A Kephart is the first American to scale Mount Kilimanjaro

 

From my cousin Libby, earlier today, this bit of family history, posted on the Cornell University news site. I didn't know this. I probably should have. I find it especially interesting today, as I finish reading the new Matt Higgins book Bird Dreams: Adventures at the Extremes of Human Flight, a magnificent chronicling of the men (and women) who choose to jump from planes, buildings, antennae, and cliffs, some wearing nothing more than flying-squirrel-shaped suits.

What people will do. What they can do. And apparently Leonard Kephart, my grandfather's brother, chose to scale Africa's great mountain all in a hunt for new grasses, and clover.

Aug. 30, 1927 Leonard W. Kephart, Class of 1913, is the first American to scale Mount Kilimanjaro, Africa's highest peak. He was in Africa on a search for new grasses for the U.S. Department of Agriculture. Kephart took four days to reach the peak, slogging through snow-covered gravel the last day. The climb was not entirely without scientific reward, reported the Cornell Alumni News (Nov. 10, 1927). Kephart discovered three new varieties of clover on the expedition.

Leonard (pictured standing with my grandfather and great aunts (and Laura Mack)) was one of his six children born to Horace Kephart, the librarian-turned-outdoorsman who helped found the Great Smoky Mountains National Park. I've written about Horace here. But just moments ago, I found this lovely biography on the Horace Kephart Alaska Center Weblog.

I learn so much from those who do history well.

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In which I at long last travel to Bryson City, home of my great grandfather, Horace Kephart

I have written of my great grandfather here on this blog and elsewhere (Tin House magazine) many times. Horace Kephart has been credited with helping to create the Great Smoky Mountains National Park.  He was an author and a campcrafter, a brilliant librarian who left academia to live among the Appalachian people, to understand them.  He has been the subject of countless articles, at least one novel, a stunning song cycle, a lengthy segment in the recent Ken Burns series of National Parks, theatrical productions.  He is celebrated yearly during Horace Kephart Days (an event largely organized by my cousin, Libby).  He has been praised by Barack Obama.  He has been lovingly attended to by George Ellison, a biographer of heart and intelligence.  He has been discussed, parsed, debated, and he continues to be the subject of ongoing scholarship and interest.

I had never had the opportunity to visit Bryson City, where Kephart lived for many years and where he is buried.  I hadn't been able to go, in fact, until this past Sunday, a misty day in the Carolinas.  We had been in Asheville for a glorious wedding.  My husband drove the mountain roads.  When we found Bryson City, we stopped and walked.  Seeing the Historic Calhoun Hotel and Country Inn, I made the decision to be bold.  To knock on the door and see what might happen, for I had heard that this innkeeper had a Horace Kephart library and a respect for Kephart's work.

We were in the south, and so politeness ruled.  Mr. Luke D. Hyde, the Calhoun innkeeper and a key player in the ongoing sanctuary that is the Great Smoky Mountains National Park, didn't just open the door; he invited us in.  He told us his stories, shared images, took us up to his Kephart library (see the portrait of my great grandfather on that wall), even gave me a copy of Kephart's work on the Cherokee Indians.  Then he sent us on our way, and I will always be touched by the time he took and the generosity he showed.

Kephart is buried on a hill beside a small church.  He is buried no more than a half mile away from one of my best friends' childhood homes.  I heard from Ann as we were walking the incline.  I saw her home in the near distance.  I felt her spirit beside me.  Ann has visited Kephart's grave for many years; members of her family are buried nearby.  I wish I was with you, Ann wrote.  And how I wished, too.

Finally, as I was making my way through Bryson City, I heard from my dear friend Katrina Kenison.  I have known Katrina since the beginning of my publishing time (truly) and written of her often here.  Once, years ago, Katrina, who so deeply understands and loves the natural world, sent me a copy of Kephart's Camp Cookery, which sits right here on my shelf.  I had written of Katrina's gift when it came.  On Sunday I was the recipient of yet another kind of gift, for Katrina was reading Handling the Truth and there in the hills of Bryson City, I read her thoughts about its early pages for the first time.

Blessed.

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Lost & Found: Tin House Generously Remembers My Horace Kephart Essay

It was thrilling to hear from Emma Komlos-Hrobsky last week that my Lost & Found essay, originally published in the pages of that terrific literary magazine, Tin House, had been, well, found, and would be replayed on the Tin House blog today.  I include the opening lines of the essay here.  I hope you will follow the full trail here.

Beth Kephart brings us a tale of Appalachian wanderlust in this Lost & Found on her great grandfather Horace Kephart’s book, Our Southern Highlanders.
Growing up, we understood that we’d been entrusted with a name.  ”You go down south to Bryson City and you say ‘Kephart’ and you let them tell you who you are,” our father’s father would instruct us solemnly.  My sister, my brother, and I would sit in stiff obedience on his plastic-protected chairs, watching each other beneath raised eyebrows.  We might have had a storied name, but we could not imagine how it mattered.  We were northerners and not soon headed for a town called Bryson City.

