Weekly View » Bumps in the Night

The Day Babe Ruth Came to Indianapolis

Al Hunter — Thu, 03 Sep 2026 05:08:13 +0000

All through the summer of 1946, the mighty Babe Ruth had a severe pain over his left eye that would not go away. At first he thought it was a sinus infection, then a toothache. Whatever it was, it wasn’t getting any better. It eventually caused so much pain that Ruth admitted himself to a New York hospital on November 26. By then the entire left side of his face was swollen, his left eye closed shut, and he couldn’t eat solid food. Doctors removed three bad teeth, then pumped the Bambino full of penicillin and other drugs. By Christmas, Ruth was still in pain and back in the hospital.
Babe Ruth had cancer but the doctors never told him. They had discovered a malignant growth wrapped like a vine around a major artery in the left side of his neck. In the operation that followed, nerves were cut and the artery tied off. Not all of the cancer could be removed. Babe’s wife Claire said she was eventually told, but Babe remained in the dark until the very end. The surgery was on January 5, 1947. In the month that followed, Babe remained confined to the hospital in a state of near constant pain and depression. His hair began to fall out and he lost a lot of weight (estimated at between 80 to 128 pounds). It seemed that the Babe was just waiting to die.
Thousands of telegrams poured in every week from former teammates, sports luminaries (Connie Mack and Jack Dempsey among them), and average everyday fans. Claire read as many of letters as she could out loud to the Babe. On February 6 he celebrated his 52nd birthday in the hospital with Claire, Julia, and their dog, Pal. On February 15, Ruth left the hospital and wept unashamedly as he saw the throngs of admirers gathered outside as he was led to a waiting car. His natty camel’s hair overcoat and matching cap couldn’t hide the fact that Babe Ruth was a shadow of his former self.
Although weak and sickly, Ruth instinctively knew that he was back in the public eye. Extremely conscious of his debt to the “kids of America,” to whose loyal support he attributed his success, Ruth decided to apply himself to child welfare programs after his discharge from the hospital. He was engaged by the Ford Motor Company as a consultant in connection with its participation in the American Legion junior baseball program. In May 1947, he established and made the first contribution to the Babe Ruth Foundation. Inc., an organization whose name soon became synonymous with youth baseball.
The ravages of his illness left little of Ruth’s once robust physique. The Babe now appeared gaunt, bent and vulnerable. His once resonant voice was reduced to only a rasping whisper. The Migthy Ruth continued to astound his physicians by tackling his new job with all his old-time vigor. “They call me a consultant,” said Ruth, “but I want to tell you that I plan to work hard at this job — just as hard as my health permits. The possibilities are unlimited and I won’t be happy until we have every boy in America between the ages of 6 and 16 wearing a glove and swinging a bat.” He logged more then 50,000 miles in support of the program, appearing on diamonds all over the U.S. in front of thousands of youths.
Treatment with an experimental drug beginning in late June improved Ruth’s health tremendously. Throughout that summer of 1947 Ruth became the official ambassador of the American Legion baseball program. One of his stops while on the American Legion Goodwill Tour that summer was at the original Victory Field, home of the Indianapolis Indians on 16th Street. Ruth appeared at the August 5, 1947 American Legion Junior All-Star game. The Sultan of Swat appeared on the field, shook hands with players and coaches and posed with local youngsters. He signed autographs for the fans and each All-Star player received an autographed baseball from Ruth. Two of the players in that game were future big leaguers Don Zimmer and Jim Frey representing the Robert E. Bentley Post #50 out of Cincinnati.
