Great Grandpa and the Caves of Yellow Rock

Every region of the world has its own geography. Beachfronts, prairie lands, deserts, mountainous cascades, fertile farmlands, variegated arctic and equatorial contrasts, glacial highlands, tundras, tropical rainforests, and the Eastern Kentucky hills where my own kin were born and raised, forming a filial chain those traces back to Daniel Boone and the era of the pioneers.

In a few minutes here I want to share one of the features of this region where my great-grandfather Grant Newman was born, lived and died, specifically the abundance of caves and caverns in what is known as Kentucky's Cumberland Plateau near Yellow Rock. The caves are the result of a specific geological phenomenon called karst topography.

My great-grandfather's home sat on the side of a mountain above the meandering Kentucky River just across from the quarry in Yellow Rock, in Lee County, 75 miles southeast of Lexington. In addition to the quarry, Yellow Rock featured a post office and maybe five residences. Historically recorded in geological and federal mine datasets as the Yellow Rock Mine & Mill (or Yellow Rock Quarry), the site's primary commodity was crushed and broken stone used for local construction, roads, and infrastructure aggregates. Visiting my great-grandfather's place on the mountain is one of the fond memories from my childhood. 

View from Kentucky River at Yellow Rock
House is visible in upper right quadrant.

To reach my great-grandpa's property by car you had to find the trail that ran down from the Spencer Fork Road that snaked along the crest of the mountain. Once you descended through the canopy of forest--mostly hardwoods of the beech, poplar, hickory, black walnut, maple and buckeye varieties, along with a smattering of pines--the trail would flare out to unveil his miscellaneous outbuildings and two-story ramshackle home.

I can't remember all the animals he kept--chickens, a dog, maybe cats--though the two massive hogs were to be definitely avoided. He must have had a cow because I seem to recall a butter churn. He also had an abundance of mice. My cousin Gary, brother Ron and I slept upstairs in the double bed and throughout the night we could hear the scampering of little feet about our bed. We made sure none of our sheets or blankets hung down to the floor.  

At one time great-grandpa had a couple rattlesnakes which he used to "milk" to keep them from being deadly. I was told that on one occason he went too long between "milkings" and got bit by his now-venomous rattler. He not only survived the bite, it also cured him of his rheumatism. As descendants of Daniel Boone I remembered from my research that Squire Boone, Daniel's father, suffered from rheumatism. For years that factoid made me wonder if rheumatism were genetic. I've since learned it was an informal, non-medical term used to describe a range of painful conditions affecting joints, muscles and connective tissues.

Great grandpa raised eleven kids on the side of this mountain. Roscoe, my grandfather, was the firstborn. His story and many others may appear in some other collection of digressions. What interested me at this moment were the caves that permeated this part of the country along with a few associated memories.

These Eastern Kentucky caves were formed in limestone left behind by an ancient sea more than 300 million years ago. Over time, slightly acidic rainwater seeped through cracks and slowly dissolved the rock, enlarging them into tunnels and caverns. Protective sandstone layers helped preserve the caves. Later, dripping mineral-rich water created stalactites, stalagmites and other formations which you will see in abundance at Mammoth Cave National Park southwest of Louisville.

The week we were at my great-grandpa's in the 1960s, my dad told us about a cave across the river that his dad showed him when he was young. To get there we scrambled down the side of the mountain on a path that led to the river. There my brother Ron, cousin Gary and I found an old rowboat with a oars and a little shovel in it. The oars were for rowing, of course, and we quickly understood the presence of the shovel. The boat leaked. If you weren't rowing you were shovelling.

The brown, languid water flowed without enthusiasm, but our hearts raced, eager to find the mouth of that cave as if it were a family heirloom. Once we reached the other side we tugged the skiff up into the weeds and headed off on our quest.

The post office and quarry were off to our left, but Dad said to cross the road and follow the railroad track along the base of the mountain to the right. The distance was perhaps a couple football fields. The opening, he said, was so low that you couldn't crawl in on your hands and knees. You'd have to scoot on your belly about ten feet before the cavern opened up and you could explore.

