All the things the world was not.

At least it didn’t seem to be, When I was fighting in the war.

Dark rich soil That falls through my hand like silk.

Springdale is where my roots run deep.

From the rolling fields of golden wheat, And tall stalks of corn,

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I built my life on Springdale, Put my sweat and blood into it -A home, Where my family could be safe.

I built all of this -Passed down a home, From hand to hand.

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Lilly and Ethel-1801 Rebekah Alvey

A key aspect of Pisgah is the stone wall that lines the city. This piece includes fictional characters living in Pisgah and is centered around the wall.

We met at the stone all those years ago.

Walking with our hands enveloped in our parents, We made our way to the church, Where we were supposed to learn about fire, brimstone, and heaven, But instead discovered how the sun could make stained glass glow and turn our faces into a kaleidoscope of colors.

During that time the stone was so tall and grand; Freshly cut and rough beneath our smooth fingers, A rock wall to be entertained on.

Here we played and laughed like children do.

We met at the stone all those years ago.

Walking together, side by side.

The stone had shrunk, And been transformed from a wall to a bench, To sit and gossip, To tell our stories of heartbreak and cry together, As the winter took another victim.

Here we grew as life hardened us.

We met at the stone all those years ago.

Walking behind as you entered the church, Shielded by a veil and shrouded in flowers and white.

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The stone steadied us both, as you were about to embark on a grand journey, And I was about to let you go.

We met at the stone all those years ago.

Walking with our arms linked together, Where I could provide you strength And steady your step.

After he left for battle, you became a lone vessel lost at sea, Mindlessly drifting along.

And when he hadn’t returned, The waves overtook you and drowned you in constant despair.

The stone had become weathered and worn, A reflection of the broken country around us.

I stood at the stone.

Walked alone and without feeling, Even as the frigid air whipped my graying hair around.

I barely heard the priest uttering his prayer, Blessing your body, lying under a stone of your own.

The winter had become too much for you, As it had for so many of the early settlers.

The stone has become a reminder, Of our life together, That is now apart.

20 | PISGAH

Photo by Natalie Heigle

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Photo by Destinee Zornes

22 | PISGAH

Photo by Sadie Downs

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Millville

Photo by Shelby Wright

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Photo by Sadie Downs

26 | MILLVILLE

Photo by Lindsay Anderson

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Millville Luke Allen

Millville is a rural, unincorporated community on Glen’s Creek in the Northwest part of Woodford County. Though the town has a general location, it is spread out and decentralized, with no place that could be considered its center. This makes it somewhat difficult to define the community’s boundaries. Even so, it is one of the larger unincorporated communities in the county in terms of population.

The area was first explored by Europeans in 1773 when the McAfee brothers, well-known adventurers from Virginia, passed through. About two years later, another pair of brothers, the Glen brothers, were the first Europeans to settle there, and became the namesake of the creek. The main part of Millville is centered on that creek, which creates a forested valley-like terrain quite different from Midway, Pisgah, and Wallace of the northeast county.

One place in the area (just to the southwest of the main town, by the river) which has an interesting early history is known as “Little Germany,” “Germany Bend,” or just “Germany,” from the German settlers who founded it. In the early days, the land’s original native inhabitants were still fighting a bitter struggle against colonization, and there were many violent incidents. A story of one such incident is passed down to us by a German man named Louis.

28| MILLVILLE

Louis’s nephew Jared was waylaid by a band of Native American raiders. Although he was abducted and almost lost forever, Jared was able to escape just in time with the help of his wits and some famous Millville whiskey. To learn more about his story, see the dramatized retelling included in this book.

The presence of the creek made Millville a prime location for its namesake industry. The first mill in the state of Kentucky was built here, and by the early nineteenth century mills covered three miles worth of the creek, including saw mills, grist mills, carding mills and hemp mills.

These were accompanied by various other constructions, such as bridges, distilleries, cotton gins, blacksmiths, churches, and a general store, post office, toll house,doctor’s office, and cotton/wool factory, along with several houses—the town has a long history of prosperity.

The most important mills were apparently the three owned by the Miles family. They were one of the most important families in the town’s early history, to the point that it was almost named Milesville instead. The family continued to operate their mills until 1871, then moved to Frankfort.

By the beginning of the twentieth century, steam power and electricity made small local mills obsolete, and Millville wasn’t the small “industrial powerhouse” it had been. Fortunately there was another business that survived—decades before, near the beginning of the last century, a man named Elijah Pepper created a small distillery. That distillery passed down to his son Oscar, who, with the help of Scottish chemist Dr. James Crow, would revolutionize the creation of whiskey. They made a tradi-

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tional craft into a science, and recorded their methods for future generations. The establishment became wildly successful, and today is called Woodford Reserve, one of the most well-known bourbon producers in the country.

Though Woodford Reserve is today a household name in this area, there was another distillery in Millville that was once equally renowned. After the Civil War, Col. Edmund H. Taylor, Jr., a great-nephew of President Zachary Taylor, moved to the area.

Throughout his life, Taylor founded several distilleries, including what is now Buffalo Trace of Frankfort. The one he founded in Millville is, appropriately, known as the “Old Taylor Distillery.”

The company was successful for many years, but stopped production in the 1970s. However, it is now under new ownership, and is being renovated for a new opening in 2016.

The building itself is certainly quite a striking site in the middle of the woods, and is best described as a cross between a factory and a medieval castle. Years of neglect added to this strange, archaic appearance and made it a popular location for curious young “explorers” and other lovers of abandoned buildings.Though the restoration is ongoing, its transformation is already impressive. The gardens surrounding it have been completely renovated, and are now a small-scale rendition of the gardens of Versailles and Schönbrunn.

Throughout Millville history, there were several small schools that operated through the years, until finally one single school was established in 1920. The high school was transferred to Versailles High back in 1935, but the lower grades stayed there as late as 1984. Today, only the gymnasium still stands.

The town may no longer have a school or a general store, but the sense of community is alive and well. The Millville Community organization operates a very active community center at the former school, and the Sportsmen Club runs a park that includes

30 | MILLVILLE

a famous horseshoe court. A volunteer fire department stays vigilant against danger. There are at least four churches, including Millville Christian, Millville Baptist, Glen’s Creek Baptist and Macedonia Missionary Baptist. These churches maintain a

Millevillian identity and keep valuable historical records, maintaining a link between past and present-day citizens.

Millville may not have wool factories or blacksmiths anymore, but it’s hardly a ghost town. With one distillery as prosperous as can be, another on the rise, and a very active group of citizens, Millville is perhaps the least invisible of these cities, and will certainly not be fading away anytime soon.

Works Cited: Jacobs, Shirley, “Millville.” Woodford County, Kentucky: The First

Two Hundred Years. eds. Dabney Garrett Munson

and Margaret Ware Parrish. Versailles: Gallop Press, 1989.

34-35. Print.

McClellan, Dee. Millville’s Early Start. Frankfort, KY: Millville

Christian Church, [Unknown date, fairly recent consider

ing it was sent by email]. Print.

Patton, Janet. “Old Taylor Distillery coming back to life with cock

tail parties, gardening presentations and gin.” Lexington

Herald-Leader. Lexington Herald-Leader., September 8,

2015. Web. January 5, 2015 Shyrock, Leona Jett, and E. D. Shryock. “Jared De Mint: An Indi

an Episode in the Early History of Franklin

County”. Register of Kentucky State Historical Society

14.41 (1916): 55–61. Print.

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Historical Photograph. Versailles. Woodford County Historical

Society. Print.

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From the Grain Rebekah Alvey

Millville is known for its old distilleries. This poem discusses the rise, fall, and revival of the Old Taylor Distillery.

Everything changes.

I am plucked from the gentle ground with caring and tender hands, laid carefully into a woven basket.

With my brothers and sisters, I am carried away, Through a lush forest to a grand cottage.

I am left out to dry for a while.

I wait patiently.

Rough and labored hands place me into a metal pool where I swim and soak.

I am mixed and left to settle.

My form changes over time.

Days later, I finally see the light of day again.

That is until I am placed in a series of copper beasts.

After a lengthy process, I find my home in a worn barrel.

I watch as everything changes.

I witness my brother and sisters being changed the same way as I. A family of barrels is created around me.

Men and women come and go, Working day and night.

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Never touching me.

Slowly but surely, the surrounding barrels are poured out and replaced.

But never I. I am left to watch as the world around me fades.

The building becomes sparse and decrepit.

I heard whispers of another one opening not far away.

The barrels aren’t replaced now, Just taken away.

Still I remain, Until the lights don’t come on for days, weeks, months, and years.

When I open my eyes again, I see a man in a crisp suit, much different to the clothes I had previously seen.

He examines the walls and ceiling, His eyes fall on me and a smile appears.

The man returns with a team of workers.

They tear apart the walls around me, Replacing the windows and rotting ceiling.

When it is all done, They crack open my prison And take a drink.

I am the humble grain, a product of the land, consumed by man.

34 | MILLVILLE

Filling His Shoes Brianna Parks

This is the life of Samuel Miles, a prominent mill owner in the late 1800s.

The Miles family played a large role in the town. They started many of the first businesses and were well known within the community of Millville.

When I came to this town as a boy there was nothing but a small, flowing creek and tall, broad trees. I watched it grow into a town, Millville, the place I call my home. My father opened three of the mills that allowed the town to thrive. This included saw mills, grist mills, and carding mills. On some days, when my father would go to work, he took me along, showing me the ways of the workplace. I ran my hand along the rough texture of a log not yet sawn, the bark scratching my palm. I took a deep breath, inhaling the sweet nutty smell of the freshly cut walnut trees, never wanting to forget this moment.

Even at a very young age, my father was a mentor to me. He taught me right from wrong, giving coins to a poor man on the road instead of simply ignoring him. We used to walk from room to room gazing upon the workers. Each room held a different machine doing what seemed to be a difficult task. As I looked at the my father, the light in his eyes, I realized that one day I hoped to be as great a man as he is. As I grew older I tried to impress him, attempting to come up with new ways to make his mills more efficient. But nothing I tried worked, he never saw me equally in the business world.

When the time was right, I took over the mill for my

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father. But I still longed to be recognized for my work as he was for his. So I built my own cloth factory, which supplied wants from across the county. Later on I built a wagon factory with a blacksmith shop attached. When my father found out, he smiled at me and explained how happy he was. In that moment I realized I had achieved my goal, I had become the man I wanted to be. Little did I know I would have such a large impact on my little town when I left this life for good. Though my shops and factories no longer run, they will always be remembered. They are a texture upon my mind, the scratches that may never leave.

Yet as I remember the beautiful, sweet smell of the walnut trees, I realize that memories are perhaps more amazing than the realities of life. Just as my father became a memory, so have I. I have finally filled his shoes.

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Uncle Louis Nolan Whitaker

In Millville, during the latter half of the 18th century, there lived a German immigrant named Louis Easterday. He settled a plot of virgin land and lived there with his wife and her nephew Jared DeMint, who had recently moved from Virginia to Kentucky. The preceding tale is a fictitious story based on real events and people.

