Author Archives: Lynn Niedermeier

“I have got me a leg”

Dr. Freeman Liddell's letter from his father, 1841

Dr. Freeman Liddell’s letter from his father, 1841

I have got me a leg, made by Mr. Mccartey of milledgville, it cost ten dollars, your uncle james got it for me. . . .

So declared Moses Liddell of Gwinnett County, Georgia, in a letter to his son Freeman written on March 2, 1841.  The senior Liddell, an elder in the Presbyterian Church, filled the first several paragraphs of his letter with admonitions to his son to follow a path of uncompromising Christianity.  Worried that 25-year-old Freeman, a physician who had moved to Monroe County, Alabama, might fall victim to the “sin and infidelity” rumored to afflict that region, he assured him that “we have not ceased to Pray dayly for you.”

With respect to his new prosthetic leg, Moses seemed less concerned that it might fall by the wayside.  “I fear whether it will profit me much, I can get about so much better with out it, that I dont use it enough to get use to it,” he wrote.  Like many amputees, he had refused to allow his disability to inhibit his favorite pastime.  “I do almost any traveling on horse back, I love to ride mightily,” he reminded his son.  No doubt 21-year-old “Jinny,” his “constant rideing nag,” had also adapted to her master’s missing limb.

The letter, nevertheless, hinted at the trauma of the amputation itself, especially the impression it left on Freeman’s youngest sister, 3-year-old Nancy.  Presented with a gift, reported Moses, “she was very much overjoyed.”  But when she learned the present was from her big brother “Dr. Liddell,” she would have nothing more to do with it.  “She cant bear the name of a doctor,” explained her father.  “She says you cut off my leg, she ha[s] forgotten you.”

Moses Liddell’s letter is part of the Parker Family Collection, housed in the Manuscripts & Folklife Archives unit of WKU’s Department of Library Special Collections.  Click here to access a finding aid.  For more collections, search TopSCHOLAR and KenCat.

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The Bowling Green Water Works

Bowling Green Water Works

Bowling Green Water Works

Back in the good old days, citizens of Bowling Green disposed of their waste in “sinks,” underground caverns and streams reached by drilling holes in the rock; they then drew their water from household wells often contaminated by those same sinks.  The result was a close acquaintance with cholera, typhoid, dysentery and, one suspects, really bad coffee.

To tap a better source, the city inaugurated a municipal water supply system in 1869, building a pump house and engine room at the foot of Chestnut Street on the banks of the Barren River.  Additions to the water works over the years included another pump house and a sedimentation basin, constructed in 1927.  When further renovation plans in 2000 called for the demolition of the 1869 structure, Bowling Green Municipal Utilities commissioned the study and documentation of this historic example of public architecture before it disappeared.

The resulting report, prepared by Kurt H. Fiegel and detailing the construction, history and significance of the 1869 water works, is now part of the Manuscripts & Folklife Archives collections of WKU’s Special Collections Library.  Chronicling the original plans for the facility, Fiegel relates the supervisory role of engineer Charles Hermany, who assisted in the design of the Louisville Water Tower (1856), now the oldest existing structure of its type.  Accompanying Fiegel’s report are more than 25 photos showing architectural and construction features of the 1869 pump house, including its brick work, truss system, and cast iron spiral staircase–aspects of a now-vanished Bowling Green landmark that will interest students of both local history and engineering.

Roof truss system; spiral staircase, pump house (Kurt H. Fiegel)

Roof truss system; spiral staircase, pump house (Kurt H. Fiegel)

Click here to access a finding aid for this report.  Click here and here for additional collections relating to the Bowling Green Water Works.  For other collections documenting local architecture and municipal history, search TopSCHOLAR and KenCat.

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Dr. Carlton Jackson

Dr. Carlton Jackson, 1933-2014

Dr. Carlton Jackson, 1933-2014

Some might remember Dr. Carlton L. Jackson, who died on February 10, as the young bespectacled history professor who first walked the Hill in 1961.  Others might remember him as that smiling, bearded bear of a man who, as the University’s most senior faculty member, had the honor of carrying the new WKU mace at commencement in 1998.