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Jill Lepore and the electrifying evening

I'd like to use the word "electrifying" in the following post.  I'd like to use it several times.

Because that's the word that kept coming to mind throughout our time with Jill Lepore, who last evening graced Villanova University as the third speaker in The Lore Kephart '86 Distinguished Historians Lecture Series.  If I had allowed myself to wonder, theoretically, how one young woman could have already achieved so much in life—she's a professor of American History at Harvard and one of my very favorite writers at The New Yorker; she's published books on topics ranging from the Tea Party to the origins of American identity; she's gone to Dickens camp and read 38 volumes of original Ben Franklin; her work has won the Bancroft Prize and been a finalist for the Pulitzer; she's even co-authored a novel—I stopped wondering two minutes after she walked into the room.  The answer is pretty basic, pretty simple:  Jill Lepore doesn't waste an ounce of her intellect on posturing or presumption.  Her enthusiasm is equal to her intelligence.  Her facility with language, structure, theme is all in rather happy accordance with her capacity to sleuth her way toward truth.

She was extraordinary last night.  She was—here it comes—electrifying as she spoke about Jane Franklin, Ben Franklin's sister and truest correspondent (for more on the topic, please click here).  My mother would have loved Jill Lepore.  She would have sat there as I sat there, on the edge of a seat in a crowded room, happy to be in the company of one that exhilarating, that engaged. 

There are so many who make an event like this happen.  I'm particularly grateful to my friend Paul Steege, a Villanova University associate professor of history who sits on the speaker selection committee, to Diane Brocchi, to Father Kail Ellis, to Marc Gallicchio, and to Adele Lindenmeyr.  And of course, none of this would be possible without my father, Horace Kephart, who had the foresight to create this lecture series in memory of the woman he loved. 

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Jill Lepore, Ben Franklin and his Sister, and an Invitation to an Evening at Villanova University

On December 6, 2011, starting at 7 PM, Jill Lepore will join hundreds of students, faculty members, and university neighbors in the Villanova Room of the Connelly Center. I'm extremely proud that Dr. Lepore represents the third speaker in The Lore Kephart '86 Distinguished Historians Lecture Series, an annual event that my father created in memory of my mother, who graduated in the top of her Villanova University class following a college career that was not initiated until she had raised her three children.

Dr. Lepore's talk is titled "Poor Jane's Almanac: The Life and Opinions of Benjamin Franklin's Sister," with the further subtitle: "an 18th century tale of two Americas."  We get some hint of the fascinating content to come in this New York Times op-ed piece, which appeared on April 23, 2011.  I am excerpting at length, and I hope to be forgiven:

Franklin, who’s on the $100 bill, was the youngest of 10 sons. Nowhere on any legal tender is his sister Jane, the youngest of seven daughters; she never traveled the way to wealth. He was born in 1706, she in 1712. Their father was a Boston candle-maker, scraping by. Massachusetts’ Poor Law required teaching boys to write; the mandate for girls ended at reading. Benny went to school for just two years; Jenny never went at all.

Their lives tell an 18th-century tale of two Americas. Against poverty and ignorance, Franklin prevailed; his sister did not.

At 17, he ran away from home. At 15, she married: she was probably pregnant, as were, at the time, a third of all brides. She and her brother wrote to each other all their lives: they were each other’s dearest friends. (He wrote more letters to her than to anyone.) His letters are learned, warm, funny, delightful; hers are misspelled, fretful and full of sorrow. “Nothing but troble can you her from me,” she warned. It’s extraordinary that she could write at all.

“I have such a Poor Fackulty at making Leters,” she confessed.

He would have none of it. “Is there not a little Affectation in your Apology for the Incorrectness of your Writing?” he teased. “Perhaps it is rather fishing for commendation. You write better, in my Opinion, than most American Women.” He was, sadly, right.

She had one child after another; her husband, a saddler named Edward Mecom, grew ill, and may have lost his mind, as, most certainly, did two of her sons. She struggled, and failed, to keep them out of debtors’ prison, the almshouse, asylums. She took in boarders; she sewed bonnets. She had not a moment’s rest.

And still, she thirsted for knowledge. “I Read as much as I Dare,” she confided to her brother. She once asked him for a copy of “all the Political pieces” he had ever written. “I could as easily make a collection for you of all the past parings of my nails,” he joked. He sent her what he could; she read it all. But there was no way out. 