The sun was beginning its descent three Saturdays ago when my nephew in-law Jared, a boy of 16, was going to Innis’ Bottom where his sister had recently settled. Jared hadn’t seen her for nearly a year, not since she had settled on the main branch of the Elkhorn, and he was eager to reconnect.

I warned him to watch for any Native Americans that he might come across on his trip. I told him if he did happen to see any, that he should make his horse go as fast as it could so that he’d escape with his life. Jared said, “I hope to find myself a few sos I can prove that I’m a rean man!” He rode off, and immediately I felt a sense of foreboding. Susannah, my wife, assured me that no Native Americans had been seen in these parts for some time.

Jared was well armed, but I still felt uncomfortable with his solitary travel.

Sunday was simple and easy. I read some of the Testament out of my old black copy that had frayed edges and smelled of home. It was written in my native German and Susannah listened attentively. John 14:1 “Und er sprach zu seinen Jüngern: Euer Herz erschrecke nicht! Glaubet an Gott und glaubet an mich!”

In reality she understood very little of the foreign tongue,

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yet still knew its true meaning from the melody of the verse.

Hours passed by slowly and finally five o’clock came. I decided to feed the livestock while supper cooked. Just before I gave a last look for Jared, I saw a group of twenty men approaching on horseback. They wore dark blue, woolen coats and their approach was accompanied by a clatter of cooking pans and muskets. I realized suddenly that they were military men. Their leader was seeking lodging for himself and his men while they rested from an Native American hunt that lasted all Sunday. Our guests covered the freshly swept wooden floor, and the loft was filled with loud creaks as men crowded up there as well. I soon tired of their company and decided to retire, but first I gave them some of my homemade whiskey, as is custom.

My sleep was restless and unsatisfactory. I awoke to swearing and shouting as Captain Grant’s men discovered that their horses had been stolen in the night. I heard that they later tracked the Native Americans down and even killed one, but there was still no sign of Jared. Days turned into weeks and we assumed the worst. Neighbors came by to console us for our grievances and we began to mourn our loss. Everyone said the same things,“We’re truly sorry.…We know how much he meant to you.”

We were all sure that he was killed by the Native Americans that had escaped the officers. We continued like this for nearly three weeks, until one day Jared came through the door hungry, exhausted and dirty. He spoke of how he brought his captors here with the promise of whiskey from my distillery, and how once at the Ohio River they became so drunk off of my liquor that he was able to escape, hands still bound, to a friendly house where his ropes were cut. He trekked by foot for weeks until he came home, since then he has decided that making trouble wasn’t

38 | MILLVILLE

as much fun as he’d thought.

In the end Jared learned something that I could have never taught him: he learned that life isn’t made of all of the things that go the way we want. Rather life, is made of the things that are thrown in our path.

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Photo by Rebekah Alvey

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Photo by Shelby Wright

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Huntertown

Photo by Sioux Finney

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Photo by Sioux Finney

44|HUNTERTOWN

Photo by Sioux Finney

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Huntertown P.A.S.T Freshman Academy Class members: Dylan Brown, Brooke Cissell, Makenzie Delmonico, Maddie Gatewood and Annabelle Savage

The green metal gate and overgrown trees leading to Huntertown shadow the faded memory of those who traveled down a dirt road toward home, before power lines blemished the blue skies. At first glance, the property looks neglected and unkempt, abandoned by the county; yet over a century ago, Huntertown was a thriving African-American community. The shared and often difficult past of the residents made their lives rich, and their roots travel deep. Despite the energy and life that ran through Huntertown, people only see the overgrown lot that serves as a poor reminder of this forgotten African-American community.

These small African American communities, also called hamlets or “freetowns,” emerged during the post-Civil War Reconstruction Era. Faced with the prospect of losing necessary farm labor, many estate owners in the Bluegrass chose to sell or give land to their former slaves. In the case of Huntertown, Mrs. A. B. Hunter sold land on the back part of the estate to her former slaves, and the hamlet named “Huntertown” was born. Huntertown was one of four hamlets in Woodford County, the others being Davistown, Firmantown, and Russelltown. In Huntertown, over forty percent of the heads of households were employed by their former master, working primarily in hemp, tobacco, and cattle. Others held jobs in the early horse industry, or possibly on the “Riney B” Railroad that made a “whistle stop” twice daily as it ran through Huntertown.

Typical of other hamlets in the Bluegrass, Huntertown consisted of two lanes, with houses set on either side of the road.

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The lots were two acres each, and were arranged in a narrow “shotgun style.� This space allowed for a small home and garden plots. Houses were poorly constructed from the meager supplies residents could afford, and in the early years had only dirt floors, outhouses, and well water. Yet, these first homes provided a solid foundation upon which the community continued to grow.

As Huntertown grew, so did the opportunities for residents. The Huntertown School operated in a one-room school house from 1895-1940, where eight different teachers taught African American children in the 1st through 8th grades. Records show that the school may have also served as the community church. Through the church the people who lived in Huntertown formed deep bonds in the community. In 1943, the Woodford County Board of Education sold the land to Rev. George W. Morton and his wife Mattie Morton, who raised a family in Huntertown and are buried in the Huntertown Cemetery just across the road.

The Huntertown Cemetery, northwest of the Bluegrass Parkway, began as a burial ground for former slaves with simple rocks serving as headstones of their final resting place. Over 100 grave sites document the service of those whose roots grew deep in the sacred soil, including veterans of the Spanish American War and World Wars I and II. The graves of soldiers from families named Jackson, Buckner, Butler, Morton and others stand testament to men who faced segregation at home and in battle, yet still fought to defend freedom for all.

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Through the years, residents renovated and added on to houses. An archeological survey by the Kentucky Heritage Council documented several homes built between 1895-1900 still being used as residences in 2002. Old outhouses turned into indoor bathrooms; new houses were built. Huntertown residents continued to scrape by, and their roots continued to grow deeper. Eventually, new roads were established, and their roots were tested.

The Bluegrass Parkway, built in the mid-1960s, caused extreme flooding in Huntertown which was originally built on a floodplain. There were no existing waterlines or sanitary sewers, causing raw sewage from septic tanks to enter nearby wells.

In the 1980s, Woodford County began applying for Community Development grants, in order to relocate current residents and remove all structures.

The county eventually received the grant, and from 2003-2010 relocated the residents and placed deed restrictions on the land. After the residents moved, the 15 houses and outbuildings – 23 structures in all – were torn down. Huntertown’s family history was passed down through stories and conversation for over a century. Very little documented history exists. When the houses were torn down, their history was torn down along with them.

Huntertown’s thirty-seven acres are now designated as a Conservation District and may only be used as a green space or park. Many Woodford County leaders and community members hope to see that park become a reality, including plans for a museum to commemorate the history of Huntertown, along with

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other African-American hamlets that once dotted the Bluegrass landscape.

Huntertown was a close community that never grew to more than 200 residents. The families of Huntertown bore many hardships together through segregation, racism, sickness, poverty, and war. But through these hard times, the people of Huntertown always found happiness. “They had to make their own happiness and that is what kept them driven,� said Donald Morton, a descendant of Rev. George W. Morton.

Today, anyone can drive by the Huntertown property, peer past the green metal gates, and see the overgrown trees and brush that leave no trace of a community. The roots of Huntertown may not be visible, yet they still exist deep in this sacred soil. The story of this land deserves to be honored and remembered.

History is our story. And it is our responsibility to ensure that the deep roots of Huntertown are not pulled out and forgotten.

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Works Cited: “African American School Recognition Program.” n.d. Woodford

County Historical Society Archives. Versailles, KY. Hardin, John A. The Kentucky African American Encyclopedia.

Ed. Gerald L. Smith and Karen Cotton McDaniel.

Lexington: U of Kentucky, 2015. Print.

“Huntertown Property Site Master Plan.” Third Rock Consultants,

Lexington. 13 July 2010. Print.

McGary, John. “Huntertown Cemetery Gets a Makeover and a

New Sign.” The Woodford Sun [Versailles] 18 Oct. 2015: 1+.

Print.

Morton, Donald H. “History of Huntertown.” Class Presentation.

Woodford County High School Library, Versailles. 18 Feb.

2016. Lecture.

Railey, William Edward. History of Woodford County, Kentucky.

Lexington: Thoroughbred, 1968. Print.

Smith, Peter C., and Karl B. Raitz. “Negro Hamlets and Agricultur

-al Estates in Kentucky’s Inner Bluegrass.” Geographical

Review 64.2 (1974): 217. Web. Smith, Peter Craig. “Negro Hamlets and Gentleman Farms: A

Dichotomous Rural Settlement Pattern in Kentucky’s

Bluegrass Region.” Diss. U of Kentucky, 1972. 36-65. Print.

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Sulzer, Elmer Griffith. Ghost Railroads of Kentucky. Bloomington:

Indiana UP, 1998. Print.

“Woodford Club Holds Meeting.” Lexington Herald 14 Apr. 1943.

Woodford County Historical Society Archives. Versailles, KY. Wright, George C. A History of Blacks in Kentucky: Volume 2: In

Pursuit of Equality, 1890-1980. Frankfort, KY: Kentucky

Historical Society, 1992. Print.

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May in the Winter Janet Dake

When May Thyman woke that blisteringly cold day, the first thing she did was touch her babies. Reaching a calloused hand out from under the itchy wool blanket, she stroked their soft heads, felt for the rise and fall of their warm breath. Mary Bell, with her face pressed firmly against her mother’s back, Timothy, with his sweet smelling baby head nuzzled under the crook of her neck, and lastly, the tiny lump beginning to form on her belly. This brought her comfort.

It was dawn and a small sliver of light had just begun to stretch across the plank wood floor from under the door frame.

May rose from the bed, as it groaned in protest and she shifted her weight off of it. The bed was an old cast iron thing with a sagging yellowish mattress that the whole family shared.

For a short while it was just May and Ned, each sprawled out on the big mattress however they chose, free to do what married folks do whenever they desired. After baby Henry came, he laid curled up between them both, rolling from mother to father in the middle of the night in the restlessness of his baby dreams. When Henry got big, and May’s stomach was so swollen with Mary Bell that she took up the space of three people, he moved down to the foot of the bed where he’d remain.

May at first sensed Henry’s jealousy and fear of Mary Bell. He’d stare at her with his wide set brown eyes, as Ned coaxed him to hold his baby sister. To him, she was a tiny alien that caused his mama to lie in bed for three days and nights,

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screaming and phasing in and out of consciousness, as the whitehaired midwife tended to her. But it didn’t take him long to forget such horrors, as Mary Bell charmed him with her silly grin, how she drooled little bubbles of baby spittle when she slept, the way she grabbed his pinky finger with all her might. May often reminisced about how Henry would watch Mary Bell, laying on a quilt in the yard, as their mother weeded the garden. For hours he wouldn’t take his sight off the squirming babe. When she cried, he held her in his skinny five-year-old arms to soothe her. In the evening he’d squat in front of her and make funny faces, just to hear the jingle of her little laugh.