In the Manuscripts & Folklife Archives section of WKU’s Special Collections Library, we remember Dr. Jackson as a prolific author of more than 30 books.  His works covered a variety of subjects and included A Generation Remembers: Stories from the Flu, 1918; Presidential Vetoes, 1792-1945; The Dreadful Month, about a 1907 epidemic of Kentucky mine disasters; Forgotten Heroes: The Sinking of the HMT Rohna; and P.S. I Love You: The Story of the Singing Hilltoppers, about WKU’s own chart-topping quartet.  In many cases, upon completion of a book project Dr. Jackson generously donated to us much of his research and related materials.

Black History Month is a good time to recall Dr. Jackson’s ground-breaking book Hattie: The Life of Hattie McDaniel, a biography of the actress best remembered for her portrayal of “Mammy” in the movie Gone With the Wind.  The first African American to win an Academy Award, Hattie McDaniel (1895-1952) performed in more than 300 movies and starred in the popular radio program Beulah.  She faced many obstacles as an African-American actress in the early 20th century, and endured criticism from the NAACP for appearing mostly in the roles of a maid or cook.  But, after stealing scenes in Gone With the Wind, earning an Oscar, and counting some of Hollywood’s biggest stars among her friends, Hattie could famously reply, “I’d rather play a maid than be one.”

For further information on Carlton Jackson’s papers in WKU’s Special Collections Library, e-mail mssfa@wku.edu.  For more of our collections, search TopSCHOLAR  and KenCat.

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Mariah’s

Mariah's then (Gary West photo) and now

Mariah’s then (Gary West photo) and now

They could be called Bowling Green’s founding family.  In 1797, brothers George and Robert Moore donated land for Warren County’s first public buildings.  A year later, five commissioners established a town here to be known as “Bolin Green.”

After George Moore’s death in 1812, his widow Elizabeth constructed a brick house at the corner of what is now State and 8th streets.  Completed in 1818, the home was Elizabeth’s until her death in 1862, and was then occupied by her unmarried daughter Mariah.  A local woman remembered Mariah around the time of Elizabeth’s death as “about 50, plain, somewhat stout & practical”–but, she sensed, carrying the regrets of a lost and “very pathetic romance.”

Since Mariah Moore’s death in 1888, her house has undergone many additions, remodelings and transformations, including those wrought by a major fire in 1995.  It has housed a plumbing business, a doctor’s office, a carpet store and–from 1979 until its planned move this April to Hitcents Park Plaza–the restaurant known to everyone in town as Mariah’s.

The Manuscripts & Folklife Archives section of WKU’s Special Collections Library holds a recent project by a WKU folk studies student exploring the world of Mariah’s restaurant servers.  Interviewing six such employees, Whitney Kuklinski uncovered some of the attitudes, practices and even slang of their culture.  For example, the term “86” means that the restaurant has run out of a particular food or beverage.  Writing “Thank you!” on a check can increase the tip, and female servers generally collect more than males.  The work is at heart a social practice, with the server as a kind of performer.  One of them perceptively concluded that people often dine out “for the experience of being served and not for the food.  Sometimes I can tell people really just want to be served.”  And, of course, the stress of the work breeds that dark sense of humor shared by servers everywhere: “It’s like a misery loves company kind of thing.”

Click on the links to access finding aids for the relevant collections.  For more about the Moore family and Bowling Green historic homes, restaurants and other businesses, search TopSCHOLAR and KenCat.

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Joan Mondale

Big Red greets Joan Mondale at a WKU campaign rally, 1984 (Kevin Eans photo)

Big Red greets Joan Mondale at a WKU campaign rally, 1984 (Kevin Eans photo)

Joan Mondale, who died yesterday at age 83, was on the customary mission of a political spouse when she visited WKU on September 17, 1984.  She was seeking support for her husband, former vice president Walter Mondale, the Democratic Party’s nominee to challenge President Ronald Reagan’s bid for re-election in November.

At a rally on DUC’s north lawn, Mrs. Mondale reminded the crowd of her husband’s sponsorship of Title IX legislation, which had allowed schools like WKU to develop strong women’s athletic programs.  She also criticized the Reagan administration’s education policy, particularly its cuts to financial aid programs and low-interest loans.

After her speech, Warren County Judge Executive Basil Griffin presented Mrs. Mondale with a country ham–making her not the first or last dignitary to receive this token of appreciation.  But this being WKU, she also received (and gamely waved) a red towel, courtesy of none other than Big Red.  Having encouraged her husband to make history by choosing a woman to be his vice-presidential running mate (which he did, selecting Congresswoman Geraldine Ferraro), Mrs. Mondale would have been pleased to know that inside the furry WKU mascot costume was Jessica Rappaport, the first female ever to play Big Red.