Dr. Lepore, whose work in The New Yorker always thrills me and whose mind seems to track one curiosity after the other—Charles Dickens, Planned Parenthood, the Tea Party, Stuart Little, (she's even got a co-authored novel to her name)—is the David Woods Kemper '41 Professor of American history at Harvard University.  She follows Pulitzer Prize winning James McPherson and the utterly engaging Andrew Bacevich as a Distinguished speaker in the series.

This event is free and open to the public, but registration is recommended, given the large turnout we are blessed with each year.  Here, again, are the facts:

Jill Lepore, PhD

Poor Jane's Almanac: The Life and Opinions of Benjamin Franklin's Sister

Tuesday, December 6, 2011

7 PM

Villanova Room, Connelly Center

http://www.villanova.edu/events/lectures/kephartseries/

I hope to see you there.  I'll be in the front along with family and friends.

(The photo, by the way, is in honor of the fact that Benjamin Franklin was key among those early environmentalists who fought to preserve the Schuylkill and her drinking water.)

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Jill Lepore to Headline the Third Annual Lore Kephart Distinguished Historians Lecture

A week or so ago, when my husband and I were powerless, my father called and invited us to dinner at his home, where my mother's orchids still grow, the figurines still shine, and the sun yet goldens the rooms.  Glimmers of my mother, all.  We were almost finished with this delightful repast (cloth napkins! dimmed lights! smart vegetables! organic cookies!) when my father mentioned that the Villanova University committee entrusted with the selection of a scholar for the Lore Kephart Distinguished Historians Lecture Series had made its decision, and that Jill Lepore was slated to come.  She follows Pulitzer Prize winning James McPherson and the utterly engaging Andrew Bacevich  in this role, and she will appear at the university on the evening of December 6th, details to come.

Jill Lepore happens to be one of my idols. She's not just the David Woods Kemper '41 Professor of American History at Harvard University and a staff writer for The New Yorker.  She's a woman who smiles warmly back at you from her portrait photos, despite the fact that her head is preposterously full of stuff about Charles Dickens and the Constitution, Benjamin Franklin's youngest sister and the Tea Party, eighteenth-century Manhattan and the King Philip's War (she has written or is writing books about it all).  For an apparent change of pace, she's even co-authored a widely acclaimed novel called Blindspot.  And once she wrote a New Yorker piece called "The Lion and the Mouse" (about E.B. White, Stuart Little, and the sometimes ridiculously short-sighted nature of critics and publishing houses) that was so letter perfect I didn't just blog about it here.  I wrote Ms. Lepore a gushing fan letter.  Miraculously, Ms. Lepore wrote back. 

Jill Lepore will be talking about the Tea Party and the Constitution in December.  I'll be providing more details as I can.  For now I'm simply expressing my excitement that my mother and father are working together once again to bring all of us something grander than grand.

My thanks to Paul Steege, a good friend, fine teacher, smart writer, and great soul, who remains a key member of this selection committee.

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Kephart-abilia: Horace Kephart Days, The Kephart Glen

I have written, on this blog, of my great grandfather, Horace Kephart, who left a career as one of the nation's great librarians and left a family, too, to live among the private beauties of the Appalachian Mountains and people.  Horace Kephart documented Appalachian ways and campfire know-how.  He was in part responsible for the creation of the Great Smoky Mountains National Park.  He has been the subject of songs (see Daniel Gore's beautiful song cycle), movies (the recent Ken Burns' documentary), novels, and myths.  He is also, thanks in large part to my cousin Libby Kephart Hargrave and the great historian George Ellison, celebrated in the annual Horace Kephart Days, held each year between April 29 and May 1st in Bryson, City, NC. 

George Kephart, my grandfather, was one of Horace Kephart's two sons.  When his father departed for his Appalachian journey, George moved, with his mother, Laura, and his five total siblings, to Ithaca, New York.  All six Kephart children ultimately attended Cornell University, while Laura took in boarders to try to make ends meet. 

Toward the end of his life, George Kephart made two important decisions:  to leave his own papers to Cornell University and to dedicate a glen in his wife's name within the Cornell Plantations. 

This weekend I saw those plantations for the first time. With my husband and son, through mist then heavy rain, I searched for the glen.  There was hardly anyone about, and no one to ask, and if I never found the glen itself, if I will have to return with a guide (and I will), I did discover the tremendous beauty of this place—even in rain, even before most any flower has had a chance to bloom.  This is peaceful, water-streaming, well-considered country.  This is ravines and slopes and green, a tumble of hellebores. My grandfather was a quiet man, a forester, a rose gardener, a lover of things alive and growing.  No wonder, I kept thinking as I walked.  No wonder this place was his eternity. 

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President Obama Speaks to the Horace Kephart Legacy

Today my cousin Libby sent me the transcript of a talk recently delivered by President Obama—a talk centered around America's Great Outdoors Initiative.  Tucked within those remarks are these words about my great grandfather, Horace Kephart, about whom I have written here many times on this blog, as, for example, here.

