Memorial to Slain Police Chief

When I wrote about Murtaugh Park on Main Street in the historical triangle between the Red House, St. Vincent’s Church and the Jewish Synagogue, I noted that a memorial to Cape Police Chief N.J. (Jeff) Hutson was missing. Chief Hutson was killed in the line of duty Oct. 7, 1922. The Lion’s Club planted a Hawthorn tree in his honor on Arbor Day in 1923. That tree, along with another one planted by the Wednesday Club on April 11, 1923, was also gone.

A reader pointed out that the chief’s marker, which reads, “In memory of N.J. Hutson, Chief of Police, a man who stood for law and order for which he gave his life,” had been moved to the Common Pleas Courthouse grounds Sept. 17, 1965. The Missourian had a photo of  Chief Hutson’s relatives posing with the memorial. I don’t remember shooting the photo that ran in the paper, but I do have this one of the workers pouring a concrete base for it. (Click on it to make it larger.)

I don’t know who the men are, but a couple of them look familiar. Ideas?

Wickliffe’s Ancient Buried City

In the 1930s, “Indian burial grounds” were uncovered as much to turn a buck as tourist attractions as for serious archeology. My parents picked up this postcard on their way through St. Augustine on their honeymoon. (Click on any photo to make it larger.)

Burial grounds found at Fountain of Youth

The back of the post card says the burial site was found when workers were planting orange trees. Another source says the mayor of St. Augustine embraced a grand scheme to “result in making St. Augustine a great laboratory of history, as well as in the fine arts and social democracy, useful not only in understanding more fully how life progresses, but effective because of its objective realism, far more than books and classrooms can be, in educating all classes of citizens in what may be termed `historical mindedness.”

The mayor wasn’t exactly impartial. He was the manager of the Fountain of Youth Gardens (“St. Augustine’s most popular tourist resort, where thousands flock daily during the season to drink of the clear, sweet water, although no pretension is made of its medicinal value and it is doubtful whether Ponce de Leon ever found the miraculous Fountain of Youth except in his dreams.”).

It was his workers who discovered the bones. To his credit, he called in an expert from the Smithsonian Institution to investigate. They discovered hundreds of skeletons “which had been buried under Christian influence, as indicated by the postures with the hands crossed over the breast.” [Insert a note of skepticism here.]

Ancient Buried City

Closer to home was what was called the Ancient Buried City in Wickliffe, Ky. Somewhere in my mess are photos I took of the attraction with my Kodak Tourist II folding camera in 1960, but I couldn’t put my hands on them.

I DID run across these shots from the early 80s, when it was making the transition from a tourist trap to a serious site for research and training. As a kid, I was fascinated by the idea of seeing skeletons. When I got older, I’d look into those empty eye sockets and wonder what they had seen nearly 900 years earlier. What a story those old bones could tell if only they could speak.

Controversial because of sensational advertising

“Amateur and semi-professional excavations first began in the site around 1913 and continued sporadically for several decades. In 1930, Colonel Fain W. King, a businessman from Paducah, Kentucky, began private excavations of the site, intending to turn it into a tourist attraction. In cooperation with his wife, Blanche Busey King, he opened the site for tourists under the name ‘Ancient Buried City.’ The Kings’ venture was highly controversial because they used sensational and misleading advertising, altered the site to make it more visually appealing, and made dubious and exaggerated interpretations of the site. These actions put them directly in opposition to professional archaeologists who studied the site and did not want it disturbed.”

Deeded site to Western Baptist Hospital

The Kings followed some proper archaeological techniques, but their field notes and other records have disappeared. Mrs. King published a book called Under Your Feet in 1939, but much of the material they produced is missing.

The Kings deeded the site to the Western Baptist Hosptial in Paducah when they retired in 1946.  The hospital continued to operate it as a tourism business until 1983. probably about the time I shot these photos. It was donated to Murray State University in 1983, and the Wickliffe Mounds Research Center was established.

No new excavations planned

The Wickliffe Mounds State Historic Site Tour Guide has lots of good information in it. One thing that caught my eye is that no future excavations are planned. “Since excavation destroys the part of the site being studied, modern archaeology justifies excavating only what will produce new information. Archaeological sites are a non-renewable resource. Until the most recent excavations are thoroughly studied, and new questions or techniques can be brought to the study of this site, or if mitigation projects become necessary, Wickliffe Mounds State Historic Site will continue to preserve the site and interpret the latest findings, but will avoid further excavations.”