Armed with flashlights, we walked a ways along the track looking for some clue as to where the entrance might be. Spying the opening became challenging because of the brambles, witch hazel, weeds, shrubs and flora that flourished at the base of the mountain. After a while we supposed we'd missed it and began tracking back in the direction of the post office. I don't whether it was my cuz or my brother who first spotted it, but there it was. Five minutes later we were inside the mountain, armed with flashlights.

Temps in these caves generally hover around 48 to 54 degrees F. The feeling is distinctive as is the smell--clean, chill and intensely earthy. With no solar energy to evaporate the moisture the air is heavily scented, crisp and tangy from the limestone and calcite.

But the big thrill is the absolute darkness once you turn off your flashlights. 

This particular cave may have been 20 feet high or more. Though narrow at the base where we scrambled over rocks, it may have been 20 feet wide or more. Up ahead it was like a long tentacle wending its way through the mountain. We explored but never went as far as we might have been able.

At one point a train passed while we were in the cave and the mountain trembled.  

On another day we located some other caves not far from our great-grandpa's house. He told us to be careful. He once had a hunting dog that chased an animal into one of those caves and got lost in there. For three days he could hear his hound howling until one day it stopped and he knew he would never see it again.

Nevertheless, having been forewarned, we did enter one of these caves. It had a low opening and my cousin went first I believe. Around ten feet inside there was ledge and a large room, but also a dropoff so you couldn't go any further forward or to the left or right. When you shone your light down over the edge we could see a rotted ladder. In other words, someone had been here and used that ladder to climb down further into the cave. What if there was treasure in the cave? Well, we weren't the ones to go looking for it. 

* * * *   

If you find stories like this interesting, please leave a comment.

What I Really Think: Two Books by Greil Marcus

"For 23 years I've been dying to tell you what I thought of you. And now, well, being a Christian woman, I can't say it."
--Auntie Em to Miss Gulch, that witch of woman who became Dorothy's nemesis.

* * * * * 

This past couple years I've been acquiring and reading books from the BFI Film Classics series. The films of Hollywood have formed a backdrop for most of our lives with many of these movies being touchstones of cultural literacy. When we hear someone say, "Make him an offer he can't refuse" we're well aquainted with its source, The Godfather. Similarly, it's pretty well known that Nicholson's iconic outburst, "You can't handle the truth!" came at the pinnacle of courtroom tension in A Few Good Men.

Because my brothers also enjoy movies, I decided to gift each of them a book from this British Film Institute series. When I received their books in the mail, I was surprised to see that BFI volume on The Manchurian Candidate was written by Greil Marcus, so before mailing it to my brother I decided to read it first. What I expected was some insightful analysis of the film. Based on how many times my brother has referenced the movie over the years, I thought the book would be a sure hit. After reading it, I scratched my head and b.alked, but sent it anyways, with apologies

Marcus, as veteran Dylan fans recall, is the Rolling Stone critic who began his review of Dylan's Self Portrait with the question, "What is this s%#@?" That didn't stop me from purchasing Marcus's Like A Rolling Stone years later. I have a substantial (by some make-believe standards) collection of books about Dylan, his life and work, most of which I purchased to read, not just display on my shelves. I'm not sure how far I got—possibly halfway—but I now know where the expression "Gag me with a spoon" came from.

It's generally a habit of mine to check out the reviews of books and movies before I fork over my cash, but in both these instances I did not. There are always a few unhappy comments, often over the font or a torn cover, usually 1-3%, but to my surprise with these two books, 15% and 18% registered only one star or two.

Generally, I subscribe to the adage, "If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all." In this case I'll print only what others have publicly stated in their Amazon.com reviews. [EdNote: These are mostly excerpts. There's plenty on the cutting room floor. I've corrected a few misspellings.]