President Obama's words, which I reproduce here, make me, might I say it, proud?  They also make me hopeful.  (Added as a postscript, in my bronchitis haze:  I allude to legacies here, but I don't make a very persuasive link to the photograph.  And so, a correction:  In addition to the land my great grandfather helped to rescue from plunder, he sired the children depicted here.  The young, soulful-eyed man on the left was my grandfather, who sired my father, who is a continuing great dad to my brother, sister, and me.)

So conservation became not only important to America, but it became one of our greatest exports, as America’s beauty shone as a beacon to the world.  And other countries started adopting conservation measures because of the example that we had set.

Protecting this legacy has been the responsibility of all who serve this country.  But behind that action, the action that’s been taken here in Washington, there’s also the story of ordinary Americans who devoted their lives to protecting the land that they loved.

That’s what Horace Kephart and George Masa did.  This is a wonderful story.  Two men, they met in the Great Smoky Mountains of North Carolina -- each had moved there to start a new life.  Horrified that their beloved wilderness was being clear-cut at a rate of 60 acres a day, Horace and George worked with other members of the community to get the land set aside.  The only catch was that they had to raise $10 million to foot the bill.

But far from being discouraged, they helped rally one of the poorest areas in the country to the cause.  A local high school donated the proceeds from a junior class play.  Preachers held “Smokey Mountain Sunday” services and encouraged their congregations to donate.  Local businesses chipped in.  And students from every grade in the city of Asheville -– which was still segregated at the time –- made a contribution.

So stories like these remind us what citizenship is all about.  And by the way, last year Michelle and I, we were able to walk some of the trails near Asheville and benefit from the foresight of people that had come before us.  Our daughters, our sons were able to enjoy what not only Teddy Roosevelt did but what ordinary folks did all across the country.  It embodies that uniquely American idea that each of us has an equal share in the land around us, and an equal responsibility to protect it.

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Hand crafts

I have told the story of my great-grandfather here before—the Horace Kephart of Great Smoky Mountains fame, whom Ken Burns brought to life with care and meaning in his most recent series, "National Parks: America's Best Idea."  Kephart was the father of six when he left his life as a librarian to travel and then to live mostly alone in the Smokies; one of his children, a son named George, would become a forester and an official in the U.S. Bureau of Indian Affairs.  He would also be my grandfather.

This tiny porcupine-quill basket is among the many artifacts George Kephart left behind.  Recently I helped my father take this and a series of other Indian-crafted baskets to an auction house, with the hope that a collector will rightly make room for them.  It is hard, however, to give up family history, even if one doesn't quite know, nor will ever know, how a basket this tiny and carefully made came into the possession of a handsome, taciturn man.

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In Praise of George Ellison, the Horace Kephart biographer

Every once in a while I get a phone call from a southern gentleman.  His name is George Ellison, and he has been my great-grandfather's biographer since 1967, when he was asked to write the introduction to Horace Kephart's Appalachian classic, Our Southern Highlanders.

A brilliant librarian, a devoted outdoorsman, a conflicted husband, and the father of the six children pictured here, Kephart had retreated to the Carolinas following a mysterious breakdown.  There he outposted in a cabin, read and reflected, fished and hunted, and began to write about the people he met and the things that happened to him.  He had one blue eye and one brown one.  He was a force behind the creation of the Great Smoky Mountains National Park, as was recently documented in the newest Ken Burns film.  His life story has inspired and goaded authors, artists, and musicians; brought me unexpected and long-sustained friendships; and been transformed in the service of such novels as Ron Rash's Serena, where Kephart appears (unfortunately) as a mere cartoon version of himself.  Last year, Kephart's own novel, Smoky Mountain Magic, was re-released by the great Smoky Mountains Association, with prefatory material prepared by my cousin, Libby Kephart, as well as George Ellison.  Soon, Kephart's Camping and Woodcraft will be re-released, and once again, George Ellison has been at work on an introduction that incorporates interesting new material about my great-grandfather's time in St. Louis, where he reigned over one of the greatest libraries in the land.

This past week, I was again talking to George, who wanted to share with me an early version of his newest work.  It's beautiful, as it always is—respectful to both the facts and to Kephart himself, and written with more than a touch of poetry.  I wondered how George could keep going, more than forty years on, finding the new and finding new ways to phrase it about a single man who refused, in his own lifetime, to do much explaining about or for himself.  In an e-mail, George wrote the following—words that testify to the kind of man he is, words that make me grateful that one small part of my own history has been entrusted to such a worthy soul:

It's a terrific story from a literary point of view . . . and it has become somewhat personal now that I have grown close to various family members.  My job has always been to help people appreciate the unlikely accomplishments that emerged from what were, at times, chaotic situations: Camping and Woodcraft; Our Southern Highlanders, Smoky Mountain Magic, and a role in the founding of a national park.