Search TopSCHOLAR and KenCat to learn about materials held by the Special Collections Library documenting campaign visits and other political activity in Bowling Green.

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Bad Horse or Bad Company?

Fielding Bettersworth Inquest Report

Fielding Bettersworth Inquest Report

They assembled on June 11, 1846 at the Bowling Green home of one Fielding Bettersworth, recently deceased.  The task of the twelve citizens was to determine, at the behest of the Warren County coroner, the “when where how and after what manner” said Bettersworth departed this life.  Having found no “marks of violence on his body,” and presumably having made such further and other inquiries as they deemed necessary, the panel concluded that the deceased had come to his end “by falling in water and mud and drowning being intoxicated at the time.”

The Manuscripts & Folklife Archives section of WKU’s Special Collections Library holds many other inquest reports in a large collection of Warren County court records currently being processed.  Dating as far back as 1798, they include findings of death by routine misadventure–overindulgence in spirits, drownings, accidental gunshots, fires–or foul play, but also by more mysterious means.  Take the 1811 case of a man found dead two miles west of Bowling Green, about 50, average height, “very corpulent,” with “no teeth in the under jaw except the eye tooth on the right side,” two fingers missing from the left hand. . . and a pair of bridle reins drawn tight around his neck.  After describing in detail the man’s clothing and property, including “money amounting to about $75,” and finding that he had been travelling through the area with several other gentlemen, the inquest determined that death came after he “was strangled by the bridle reins, either by his horse or his company.”

Click here to access a finding aid for the inquest report on Fielding Bettersworth.  For other collections of Kentucky court records, search TopSCHOLAR and KenCat.

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“Who is living and dead”

Nancy Wier's letter in search of family, 1865

Nancy Wier’s letter in search of family, 1865

It was the plaintive appeal of a woman displaced by war.  In 1865, Nancy Wier wrote from Webster County, Kentucky to the postmaster at Danville, Virginia.  A native of the area, Nancy had lost touch with her family after the outbreak of hostilities.  Her husband, a Confederate soldier, had been imprisoned at Camp Douglas, Illinois, where he died of smallpox.  Left with four children, Nancy had been teaching school but “my troubles are very great,” she explained to the postmaster.  “I wish to know who of my relatives and friends are living,” she wrote, naming her sisters, her “old father” and her brothers, who she hoped might come and “spend the last of their days with me.”

Fortunately, three years later Nancy had not only reestablished contact with her siblings, she had remarried and her children had begun lives of their own.  Nevertheless, her mother’s radar was intact.  “I can never get weaned from my children,” she wrote a sister.  “Bettie lives 18 miles from me Sarah five Virginia two and a half William ten he often comes to see me they come as often as they can.”  Equally strong was her desire to maintain contact with those lost to her during the war.  She agreed with her brother that even “if we never can see each other we must try to keep up correspondence.”  Having found out “who is living and dead,” she was determined not to loosen the ties again.

Nancy Wier’s letters and those of other family members are part of the Manuscripts & Folklife Archives collections of WKU’s Special Collections Library.  Click here and here to access finding aids.  For more collections, search TopSCHOLAR and KenCat.

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In the Deep Freeze

Martha Potter's snowy State Street home, Bowling Green

Martha Potter’s snowy State Street home, Bowling Green

A blizzard paralyzed the East, temperatures dropped to zero, and the storms even brought Bowling Green down to a teeth-chattering 3 degrees.  It was February 1934, a month of wintry weather for the record books.

“Snowing this morning, great flakes, the kind you like to catch on a piece of black velvet and study the crystals,” wrote Martha Potter on February 21 in her weekly letter to her children.  By February 28, the snow had subsided, but 65-year-old Martha, while spared the necessity of driving, felt the lingering effects of the storm.  After the snow came rain, then a plunge in temperature that “set the whole works” into crusty heaps.  “I attempted to walk to church,” she wrote, “and the cars that went by threw ice balls down my collar and into my pockets.  I finally just stood still when I would see one coming and duck my shoulders.”  That Sunday was the worst day, as “the ice broke off great branches from the trees, impeding traffic and pulling down wires, so that lights were out and telephone connections in some places disturbed.”  Some people feared “there was a fire as it sounded like twigs cracking and burning.”