The Manchurian Candidate (BFI Film Classics)

Kevin Briton

This book contains bad writing and has absolutely no focus, The Manchurian Candidate is an important film and the BFI film classics should be the highpoint of film criticism. This book wanders all over the place and cannot focus on the film. Coupled with some of third rate writing and muddled thinking, the book should only be bought if you must have all the books in the series. Don't buy it.

The BFI editors should be embarrassed for having released it.

Douglas Payne

What a waste. Whoever thought Greil Marcus had anything of value or merit to add to the lexicon of film artistry - much less one of the great works of film artistry - completely missed the boat - or doesn't care to see this film get the passionate discussion it deserves. BFI Film Classics have issued an incredible set of books devoted to individually worthy films - such as this one. But this must be the worst book in a truly great series. Honestly, this must be a joke. It's got to be. I don't care if Greil Marcus is a professor, esteemed or respected, outré-hip or passé-hip. This guy has no business talking about, reflecting on or wasting anybody's time with his useless commentary on film. He was the wrong man for the job. …This is not a book about film, the art of film, the art of this particularly magnificent film or the artists who had anything to do with this film. It's about Marcus and the way he views the world - or the way he views the world through the lens of this film. Again, who the hell cares? This film is far too important to be left to someone whose trite aphorisms are as meaningless as those of Greil Marcus - an alleged writer who seems awfully damned confident to write his subject off so easily. 

George Hatch

Probably the Worst Entry in an Excellent Series

Greil Marcus is so out-of-sync with "The Manchurian Candidate" that he has absolutely nothing interesting or informative to say but manages to make his fifty-five page essay sound like one long run-on sentence. Each chapter is further padded with desperate introductory quotes -anything vaguely referencing the film- as Marcus belaboredly tries to build a case for - What? He has no point of view other than "The Manchurian Candidate" is the single best film between "Citizen Kane" and "The Godfather"; though is knowledge of film is questionable. He wildly overpraises the casting of a black actor as a psychiatrist, a professional, and asks, "How many other American movies use a black actor to play what audiences expect to be a white character without patting themselves on the back to congratulate themselves?" I guess he never saw Sam Fuller's 1951 film "The Steel Helmet".

…I have over two dozen commentaries from the BFI Modern Classics Series, each filed along side the DVD or VHS of the film itself. This book has no place in anyone's library. The definitive analysis of this classic has yet to be written, and but Marcus and BFI have misfired with this one.

MrHonorama

I'm particularly perplexed by his need to devote an entire chapter to denigrating the cast and director of the movie -- Marcus marvels that no one in this movie came close to producing art at this level. Yet, what is remarkable about this? A substantial number of great movies are a result of special convergences that one might not expect. Furthermore, maybe Frankenheimer, Sinatra and Lansbury never hit this height again (though Marcus is extremely disingenuous to Lansbury -- to cite Murder She Wrote and not note her distinguished stage career [Sweeney Todd, for example]) -- so what?

 

Like a Rolling Stone: Bob Dylan at the Crossroads

William S Pepper IV
Pompous, overdone, obtuse, containing barely intelligible ideas and meanings. The information and anecdotes are the only things that make it worth the time. I have never had to re read so many sentences in my life and still had no idea what was being expressed. A huge disappointment in more ways than one. The "take notes" in the epilogue were the best part.... Stripped of the author's pretentious windiness, there would be no book. 

Flippy

I Don't Mean to Be Disparaging…

....But I think some people should not be allowed to be published.

Or have some books in print for that matter.

Especially this one.

I read about fifty pages and every page had the same long-winded sentences, the same rambling, the same self-important purple prose soaking up the space. All I kept thinking is this book ISN'T about Bob Dylan but about Greil Marcus' appreciation of Bob Dylan. In other words, this is the author spouting off and not really getting to the meat of his topic. (And really, it's obvious by the cover... Marcus' name is in a larger font than Dylan's.)

R Daniels

This book is more about Greil Marcus than it is about Bob Dylan. Marcus is always pretentious, long-winded and under foot in his writing, and he is at his absolute worst here. If you were to randomly choose a book about Dylan, you couldn't do worse than this one. One star, and even that is too generous.