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Myself, Today

Today: Awakened at 1:35 AM, I come downstairs and do not sleep. A few lines make their way to a blank page; I do not know if the lines are good.

Morning, then, and at the gym, I find Ann, an old friend, long lost; I'd once thought forever. In the large group room Teresa, leading the Body Pump class, has chosen the music of men. She turns her barbell into a guitar and sings her Aerosmith loud; the rest of us abide her antics, need her antics, love them. We don't scream the pain we feel. Many times a week Teresa leads this class and yet on Saturday it is as if we are her only students, her passion just for us.

Mid-morning and in my in-box I find the first official review of The Heart is Not a Size. I am overcome. The reader has found within my work just precisely what I hoped a reader would. A faster plot. The smell of dust. The have-everythings who learn from those who possess little.

Noon, and while shopping for the small dinner party that I'm throwing Sunday, I find my father at the Farmer's Market, sit with him while he eats his lunch. Then there is the frenzy of deciding and shopping. Yes, the serrano ham and the lavash, the strange apples from the Lancaster trees, the fatter berries and the insanely rotund scallions, and why not those tomatoes, which cannot decide what size they wish to be.

Mid afternoon, and I sit with the work of my fantastic Penn students, who move me to tears with the way that they think; I sit with Patricia Hampl. And then time alone with the Horace Kephart segments of the Ken Burns film, "America's Best Idea" (go to episode four, plays segments five and eleven). I don't care what you want to say about my great-grandfather. He did this country good. He saved what remained of the Great Smoky Mountains from the avaricious loggers, all the while knowing that once the park was made, it would not be his homeland anymore.

Later, a conversation with Andra. An email exchange with my friend Buzz. A note from Alyson Hagy, perhaps the grandest writing teacher of all.

Later, dinner.

Later, now.

Myself.

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Career Night, Soul Shifts, Small Triumphs

I'll be speaking tonight at the Presbyterian Children's Village about the writer's life, and as I've been finalizing the talk this morning, I've been remembering a moment in Prague, 1995, when the poet Carolyn Forche shifted the tone and urgency of my writerly desires. I thought I'd share the opening paragraphs of the talk here today as well as the poem (previously published in the early days of this blog) that emerged in the wake of that experience.

Before I get to that, though, a few seemingly unrelated things. Last night's lectureship in honor of my mother was, in a word, extraordinary. As a family we had dinner with Dr. James McPherson; we learned and we laughed. Afterward we joined as many as 600 others to hear Dr. McPherson speak of Lincoln's emergence as a military strategist and leader. The night was rich; my father was happy. When we returned from the event, we caught the final moments of the Ken Burns film, "America's Best Idea," that featured my great-grandfather, Horace Kephart—the touching, panning image of the 6,000-plus-foot Great Smoky Mountains peak named in his honor. I am amazed by and grateful to all those who have visited this blog in the aftermath of the segment's screening.

Finally, the image featured in this post today is of my classroom, for English 145 at Penn. I found the students' most recent work in my in-box last evening after all the other glories. They continue to make the teaching exhilarating.

I’ve been writing for most of my life at this point — something I seem not to be able to stop myself from doing (though I’ve tried, believe me, I have). I passionately believe in the promise of stories, I am endlessly seduced by the choreography of language, I don’t go a day without trying to discover or de-puzzle a metaphor. Writing is not just about making a record, or making a claim, or leaving a mark. It is, to begin with, about seeing. It is what forces me to stop and wait, to look and speculate, to inquire and to propose. Writing makes time liquid. It makes of the vague dream a pulsed-through what if?

In the mid-1990s, after I’d published three dozen or so short stories and essays, but before I’d ever published a book, I had the privilege of traveling to Prague and seeing the poet Carolyn Forche read from her work in the dim light of a smoky bar. She was reading, among other things, about Terrence Des Pres, the great essayist and holocaust scholar who had recently died quiet tragically. She was reading, above all else, with conviction, and looking back, I recognize that it was her reading that night that most firmly settled in me the desire to craft work of enduring strength and meaning. This poem captures that shift in my own soul:

On Listening to Carolyn Forche Read Poetry in a Bar in Prague, 1995

Because in Prague I was nothing but wanting

with words and still recovering from new sin,

and because the bar was also dark and lamped

by the yellow of your hair, you made me believe

in the running for the heart of a poem,

the superceded shush between memory and maw.

It was how you read, how you resurrected

Terrence, how the sand in the wind of your words

caught knots into my hair and chafed my skin.

It was how you riddled me almost

clean with possibility.

I was sitting with my son.

I was sitting beside my husband.

You were — may I use the word? — explicit.