It wasn’t quite light out yet, and the streets of Huntertown were silent save for a few women by the water pump preparing for the day. It was a small town, if you would even call it that, on the outskirts of the city of Versailles. Everyone there was poor and everyone there was black. The only white soul that ever roamed the streets was the field-supervisor Mr. Myer. Sticking out like a sore thumb, what with his white skin and sumptuous attire, Myer worked under the plantation owner, Mrs. A. B. Hunter. A wisp of a woman with thin grey hair, Mrs. Hunter was seldom seen beyond the wrought-iron gates that separated the Negro hamlet from the sprawling green lawns and white pillared mansion of the plantation, if then only from a distance. It was 1898, years after the war. Over half the families on Hunter’s plantation had simply remained, most with small children and elderly parents, unfit for such extensive travel elsewhere and for the uncertainty of nowhere to go. Now, under the law, Hunter could not use their life and break their bodies without a nickel in return. But in exchange for a two-acre plot of land and a wage of three dollars a week, she could. May had spent her first four years of life a slave, and she remembered enough. Enough to know that the law had only unburdened every black man and

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woman in America with pieces of slavery, but had forgotten the rest. Now, instead of being slaves to ropes and chains, they were slaves to poverty and discrimination.

May hugged the faded ochre shawl her mother had knitted back during the war tighter around her broad shoulders. Her breath came in short bursts of steam in the icy air. During these morning walks to the woods, she was always deep in thought.

May couldn’t read more than a couple words, including her own name, but she often found her own thoughts perplexing and unlike anything you’d expect from a penniless, widowed Negro woman.

Mostly she thought about Henry and Ned. They were both long gone now, buried side by side six feet beneath the red earth in the Huntertown cemetery. Her mother would have scolded her for such thoughts. The dead ain’t gone but they doin’ just as much good for you and me as an old dog that cain’t fetch no more, she would have said. A ghost ain’t gonna feed no baby’s mouth, not gonna tend to no garden neither. This was true, but certain ghosts - if you picked the right ones that is - could do remarkable things in the line of soothing a troubled mind.

May had left two sleeping children in the white-washed house, who she could offer nothing to save for a bed to sleep in and a hot meal twice a day. She carried a third in her womb, conceived in a time of desperate measures, of which no woman in Huntertown spoke but all knew with grave familiarity. The child would be born with light skin, much lighter than her own.

Their father would know of their existence and maybe see them every once in a blue moon. But they would walk past in their shiny leather boots as if the clouds in the sky were a fascinating

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tale to which they must pay undivided attention and nothing could concern them less. There were a few souls like this in Huntertown. Some were conceived in the days when the choice of body and spirit was withheld by a solitary white hand, from any Negro man or woman. But most were from the time when such actions were the grim alternative to starving. May liked to think her ghosts knew this, that they didn’t forgive her because there was nothing to be forgiven. They understood with complete certainty the plight of the living.

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The Train Waits Kate Brown

The Irving & Beattyville Railroad was constructed in 1890, which carried crowded passenger trains from Irving to Huntertown twice a day. It ran until 1932, when it was shut down due to the increasing popularity of roads and automobiles.

I was built with tired hands.

Laid down steel rail by rail.

I stretched over rolling hills, through bluegrass pastures, and rippling rivers.

It was quiet for a while.

Then everything began to move.

Back and forth, across the land, they traveled everyday.

I pushed and pulled the cars throughout the waking hours, working with all my strength.

As the light went out, my labor came to an end, and I was able to rest.

When the first shimmering rays rose over the trees, it was time to start again.

For many seasons, I took them where they needed to go.

Everyday they would crowd into the car, talking and yelling amongst themselves.

They went to see their Aunts in the neighboring town, or to do some business for the weekend.

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But then they stopped coming.

I waited for them.

Waited for anything, any movement, any noise.

None came.

I wish they knew That they really aren’t going anywhere.

They change, move about, but they don’t travel anymore.

After all these years, I still remain in the ground where I began.

My rusty nails penetrate the earth.

My wooden boards disintegrate into nothing.

I live a silent life, hoping that one day, my travelers will return.

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Labels Sadie Downs

This poem follows the life of an African American man living in the Huntertown hamlet.

Day in and day out we toil under the hot Kentucky sun.

The slick leaves stain my fingers yellow.

No amount of scrubbing could ever wash the shame of my status.

Sweat drips from my brow, stinging my eyes.

Harsh memories of the overseer’s whip ring in my mind.

No longer are we owned by ignorance, But we remain restrained by the fears of the men who fought for us.

I’m a slave to the land now.

Each year we pray the crop will be enough.

Enough to move out of Huntertown and into a city, Somewhere my children can learn.

Perhaps they’ll be teachers or shop owner.

They’ll look around at the life they created for themselves.

Hold their future in their own hands.

Feel the sun for its warmth and beauty, See the grass under their feet as a path to freedom-Not an anchor from the past.

Wasn’t that what the war was for?

To extend freedom in the land of Liberty?

I thought the land we were given was ours?

The Union won the war.

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We saw the thick, black smoke fill the horizon.

We thought the booms of distant cannons were ringing in justice.

But now, with a clear sky, we see the truth.

The government deems me a freeman.

I grow to survive.

That’s all I’m doing, Surviving.

I continue to dream of the day that we belong to ourselves, Free from the prejudice that’s pushing the walls of our hamlet.

I pray for a change in attitude Rather than a change in labels.

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Photo by Sioux Finney

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Photo by Sioux Finney

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Photo by Sioux Finney

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Water

Hannah Edelen

Water can mean tired hands, as well as newborn ones.

Where work has been done, water is there: pulsing and steady.

There is water in the laying of railroad tracks, piece by piece.

Water is an inherently constructive force, shaping the slow turn of the earth.

Sometimes, however, water boils over, and there are floods. This is inevitable; it is the reason that Clifton was once covered in water. Sometimes, there are things that fires cannot accomplish. Sometimes to continue as a constructive force, you must become destructive. Something new always grows from the flood: flowers and vines and lives are reconfigured.

Fire knows nothing of slow growth; it pulses rapid change from the core of itself. It is concerned purely with black and white, but because water is a force of beginnings, it is comfortable residing within the gray spaces.. Nothing is as foundational as those moments when we feel our ancestors--their lives and trials--pulsing inside of ourselves, and, for a moment, catch a glimpse of our place in the grand scheme of things. There is water in the ghosts that gives us comfort. There is water in little boys who set out to be like their fathers, who carry the memory of that man with them until the day they die. Not everything burns out fast and bright. Not every drowning is a physical process. Sometimes, we must submerge ourselves in our emotions, and live for a time with our ghosts. It is only within this submersion that we can call ourselves truly whole.

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Mundy’s Landing

Photo by Shelby Wright

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Photo by Lindsay Anderson

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Photo by Sadie Downs

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Mundy’s Landing/ Clover Bottom Jacqueline Kowalke

Nestled beside the Kentucky River, about a thirty minute drive south of Versailles, is a little community known as Clover Bottom, or Mundy’s Landing. Today it is a quiet area occupied by a couple of churches and several houses, but it used to be bustling with business. In the mid 1800’s, the region was known for its riverboat terminal called Mundy’s Landing. This ferry became the main route between Harrodsburg and Lexington due to shallow water and large sandbanks further up the river. Little is known of Mundy’s Landing, even those who have lived in Woodford County for years are often unaware of its existence. Yet despite the relative invisibility of the community, the remaining stories of its transient heyday are still told.

Thomas Mundy settled by the river before 1800 and built a large log house on a hill. He and his wife lived there until they died during the cholera epidemic of 1833. According to some, Thomas Mundy’s son was named John, according to others, he was named Jeremiah Vard. Whatever his name was, he built the ferry terminal at the peak of steamboat travel on the Kentucky River. Around 1847, Mundy built a house that became a tavern to accommodate the influx of travellers. This tavern was visited by icons such as Henry Clay and John Crittenden; the latter served in the House of Representatives and Senate, and he was the United

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States Attorney General for multiple presidents. The tavern was also a popular place for Confederate and Union troops to rest during the Civil War. The step-son of John Crittenden captained one of the most famous steamboats en route here, the Blue Wing.

Between 1830 and 1840, Mundy’s landing was one of the busiest terminals on the Kentucky River. Due to the sandbar at its intersection with the Shawnee River, practically all goods from Kentucky had to be shipped from Mundy’s Landing. During the spring of 1846, the Blue Wing floated down the river and was almost shot by a mountaineer who had never seen a steamboat before and thought it was a monster. “It came spouting fire and water, with its horns pointed straight up.” The mountaineer was about to “draw a bead, dead center on the varmint between the horns where he calculated its brains to be.” Luckily, the Blue Wing was saved from a bullet hole by the man’s neighbor, who pushed the rifle out of the way and let him know he was about to shoot a boat. To this, the man said, “Well, she stood a smart chance of getting shot; I was about to give it to her ‘tween the horns”.

Thomas Mundy’s grandson, Robert Lowry Mundy, inherited the tavern in the late 1800’s. He was married to Lucretia, a woman who was rumored to have danced on tables in the nude during the Civil War for five bucks. In January of 1883, Robert Lowry Mundy suspiciously died of a morphine overdose.

Dr. Walker T. Davis, Lucretia’s future son in law, was found beside

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the body of Thomas when he died. This led to him being on trial for Robert’s murder. Between other suspicious murders and intense testimonies, Dr. Davis was given a life sentence, though Lucretia walked free. Many claim that Lucretia was behind it all, that she wanted her husband dead to collect his insurance money. It is rumored that she offered her daughter to Dr. Davis if he helped with the murder. Unfortunately for Lucretia, the insurance companies didn’t give her the money for many years later.

The last steamboat to visit Mundy’s Landing was the Fall City in 1908. Since then, the landing has been closed off, and the road ends at the old Mundy house driveway. Modern day Mundy’s Landing is not quite as busy as it used to be. Now it is a quaint little place where a few residents enjoy fishing and hunting the various forms of wildlife. Farming is the main occupation, but recently many horse farms have moved in to take the place of cattle and crops. The river is mostly polluted. Still standing is an old house (originally pink, now an unbecoming gray color) that is thought to be the oldest in Mundy’s Landing. Now that the house has been painted and the road shut off, there is little left of Mundy’s Landing’s history. Though the days of steamboat travel have left Mundy’s Landing, the community lives on.

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Works Cited: Bisset, David Lee. “Mundy’s Landing and the Kentucky River.”

Harold Leader 1959. Print.

Bisset, David Lee. “The Continued Saga of Mundy’s Landing & the

Kentucky River.”

Bisset, David Lee. “Mundy’s Landing and the Kentucky River.”

Issue 17 “Mundy’s Landing.”

Coleman, J. Winston Jr. “Steamboats on the Kentucky River.”

Print.

Historical Photograph. Versailles. Woodford County Historical

Society., Print.