Carlos Edmundo Lima

I tried hard; very hard but unfortunately I couldn't finish this book.

The author is boring and pretentious.

Zero star.

Mike Rudge

Candidate for the worst rock book (on the best song.)

Hard to imagine how this could be worse. Pompous and Flatulent at the same time. BEWARE

Garbageman

Asinine ramblings from an obsessed occultist 

I can understand the significance of the song and its importance in blah, blah, blah. And yeah, it's a damn good song. But enough from Mr Marcus already. As if "The Old Weird America" / "Invisible Republic" wasn't maddening and embarrassing enough in its excessively flamboyant examination of minutiae, here we have an overblown and haughty trip through a self-absorbed fanship about a song that was written around the same time, pretty much. It's not even like Marcus tries to shed light on a particularly fascinating point in Dylan's career (say, the Christianity experience), but instead chooses such an obviously unoriginal topic, the influence of his sole most popular "hit", that the analysis itself can't be anything but banal.

…It also includes some inappropriate passages that, aside from showing just how out-of-touch Marcus is with contemporary cultural goings-on (underground and otherwise), are ridiculously ironic to say the least. Comparing the song "Like a Rolling Stone" in style and substance to the Pet Shop Boys' dance-remix cover version of the Village People's "Go West" should go down in history as one of the more outrageously contemptible displays of arrogance and insipidity ever put to paper. And his comparison goes on for PAGES.

Anne Folan

In the Immortal Words of Elvis Costello

Writing about music is like dancing about architecture. This was the book that cured me of my belief that you have to finish reading any book you start. You leap at the first chance to escape the drunken bore at a party, right? Putting this book back on the shelf? Same thing.

* * * * * 

RELATED LINKS

Salman Rushdie Brings Fresh Eyes to a Hollywood Classic: The Wizard of Oz

Five Stories: An Introduction to Newmanesque

Ars longa, vita brevis 
__________________________________

"And so it is... Art is long and life is short, and success is very far off. And thus, doubtful of strength to travel so far, we talk little about the aim--the aim of art, which, like life itself, is inspiring, difficult -- obscured by mists."
~Joseph Conrad

¥

So many of today's magazines and books on writing focus on the process of writing, with the subtle message that if your words dazzle and sing, you will be a success. Too often, they overlook the fact that a writer needs to have something to say, a message worth printing, a story worth telling. Even when this is so, there is no guarantee of success, for the "race is not always to the swift, nor the battle to the strong, but time and chance happen to them all." Nevertheless, we press on. We speak because we are impelled to speak, write because of an inner necessity. And at night, on our beds, we dream dreams.

¥

Like Unremembered Histories, my first book of stories, the tales in this volume are varied and unrelated, except that all have my personal psycho-pathological fingerprints on them. “The M Zone” has a sci-fi aspect. “A Poem About Truth” began as a reproduction of the first paragraph from a biography of General Irwin Rommel which quickly morphed into a Borgesian tale. “The Unfinished Stories of Richard Allen Garston,” a story about writers, was given birth as I unpacked the adage, “If a tree falls in the woods and no one hears…”

A friend of mine suggested that this would work well as the beginning of a novel. I invite you to decide.

The fourth piece, “The Nose”, promises to take you somewhere unexpected. And “Terrorists Preying” began as a dream. The dream became this story's seed. The common trait shared by all is their quality of being Newmanesque.

My only regret here is the title. Someone suggested that many of my stories were Kafkaesque, which seeped into the title. 

Newmanesque was published on Amazon.com as an eBook 

15 years ago this October.  

Uprooted: The Ralph Kand Story, Part Thirteen. Jail Time

Bombed out Munich, 1945

The jail was in the basement of a county government building near Munich. Ralph was escorted downstairs by two German policemen. Several men were already being held in cells along the corridor. A few looked up as Ralph passed.