In the same way that a stone wall falls

more sensationally than it stands,

in the same way that a rescued love

is made more tender by its damage,

in the same way that women understand beauty

only in its passing, you in the bar in Prague

blew smoke up through the crevices of language.

Smoke the color of angel wings.

Poetry as salvation.

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Horace Kephart in Words and Pictures (America's Best Idea)

The image above is drawn from the new Ken Burns film, "America's Best Idea," and introduces the words and images of my great-grandfather, Horace Kephart, who (as I've said previously here and elsewhere, forgive me) played a pivotal role in the creation of the Great Smoky Mountains National Park. Those of you who might interested in reviewing a brief segment from the film can go here, to the WHYY web site. I never heard my great-grandfather's voice, obviously. It is fascinating to hear it rendered by this voice actor and to see photographs that I have long had in my own personal trove revealed to the wider world.

Thanks to Libby, for sending along the link.

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Ken Burns, Horace Kephart, and an Upcoming Documentary Film

Ken Burns has been at work on a six-part documentary called America's Best Idea—a series that will tell of the making of our national parks. Since my great-grandfather, Horace Kephart, played a pivotal role in the creation of the Greak Smoky Mountains National Park, he, along with his good friend, photographer George Masa, will be featured in the stories told.

(I've written about my great-grandfather from time to time, both for literary journals and here, on the blog.)

The photograph here is of Horace Kephart's son, George Kephart, my father's late father. Though Horace was absent during the majority of his children's youth—ensconced among the Appalachians, recording their ways, advocating on behalf of earth and stream, living a life that to many remains a mystery—few people were as proud of Horace Kephart as this son. I think of him looking down right now, and smiling.

The series begins this Sunday night. A viewers' guide is featured here. Concurrent with this event is the release of a long-hidden Horace Kephart novel, Smoky Mountain Magic, that features an interesting foreword by my cousin, Libby Hargrave, and a beautiful introduction by long-time Kephart scholar, George Ellison.

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To San Francisco

My father is making it possible for my two boys and me to travel to one of my very favorite cities in a few weeks—the city of hills, San Francisco. I never stop walking when I'm there. I never stop going up and down and in and out, looking over and past and through. I am happy in San Francisco. I find gifts there for people I love—the sorts of things that don't exist where I live. I find happiness just in moving through, in standing on street corners, in watching tango dancers in the square, in waiting for a light to turn green beside the likes of Tracey Ullman. I like the bookstores. I like the people. I'm in love with San Francisco.

And I'm empty here. I have been, for awhile. I'm in desperate need of the new. New streets. New people. New photographs.

Do you want to know who my father is? I will tell you. He sent a letter, and in the letter he wrote: "It would gladden my heart if you all would take a few days off together and go somewhere you could enjoy building a fond memory. Do it," he wrote, "for Grandpop."

We will.

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Ron Rash, Serena, and the Horace Kephart Legacy, continued

I have just finished reading Ron Rash's novel, Serena, a book I referenced yesterday in this blog, and I feel less anxious about the whole matter now. To begin with, as a few other critics have noted, it's not entirely clear what Rash is up to here, for this is a book full of extreme and, therefore, nearly one-dimensional characters.

Take the title character, Serena, a Lady MacBeth (save that she suffers no guilt), who rides a white Arabian horse with a snake-fetching eagle perched on one arm and a one-handed ruffian at her side; she's married Pemberton following a three-month courtship and now rules, with him, his logging lands in the Great Smoky Mountains. Pemberton, for his part, climbs off a train in the first pages of the book and slays the father of the young teen he impregnated before marrying Serena. Thinks nothing of it. Never looks back. Next plot point. Next murder.

Against this backdrop is the making of the Great Smoky Mountains National Park, and hence the introduction of my great-grandfather, who is referred to, by Rash's characters, as "a Harvard man turned Natty Bumppo," as "stubborn and cranky," as "overly fond of the bottle and not nearly the saint the newspapers and politicians make of him," as "the hermit fellow," and in one scene, "Kephart sat beside the newspaperman, looking badly hungover, his eyes bloodshot, hair uncombed. He huddled inside a frayed mackinaw, a pair of soggy boots in his lap. Kephart stared straight ahead, no doubt envying his companion's expensive wool Ultser overcoat."

Kephart's work on behalf of the making of the national park is also cited here, and toward the end of Rash's novel, there's a touching scene in which Kephart reaches out to the young teen who has given birth to Pemberton's son. But Kephart as a person, even a fictional one, never fully emerges, and having read Rash's book through, I'm not sure that it was the author's intention to create the sort of nuanced personalities that Waugh, for example, enlivens in Brideshead. Perhaps Rash's intention was to write more in the manner of myth, while using people who actually lived, on land that stands today, as integral to his tale.

