By BUZZ KING, guest columnist
This story is really about the whole Brown County State Park. The park is not in Nashville, but I had close ties all my life.
We all know the park was mostly built with labor from the CCC (Civilian Conservation Corps) during and after July 1, 1933. The 15,000-acre park was then and is now the largest of the several state parks in the system. The land was mostly privately owned and was purchased and donated by the Brown County Commissioners to the state of Indiana with the promise it would be used as another state park, and it was.
The entire town of Kelp was purchased and the Kelp Post Office was closed. There is a large stone quarry located deep in the forest where the stone blocks were cut to build all those buildings, walls, curbs, etc. Before the CCC crew moved in, local labor constructed the road to the lodge from the West Gate, erected one of the two lookout towers and the lodge building and the rustic cabins. Also, they did much of the work on the layout of the pool and dam on the creek.
That’s the basics, and now onto the good stuff.
The King family, aunts, uncles, cousins, came together once each summer to recount the past at the Lower Shelter. In the ‘50s, you could not reserve a shelter as we do today. Two or more family members would spend the night to ensure the use the next day. It all worked great.
After graduation, I worked for a short time for Indiana Bell, and after an accident and a stay at the Bloomington Hospital, I worked again at Jerry’s Drive-in with a new short leg brace, but soon Claris Keaton offered me a job at the park.
I collected the camp fees in the morning and cleaned restrooms and roads the rest of the day. To get a job at that time, one had to pay 2 percent to the governor’s party, which we all did. I arrived each day at 5 a.m. in the spring to light the two potbelly stoves in the work barn, and patrol the campground area and check supplies in restrooms and pit toilets. (Sorry, but you should get the whole story.)
Just before this time, the animal pens were replaced with a horseman’s campground, and our two bears were moved up the road where the Nature Center now stands. The bear cage was a two-cage building with a space between and hallway to the rear. To clean the cage, the bear was moved to the center and secured while the cage was cleaned and then the second bear, same as before. The bear to the North was Joe.
All this to tell you that my second week while making my 5:30 trip, I noticed that the hall door was open and the lock had been cut, and as a smart 19-year-old would do, I drove the 1965 International Harvester Scout up to investigate. And there I made my second mistake: I got out to look closer, and there I found Joe not in his cage.
As I walked back to the Scout, dragging my heart behind me, Joe and I saw each other at the same time. I am not sure what he wanted with me, but he was running!
Did you know that a bear can run very fast? Well, they can. My leg (brace) slowed me down, or I am sure I could have outrun old Joe. When he got close enough to swing his paw, he did, and I felt the air on my young and very necessary head, and a second quick swing hit and removed a low-hanging limb (4 inch), which gave me time to dive over the hood of the Scout.
Joe knew at that point that he had met his equal, and walked into the hall and then into his cage, at which time I made my third unwise move. I followed him and shut the hall cage door and latched it. No lock.
Now, 52 years ago, we had no radios, no phones. I drove to the service center and knocked on the door and Claris answered in his wonderful PJs — well, the upper half anyway. The rest is history.
I need to tell you, before Rick Kelley does, that old Joe had no teeth. Years of canned Ken-I Ration left him with no teeth.
Later that year, I moved to Indianapolis to go to school and worked both for the park on Fridays and Saturdays and weekdays after school at the state fairgrounds in the publicity building four hours a day. I did work the North Gate at times, but mostly the West Gate from 11 p.m. ‘til 7 a.m.
In those days, the Abe Martin Lodge was closed all winter as well as the West Gate road. There was a locked gate at the Ogle Lake road and one west of the gatehouse. The park at that time collected no fee after Labor Day.
The North Gate had a restroom with running cold water, but the West Gate had an outhouse (no light) behind the building, a chair, a bench, table and a fireplace. The register was mechanical. Anything over a dime required two fingers. The South Gate was chained off and used by staff and some locals with a key.
There was a telephone with a long cord at both gates. The two gates had a cord across the lane which rang a bell, used mostly at night. I would see drunks, kids with their dates, and lost tourists heading late to the Lodge.
My last day at the park was in the spring of 1970, and we moved to South Bend, but I still returned for the state fair for three years. I was the manager of the cleaning crews from ‘68 through ‘72.
A week after my retirement from Eastman Kodak in 2003, I started work on the South Gate, again at night. Sometime in the years preceding my return, the horseman’s campground was moved to the South Gate which made that gate the third entrance to the park. The bears were gone, a new Nature Center built, and of course, all new great people to work with.
Later that year, I moved to the West Gate. For 13 seasons, I had to endure air conditioning, 28 channels on the TV, a hightop office chair, visits from the security folks, a VCR and DVD player.
I had a hand in three births at the West Gate, one of which was nicknamed Buzz (I was told by the father). Also, any number of snake bites, including dogs being too nosy.
That’s all I have. Till next time. — Buzz