He was shown his cell and given instructions about meals and the toilet. There was no running water. Each cell had two buckets of water, one for flushing the toilet and another for drinking and washing. Blankets were in short supply.

The cell door closed behind him.

“What are you charged with?” asked the man in the next cell.

“I don't know. I'll find out at the hearing.”

The man laughed. “When is your hearing?”

“I don't know. Why is that funny?”

“Franz! Leave him alone,” someone called from another cell.

Ralph turned back toward Franz.

“Why is it funny?”

“There aren't any hearings,” Franz said. “Not until they rebuild the courthouse.”

“Allied bombs,” another prisoner called.

Ralph soon learned what had happened. The courthouse had been badly damaged in an air raid about a month earlier. Trials had been suspended. Bombing raids were now common in the area.

“The bombs don't know we're here,” said a man in a cell across the corridor. “Nobody knows we're here.”

Ralph looked at him. The man sat hunched forward on his bunk, staring at his hands.

“Pssst.”

Ralph turned.

Franz raised his chin toward the other prisoner.

“Don't pay attention to him.”

---

Franz was from Bavaria. Ralph never quite understood what he had done to end up in jail, but the man was friendly and tried to help him understand how things worked.

“There is a library,” Franz told him. “You can ask for books. Reading is a good way to pass the time. Do you read?”

“People who don't read are no different from animals,” Ralph said. The news about the library improved his mood.

Late that afternoon there was a noise at the end of the corridor. The food cart had arrived. Two uniformed Germans brought each prisoner a small plate of potatoes. Ralph looked at the portion and wondered how long he would have to live on meals like this.

One of the Germans noticed Ralph's limp. The man's name was Martin.

Ralph spoke to him in German. “Any news from outside?”

“Nobody believes what they hear on the radio anymore,” Martin said. “The only thing we know for certain is that there will probably be more Allied planes tonight.”

“And less food tomorrow,” said the other guard.

His name was Steffen. He was a large, broad-chested man.

---

The following day Ralph received his first stack of books from the jail library. Among them was Thomas Mann's The Magic Mountain. Before the week was over, Ralph began asking for another book: a German-English dictionary.

Within his first few days in jail, Ralph learned more about where he had been placed. The previous occupant of his cell had died there. The prisoners around him were awaiting trial, but the bombing of the courthouse meant that no trials were being held. Food was rationed. Everyone was hungry.

“Essentially, we've been forgotten,” Franz said one morning through the bars.

Ralph's breakfast was another small serving of potatoes. He ate everything, including the skins.

---

Ralph continued studying the German-English dictionary he had obtained from the jail library. One of the evening guards noticed and began making fun of him for trying to learn English. Ralph ignored him and kept studying.

He also read whatever books he could get. He returned again to Thomas Mann's The Magic Mountain, a book he had read before the war. Ralph particularly liked Mann's references to music and Beethoven.

Music occasionally found its way into the jail as well. Some of the prisoners sang in their cells. Certain guards allowed it. The evening guard usually stopped them.

Then one night, during a blackout, a prisoner in a nearby cell hanged himself.

The following day Franz told Ralph what little he knew about the man. “He said he had a family in Munich. Nobody knows why he was here. He kept to himself.”

Ralph had thought the man unfriendly. Now he wondered about the family in Munich. He also thought about his own mother. If Ralph died in the jail, would she ever find out what had happened to him?

---

After the suicide, the evening guard continued mocking Ralph's attempts to learn English. “You're never getting out of here,” he told him one night. “You might as well do what he did.”

Ralph went back to his dictionary and continued studying.

---

One day several German soldiers entered the cellblock. They began unlocking doors and ordering prisoners into the corridor. Ralph heard shouting. One prisoner resisted and there was a brief struggle. Then word began moving from cell to cell.

Ralph turned toward Franz. “What is happening?”

Franz had heard it too. “We're being released.”