(In his acknowledgments, Rash writes: "Although some of the minor characters in this novel actually existed historically, they are fictional representations." Which I squinted at, didn't entirely comprehend.)

When one sees one's ancestor in a book, the hope, of course, is for a fully nuanced account, even if that character is, as Kephart is here, a secondary one. It's a hope fueled by ego, perhaps, or for a desire to set things right on the page, for Kephart was so many things to so many people, and I've often struggled to understand him myself in essays on, for example, his book, Our Southern Highlanders (a book Rash clearly draws from but never cites in the acknowledgments). For those of you who may be reading Rash's book and may be wondering about this enigmatic man, Kephart, I'd like to share with you this passage from the writings of one Karl Brown, who interviewed Kephart during the course of a movie shot in 1927 in Graham County:

“He was a small man, something below medium height, but chunky and intrinsically formidable. But the one feature that distinguished him from all other human beings I have ever met was that one of his eyes was a bright blue while the other was a deep brown. …

Kephart leaned back in his creaky-springed swivel chair and said, as a sort of cue, ‘Well?’ … I decided then and there that this was no man to fool with. There was something so direct and honest in his bearing that he reminded me of others of his kind … and so, even though I knew in advance it would be an uphill job, I decided to be as honest as I could manage, considering that I was somewhat out of practice …

Kephart advised Brown, “to be a gentleman and you’ll be treated like one” and that “honesty is not only the best policy: it is the only one.”

And here, for the record, is Kephart himself, in his own melodious, soulful, fully three-dimensional voice:

When I went south into the mountains I was seeking a Back of Beyond. This for more reasons than one. With an inborn taste for the wild and romantic, I yearned for a strange land and a people that had the charm of originality. Again, I had a passion for early American history; and in Far Appalachia, it seemed that I might realize the past in the present, seeing with my own eyes what life must have been to my pioneer ancestors of a century or two ago. Besides, I wanted to enjoy a free life in the open air, the thrill of exploring new ground, the joys of the chase, and the man’s game of matching my woodcraft against the forces of nature, with no help from servants or hired guides.

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Serena and the Horace Kephart Legacy

And so I finished reading Brideshead Revisited, and I stand, with so many of you, in awe of it: the miracle of its structure, its graceful folding in and out of time and perspective, its flawless sentences and interesting words. A masterpiece, as countless many before me have said.

I turned, then, to Serena, the new Ron Rash novel that is getting such play on best of the year lists, and what do I find but a fictional recreation of my great-grandfather, Horace Kephart, of whom I have written in this blog before. A troubled soul, a brilliant librarian, who left his wife and children following a calamitous breakdown and who never truly returned to them. Went off, instead, to the Great Smoky Mountains, where he studied the people and wrote books about them, where he refined his campcraft and wrote books on that, too, where he became a mayor, where he loved nature with supreme erudition. Toward the end of his life, my great-grandfather fought with others to create the Great Smoky Mountains National Park, and whatever else you might wish to say or think about him, he helped save part of the world for the rest of us.

In any case, Kephart is here in Rash's book, and from what I can tell, Rash has not made a pretty figure of him—attributed thoughts and deeds to him that might be hard for a Kephart such as myself to swallow. An interesting choice, I think, to use Kephart's name and work while fictionalizing his character.

But I'll read on and report more fully when I'm done.

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The Aura of Loneliness: Horace Kephart Revisited

Horace Kephart, my great-grandfather, was one of the country's greatest librarians in his time—an iconoclast who ultimately helped pave the way for the Great Smoky Mountains National Park. But what I could never forget, as I grew up with his name, is that he'd abandoned his wife and six children at the age of 42 to live the outpost life—among bears, among the Appalachians, among the tall trees against which he sometimes rested his narrow, beautiful head.

Horace Kephart has inspired song cycles (the glorious Ways That are Dark by Daniel Gore) and theater and library collections; he proved so irresistible and ineluctable to me that I once spent some six months researching and writing my own version of his tale (with my brother's help, with the help of my father's cousin, with the help of librarians, too). Because his story can't be known wholly, it can get told again and again, which is something my talented cousin Libby Kephart Hargrave is poised to do later this month at the Calhoun Inn, in Bryson City, NC, where the Horace Kephart library is located. I know she'll do a bang-up job at an event that will be filmed by West Carolina University and will unite those whom Kephart continues to intrigue.

I post a few words from my 6000-word essay here, the skimmed-down beginning, an introduction to a man.

In July 1959, Clarence E. Miller, by then retired from his post at the St. Louis Mercantile Library, sat down to remember Horace Kephart, the most brilliant man, Miller claimed, that he had ever known and “almost, as a matter of course, the least assuming.” Miller was a young job applicant when he first encountered Kephart. Kephart was a man of some repute—born in 1862, a college graduate by 1879, an ambitious bilingual librarian whose career had taken him from Cornell to Florence to Yale and, in 1890, to the top spot in St. Louis, where he had notoriously begun to build the largest standing collection of “Western Americana.” Following “perhaps the briefest interview on record,” eighteen-year-old Miller was given employment at the Mercantile.