The Indianapolis news reported: “Ruth thrilled the crowd when he was introduced during the intermission between the Legion game and the Indianapolis Indians’ game with Milwaukee. Ruth sat through the Legion game and several innings of the Indians game, but his ill health began to take its toll and he had to leave. Earlier in the day, he conducted an hour-long press conference, a pair of radio broadcasts and attended a luncheon in his honor. Once a hefty 278 pounds, Ruth’s weight had dropped to 193. He was coming off an illness that almost cost him his life and had just undergone a blood transfusion three days prior.”
The news spoke to one of the kids after the game about meeting the Babe, “His voice was deep and raspy, he coughed quite a bit, but it was the thrill of a lifetime,” said the unnamed player. The young athlete was surprised to see the once-robust Ruth in such failing health, but impressed that he would spend time with them. Babe Ruth breezed through Indianapolis like an aging movie star unveiling their star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame. He was gone as fast as he came. It would be nearly 40 years after Ruth’s visit before my dad, Robert E. Hunter, Arsenal Tech class of 1954, sat beside me at old Victory Field and dreamily stated, “You know I was here when Babe Ruth came through in 1947. I was selling peanuts here in the grandstands.” Strangely, he could rattle off the names of all those Pittsburgh Pirates minor league players on that team but couldn’t recall much about the Babe’s visit that day.
Ford renewed Ruth’s contract in early 1948, “not only because he was an inspiration to every American boy but because of the excellent results of his efforts last season.” The ex-slugger’s salary was not revealed but Ford announced that it “ranks him high on the list of baseball’s top money-earners.” As long as his strength permitted, Ruth continued to make appearances on behalf of the Junior Baseball program. It was to be only a temporary reprieve. At his last appearance in June 1948, before 16,000 youngsters in St. Louis, he was too weak to wave a bat for photographers.
The remaining piece of the tumor was growing, and soon morphine was the only thing that could stop the discomfort. Babe still tried to live his normal life of golf outings and devouring steaks, but now the drives fell far short off the tee and the meat had to be served chopped up for him. Soon even biting down on the white of an egg caused excruciating pain for the once mighty “Sultan of Swat.” Despite the pain, Babe wrote in the closing of his autobiography, The Babe Ruth Story that hopeful summer of 1947: “I’ve got to stick around a long, long time. For above everything else, I want to be a part of and help the development of the greatest game God ever saw fit to let men invent-Baseball.”
Ruth bravely attended the Dodgers-Yankees World Series that fall and in December dressed up as Santa Claus to entertain young polio victims. Babe may not have known or wanted to believe it, but his own time was growing short. On July 26, the Ruths went to the New York City premiere of The Babe Ruth Story, but as his daughter Julia Ruth Stevens recalled, “he was so sick and so medicated that I’m not even sure he knew where he was.”
Babe and Claire left shortly after the picture started and checked into Memorial Hospital for the last time. Babe Ruth struggled to answer letters and meet with visitors right up until August 15, 1948, barely a year after he graced the diamond of Victory Field in Indianapolis. Babe Ruth died in his sleep at 8:01 p.m. on Aug. 16, 1948. His last conscious act was to autograph a copy of his autobiography for one of his nurses. It was only after the great man’s death that the newspapers announced the cause of death as throat cancer.
A long line of mourners encircled Yankee Stadium to pay their respects as Ruth’s body lay in state. During the next two days, more than 100,000 passed his open casket inside the ballpark. They were men, women, and children of all races and ages; from uniformed Little Leaguers to old men in derby hats. The crowd of worshipful mourners rivaled only the display of grief for President Franklin D. Roosevelt in 1945. Vendors sold hot dogs and photographs of the Babe to those waiting their turn in line. As crass as that might sound, the Babe would have loved it.