Martha also related the attempt of a friend and her husband to pay a visit on that “icy Sunday,” thwarted because “nobody could get up the hill on Main Street.”  A full week later, they were still trying to pass along roads filled with tree limbs and other debris, leaving their car “mired to the hubs.”  After an extraction that took two hours, they suffered the same fate the next day . . . and the next.

Fortunately, wrote Martha, a thaw was on the way.  As the temperature climbed to a balmy 38 degrees, the retreating snow started to make “big noises leaving the roof of the house and sliding down the gutters,” closing another memorable chapter in Bowling Green’s winter history.

Martha Potter’s letters are part of the Lissauer Collection in the Manuscripts & Folklife Archives section of WKU’s Special Collections Library.  For other collections documenting weather and storms, search TopSCHOLAR and KenCat.

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Broke. . . and Innocent?

Simpson County Republicans contribute to the Caleb Powers defense fund.

Simpson County Republicans contribute to the Caleb Powers defense fund.

I have been awarded three trials, two of which have been reversed by the supreme court. . . .  I am now preparing an appeal at a considerable cost. . . .  I am now forced to call on my friends for means with which to fight this case. . . .  I am absolutely innocent of the charge they have so unjustly imposed upon me.

Similar declarations issue from high-profile defendants involved in notorious civil or criminal cases, but this appeal arose in connection with the only assassination of a sitting state governor, Kentucky’s William J. Goebel, shot near the Old State Capitol on January 30, 1900.

The investigation into Goebel’s murder eventually resulted in trials that were as controversial as the governor himself.  Among the accused were Caleb Powers, secretary of state to Republican William S. Taylor, Goebel’s electoral rival, and James B. Howard, who some believed had fired the fatal shot.  Though both men were eventually pardoned, their lengthy and expensive legal battles prompted appeals for contributions to their defense funds.  Howard’s letter, excerpted above, went out to postmasters in Kentucky urging them to “have some of our friends make a house to house canvass” for donations.  In Simpson County, Republicans responded to Powers’ appeal with 50-cent to five-dollar donations ($15-$130 today), eliciting “warmest gratitude” from the jailed Powers.  In a note to supporter Edwin L. Richards (the father of longtime WKU faculty member Frances Richards), Powers alluded to the hostile prison (and perhaps political) landscape he inhabited.  “I am glad,” he wrote Richards, “you were at Frankfort and know of the conditions there.”

The letters of James Howard and Caleb Powers are part of the Manuscripts & Folklife Archives collections of WKU’s Special Collections Library.  Click here to access a finding aid.  For more collections involving Kentucky crime and politics, search TopSCHOLAR and KenCat.

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Kiddies and Confusion

Christmas was a busy time for Martha (Woods) Potter (1868-1963), but as a lifelong diarist, letter writer and journal keeper, the mother of four always found time to record the hubbub of the season in what she called her “Christmas books.”  Today, they offer us a detailed look at the activities of a Bowling Green woman during every holiday season from 1912 to 1954.

Martha usually began each year’s account with a summary of her “family status,” particularly the whereabouts of her children as they grew up, went to school, married and began lives of their own.  She continued with notes on every aspect of the holidays, including the weather, her charitable and church work (she was the longtime choir director and organist of the First Presbyterian Church), gifts given and received, the comings and goings of family and friends, entertainments, decorations and food.

In 1936, with her children grown, Martha reflected on her Christmas record-keeping in a manner familiar to many mothers.  “When I read back over all these busy Christmases,” she wrote, “it makes my head swim and my back ache to think of the work I did . . . .  Now Christmas is so quiet and restful, but I miss the kiddies and the confusion.”  Her subsequent entries betray increasingly quieter times, but when Martha finally ended her last Christmas book, she did not forget that “on its sacred pages is recorded forty-two happy years.”  Nor did she allow the vagaries of winter weather to darken her spirit.  On one of her greeting cards was a summer-like photo and the caption, “Here are roses from my garden / To brighten your Christmas scene / Ice and snow may be holding sway / But roses reign supreme.”

Martha Potter's Christmas photo

Martha Potter’s Christmas photo

Martha (Woods) Potter’s Christmas books are part of the Lissauer Collection in the Manuscripts & Folklife Archives section of WKU’s Special Collections Library.  For more collections relating to Christmases in Kentucky, search TopSCHOLAR and KenCat.

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