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.
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 childrens' 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.
May 1st was Horace Kephart day in Bryson City, NC, and my brother who, as the sole male of this generation, carries our last name forward, was there among cousins, librarians, enthusiasts, and scholars to commemorate this author-naturalist-woodsman who, among other things, penned Our Southern Highlanders and contributed to the preservation of the Great Smoky Mountains with the creation of the national park. I have written about my great-grandfather, not just on this blog, but in the pages of Tin House. I have thought about him often—of the family he left behind to live the life he chose, of the rising earth he fought to save, of the people who came to think of him as their own.
But my brother was the one who traveled south this past weekend to remember this enigmatic soul, and last night, on the phone, he told me of what he'd seen there, of what he'd heard. It's the story of my great grandfather's funeral that I wake up thinking of today—the story of how countless multitudes emerged from the hills to honor the man who had honored them, to roll a boulder into place so that no one would ever forget.
"I saw photographs," my brother said. "Everyone came." Even two of the sons who had not seen their father for years and who loved him despite the absence, despite all that he could not be for them.
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.
It would be hard to let go of a treasure like that. I hope the collector who gets it will treasure it.
It would be very difficult to let this go, but perhaps the new owner will know the best way to keep it nicely preserved.
Beth, I can't imagine how difficult this must have been for both you and your Father. I'm sure the person that buys your Grandfather's art will cherish it.
That's lovely. It's hard to imagine the patience of porcupine quill designs. Someone will love it and take good care of it.