Al Hunter is the author of “Haunted Indianapolis” and “Irvington Haunts. The Tour Guide.” and the co-author of the “Indiana National Road” book series. His newest books are “Osborn H. Oldroyd: Keeper of the Lincoln Flame”, “Thursdays with Doc. Recollections on Springfield & Lincoln” and “Bumps in the Night. Stories from the Weekly View.” Contact Al directly at Huntvault@aol.com or become a friend on Facebook.

Indianapolis: The Great Flood of 1913, Part 2

Al Hunter — Thu, 27 Aug 2026 05:08:40 +0000

Last week, we left Greenfield on March 25th, 1913, underwater. The “Black Night of Terror,” the “March Flood,” or the “Great Flood of 1913″ had come and gone through the Hancock County seat, leaving devastation in its wake. And it was headed straight for Indianapolis. On Tuesday the National Weather Bureau sent out the following warning: “Below Indianapolis the river will rise rapidly and the public should prepare for higher stages than have been experienced for many years. Every precaution should be taken by those living along the lower course of he river, as the rise will be unusually rapid and will reach a point several feet above the danger line.” Late that Tuesday morning, the first levee failed, flooding Indianapolis via the White River and Eagle Creek.
Fortunately, most Hoosiers heeded the warnings, gathered their families, belongings and pets and fled to higher ground, saving countless lives. Witnesses on the west side of Indianapolis claimed they saw a wall of water more than two stories high when the White River levee burst at Morris Street. Indianapolis’ tranquil Eagle Creek, normally 64-feet-wide at best, spread to an angry class five rapid half a mile wide. Astonished bystanders watched as the White River tore through its levees at many points. Around noon on Tuesday, Fall Creek jumped its banks, flooding a large part of the city’s north side residential district, ending streetcar service and putting the water works and other public utilities out of commission. Many families living in homes in the danger zones packed valuables into wagons and carried furniture up to the second floors and attics of their homes.
By 3 p.m. the muddy water was beginning to trickle down the levee. Whenever a leak appeared, a brace of men rushed over to plug it using bags of sand and bales of straw jammed in place by telephone poles. Around 4 p.m., as the men were busy shoring up the levee north of the Morris Street bridge, water unexpectedly broke through the sandbags piled on the other end of the bridge at the western corner of Morris and Drover streets. The break was not a massive wall of water as some claimed, but rather a steady flow as if a massive spigot had been opened allowing thousands of gallons of water to pour through the breach while gradually enlarging the opening as each frantic moment trickled past. Now, people abandoned their wagons and tied what valuables and food they could gather into bundles, grabbed their children, and began to flee across the Morris Street Bridge. The evacuation proceeded in agonizing slow motion; the water first rising past their ankles, then up to their knees, finally settling around their waists.
Still, the White River kept rising. By 6 p.m. the river burst through the base of the levee about four hundred feet upriver of the bridge. By early evening, Indianapolis was flooded east of Harding Street, in some places the water crested as high as 15 feet. By Wednesday, the Washington Street Bridge was destroyed, cutting the main artery between the Circle City and all points west and taking the railroad tracks with it. The recently created suburb of West Indianapolis and valley of West New York Street were the hardest hit areas; a region principally populated by railroad and stockyard workers. Created as one of the city’s first suburbs, the southwest annex was roughly bounded by the White River to the east, the Pennylvania Railroad line to the north, Eagle Creek to the west, and Raymond Street to the south. The residents never knew what hit them.
The first floor of the newly opened St. Vincent’s hospital at Fall Creek and Illinois flooded and Sister Mary Joseph and her staff moved their patients to the second and third floors for safety. Articles titled “$500,000 Loss at Peru,” “Over the Muncie Levee,” “Boats in Carmel Streets,” “Danville Cars Stopped,” “Bloomington is Cut Off, ” and “Shelbyville Levee Breaks” appeared on a single page of The Indianapolis News Wednesday edition. The flood crested in Indianapolis on the morning of Thursday, March 26th. As the water receded, the damage was unveiled and the residents were left to comb over the debris of the worst flood the state ever saw. A six-square mile area was destroyed, displacing 4,000 Hoosier families. Because of the early warning, the loss of life was tallied at five known fatalities; however, witness stories swear that total had to be much higher.
It was Easter week and Indianapolis was not alone in their soggy sorrow. Levees burst all around the state — on the Mississinewa River in Marion, on the White River in Muncie, on the Wabash River in Lafayette, and on the Ohio River in Lawrenceburg — flooding the cities they were supposed to protect. In the southern part of Kokomo, Wildcat Creek flooded over its levee to saturate city streets with eight feet of water. Thousands of telephone and telegraph poles and wires were downed by the flood, making an orgnaized relief effort nearly impossible. To obtain the necessary food, shelter, and medical supplies for the injured and suddenly homeless, Governor Sam Ralston appealed for help to cities around Indiana as well as to other states. Donations of money, blankets, food, and even coffins poured in just as quickly as the water poured out.
Indianapolis was not only the geographical center of the Midwest’s monumental winter storm system in March of 1913, with a population of 235,000, it was also the single largest city affected by the natural calamity. So what kind of storm caused the Great Flood of 1913? It began like any other normal Midwestern winter storm, but soon developed special characteristics conducive to flooding. A strong Canadian high with its accompanying windstorm stalled off Bermuda, thus halting the normal eastward travel of its trailing low bringing all the rain. Then another Canadian high moved in from the west, squeezing the low into a long, low-pressure trough between the two highs, its center stretching diagonally from southern Illinois, across southern and middle Indiana, and across northern Ohio. Up that diagonal path, at least two lows moved in fast succession, the rain of one merging together into the next. But nothing in the weather observations or theories of the day prepared the U.S. Weather Service, or any other body, for the unprecedented volume of water that fell out of the sky during those four days of March 1913.
Regardless of how the flood waters had arrived, and receded, perhaps the true horror of the Great Flood of 1913 was the aftermath. The flood waters were now stagnant pools of sick water filled with raw sewage, rotting food, dead pets and livestock, bugs, snakes, and disease carrying rodents. Day after day, Hoosiers were bombarded with newspaper headlines warning of looting and arrests, waterborne disease wielding parasites, guards posted to keep away opportunistic invaders, health agencies warning of the dangers to unsuspecting children and dangerous symptoms caused by clogged drains. For a time, the city was under siege. Luckily, the flood brought about changes in national weather forecasting by identifying the presence of stalled lows as the major factor in localized flooding, local government with the passage of stricter code enforcement in response to the flood’s aftermath, and the resurgence of the Red Cross as a National relief agency. Statewide, more than 90 people drowned and at least 180 bridges were destroyed when up to 11 inches of rain fell across the state in a five-day period.