Johnson, Jane Hayden and Lunsford, Maxine Seasry and Moore,

Mrs. Freddie. “Mundy’s Landing.” Title of Periodical Day

Month Year: pages. Print.

Young, Melody. “The Mysteries of Mundy’s Landing.”

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Victor, Victoria and Lucretia Natalie Heigle

This piece chronicles the life of a woman named Lucretia, a resident of Mundy’s Landing, who is famous for the murder of her husband in 1883.

Lucretia, a mother of one, wanted her husband dead to collect the insurance money. Her husband, Robert Lowry Mundy, supposedly died of a morphine overdose administered by Lucretia’s accomplice, Dr. Walker T. Davis. Davis was convicted of murder, and Lucretia walked free.

I woke to find myself peering through the eyes of a dreamer’s mask. As I walked along an endless path, I finally came to stop in front of a dirty, ramshackled bar. Yet, as I passed the low level tables and slipped free of the corporeal threads of society’s judgement, I knew that I called this place home. As I became nothing more than a physical representation of the music, I drew the auras that constituted life and happiness around me like a coat. Protected from the cold cruelties of this world, the multitudes of color left me forever engrossed. That is, until I saw a coat that surpassed mine.

His name was Robert, and I fell hopelessly in love with the galaxies that appeared in his eyes. Just like that, my beautiful mask had broken upon my face, just as I had shattered my old self to become the new. But, as the years passed, this world washed away the colors surrounding me, and the stars dimmed in my beloved eyes. Perhaps he had been nothing more than a mask originally, perhaps we are all nothing more than a multitude of masks, never truly knowing which face is real. All I knew for certain was that I could no longer live in this world of gray. Something had to be done.

So I began to build a new mask behind my old, the events

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like puzzle pieces, flashes before my eyes. I bought the morphine on the dock, I met the doctor and negotiated a deal, I gave my daughter as payment, and, finally, I waited. The moment that Robert Mundy died, I watched the remaining star flash out of his eyes, and the final piece of my mask clicked into place. But, when I opened my eyes to pray that the gray had been lifted, I was startled to see that my shroud was nothing but black, that my mask was a cruel affixation opposite to my former beauty. Just as I had absorbed the colorful auras of those I had once entertained, I now absorbed only darkness. I tried with all of my might to wipe the black off of me, to break the new mask upon my face as I had done so many times before. But the masks of Victor and Victoria had left, leaving me with only Lucretia. This was my true face, my true form, and as I finally woke to see the blood red ceiling of my room ‌ I smiled.

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The Landing

Sarah Souers and Ashley Peterson

This poem tells the story of the popular ferry boat that traveled the river waters of the once bustling trading town, Mundy’s Landing.

I am the connector of my communities, The one they incessantly depend on for every want or need.

Swiftly, I travel the river waters for these men, never faltering.

They need me, the center for all their commerce.

Steam bellows from exhaust pipes in a loud chorus of hisses.

A mixture of smoke and steam is my halo.

As if I have wings, I float across the water like a looming angel.

What destination will I be blessing today?

Coasting, I approach a sheltered town, One nestled around the body of the Kentucky River.

Ah, yes, I have been to this simple place before. They need me.

Without my ability to convey their cargo, this place would slowly fade away.

A single building waits for me at the dock.

The tavern seems to be all that makes up this town.

Its warm, brick foundation, is a temporary home to those who visit, It is strong against winds, yet soft enough to welcome any family.

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It’s a small but busy place, somewhere I visit often.

The heart of trade on the Kentucky River is found here.

Exports flow like blood from it’s dock To pump life into the surrounding counties and neighborhoods.

A man leaves the tavern to greet me at the dock.

Life has made him tough, like my unwavering spirit.

The blueprints for my terminal were formed in his very mind, And his callused fingers wove its design.

I watch as as man who holds the responsibility for this place Let’s his boots sink into the mud near my anchored body.

As the whispers of the wind call him Mundy, He comes aboard, and I am to do his bidding, enslaved to him.

The men bring the cargo; my only job is to carry it away.

So with Mundy, my guide, we cast off on our venture.

We travel the world of the Kentucky River, Only to return a vessel full of fresh merchandise and paraphernalia.

The town has since grown on our long journey away.

As years have passed, the landing filled with unknown faces.

River trade has passed its point of highest potential, And as Mundy starts to fade, I approach my final voyage.

When I started on the water, the world didn’t talk about pollution.

Now, they say my halo of steam, that was once greeted at the docks, Is destroying their air, the water being poisoned by my engines’ trail.

They say I’m no friend to this community now; what am I to do?

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I thought this town would fade without me; The truth is, I am to fade without Mundy’s Landing.

My travels to this nestled town have dissolved over time.

All that remains of me is a forgotten piece of history.

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These Four Walls

By Natalie Heigle

Thomas Mundy is known for finding the “invisible” city of Mundy’s Landing in the late 1700s, now located in present day Woodford County by the Kentucky River. This story chronicles the death of Thomas and Savannah Mundy due to the cholera epidemic of 1833.

I watched this disease diminish him. An unwanted stranger, cholera slipped into our home, these four walls not enough to protect us, and time a new, foreign enemy. Within four hours my husband had aged forty years: his eyes sunken, his lips blue, and his skin as cold as the death he was racing toward.

When we finally recognized the enemy poised before us, it was too late. One by one each villager turned their backs on us, and behind my beloved’s eyes waged a ferocious war between his two forms: A courageous young man whose own hands had built this mighty cabin, and a desolate old man, jaded to this new world we had discovered. This cabin would become nothing more than a representation of dreams that would never be achieved.

I cursed everything I could as I watched the mighty Thomas Mundy wane before me, but it was all for naught. Cholera was everywhere I looked: the once populated dock, my once pristine home, my once poignant husband… and, with a start, I realized that I, too, had become soiled with this deadly force. I was no longer looking at my husband, but a mirror of what I was to become. It was an illusory dejavu, a sick joke of the cosmos that reside in and above us. In the battle between man and disease, on a larger scale man and death, man may win multiple battles, but he never can seem to win the war.

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So I extended my hand to this beckoning disease. I embraced the reverent coldness that is oblivion, and among the quiet sounds of waves lapping at the shore, of turkeys eerily echoing into this stark silence, I had my final thoughts.

Would this town survive to be great, or ultimately succumb to this epidemic? Perhaps it would rise to greatness, but I had an instinctive suspicion that this town would become my own mirror, time eating away to ruin, just as cholera ate me.

In the battle between man and disease, between creation and destruction, this supposed eradication is fated to ultimately win. But what man never fails to glance over is the grayness of such a situation. What if man is ultimately destined to lose not because of some divined atrocity, but because he is the destruction, the disease himself?

As I looked upon the broken shards of my mirror, my infinite moments of life, I found myself no longer caring about humanity as a whole. My humanity had been stolen away piece by piece. I reached out my hand between shards of life and death, he and I, heaven and hell, and the world outside transformed into nothing but a single refraction of light. I had become nothing more than my reflections.

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Photo by Sadie Downs

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Photo by Shelby Wright

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Photo by Shelby Wright

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Mortonsville

Photo by Shelby Wright

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Photo by Shelby Wright

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Photo by Lindsay Anderson

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Mortonsville Hannah Edelen

Situated on the crossroads of Seller’s Mill and Delaney Ferry, right between Versailles and Nonesuch, lies the settlement of Mortonsville. These days there are only scattered remnants: the structures of old grocery stores and barns, a school slowly sinking into disrepair. However, at one time this area was bustling, nearly rivaling its neighbor, Versailles. How this settlement went from a prosperous development to scattered remains is a detailed story, but one typical of small country towns at the time.

The first settlers to Mortonsville arrived around 1785.

They were primarily Revolutionary War veterans from Virginia, who had been given land grants in return for their service.

Among the earliest of these pioneers was General Charles Scott, from Cumberland County, Virginia, a Revolutionary War veteran.

He built one of the first structures in the area, his log cabin home Scott’s Landing, located five miles away from Mortonsville.

Many Revolutionary veterans had been given land grants in the surrounding Bourbon County area, but traded them to be near General Scott, who had a reputation for defending the settlers from Native American attacks. Scott later went on to become the fourth governor of Kentucky. However, in an unfortunate turn of events, his son, Charles Scott, was killed by Native Americans. A Mortonsville resident by the name of Dick Taylor tried to rescue his body from the riverbank, but he was injured in the attempt.

Because of this he was thereafter called “Hopping Dick Taylor.”

Among the early settlers were also the Morton and Rucker families, who built some of the first log cabins in the area, on

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hills opposite one another. John Morton was the earliest settler from the Morton family, but his son Jeremiah spurred the area’s growth, and became its namesake. Jeremiah Morton envisioned the region as a great shipping center, despite its less than ideal location five miles off from the wharves. It did indeed, in the early 1800’s, become a center of commerce. Most of the goods were sent to and from New Orleans. In one instance, the citizens of Mortonsville used this route to make a political statement.

Many of settlers who came from Virginia were of French descent, or were sympathetic to the citizens of France during the French Revolution. A group of residents constructed a boat by hand to be sent down the river to New Orleans, where the French were to man it. The French did indeed receive this gift, but when they tried to sail it back to their home country, it was shot down by the British.

Mortonsville was officially incorporated in 1835, based on lots marked out by Jeremiah Morton which all faced the main street. There was a tannery off of the aptly named road Tanner’s Creek, and a hemp and bagging mill a mile away. These were the primary drivers of the economy, along with the shipping industry.

The first church in the area was Clear Creek Baptist Church.

It was established as an organization in 1785, but an official structure was not built until 1791. Outgrowths of this church include Grier’s Creek, Hillsboro, and Versailles Baptist. The Methodist church was established next in 1800, by Ahmed Rucker, who was also the first preacher. The original building burned, but was rebuilt in 1850, which is the structure that stands

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there today. Another Baptist church, Hillsboro, was founded in 1802, and was staffed by clergy and laymen from Clear Creek until they obtained their first pastor, Reverend Edmund Waller.

Waller was a typical fire and brimstone Baptist of the time, who preached fervently the benefits of a straight and narrow path.

Before the 1850’s, slaves would attend service weekly at Hillsboro Baptist, where the pastors would preach the godliness of obeying one’s master. This practice lasted until 1853, when a preacher named John Oliver swayed the hearts and minds of the white residents with his eloquence. He convinced the people of Hillsboro to allow the African-American residents to organize their own independent church. This church became Polk Memorial Baptist, the oldest African-American church in Woodford County. It is still standing and operating today.

The history of Mortonsville in regard to the African-American community has always been complicated. A large portion of the early settlers, and residents throughout the 1800’s were slave holders. However, a great many of these owners were sympathetic to the abolitionist cause. Most provided clauses in their will that specified that their slaves were not to be sold, so that families would not be split up. Some had specifications that slaves would be released at a certain age, or upon the occasion of the slave owner’s death. In 1806, an anti-slavery church, called the New Hope Meeting House, was established due to a great anti-slavery religious fervor.