Hoping for mentoring and encouragement from this married father of six, Miller realized soon enough that he wouldn’t be getting much of either. Concise and efficient, his memory perfectly photographic, his demeanor cordial enough despite a predilection for solitude, Kephart, recalled Miller, "lived almost exclusively in a world of his own, guarded most securely by his constant activity. He had no secretary and spent most of his day beating a two-fingered tattoo on a Smith-Premier typewriter."

As the years went by, Miller noted, Kephart, a “crack shot with a rifle” who once tried but failed to raise a small corps of volunteer sharpshooters on behalf of the Spanish American War, spent more and more time in the woods. He would camp alone in the Ozarks on the weekends, Miller said, and then return to the library early each Monday, renewed, invigorated. Once back in the civilized world, he’d burrow deep in the card catalogue, pound his Smith-Premier, buy up a few more books for his beloved special collection. He’d consult with a growing band of western writers who hungered after the knowledge Kephart singularly possessed.

Nearly thirty years after Miller began making his sly observations of Kephart, F.A. Behymer, a star reporter for the St. Louis Post-Dispatch, journeyed to a tiny town in western North Carolina to spend an afternoon with the former librarian. The year was 1926. Kephart was sixty-four years old. He had lived alone in the Appalachians since scandalously abandoning all that had ever seemed to matter—his library, his reputation, his Ozarks, his wife, his six young children—at the age of forty-two. At the Cooper House in Bryson City, Behymer sat with Kephart in his modest writers’ workshop and noted how the window opened out on the Tuckaseegee and “the Big Smokies beyond.” It was a glorious view. It gave the illusion of freedom. It enabled Kephart—still sprightly, still fine-featured—to:

… raise his eyes and look through his window and see the swiftly-flowing water and the mountains that rise, ridge on ridge. And, if the day’s toll irks and the outdoors calls, there’s a packed knapsack hanging on the wall and within two hours he can be out in the wide spaces and the high places where he likes best to be.

My great-grandfather’s knapsack weighed just twenty-seven pounds. In the long, strange last chapter of his life, it was all he ever needed to feel the most alive. He had an “aura of loneliness,” Miller would later recall. It was the legacy he would leave with us, the mystery of a man.

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An Ode to My Great Grandfather, Horace Kephart

I have, I will confess to this, been feeling exasperated, rushed. I've gotten myself too deeply into too many things; we all do that, this time of year. But did I really have to sign up to perform a complicated cha-cha Friday night, in the midst of finishing a massive corporate web site and launching four new client projects? And can I really think about anything coherently until I know whether my son will be granted his early-decision wishes at a fabulous university? And why is the Christmas tree sitting out on the porch in the rain, and not here, in the house, where it belongs? And have I bought a single hostess gift this year? No. Not yet. Of course not.

But today, running from my house to the mailbox and back, I stopped—realized that I had in hand a package from my dear friend Katrina Kenison, who edited Best American Short Stories for years and who now at last lives in a house that she and her family literally loved into existence. (And you should see the views at night.)

In any case, there I was, running, and there, of a sudden, was this package, and before I knew it, I was holding in my hands an original copy of a book called CAMP COOKERY, which probably doesn't ring a bell for you, but which was authored by none other than my great grandfather, Horace Kephart. He was a bit of an odd bird, this man, but a genius, too. A brilliant librarian who had a Virginia Woolf-quality breakdown at the age of forty-two. He was already the father of six, the husband of one, but he left everything he knew behind and traveled to North Carolina, where he fell in love with mountains and bears and local lore, drank moonshine, authored books with names like OUR SOUTHERN HIGHLANDERS, became mayor, and fought for the creation of the Great Smoky Mountains National Park. He won the last battle. The preservation of that land as whole and true has a lot to do with him. (I hear that Ken Burns is making a documentary of great national parks. Oh, I hope that he remembers Horace.)

CAMP COOKERY, Katrina wrote, had been in her personal library for years, acquired, her letter informed me, "back when I was sure that, someday, I'd be living part-time in a rustic cabin by a pond." I'm not sure that we knew each other then. I'm not sure that I've ever even told her my great-grandfather's complete story, but here was this book, this perfect, sanctified, preserved treasure, and not just the book, but old newspaper recipes kept inside.

Are there better gifts than these? Are there dearer friends? Are there more succinct reminders of what this season means?

Horace, I hope you're up there listening, you strange and wonderful man. You may have left your family for a mountain, but family continues to swell around you.

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