Greenfield: The Great Flood of 1913, Part 1

Al Hunter — Thu, 20 Aug 2026 05:08:57 +0000

Oh, how it rained! For 48 straight hours, it rained. Martha Duncan stood on the porch of her house, located on the north side of Fourth Street between State and Pennsylvania, wondering if it was ever going to stop. It was Monday March 24th, 1913 in Greenfield, Indiana, nearly 60 degrees outside and the normally shallow waters of nearby Potts Ditch were creeping closer and closer by the minute. By eleven o’clock that night, she was moving furniture and rolling up carpet. By one o’clock the water was within a few inches of the floor. She managed to save everything but her piano before the Fourth Street bridge over Potts Ditch was swept off its moorings and floated downstream.
On State Street, the large front yard of the John Ward Walker home, known as Walker’s Hill, was now a lake. Walker was a prominent local merchant and one of the founders of the Greenfield Banking Company in 1871. The Vawter and Selman homes, properties adjoining Potts Ditch, had to be evacuated and were quickly overtaken by flood waters. The Selman barn looked like an island in the newly created waterway.
The great flood of 1913, or “March Flood” to locals, became the worst flood in Indiana history. In Greenfield, James Whitcomb Riley’s storied Brandywine Creek flowed over the National Road like a raging river; it’s branches, like Potts Ditch, spread water through town, ripping away all but one bridge, the East South Street bridge, the town’s newest created just the year before.
In March of 1913, Greenfield was a small agricultural community located at the headwaters of the White River’s East Fork. The news of the year was the purchase of a 156-acre tract of land one mile west of Greenfield by the Eli Lilly Biological Laboratories. In time, Spanish-style structures would start popping up all over the property. When completed, the snow-white, red-tile roofed buildings awaited the arrival of test animals to be quartered within them in preparation for the manufacture of antitoxins and vaccines. In the original buildings, there would be space for 30 horses, 18 calves, 3,000 guinea pigs, 500 rabbits and many other small animals. Eventually, the site would grow until it had 70 buildings on 800 acres. Soon, by late 1913, immunization of horses and calves would begin.
But on March 24, 1913, the flood was the big news in Hancock County. Greenfield residents stayed up all that Monday night to watch as the river steadily breached the banks. In 1913 farmers pastured their cattle in many places along the town’s waterways and undoubtedly many were lost in the rushing torrents. With every passing hour, the Brandywine rose higher and higher as the rain mercilously poured down. A little past eleven o’clock on that “Black Night of Terror,” a train passed over the Brandywine via the Pennsylvania Railroad Bridge. A short time after the caboose crossed safely over, a lone watchman held his red lantern over the chasm now formed in the dark void where the bridge had stood just moments earlier. The bridge had been carried away by the raging flood waters.
The rain did not stop until 5:30 a.m. Tuesday, March 25th, but the Brandywine continued to rise perilously minute by minute until it crested at 6:30 a.m. The arch bridge at Fifth Street was now underwater and the flood poured over it, flooding barns and chicken houses between Fifth and State streets. The employees of the four-story Columbia Hotel, built in 1885 at 118 East Main Street and considered the town’s most luxurious, were now furiously bailing water out of the basement while pacifying nervous guests. The newly built Greenfield Hotel and nearby Hinchman wagon store were dealing similarly. Soon, Bert Orr’s grocery, the Monger garage, the Clayton & Davis cement works and the South Street Methodist Church (now the Trinity Park Methodist Church) were soaking in muddy water.
Although the new East South street bridge survived the floods, it was for a time under more than a foot of water. According to the April 3, 1913 Greenfield Republican newspaper, 25-year town resident John Mulvihill said that he’d never seen the water so high. Mulvihill pointed to a corn crib in the Henry Fry barn on East Main Street that had been built above all previous high water marks that was now underwater. Another local farmer, J.P. Knight, whose farm was on the banks of the Brandywine south of the National Road, said he lost all of the grain stored in his barn and a pile of gravel worth an estimated $300 (2026: 10,222) when both were washed away downstream.
The railcars on the Terre Haute, Indianapolis and Evansville railroad, known popularly as the “Interurban line,” now lay stranded at different points along the road between Greenfield and Richmond. In addition, the traction line bridges were washed out at many points. Travel, phone service and mail delivery ceased and for awhile, Greenfield was cut off from the outside world. To make matters worse, just hours after the rain stopped, the temperature dropped by over 20 degrees and it began to snow. By the 27th, two days after the devastating flood waters ceased, there was 1.5 inches of snow on the ground in Greenfield.
An estimated 5 to 8 inches of rain fell in a 48 hour period. It was late March in Indiana. The winter of 1913 had been particularly harsh in the Hoosier state. The spring thaw was slow in coming and the water that rained down on Greenfield that weekend fell on frozen earth with no place to go. No place to go but downstream; to Indianapolis.