Elijah and Winifred Hanks built the church on donated land, and

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declared themselves a society dedicated to abolition. The meeting house was located in a wooded area of of McCowan’s Ferry, but has long since burned down. This duality of opinion about slavery is represented in the fact that young men from Mortonsville fought and died on both sides of the Civil War.

Mortonsville was most prosperous in the late 1870’s and 80’s. In 1870, locks were added to the Kentucky River, which increased business dramatically. As of 1877, there were around 750 people living in Mortonsville. In the stretch considered downtown, there was a cabinet maker, blacksmith, post office, hotel, salon and several general stores. It was also in this time period that Mortonsville almost became the capital of Kentucky.

In the late 1860’s, people from Louisville and Lexington were pushing for a new capital. The representative from Mortonsville at the time, Squire Ford, grew tired of the prolonged bickering, and gave an impassioned, impromptu speech advocating for Mortonsville to be the new capitol. His speech so won over the other representatives that Mortonsville was one vote short of becoming Kentucky’s capitol.

It was around this time that many of the deeply religious residents became concerned with their neighbor’s morality. A group of men called The Night Riders, took it upon themselves to punish those who strayed, putting bundles of switches on the doorsteps of those they deemed “miscreants”. On several occasions, they beat men who had been found to be sleeping with married women. Roads were also a contentious issue at the time; many of the early paths had tolls that the residents objected to paying. A group of men began going out at night and harassing the toll operators, until, eventually, public roads were implemented. However, these were still in severe disrepair, and it

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wasn’t until years later that good roads could be paved and local travel could increase.

At the turn of the century, Mortonsville Elementary was a one room schoolhouse. A new building was constructed in 1925, with wings added later in 1930 and 1935. This building is standing today, though it ceased operating decades ago, when it was consolidated with Southside Elementary. An African-American school ran for several years next to the Baptist Church, taught

by Miss Jennie Lou Christopher.​​There were also several private schools in the area, which were run out of private homes.

The 1900’s brought troubled times to Mortonsville, as the value of tobacco significantly declined. The Great Depression especially took a toll. Many of the residents depended on possum, rabbit, or turtle meat, along with family gardens, for sustenance.

Electricity didn’t come to the area until 1948, before that residents used kerosene lamps. The young men of Mortonsville flocked to recruiting officers at the start of World War II. Many men who had never left Mortonsville suddenly became world travelers. Some left never to return.

Those who did come back wanted more than their father’s farming lifestyle. They took jobs in surrounding cities, and built larger houses on the side of the road.

Today, much of what you see in Mortonsville is older buildings in disrepair, or new suburban-esque houses for families, new living among the old. The facts of the past have been forgotten, but the essential spirit of it lingers above and

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around the place. All of the documents and writings about Mortonsville share a certain veneration of what one woman, in her short history of the area, termed the “pioneer ideal.” This ideal is living on, despite all the moss and weeds, in those who live or have lived there, and carry it in their hearts.

Works Cited: Chandler, Ben. “Happy Landings”. Editorial. Woodford Sun

[Versailles]. 10 Nov. 1977: Print.

Davis, Lucile. “State Funds for Public Schools First Made

Available in Mid-1850’s.” Woodford Sun 23 Feb 1978: Print.

Gaines, Jim Owen. “Mortonsville.” Woodford County, Kentucky:

The First Two Hundred Years. eds. Dabney Garrett

Munson and Margaret Ware Parrish. Versailles: Gallop

Press, 1989. 35-38. Print.

Historical Photograph. Versailles. Woodford County Historical

Society., Print.

Hudson, Billie. “Woodford County Village, Which Almost Became

Kentucky’s Capital, Will Observe 104th Anniversary

Quietly Tuesday”. Lexington Herald-Leader 26 Feb

1939: Print.

Webber, Doris Wilson. “Mortonsville History Gives An

Interesting Look Back To Early Life in Kentucky.”

The Kentucky Explorer May 1997: 48-51. Print.

Webber, Mrs. John O. “Early Mortonsville.” Woodford Heritage

News. April 1991: Print.

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Webber, Mrs. John O. “Early Mortonsville.” Woodford Heritage

News. April 1991: Print.

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Lessons Learned at the River Kate Brown

This is a fictional adventure based on the real life child Frannie Ann Mason. She played in the woods near the Kentucky River, which was known for taking the lives of unsuspecting children.

“Frannie!”

At the sound of her voice, I zip up my smock and shove socks onto my feet.

“Frannie Ann Mason, come down here!”

“Yes Ma, I’m coming,” I shout through the house. I snatch my boots from the wood floor and bound down the stairs into the kitchen. Ma bends over to hand me the wicker berry basket, then turns back to the stove to finish breakfast.

“Now don’t you take too long pickin’ them in the woods.

You must be back by dark because I need the blackberries for a pie tomorrow.”

“Yes ma’am.”

“I know that I’ve told ya a million times, but stay away from the river. We don’t want you fallin in it, ya hear?”

“Yes ma’am.”

I take the familiar path through town to the blackberry bushes. Gee, everyone is out today. You know, our Mortonsville was almost the capital. Ma says it was such a big fuss when Frankfort was crowned, but that’s okay, I like our town the way it is. I pass the post office, saloon, and grocery store, the last of which I decide to go in and buy a piece of taffy. I stick it in the pocket of my smock, saving it for later.

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I eat it once I’m real near the woods. It sticks to my teeth and fills my mouth with chocolatey flavor. I skip along the tree line and soon enough, I’ve found my way to the bushes. They’re pretty hidden behind some trees, so I think it’s me and Ma’s secret. I can hear the river from here. If I walked a bit more maybe I could just see it, but I would never.

“It’s an evil and dangerous thing,” Ma always tells me.

You never know when the river’ll take you. One second the waves are calm, but the next, it snaps you right up and drags you down till you can’t breathe no more, and suddenly you’ve lost everything you’ve ever known. Your Ma and Pa, your home, and your life.

I always obey my Ma.

I pick and pick and pick, till almost no more berries are hangin there. Ma’s gonna be so happy with what I’ve got. I look up and see that the sun’s still high in the sky, so I know I’ve got a few hours to explore.

I decide to go a longer way home since I’ve got time, so I make my way through some red maple trees that I’ve never seen before. There’s this one tree, it’s real different than the rest, maybe it’s an oak. I put my berry basket down because I can’t stop lookin’ at it. It’s so green and tall, it looks like it just goes right up into the sky. I just gotta climb it. Besides, Ma never said I couldn’t go explorin in a tree, I just got to stay away from the river.

It’s not gonna swallow me today.

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Mortonsville School-2009 Olivia Smock

The Mortonsville school, (founded in 1925) had been left to rot after its abandonment in the 1980’s. The building still stands, however, it continues to deteriorate with every passing day.

The bell rings. Footsteps and loud chatter fill me once again. Another day begins. Some shove and push one another, banging into my doorframes, falling into my floors, slamming against my walls. Some will float through, gentle hands on my railings, carefully leaning on my pillars, slowly shutting the doors as school begins. The rooms are almost quiet, only one voice booming from the front of each class. Sometimes there is whispering, quiet giggling from a pair or more of pupils.

Sometimes I would hear people speak softly, lovingly to one another, they say “I love you,” “I love you too.” This would go on for a while, until those same voices would say “I’ll miss you,” “Goodbye,” “I never really loved you.” The day ends, the same bustle again, all goes quiet for another night, until the sunrise tomorrow. This is just like it has always been.

That’s the way it was, until now. Now I sit, my halls empty and quiet, no more voices, no more footsteps, no more people. I haven’t had a repair for what feels like centuries. My windows are shattered, my paint is peeling, my floors are festering, my roof is caving in, I am slowly, painfully, dying. People will crawl through my windows, laughing and stomping around, I hear clicks, I feel my floors cracking under their weight, I creak under their feet, begging them to please leave, that I’m a shame to this town, not wanting to be seen by anyone. The whole town is quiet these days, my brethren moan of rotting away as well. They complain

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of holes in their roofs, of wild animals living inside them, of the smell of rot and mold. We are miserable. The death of a building is long and painful, we sometimes find ourselves envious of the humans, their ability to die quickly and painlessly at will. We long for the day that our foundations crumble, our beams snap, our walls bend and break, and we can finally, at long last, rest. I hear the newer structures cry and worry themselves over fear of rotting away. I envy them. They do not yet know of the agony of living when all you want to do is die. They do not know what an incredible thing rest can be to an old and tired structure like me.

The young humans who roamed through my halls, they do not know the suffering of their slowly dying elders. Those who ended their lives when they were only at the beginning should consider themselves lucky. They will never know the pain of begging for eternal rest.

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The Night Riders Sarah Pierce

This is a fictional short story based on the actual Night Riders, a group of deeply religious men around the late 19th century who lived in Mortonsville. These men would “punish those who strayed” by laying switches on the doorsteps of houses and even beating them. They also would harass toll operators for the taxes that were needed to be payed.

It was a cold, bitter evening when we proceeded down the long ribbon of road on horseback. I struggled to pull my overcoat across my mouth, to shield the piercing wind from freezing my lungs. The silence of the rural county gradually became nonexistent as hundreds of hooves raced across the paved roads, roaring and rumbling the earth. Through my squinted, watery eyes, I saw a small light in the distance.

“We’re almost there men!” shouted one of the riders.

Yes. It was he who lives there. The miscreant who deserves the punishment that will be unfolded upon him in only a matter of seconds. As we reached the house, I saw two of our men towering over an older man, who was wearing only his undergarments.

“Today’s your lucky day son. It’s your turn,” one of the men said to me as he shoved the miscreant towards my direction, smirking. I slid off my horse and walked toward the sinner. His eyes grew larger and larger each step I took towards him. He looked like a wounded animal that I wanted to make suffer and devour. When he shivered and cowered, I was only encouraged to torture him further. And God did I torture him.

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I pounded his face, my fists were throbbing and covered with his blood. I couldn’t stop. My blood pumped through my body and my breath became steam in the cold night air. Lying on his side, he desperately tried to cover his face. Then this thick, red substance oozed between his fingers and I kicked him in the stomach.

Blood spattered across the gravel each time I kicked his stomach. I could hear the muffled voices of the other riders, saying, “Enough. That’s enough.” But their voices were blocked by my own thoughts. Teach the miscreant a lesson. Be God’s discipline and give him the hell he deserves. Make him pay for his sins! The voice kept whispering in my head, growing louder and louder each time I punched him. Next thing I know I was being pried off the unconscious man. “Take it easy now boy!” said a rider, “Save that energy for those despicable toll operators.”

Suddenly, I was being pulled away from that man and somehow, got right back on my horse.

As we started riding away, I looked back to find that the man was surrounded. A woman, most likely his wife, was crying beside him as he was carried inside. You would think after watching the broken hearts of the family members carry the man, I would feel and absorb some guilt. I didn’t. Instead of guilt spreading through my soul, my laughter was the last thing that poured through the silent night as we left the home. I rode off to meet yet another cold, bitter night.