CONTINUED

RELATED

UPROOTED: Intro and Part One

UPROOTED: Part Two

UPROOTED: Part Three
UPROOTED: Part Four
UPROOTED: Part Five
UPROOTED: Part Six

UPROOTED: Part Seven   

UPROOTED: Part Eight  

UPROOTED: Part Nine

UPROOTED: Part Ten

UPROOTED: Part Eleven

UPROOTED: Part Twelve

Uprooted is a true story about a man with a singular quest: Freedom. This longing for freedom is one of the primary reasons people leave their homelands, often at great personal sacrifice.

Uprooted: The Ralph Kand Story, Part Twelve. Escape

Snow now covered Schruns and the surrounding mountains. The ski resorts remained open, although there were few tourists. When he could, Ralph continued putting his speakers on the balcony. He smoked his black cigarettes, drank vodka and played Beethoven and Sibelius's Finlandia loud enough to carry across the valley.

Meanwhile, he continued longing and looking for a way out.

Ralph had met other Eastern Europeans in Schruns who, like him, wanted to get farther west before the Red Army arrived. Eventually they found a guide who said he could take them through the mountains into Switzerland. The price would take nearly all of Ralph's remaining money but he agreed.

“We have to travel at night,” the guide told them. “Cloud cover is better. When the moon is out, you can see too much on the snow.”

Eleven people were supposed to meet at a lodge on the western edge of town. Nine showed up -- a Latvian family of five, a young Lithuanian couple, Ralph and an older man traveling alone.

“My sisters were afraid,” the older man said. “They're not coming.”

Ralph shook his head and muttered something under his breath.

Their guide was a thin man wearing a white parka. He looked over the group. None of them was dressed in white. “Good thing there's no moon tonight,” he said.

Then he held out his hand toward Ralph.

“What?”

“The others have already paid.”

Ralph took an envelope from his pocket and handed it to him. “It's all there.”

The guide tucked it away. “Time to go.”

Then he looked again at Ralph and his bad leg. “You can do this?”

“I've been dragging this leg around since I was three,” Ralph said. “I can probably climb better than you. And I'm a hell of a skier.”

The guide turned and started up the trail.

---

They climbed through the darkness, stopping occasionally so those in the rear could catch up. The Lithuanian couple had difficulty maintaining the pace.

The children in the Latvian family were young teenagers. When they began talking among themselves, the guide stopped them.

“No talking.”

Eventually they reached a ridge and the guide raised his hand.

“Stay here.”

There was a road ahead. He told them he would go first to make certain it was clear. The others waited among the trees. After a few minutes, the guide appeared between two banks of snow and waved them forward.

“Hurry.”

They crossed the road and entered the trees on the other side.

The climb became steeper. Everyone was breathing harder now, and the stops became more frequent.

“Can we rest?” the Lithuanian man asked.

“Do you want to turn back?” the guide said.

The man said nothing.

“Wait here. There's another road ahead. I'll see if it's clear.”

The guide disappeared up the trail.

The Latvian family huddled together beneath the trees. Ralph stood by himself and began to shiver. He had no parka and wasn't dressed for this kind of cold.

Someone appeared above them. It wasn't the guide. It was a man carrying a rifle. The older man who had come without his sisters turned and broke into a run downhill through the trees. The gun barked twice and the man fell into the snow.

A German soldier shouted at the others. Ralph understood enough German to know what he was saying. There was nowhere to go.

Two more soldiers appeared, ordering the group up toward the ridge where two military vehicles were waiting.

CONTINUED HERE

RELATED

UPROOTED: Intro and Part One

UPROOTED: Part Two

UPROOTED: Part Three
UPROOTED: Part Four
UPROOTED: Part Five
UPROOTED: Part Six

UPROOTED: Part Seven   

UPROOTED: Part Eight  

UPROOTED: Part Nine

UPROOTED: Part Ten

UPROOTED: Part Eleven

Uprooted is a true story about a man with a singular quest: Freedom. This longing for freedom is one of the primary reasons people leave their homelands, often at great personal sacrifice.

Illustration by Grok