Next Week: Part 2, Indianapolis

James Brown’s Hair

Al Hunter — Thu, 13 Aug 2026 05:08:03 +0000

James Brown is remembered as the “Godfather of Soul” for his many contributions to music made during a six-decades-long career. Brown’s influence is a little more complicated than that. Truth is, not only was Brown a music legend, he was a civil rights pioneer. For a time in the 1960s, Brown was among the most important voices in the black empowerment movement. Not only did he change the culture in terms of music but also in terms of civil rights. Everything we now know about funk and hip-hop we learned from James Brown.
During the sixties, Brown’s music served as message of black empowerment and helped keep the peace during that tumultuous decade. Brown embraced the civil rights movement with the same energy and dynamism he devoted to his performances. In 1966, the song “Don’t Be a Drop-Out” urged black children not to neglect their education. In the same year, he flew down to Mississippi to visit wounded civil rights activist James Meredith, shot during his “March Against Fear.”
During that period Brown often provided nighttime performances to ease tensions when the Civil Rights Movement leadership was fracturing and threatening to break apart. As the civil rights leaders were embroiled in internal conflict, Martin Luther King, Jr. famously said, ‘You guys can stay here and argue if you want to, I’m going to go watch James Brown.” Brown recorded hits like “Say it Loud (I’m Black and I’m Proud)” and “I Don’t Want Nobody to Give Me Nothing (Open Up the Door and I’ll Get it Myself)” that embodied the positive spirit of the Civil Rights Movement in a way speeches, protests and marches never could. Brown later attested those songs “cost me a lot of my crossover audience,” but they shined the light on African-American nationalism and became unifying anthems of the age.
By 1968, James Brown was much more than an important musician; he was an African-American icon. He often spoke publicly about the pointlessness of rioting. In February 1968, Soul Brother No. 1 informed Black Panther leader H. Rap Brown, “I’m not going to tell anybody to pick up a gun.” Brown often canceled his shows to perform benefit concerts for black political organizations like the Southern Christian Leadership Conference (SCLC). In 1968, he initiated “Operation Black Pride,” and, dressing as Santa Claus, presented 3,000 certificates for free Christmas dinners in New York City’s poorest black neighborhoods. He also started buying radio stations.
On April 5, 1968, African Americans rioted in 110 cities following Dr. King’s assassination the day before. Like Robert F. Kennedy’s speech in Indianapolis the night of the assassination, James Brown hosted a free citywide concert at Boston Gardens aimed at avoiding another racially-charged riot. In the midst of that famous Beantown concert, with Boston on the verge of going up in flames, Brown said, “I used to shine shoes outside a radio station. Now I own that radio station. That’s black power.” Many Bostonians credit James Brown for keeping the peace in their city by the sheer force of his music and personal charisma.
However, there was a moment during the show when tensions could have boiled over. As a handful of young black male fans tried to climb on stage, white Boston policemen began forcefully pushing them back. Sensing the volatility of the moment, Brown urged the cops to back away from the stage, then addressed the crowd. “Wait a minute, wait a minute now WAIT!” Brown said. “Step down now, be a gentleman. Now I asked the police to step back, because I think I can get some respect from my own people.” Brown successfully restored order and continued the successful peacekeeping concert in honor of the slain Dr. King.
James Brown had three noteworthy phases in his career: from 1962–66 he was “Mr. Dynamite,” from 1967–70 he was “Soul Brother No. 1,” and from 1970 and beyond he was the “Godfather of Soul.” Sadly, casual fans remember James Brown for three things: his 1985 Rocky IV anthem “Living in America,” his brushes with the law, and his hair. The Rocky song is a classic and his cameo in the film allowed viewers a glimpse of the legend that was James Brown. His brushes with the law always seemed a bit overblown to me. After all, he WAS James Brown. His hair, well that’s another story altogether.
James Brown’s concert contract called for a steam iron, ironing board, deli tray with assorted meats and cheeses, coffee, tea, soft drinks (Coke products), Gatorade, champagne (Cristal or Dom), 1 electric golf cart and a hooded hair dryer. Yes, one of those table-model hair dryers like our moms and grandmothers used at the local hair salon. The ones that fit completely over the head like a space helmet. It took hours of painstaking hair engineering to create that unnatural helmet of hair.