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Photo by Michaela Hood

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Photo by Jessie Lause

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Photo by Lindsay Anderson

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Fire

Maggie Sunseri

It’s easy to only see the “evil” in Fire. But to say that something is good or bad is to assume that the elements hold positive and negative values. That’s missing the point. Elements are what they are--they are neutral, transcendent forces of the universe, and shouldn’t be subjected to humankind’s labels and projections.

Fire is the destroyer: the burning of cities and people alike. Fire is the spark of life: inherent in each of your ancestors that tirelessly worked to keep their families clothed and fed. Fire is pure inspiration: every writer, painter, artisan or creator of any kind knows of Fire. Or, maybe, Fire isn’t anything at all. For the destruction that Fire may inflict upon humans, Water can do just as much harm. It was water that flooded these cities--displacing families, devastating businesses and turning lives upside-down. It was Water that drowned the little girls of Mortonsville. It was Water that wasn’t there to put out Fire’s wrath. Fire may have been the cause of the Night Riders violence, and she also may have been the root cause of each city fading into nothingness. Fire ignited Little Sodom’s burning, and Fire let each city’s buildings fade and decay.

It could be concluded that neither Water nor Fire has the upper hand in this battle, rather, they are each essential in the evolution of humankind. After a period of flood comes a time of bountiful harvest, for which Water plays the most vital role. After great fires, there are times of rebuilding and growth. This is when Fire’s inspiration and survival come into play. For there can only be peace when the elements are balanced, when neither Fire nor Water has complete control. Every city in every country is a part of this web of unity--they are each facets of a central consciousness, one in which all the elements are in harmony.

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Clifton

Photo by Lindsay Anderson

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Photo by Lindsay Anderson

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Photo by Lindsay Anderson

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History of Clifton Noah Ridgeway

There is a relatively small town north west of Versailles.

It is located on the Kentucky River along the Woodford-Anderson County border and is recognized by the U.S. census as a U6 classified location(A U6 is classified as “A populated place that is not a census designated or incorporated place having an official federally recognized name.”) While not federally recognized, many would remember the name here in Woodford County. This is the history of Clifton.

In the year 1790, a strapping, young Revolutionary war ensign named Thomas Railey arrived in Woodford with his wife Jane. Thomas Railey, a cousin of Thomas Jefferson, planted his home on a hill overlooking the Kentucky River and decided to name it “Clifton”. A fitting name as his uncle, Carter Harrison, owned property in Virginia of the same name. The home would eventually pass ownership to the Berryman family, a prominent lineage in Clifton’s history.

Initially created as a living place for employees of a nearby hemp factory, the settlement sprung up around this location and the Kentucky River. The original name for the town was Woodford City, but that title was seldom used. Instead, the colloquial name was Cicero, a reference to a Roman orator. And a fitting one due to the “mute eloquence of the surrounding hills” according to

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Willis W. Field. This name was also replaced when the town was officially recognized as Clifton in 1848. That same year, a post office was established and manned by John/Robert H Berryman, but closed in 1849.

By the turn of the 20th century, Clifton had evolved into a bustling center of commerce. While the three grocery stores, two churches (one white Presbyterian and one black Baptist) and a one room school house certainly assisted in propelling the community into popularity, the dock and distilleries guaranteed it. The grocery stores were run by Jim Berryman, Ed Berryman and Will Lane. The distilleries in town were the James W. Brooke’s distillery, Brookie Distillery, Murphy Distillery and the Sublett Distillery. Nearby the town was the Old Crow Distillery, though it technically belonged to Millville. The Sublett tragically burned down as did the Old Crow Distillery, though the latter was rebuilt and remained in service until 1987.

The Clifton Ferry was the lifeblood of the town up until the end of the 1800s. Operated by F.B Hughes, it offered a boat dock for transportation as well as for more leisurely retreats. It attracted a diverse array of people to the area whether it be swimmers, boaters or just passersby.This prosperity however, was not to last, for the ferry and dock were only necessary because they were lower cost alternatives to toll roads and bridges. The roads between Versailles and Lexington were 40 cents per way for one horse carriages, Versailles to Midway was 30 cents for a one horse

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carriage and for both roads it was a higher price for heavier vehicles (two horse carriages). In October of 1896, bands of night riders went to toll houses all over Woodford and the surrounding counties. The mob consisted of 15 men on horseback and one on bike. Wielding axes, shotguns and pistols they destroyed toll gates for eight separate turnpikes, the motive for which was anger at the price of travel. For the Shryock’s Ferry Pike they threatened to lynch the gatekeeper, Evan Adams, if he attempted to charge for access to the road ever again. By July 1, 1896 the mob had succeeded, and all tolls for roadways were eliminated.

This coincided with the removal of the toll for the Joe Blackburn Bridge (also known as Tyrone Bridge). With no reason to pay for a boat when they could simply drive or bike to their locations, the Clifton Ferry shut down and the attractions that accompanied them ceased to exist.

With the Clifton Ferry out of operation, the town required a new breath of life to maintain its relevance. Since the Clifton area had a picturesque landscape and the Kentucky River at its doorstep, the place was (and is) a prime location for campsites.

Fraternities and sororities, church groups and families alike flocked to the camps for a fun weekend out under the stars.

The dock which was previously a commercial center became a so called “Jukebox Hangout” during the 30s and 40s. This is not,however, the only attraction to the town because a country club opened up in 1922. The club was located near Buck Run but has since then closed down and been converted into a home.

In the January of 1937 the most devastating flood in Kentucky history occurred, and Clifton was not spared this destruction. With over 15.1 inches of rain in 23 days, water levels rose far beyond flood requirements for several weeks. Many

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people’s homes were underwater along the river, as was the Old Crow Distillery. With over one million people displaced by the flood in Kentucky and Ohio, many people were made refugees.

Around 150 men, women and children from Frankfort were forced to find shelter in the gym at the Woodford County High school. The issue was worsened by frigid temperatures and quick currents, resulting in sheets of rapidly moving ice. The water eventually receded and people began to rebuild. But in 1939 another flood occurred that was within 7-8 feet of being as devastating as the flood of 1937.

The hustle and bustle has died down in recent years and the name Clifton is scarcely heard.It has transformed from an active commercial district into a quaint residential town. Despite all the high and low points, the town soldiers are awaiting a new breath of life to invigorate it once again.

Works Cited: Chandler, Ben. “Happy Landings.” Editorial. Woodford Sun

[Versailles] n.d.: n. pag. Print.

Chandler, Ben. “Happy Landings.” Editorial. Woodford Sun

[Versailles] 12 Dec. 1996: n. pag. Print.

“Clifton Club Has Brilliant Opening.” The Woodford Sun

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[Versaille] 22 June 1922: n. pag. Print.

Davis, Lucile Shyrock. “Clifton Has Evolved from a

Bustling Port to Quiet Residential Town.” The Woodford

Sun [Versailles] 3 Aug. 978: n. pag. Print.

“GNIS Detail - Clifton.” GNIS Detail - Clifton. Geographic Names

Information System, Web. 10 Dec. 2015.

Railey, William Edward. History of Woodford County. Versailles,

KY: Woodford Improvement League, 1968. Print.

“Tranquility Seekers Find Satisfaction In Life At Clifton.” Herald

Leader [Versailles] 12 Sept. 1976: n. pag. Print.

Winkfield, Julia. “More Echoes of Clifton.” Woodford Sun

[Versailles] n.d.: n. pag. Print.

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The Ferryman Nolan Whitaker

This is a story about a fictional character that manned the Clifton Ferry. The ferry was in operation until the end of the 1800’s.

The stretch of river between Anderson County and Woodford is a beautiful little spot with trees, hills and a little settlement that I call home. The sun peeks just above the horizon, and the fog swirls around in the light morning breeze. Clifton begins to stir on my short walk from the house to the dock,where the ferry waits, and starts. The mist from the Kentucky River is always on me. I can’t recall ever having completely dry clothing; my sandwich is always slightly soggy. I’ll travel several miles today between two spots, no more than a few hundred feet apart.

The ferry is the lifeblood of our town. Without it there wouldn’t really be a reason for shops, inns or eateries. Sure our town is not a big city, but I wouldn’t live here if it were. The best part of living here is the way that everybody knows everybody else. We do, however, see our share of passersby and I’ve learned to just do my job and that’s it. Hundreds of people a day travel on the ferry, but it’s just one link in the chain supporting us all.

I don’t really concern myself with individuals beyond some courtesies and the occasional quick chat with a friend. What I think about instead is the journey and getting to travel greater distances than any of my neighbors in a single day. The way I see it, too many people are inclined to rush past my small part in their journey, and don’t stop to take a look around.

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Manning the ferry is tedious and I sometimes forget that I’m one small part of the mechanism that keeps society moving.

I’m part of the base that holds the rest of society up. I get to travel about, and while I don’t really go anywhere, I’m able to keep going because it’s never stagnant work and I’m not trapped in some dark room. I’m always traveling toward the light.

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The Meeting Jessie Lause

This is a satirical account of the meeting in which night riders of Clifton decided to unite and storm the toll booths and eventually, the ferry.

I can vividly recall the most excitingly underwhelming city hall meeting to date. Even the butcher interjected… I always thought he was more of the silent but deadly type; nonetheless, he opened his clownish lips to release his complaint along with a mixed aroma of aged bourbon, failed aspirations, and corned beef.

“Tolls, tolls, tolls, tolls! I just can’t take it anymore!”

I was beginning to think that he didn’t appreciate the tolls. Confused, I raised my hand and stood from the pew.

“Personally, I don’t see what the big deal is; everyone knows that tolls are a temporary fix, right? I mean it’s not like we’ll be paying tolls for hundreds of years, right?” I chuckled, aiming to relax the tension in the room. Instead, the stress piled up in the air, like the grease under the butcher’s fingernails. In this squalid courtroom, the disgruntled populace had gathered to air their grievances regarding the tolls placed on roads. Their only other option for crossing town was to take the ferry. I find the view from the ferry quite relaxing, and I had merely attended to gain a better understanding of their plight. So far, the situation was making as much sense as a Clydesdale teaching Sunday school.

I continued, (although, in retrospect, I’m not sure why).

“One day, our society will just be a well oiled machine—like a butter churn: constantly useful and aiding the sustainability of cows and farmers, alike! We won’t need to pay the government to drive anywhere because we won’t even need the government!

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Now let’s unite,” I threw my fist in the air, teeming with excitement, “and take the ferry!”

“You don’t oil a butter churn.” The shout came from a scrawny bald man residing in the pew of the farthest right corner closest to the door. When he swiftly pulled his wide brimmed hat over his pale, owlish face, I realized that it was the accountant. I began to worry.

As the silence between us became increasingly awkward, the crowd was raring to riot. I decided to trace the conversation back to the oil nonsense. For someone whose career is fueled by other people’s spending, this accountant must have had some serious nerve. To debunk my toll-favoring metaphor? I wanted to turn him upside down and stuff his tiny body into his comedically oversized hat. Regretfully, I spoke once more.