Another modern change is that the skeletons I photographed in the 60s and the 80s have been removed from display for study and reburial. The Tour Guide says that ten burials have been replicated in plastic, copying as closely as possible their original positions. I can understand the reason for doing that, but I can’t believe that a 12-year-old boy looking at a plastic replica will get the same feeling I got when looking at the bones of an ancient people who had lived on these grounds long before Europeans ever dreamed there was an America. Those were real bones of real people, not a Disney exhibit.

Here’s a link to the Wickliffe Mounds State Historic Site website.

 

 

 

 

Ohio Halloween Horrors

I saw Halloween decorations and costumes displayed in one of the big box stores tonight. Later, I was moving a bunch of old slides out of Kodak slide trays and putting them into plastic sleeves to save space when I ran across this copy slide of a print. The two events brought a story to mind.

What’s that hanging in the tree?

I was blasting through the rural Southeastern back roads on my way back home right after dusk when, rounding a curve, my headlights picked up something odd on the side of the road. When I got to where the beams lit it up a little better, I slammed on my brakes. It was a body hanging in a tree out in the middle of nowhere.

Murder wasn’t unheard of in that part of the country, but I hadn’t read about any lynchings in our area in decades, so my first thought was a suicide. (All of the murders I had worked were pretty straight-forward; they just got the job done without getting creative.)

I positioned my car to where it lit up the area, then cautiously approached the scene. When I got close enough to get a flashlight on it, it became clear that I had been taken in by a dummy hanging in the tree. I looked around to see if there were any teenagers laughing at the sucker, but there was nobody around.

Only a journalist would have mixed emotions about this: happy because it wasn’t a body; feeling foolish about being suckered in; being disappointed because he didn’t break a story.

The next morning I mentioned my find to some of the guys in the office. “Oh, yeah,” one said. “They’ve got a quaint custom in that area of hanging dummies at Halloween time. If you go back, I bet you find more.”

Indeed, when I went back in the daylight, I found this guy hanging in the middle of downtown Shawnee.

“It’s too grim”

Wife Lila,  proofreader when I finish a post before she goes to bed, and general arbitrator of good  taste, said, “It’s too grim. I didn’t make any changes, but I didn’t like it.”

So, to lighten the mood, here are some examples of Halloween costumes she inflicted upon the kids over the years.

I’d be lion if I said Matt made a pretty woman

Son Adam, left, went for the full-face mask effect the year Wife Lila did this makeover on Son Matt.

I shouldn’t mock Son Matt too much. Mother managed to make me into such a convincing girl that I won a prize in Mrs. Kelpe’s first grade class because nobody could guess who I was. I was still in costume when we went down to visit my grandmother in Advance. She had a bunch of club women over that afternoon and they were properly impressed with my transformation. Just to set the record straight, I scrawled “I BOY” on a piece of paper and kept showing it to them.

Going to the dogs

Both boys got a crack at the dog costume. This was Matt in 1978.

Matt as firefighter

This might have been the only costume I contributed. Matt swiped my bunker coat, fire helmet and Red Wing boots for this Halloween.

Number, Ball, Face, Action

That’s the basic formula for a good sports photo: you should have the player’s number, his face, the ball and the action. Some of these photos from an unknown baseball game at Capaha park sometime in March 1966 (maybe) have at least some of the pieces of the puzzle. (Click on any photo to make it larger.)

That’s easier said than done. Some shooters are better at it than others. I hired a kid named Allen Eyestone fresh out of Kansas who was one of the best sports photographers I’ve ever worked with. He had an uncanny ability to be just where the action was and to shoot images that were tack-sharp. Some of the guys went to sneaking up behind him and touching him with magnets to see if he was some form of robot.

How do you call what you can’t see?

There were nights in Southern Ohio when the fog would come rolling down into the valleys so thick you couldn’t see from one side of the football field to the other. I don’t know how the officials could call a game they couldn’t see. You couldn’t use flash because the light would bounce off the fog and all you’d have would be a bright blob. When the game was over, you’d drive back home with the door open so you could guide yourself by the line painted down the center of the road. Those were the nights you were happy to bring back ANYTHING.

Push, push, push that film

Shooting on fields so dark that the players should have had candles stuck on their helmets got me to experimenting with “pushing” film – using exotic films that I developed in the photographic equivalent of jet fuel to eke out as much speed as possible. In a day when the fastest normal film was 400 ASA, I would push mine to 3,600. Sometimes it would be grainy or contrasty, but it was the difference between a technically flawed photo or none. Sometimes it was pretty darned good.

This last shot has the ball (stuck deep in his mitt), the player’s face, the action (caught in mid-air) and almost his number. I like the line of cars parked in the background and the kid running along the fence with what look like a tire in his hand.