Except for a brief period during the mid-1960s when Brown wore his hair in a traditional afro as a temporary form of protest, for most of his career, James Brown had his hair “marceled” a.k.a. straightened or conked. The conk (derived from congolene, a hair straightener gel made from lye) was a hairstyle popular among African-American men. This hairstyle transformed naturally “kinky” hair by chemically straightening it with a relaxer (sometimes the pure corrosive chemical lye), so that the newly straightened hair could be styled in specific ways.
Often, the relaxer was made at home, by mixing lye, eggs, and potatoes, the applier having to wear gloves and the receiver’s head having to be rinsed thoroughly after application to avoid chemical burns. Conks were most often styled as large pompadours although others chose to simply slick their hair back to lie flat on their heads. Conks took a lot of work to maintain: a man often had to wear a do-rag of some sort at home to prevent sweat or other agents from causing his hair to revert to its natural state prematurely. Also, the style required repeated application of relaxers; as new hair grew in, it too had to be chemically straightened.
In the African American Community of the early 20th century, the conk hairstyle served as a rite of passage from adolescence into adulthood for males. Because of the pain involved in the process, and the possibility of chemical burns and permanent scarring, the conk represented masculinity and virility.
Chuck Berry, Louis Jordan, Little Richard, James Brown, and The Temptations, were well known for sporting the conk hairstyle. The style fell out of popularity when the Black Power movement took hold, and the Afro became the symbol of African pride. Malcolm X, although a conk enthusiast in his youth, condemned the hairstyle as black self-degradation in his autobiography. He decried the conk’s implications about the superiority of a more “white” appearance. The conk is all but extinct as a hairstyle among African-American men today, although more mildly relaxed hairstyles such as the Jheri curl and the S-curl were popular during the 1980s and 1990s.
On December 23, 2006, Brown arrived at his dentist’s office in Atlanta, Georgia for dental implant work. Brown’s dentist observed that he looked “very bad … weak and dazed.” Instead of performing the work, the dentist advised Brown to see a doctor right away about his medical condition. Brown went to the hospital the next day and was admitted for observation and treatment. Brown had been struggling with a noisy cough since returning from a November trip to Europe. Brown had to cancel upcoming concerts in Waterbury, Connecticut and Englewood, New Jersey but was confident he would recover in time for scheduled New Year’s Eve shows at the Count Basie Theatre in New Jersey, the B. B. King Blues Club in New York and performing a song live on CNN for the Anderson Cooper New Year’s Eve special. Brown wasn’t called the hardest working man in show business for nothing.
Brown remained hospitalized and his condition worsened throughout the day. On Christmas Day, 2006, Brown died at approximately 1:45 a.m. at age 73. The official cause was congestive heart failure, resulting from complications of pneumonia. Brown’s last words were, “I’m going away tonight,” before taking taking three long, quiet breaths before dying.
James Brown wore his hair in a conk pompadour until the day he died. After Brown’s death, a public memorial service was held at the Apollo Theater in New York City and another at the James Brown Arena in Augusta, Georgia. Brown’s memorial ceremonies were elaborate, complete with costume changes for the deceased and videos featuring him in concert. His body, placed in a Promethean casket — bronze polished to a golden shine — was driven through the streets of New York to the Apollo Theater in a white, glass-encased horse-drawn carriage.
While plans were being made for the funeral, Brown’s family was contacted by Michael Jackson, a lifetime fan and friend. Michael had flown in from Bahrain, where he was living following his 2005 child molestation trial, and he asked to see the Godfather of Soul one last time. Reverend Al Sharpton, who officiated at Brown’s funeral, recalled, “I got a call from the mortician and he asked me if it was alright if Michael Jackson could come by the funeral home and see James Brown’s body. I said, ‘But Michael’s in Bahrain’. And he said, ‘No, he’s here’. A couple of hours later, I called and the mortician said, ‘He just left. He was here (for) about an hour and he was re-combing Mr. Brown’s hair. He felt that I had combed the hair wrong. People didn’t realize he was really into James and he actually styled his hair the way it was buried.”
Sharpton was insistent on making sure Michael stayed in town long enough to rightfully pay respects to the music legend, legal questions notwithstanding. Sharpton added, “I think his plan was to come in the middle of the night, see the body – because James Brown was his idol – and he was going to leave. No one had really seen him since the trial… but we convinced him to stay for the funeral. I told him, ‘Michael, you gotta stay. You’ve gotta re-emerge one day in public.” So in short, the King of Pop was the last person to attend to the Godfather of Soul. Michael would follow his idol to the grave less than three years later.