“Well, what machine would one potentially oil?”

“A ferry!”

“Ah, I hate the ferry!”

I anxiously sighed and intruded, “Ladies and gentlemen, that’s not what Iㅡ”

“Let’s do something brash and aggressive to show our blatantly uninformed discontent!” In retrospect, that might not have been the man’s exact phrasing, but all that followed seemed to be indiscernible grunting and unprovoked shouting. Before I knew what hit me, I was howling with rioters, my frustration fueled only by the chilling October wind. We stampeded outside, and they unhitched their horses. Chaos swelled like an aristocrat on Thanksgiving Day: faster than deemed safe by a professional; moreover, I perpetually feared an explosion. There were only fifteen horses, so fifteen men climbed atop while the the rest spearheaded the clamor. I think the little accountant even jumped. I had bought into the chaos, but I still feared changing my mind, and I was beginning to believe that Clydesdales belong

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in the church teaching Sunday school. I decided to take my bicycle. We dramatically stormed off into the night.

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Charred Noah Ridgeway

The Old Crow Distillery tragically burned down in early twentieth century leaving only the smokestack.

Day gave way to dusk and dusk to darkness. Bedside candles were extinguished and lamps ignited for the occasional night wanderer. The hustle and bustle of the day’s business calmed, the air became crisp and the ground was covered in swan white snow. But what once was is nevermore. Up on a hill in the Sublet distillery, one of the lanterns tips and its contents spill. From the smoldering embers wooden beams catch fire and are engulfed. Oak barrels are set alight and send pillars of flame skywards while steel beams and barrel bands become red hot and contort out of shape. Charcoal snow rains down on the town and plumes of raven black smoke choke its citizens. The clamor of frantic people mixes with the roar of the flame as the silence of the night is broken. Rising up out of the panic is charred brick stacked on charred brick and bubbling mortar. The witnesses’ glossy eyes are powerless to avert their gaze and their expressions of terror are illuminated. Lanky shadows rise from the dirt; resurrected. The smokestack ,crumbling and Phoenix like, towers above the ghastly figures as they bend themselves towards the obsidian monolith.

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Shallow Sea Olivia Smock

In the year of 1937 the worst flood in Kentucky history tore the land apart.

Homes went under water, and over one million people were displaced. In this piece, their story is told from a different perspective.

It all began as rain. On a chilly January day, the first drop fell from the dark clouds above and landed on the highest branch of my tallest limb. I paid it no mind. I thought nothing of it when the rain soaked into my bark, when the water began to drip from my leaves. I became concerned when the dirt could no longer absorb the rain that continued to pour, and filthy puddles began to form around me. I began to panic when the pools became a shallow sea, and I could no longer see my own roots, nearly going mad when the shallow sea became a deep ocean, and half of my trunk was hidden under murky rainwater. I feared death’s cruel hand then, but the water continued to rise with every hour, as the rain continued to pound down on me.

That was a month ago. Now the rain has gone, and the ground has returned. Most of the other plants have been killed.

The grass is brown and wilted, crunching under the feet of passing animals and humans. The nearby houses are dirty and broken, chairs and tables strewn across the yards, destroyed.

Some furnishings have traveled so far that one can’t tell from which house they came, and of course most had been broken beyond recognition. The flood ruined us. It killed so much, and now humans rarely come here, and on the rare occasion that they do, they are weeping. I long for the days of green grass and frolicking children and animals. But those days are gone. One never knows what we have until it is gone.

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Photo by Lindsay Anderson

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Photo by Lindsay Anderson

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Photo by Lindsay Anderson

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Photo by Lindsay Anderson

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Wallace Station

Photo by Destinee Zornes

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Photo by Sadie Downs

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Photo by Sadie Downs

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Wallace Station Noah Shuck

Centered around an intersection between Old Frankfort Pike and Midway road is a relatively small community with a rich history. The Wallace/Nugent’s Crossroads area shares an origin with the foundation of Woodford County, beginning in the late eighteenth century. It is also home to the oldest building in Kentucky, as well as one of the first towns established by a railroad in the state. The area has close ties to the development of Kentucky politics, as well as many prominent historical figures.

Perhaps the earliest of these figures would be Hancock and Willis Lee, two brothers accompanied by their cousin Hancock Taylor. Together they were the group that first surveyed the area that would become Woodford County in the late eighteenth century. After surveying it, Taylor purchased land in the area and the three of them built a home on it. The house was constructed in 1773 and is thought to be the oldest building in the state still standing.

Hancock Taylor was in time, killed by Native Americans over a land dispute. Ownership of the property was then ultimately passed to his cousin’s son, John Lee, who had recently arrived to the area from his home in Virginia. Later in life Lee would help to found the city of Versailles.

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Before getting involved with Kentucky politics, John Lee decided to turn his newly acquired home into an inn. Due to the amount of traffic on the nearby roadways it was an ideal spot for a halfway house, or inn. He served there as innkeeper for a short time, and in the winter of 1801 John Lee passed away. Around this time, people began settling in the area around the tavern, and the community became known as Leesburg. Shortly after Lee’s death, his property was leased to Horatio J. Offutt. After two years, Offutt opened the property for renting. The property was later rented for three years to business partners, John Kennedy and William Dailey, who operated a stagecoach line which ran from Lexington up to Olympian Springs (a resort and spa located in southern Bath County).

While living at the Offutt Inn, John Kennedy and William Dailey made a deal with Mr. Offutt, to allow them to use his tavern as a stagecoach stop for a new line between Lexington and Frankfort. The deal was that they would pay Offutt eleven pounds per year for this, provided he repaired the dwelling house and kitchen, as well as construct a stable to hold up to eight horses.

Offutt agreed to the deal. The agreement proved to be prosperous for both parties and by 1807 William Dailey was manager of the tavern.

Of the known tavern managers, William Dailey was by far the most popular. Under his stewardship the tavern was exceptionally well-regarded, and garnered many visitors. It was described by the Kentucky Gazette as having “Venison, wild turkey and other game, great bowls of vegetables, all the Johnny cake a man could eat, berry pies, cider or stronger drinks, crackling bread, pork, buffalo steaks, and fish.” Dailey was also a talented violinist and would entertain the guests while they ate their meals.

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At the same time all of this was happening at the Offutt Inn, there was another competing tavern stationed nearby. This tavern, was owned by a Richard Cole Sr. He was a revolutionary war veteran who arrived in Woodford County in 1782. On his property, he constructed a large building to house his family and could be used as a tavern to accommodate nearby travellers.

The tavern was located in an area known as Sodom. The village of Sodom, located on Elkhorn Creek, had flour and grist mills, as well as cotton and hemp factories, a tannery, shoe shop, carding machine, and a storehouse.

This new tavern competed with Offutt’s tavern regularly for the attention of travellers. Ultimately Cole’s tavern gained a dubious reputation. It was described as “filled with badness and vulgarity”, and even gained the nickname of “Little Sodom.”

Despite this, Cole kept the tavern running until the winter of 1811 when, ironically for a place known as little sodom, the tavern burned to the ground.

Richard Cole Sr. died three years after his tavern burned.

His son Richard Cole Jr. decided to follow in his father’s footsteps, and purchased the Offutt Inn in 1812. It then became known as Cole’s Tavern or Black Horse Tavern. Cole Jr. was described as one of the wealthiest men in the entire county. His son James was the father of Zerelda Cole, mother of the famous outlaws Frank and Jesse James. Cole Jr. operated the tavern until 1848 when it was purchased by the Versailles-Midway Turnpike Company for use as a tollgate house. The company owned the property until 1865

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when ownership reverted to the Versailles Midway Road company. The building continued to operate as a tollhouse until 1880 when it was bought by Frank Harper, then later by John McCabe, who donated the building to the Woodford County Historical Society. Today, the building resides on the southwest corner of nugents crossroads.

After the tavern ceased operation and became a toll house, traffic to the area slowed down significantly. Later, In the 1870’s the Nugent family built a store across the road from Cole’s Tavern. The family, headed by James Nugent, established the Nugent Post Office in the building. This is how the area came to be known as Nugent’s Crossroads. The local post office was ultimately moved to Wallace station in 1886.

The Nugent Crossroads area, now home to Wallace Station, was one of the first towns established by a railroad in Kentucky. It sprang up between an east-west railroad line in the 1830’s that is still active today, and another currently inactive north-south line that ran through Midway. By 1889 these lines had connected all of Versailles, Georgetown, and Midway. One example of cargo the trains carried along this route was phosphate, from a mine owned by the Central Kentucky Phosphate company. The mine was located directly behind the building now known as Wallace Station. The mine and railroad brought prosperity to the area, and as a result, a new community began to spring up around the station.

The current Wallace Station building was constructed at the start of the twentieth century. Shortly after completion, it was opened as a country store by the McKinivan family. The family lived on the upper floor of the building, and they sold various

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goods, including farming necessities, groceries, and gas on the lower level. The station was named after Judge Caleb Wallace.

Wallace was an appellate court judge in Woodford County, who wrote to advocate for religious freedom and public education.

Wallace may have even influenced founding fathers, Thomas Jefferson and James Madison with his ideas.

These however, were not the only historical figures with connections to the station. Another such individual was Dora Brock, the wife of famous abolitionist Cassius Clay. She lived on the farm adjacent to the Wallace Station property. Following her and Clay’s divorce a few years after their marriage, she died.

There are multiple stories about her death. One is that she had an accident in the phosphorus mine behind Wallace Station, and another was that she simply died of tuberculosis. According to Dr. Thomas D. Clark, a Kentucky historian, Dora Brock was laid out in the store after her death in 1914. After this, the building continued to operate as a country store under varying owners for many years. In 1940 the northsouth railroad closed, and was dismantled the following year.

Despite the loss of the railroad, Wallace Station remained strong and continued to operate. In 1952 the store was purchased by Kenneth and Betty Craig, the last owners to operate the building as a grocery. They operated the store until the turn of the century when it was purchased in 2001 by Larry Taylor, and later in 2003 opened as Wallace Station Deli and Bakery by Chris and Ouita Michel.

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Today, Wallace and the area surrounding Nugent’s crossroads is one of the more iconic areas in Woodford County. The name Wallace Station is known by nearly everyone, and has helped many to take new interest in its rich history. When taking the scenic route past the old Offutt-Cole tavern and the surrounding fields and farmland, one can marvel at its simplistic beauty, and appreciate that this small community has withstood the test of time.

Works Cited: Farmer, Nancy. “Scenes from a country drive.” Herald-Leader

[Versailles, KY] 18 November 1992: 8. Print.

Michel, Ouita. Personal Interview. 19 November 2015.

National Register of Historic Places Inventory--Nomination

Form: Offutt-Cole Tavern. Versailles: NPS, 1977. Web. United States. Department of the Interior, National Park Service.

Wallace Station Menu. Midway, KY: Wallace Station, 2015.

Print.