The Diary of Anne Frank, Part 2

Al Hunter — Thu, 06 Aug 2026 05:08:54 +0000

The Diary of Anne Frank has been praised for its literary merits. Eleanor Roosevelt described it as “one of the wisest and most moving commentaries on war and its impact on human beings that I have ever read.” John F. Kennedy in a 1961 speech said, “Of all the multitudes who throughout history have spoken for human dignity in times of great suffering and loss, no voice is more compelling than that of Anne Frank.” In the same year, the Soviet writer Ilya Ehrenburg wrote of her: “one voice speaks for six million — the voice not of a sage or a poet but of an ordinary little girl.” As Anne Frank’s legend has grown, she has moved from a symbol of the Holocaust to a representative of persecution.
Hillary Clinton, accepting the 1994 Elie Wiesel Humanitarian Award, read from Anne Frank’s diary and spoke of her “awakening us to the folly of indifference and the terrible toll it takes on our young,” which Clinton related to contemporary events in Sarajevo, Somalia and Rwanda. After receiving a humanitarian award from the Anne Frank Foundation in 1994, Nelson Mandela addressed a crowd in Johannesburg, saying he had read Anne Frank’s diary while in prison and “derived much encouragement from it.” He likened her struggle against Nazism to his struggle against apartheid, drawing a parallel between the two philosophies: “Because these beliefs are patently false, and because they were, and will always be, challenged by the likes of Anne Frank, they are bound to fail.” Also in 1994, Václav Havel said “Anne Frank’s legacy is very much alive and it can address us fully” in relation to the political and social changes occurring at the time in former Eastern Bloc countries. In June 1999 Time magazine selected Anne Frank as one of the “Heroes & Icons” in it’s “Time 100: The Most Important People of the Century” issue.
All historians love diarists — in particular those diaries written at the time of the event. These accounts offer pure, unvarnished accounts of events in real time before the outcome or conclusion of an event was known. In Anne Frank’s case, her diary speaks volumes. The diary is so emotionally overwhelming that one passage within it is often overlooked. It was Anne’s last entry, made 70 years ago this week on August 1, 1944.
“Dearest Kitty, ‘A bundle of contradictions’ was the end of my previous letter and is the beginning of this one. Can you please tell me exactly what ‘a bundle of contradictions’ is? What does ‘contradiction’ mean? Like so many words, it can be interpreted in two ways: a contradiction imposed from without and one imposed from within. The former means not accepting other people’s opinions, always knowing best, having the last word; in short, all those unpleasant traits for which I’m known. The latter, for which I’m not known, is my own secret.
“As I’ve told you many times, I’m split in two. One side contains my exuberant cheerfulness, my flippancy, my joy in life and, above all, my ability to appreciate the lighter side of things. By that I mean not finding anything wrong with flirtations, a kiss, an embrace, a saucy joke. This side of me is usually lying in wait to ambush the other one, which is much purer, deeper, and finer.
“No one knows Anne’s better side, and that’s why most people can’t stand me. Oh, I can be an amusing clown for an afternoon, but after that everyone’s had enough of me to last a month. Actually, I’m what a romantic film is to a profound thinker — a mere diversion, a comic interlude, something that is soon forgotten: not bad, but not particularly good either.
“I hate having to tell you this, but why shouldn’t I admit it when I know it’s true? My lighter, more superficial side will always steal a march on the deeper side and therefore always win. You can’t imagine how often I’ve tried to push away this Anne, which is only half of what is known as Anne — to beat her down, hide her. But it doesn’t work, and I know why. I’m afraid that people who know me as I usually am will discover I have another side, a better and finer side. I’m afraid they’ll mock me, think I’m ridiculous and sentimental and not take me seriously.
“I’m used to not being taken seriously, but only the ‘lighthearted’ Anne is used to it and can put up with it; the ‘deeper’ Anne is too weak. If I force the good Anne into the spotlight for even fifteen minutes, she shuts up like a clam the moment she’s called upon to speak, and lets Anne number one do the talking. Before I realize it, she’s disappeared.
“So the nice Anne is never seen in company. She’s never made a single appearance, though she almost always takes the stage when I’m alone. I know exactly how I’d like to be, how I am . . . on the inside. But unfortunately I’m only like that with myself. And perhaps that’s why — no, I’m sure that’s the reason why — I think of myself as happy on the inside and other people think I’m happy on the outside. I’m guided by the pure Anne within, but on the outside I’m nothing but a frolicsome little goat tugging at its tether.
“As I’ve told you, what I say is not what I feel, which is why I have a reputation for being a boy-chaser, a flirt, a smart aleck and a reader of romances. The happy-go-lucky Anne laughs, gives a flippant reply, shrugs her shoulders and pretends she couldn’t care less. The quiet Anne reacts in just the opposite way.
“If I’m being completely honest, I’ll have to admit that it does matter to me, that I’m trying very hard to change myself, but that I’m always up against a more powerful enemy. A voice within me is sobbing, ‘You see, that’s what’s become of you. You’re surrounded by negative opinions, dismayed looks and mocking faces, people who dislike you, and all because you don’t listen to the advice of your own better half.’
“Believe me, I’d like to listen, but it doesn’t work, because if I’m quiet and serious, everyone thinks I’m putting on a new act and I have to save myself with a joke, and then I’m not even talking about my own family, who assume I must be ill, stuff me with aspirins and sedatives, feel my neck and forehead to see if I have a temperature, ask about my bowel movements and berate me for being in a bad mood, until I just can’t keep it up any more, because when everybody starts hovering over me, I get cross, then sad, and finally end up turning my heart inside out, the bad part on the outside and the good part on the inside, and keep trying to find a way to become what I’d like to be and what I could be if . . . if only there were no other people in the world. Yours, Anne M. Frank”
Three days later, on the morning of August 4, 1944, following a tip from an informer who was never identified, the Frank’s attic hideout was stormed by a group of uniformed German SS police. The family was taken to SS headquarters, where they were interrogated and held overnight. On August 5th they were transferred to the grossly overcrowded House of Detention prison. Two days later they were transported to the Westerbork transit camp, through which by that time more than 100,000 Jews, mostly Dutch and German, had passed. Having been arrested in hiding, they were considered criminals and were sent to the Punishment Barracks for hard labor.
Anne Frank was eventually transported to the Auschwitz death camp, then sent to the Bergen-Belsen concentration camp where she died of typhus in March of 1945. Yes, the world lost an innocent. But what is almost always forgotten is that the world also lost one helluva writer.