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A Simple Reflection Ashley Peterson

This piece is set in 1810 at a small tavern in Wallace Station. This tavern was nicknamed Little Sodom due to its bad reputation. All the characters in this piece are completely fictional, but the places mentioned, Little Sodom and Offutt Inn, were real taverns in Wallace Station.

The glass thumps on the wooden table.

“Another round, sir?”

“Yes, thank you,” murmurs the slumped man, without looking up.

A youthful gentleman walks into Little Sodom. He removes his coat and takes the seat next to the man. He orders the same drink sitting in front of the downtrodden figure, who bends over as though he no longer has any support inside himself. His coat wraps around his aging body in a feeble attempt at comfort, but some coldness inside that jacket keeps him from receiving any warmth.

The man in the coat glances over at the young, confident boy next to him. His posture is straight, well-kept attire frames his body, and he smiles as a bartender returns his order, an effervescent spark in his eyes. He has hardly noticed the man next to him.

“Drinking is going to be the end of me,” says the man in the coat quietly, his face still staring at the glass. “It’s a fact, but it doesn’t stop me from doing it.” He grabs the glass and starts to drain it.

The gentleman looks slightly startled at the man. He is, in truth, noticing his existence for the first time. Unruffled, he lets out a small chuckle, replying, “With all due respect, sir, no one truly

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knows what is fated to be, especially for themselves.” Smiling, he takes a drink, pondering his clever observation of the man’s overgeneralization.

“Perhaps,” remarks the man in the coat, his voice muffled under the collar. “But, your own death is more often than not foreshadowed by another.” He pauses. The arrogant smile drops from the boy’s face, replaced with a skeptical frown. His mouth stays shut as he waits to see if this figure has more to say. “A disease that runs in the family, a soldier follows his father’s footsteps, someone imitates a mistake instead of learning from it.

We like to ignore these awful patterns in our histories. Humans can’t escape this fault.” Finally, he looks the boy in the eyes. His eyes are a dark gray, the color of wood that once burned. “It happens every day, to all of us.”

“But, clearly, it hasn’t happened to you yet. For you are still living!” declares the boy.

“Living and alive are very different. My father succumbed to drink when my mother died of a cold that her small body never could shake. He didn’t live much longer after she passed.” He paused for a small coughing fit that seemed to have the power to break a man like him. At its end, he took another drink of the half empty glass. “You know that other tavern close to this one? Offutt Inn?”

“Of course, everyone knows Offutt and its higher reputation than Sodom. Honestly, I despise coming in here,” he said, giving the man’s drab coat a passing glance. “However, it’s much too cold for a walk like that tonight.”

“Yes, it was my favorite too. The warm ciders and sweetened pies seemed endless. The crowd always seemed so lively, drawn in by the music they’d say. It is a place of comfort, as I am sure you know. I met a beautiful girl there, when I was closer to your age. We fell in love and got married, as most of the stories go. Now she’s left me for some other illness or two. So, I sit

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here at Sodom now, for I cannot face luxury anymore.” The boy’s face was frozen, silent.

The man in the coat looked away from the gentleman and faced his drink again. “I tell you this to warn you. Break away from the rest of humankind. You will too easily fall to the same destiny,” he finished and downed the rest of the burning liquid.

He begins to remove his coat to prepare to stay in Sodom the rest of the evening.

The boy’s expression is now a stern mask. He gets up, places a few cents on the counter, and leaves his empty glass, an exact replica of the one in front of the sad man. “It was nice talking to you,” he states. He puts back on his coat, straightens his collar above his face, and rushes out. For he was to meet his bride to be at the Offutt tavern tomorrow morning.

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Pillars of Salt Noah Shuck

Richard Cole Sr. and William Dailey ran two competing taverns in the early nineteenth century. The two taverns and their owners competed for the attention of passersby until ultimately, Cole’s tavern was put out of business in the winter of 1811. This story is written from the perspective of these two men at that time.

Richard Cole’s tavern was often the victim of misfortune.

Initially Cole had opened the Tavern as part of his new life when he’d moved to Woodford. After the end of the Revolution, he’d wanted nothing more than to settle down with his family and live a peaceful life. However, when he’d built their home and opened it as an inn, the end result was anything but peaceful. The nearby road attracted many people of adverse backgrounds to their home. Regularly the tavern was home to crooks, blasphemers, degenerates, and the general scum of society. Other travelers began to fear the Inn and went out of their way to avoid the road leading to it, instead taking the path toward William Dailey’s more highly esteemed Tavern. Hearing his Tavern referenced by names such as “Cole’s Bad Inn” or “Little Sodom” brought intense shame and anger to Mr. Cole.

This was no place to raise a family. He tried his best to salvage the establishment’s reputation, but found himself ultimately powerless to do so. There was little he could do to quell his visitors, or attract new ones. Various attempts to change the order of the tavern were met with extreme criticism or worse. On the other hand, If he were to shut down the inn he’d no longer be able to support his family, or worse, attract unwanted attention from his vile patrons. Tormented day and night by images of the

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wicked things taking control of his life, he longed for it to end.

Cole’s prayers would ultimately be answered one cold night in the Winter of 1811. Winters were especially rough for Cole’s Bad Inn. The bitter cold brought more trouble into the inn than usual. Exhausted, Cole had gone to bed early that night.

When on the precipice of slumber, Cole was suddenly thrown out of his sleep-like state when the door to his bedroom burst open. Noise began to fill the room, outside he heard a frenzied commotion. Without fully realizing what was happening, he and his family were lead outside. He was assaulted by crashes, wails, and shrieks from every side. Briefly his ears caught the word “Fire” accompanied by another horrible tremor. As Cole walked he frequently felt his legs give out from under him, tripping over debris. Once outside, Cole and his family looked back in horror.

The building had caught fire in the night, and was burning to the ground. Cole watched as the flames danced and flickered in the air, and the smoke blacked out the stars. The fire was destroying his life and reducing everything he knew to ashes. It was horrible, yet somehow he felt relief. Cole’s bad nightmare was finally over.

A great crowd gathered around the building, watching. He stood in the cold night with his family, the harsh winds blowing against them. On the night that Sodom burned, They all refused to look away. ***

Illuminated by the flickering candlelight, William Dailey sat in his office and listened to the chatter and merriment outside

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of the small room. The Tavern was particularly busy that night, as travelers sought refuge from the winter air. Dailey was tuning his violin, deciding which song to play next for the patrons outside.

He was roused from his thoughts by a knock on the door. He went to open the door and found the culprit frenzied and out of breath.

Dailey invited the stranger into his office, inquiring what was the matter. The visitor requested a drink, and after calming down, told Mr. Dailey what had transpired at Cole’s Inn earlier that night. He told the story of how an accident had caused the Inn to be reduced to ashes in a matter of hours, and that Richard Cole Sr. was now out of business. Dailey mulled over the information for a minute, thanked the visitor for his time, and bade him goodbye.

Dailey’s attention returned to the violin, but his mind was elsewhere. His only competitor had finally gone out of business due to tragically unforeseen circumstances. While these circumstances were obviously horrific, the thought of it amused him greatly. Dailey had met Mr. Cole in person only once before, and was entirely unimpressed. Dailey had expected the owner of an establishment with such a gruesome reputation to be intimidating, fearsome, and ruthless. What Dailey found however, was nearly the opposite. He found Cole to be kind, honest and ultimately weak. Dailey pitied him. As he finished tuning his violin, he wondered whether he should retire while things were as agreeable as they were, or risk ultimately suffering the same fate as Cole. Ultimately Dailey decided that matter was for another time, and he picked up his violin and opened the door. Dailey played an upbeat song, and the crowed cheered as he walked out amongst them. They continued eating and drinking in merriment, blissfully unaware of what had transpired that night.

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An Old Train Town Michaela Hood

This is a retelling of the evolution of Wallace, KY. It is told along with the development of a railroad that was chartered in 1884 and connected Versailles, Georgetown, and Midway.

With the whistle and wheels of the train, a small town began.

Passengers arrived, creating homes among the ancient trees and calming fields.

With the whistle and wheels of the train, came cargo.

Lumber for houses and furniture, making the area a cradle of life.

With the whistle and wheels of the train, came livelihood.

Mines of phosphorous and materials, for many professions.

With the whistle and wheels of the train, came Wallace Station.

A storage house of letters and goods needed for existence.

With the whistle and wheels of the train, the cycle of life began.

Originals died, while a new generation was born.

With the whistle and wheels of the train, new ideas were born.

The town’s namesake, inspiring universal education.

With the whistle and wheels of the train, came solemn tidings.

The final local distillery ceased operations, taking with it the railroad.

As the whistle and wheels faded, the town still stands.

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From mere hearths to family homes; a mine, surrounded by scenic horse farms.

As the whistle and wheels faded, there were new beginnings.

An old store, reimagined, now offers meals to travelers, invites them to explore.

As the whistle and wheels faded, word still spread of the little town.

Those with a love of cuisine, history, and scenic byways, learn of a home called Wallace.

The whistle and wheels of the past implore you to reinvent your homeland, To let the past live again.

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Photo by Lindsay Anderson

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Photo by Lindsay Anderson

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Photo by Kate Brown

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Fire and Water

Hannah Edelen and Maggie Sunseri

Mortal eyes conclude that everything ends in Fire, but nothing ever truly ends. Every living and nonliving thing in the universe is continuously going through cycles of birth, death and rebirth. Both Fire and Water come and go, cycling and recycling themselves throughout time. History abides by their rules. Every time you remember your past, you are living amidst water-- feeling the continuations of all that is timeless, like growth, love, perseverance. Every time you take bold action, allowing passion to mold your future, flames are lapping at your ankles. The elements shape who you are. You are born from Water, grounded to the Earth, purified with Air and then lit up with Fire from the center of your soul. Water carries you into life while Fire strips you of it--only to be reborn from the smoldering ashes.

There is a harmony in our battles, and an order that flows from our balance. Every person, every city--invisible or in plain sight--every stone, bird and cloud are connected. You must understand that the ground upon which you stand, upon which you built your homes, gardens and families, only partially belongs to you. You share custody with those who came before--those who built their homes, families and gardens on the same rich soil.

Perhaps, when you hear these stories, you are not learning, but are rather re-remembering something you once knew, but have long since forgotten. Perhaps you are simply a pawn in an ancient and glorious game of chess that began long before your birth, and will continue long after you are gone. Through stories, you learn of all the moves played before you. You learn of the waves and blazes. You realize that inside each of you there is a child whose mother warned against playing by the creek. You contain trees

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and steamboats, smokestacks and railroads and lovers who dreamed of alternate lives played out by the river. But, there are also blank spaces inside each of you, left to be singed or flooded.

Like a city, you are have been here before, and one day you will find yourself here again, rebuilding a life from the remains of the ash.

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Design Editors: Rebekah Alvey

Janet Dake

Megan Robertson

In Memoriam of

Michael Armstrong

Designed By Rebekah Alvey Megan Robertson Janet Dake

IN MEMORIAM This book is dedicated to the memory of Professor Michael Armstrong