The Diary of Anne Frank, Part 1

Al Hunter — Thu, 30 Jul 2026 05:08:30 +0000

What do you think of when you hear the name Anne Frank? World War II? The Holocaust? The Academy Award winning movie from 1959? For me, the name Anne Frank represents loss. Loss of innocence, loss of freedom, loss of life and loss of a damn fine writer. Yes, a writer. Anne Frank is often viewed historically solely for the mature courage she displayed during the harshest time anyone could possibly imagine. What is often overlooked is that her famous diary is not only a perfect record of her ordeal but also an excellent guidebook for humanity.
If you’ve never read The Diary of Anne Frank, you may mistakenly believe that the diary’s interest and relevancy are because it is the account of a child who died in the Holocaust. But if you have read her diary, you might agree that the work is much more than that. The diary is a remarkable record of a young woman developing mentally, sexually, and spiritually in the midst of the worst circumstances imaginable. The Diary of Anne Frank is remarkably easy to read; an extraordinarily intimate and detailed view of the complex thoughts of a teenage girl dealing with everyday problems. Much of what she writes is easily translatable to today’s youth and I suspect will translate well to youthful generations yet to come.
Anne obviously used her diary as a convenient form of self therapy in her search for answers to questions that would have surely surfaced in her life whether she was in hiding or out in the free world. In the midst of her insane world, she never stopped trying to improve her reasoning, knowledge, and character. The diary reveals a beautiful, brilliant mind trying to find “truth” amidst overwhelmingly contradictory data, forces, and ideologies. I am prefacing this article under the assumption that everyone knows the story of Anne Frank. But for those of you who might need a quick refresher…
Annelies Marie “Anne” Frank was born on June 12, 1929 in the city of Frankfurt in Weimar Germany. She lived most of her life in or near Amsterdam, in the Netherlands. The Frank family moved from Germany to Amsterdam in 1933, the year the Nazis gained control over Germany. By May 1940, they were trapped in Amsterdam by the German occupation of the Netherlands. Born a German national, Frank was stripped of her citizenship in 1941 because of her Jewish heritage.
For her thirteenth birthday, Anne received a book which she had pointed out to her father in a shop window a few days earlier. Although it was an autograph book, bound with red-and-white checkered cloth with a small lock on the front, Frank decided she would use it as a diary. She made her first entry that very day, expressing the hope that she would be able to confide completely in her diary and that it would be a great support and comfort to her. The early entries are devoted to the mundane aspects of everyday life; she reports about her birthday, her fellow students, events at the Jewish Lyceum (high school) and about the few fun things that Jewish youngsters were still allowed to enjoy that spring
Anne also comments on the changes taking place in the Netherlands since the Nazi occupation. Within a week of starting the diary, her entries take on a more journalistic aspect as she lists many of the restrictions placed upon the lives of the Dutch Jewish population and notes her sorrow at the death of her grandmother earlier in the year. But, remember, Anne was 13 and she daydreams freely about becoming an actress. She laments that although she loves watching movies, Dutch Jews were forbidden access to movie theaters after January 8, 1941.
As persecutions of the Jewish population increased in July 1942, Anne’s sister Margot received an order from the “Central Office for Jewish Emigration” to report for relocation to a work camp; the family went into hiding in some concealed rooms of a building where Anne’s father worked. Otto Frank took his family into hiding in rooms above and behind a building located on a street along one of Amsterdam’s canals, where some of his most trusted employees would help them.
Here, hidden away from the outside world, sworn to secrecy in a world ruled by silence, Anne Frank slowly evolved into a writer. The first weeks in hiding were so difficult for the bubbly effervescent Anne, she could not even write about the ordeal in her diary. Eventually, Anne adopted the idea of addressing all future diary entries to members of an imaginary club of girl friends, in particular “Kitty,” her best friend. These diary letters contain some riddles and jokes, but also remarks about her reading and her experiences in hiding.
Whether you would classify her as a documentarian, a diarist or a reporter, you cannot deny that she was a writer. After nearly two years in hiding, she realized what her life’s ambition was. Gone were the pre-teen fantasies of becoming an actress. Now the teenaged Anne Frank aspired to be a journalist. On Wednesday April 5, 1944 she wrote:
“I finally realized that I must do my schoolwork to keep from being ignorant, to get on in life, to become a journalist, because that’s what I want! I know I can write … but it remains to be seen whether I really have talent … And if I don’t have the talent to write books or newspaper articles, I can always write for myself. But I want to achieve more than that. I can’t imagine living like Mother, Mrs. van Daan and all the women who go about their work and are then forgotten. I need to have something besides a husband and children to devote myself to! I want to be useful or bring enjoyment to all people, even those I’ve never met. I want to go on living even after my death! And that’s why I’m so grateful to God for having given me this gift, which I can use to develop myself and to express all that’s inside me! When I write I can shake off all my cares. My sorrow disappears, my spirits are revived! But, and that’s a big question, will I ever be able to write something great, will I ever become a journalist or a writer?”
Although Anne Frank’s words were written over eight decades ago, I implore you, re-read that diary entry and admit that those are the thoughts of every writer at some point or another. Makes you want to read (or re-read) The Diary of Anne Frank doesn’t it?
As the diary progresses, the reader’s sense of foreboding increases in light of the inevitable conclusion. What the reader discovers pretty plainly is that different people respond to bad circumstances differently. The reader asks the question, “What would I do if I were in Anne’s situation?” As her “hiding time” increased, Anne began to realize, with an ever-increasing degree of certainty, that at any moment she could be rounded up like livestock, arrested, separated from her family and killed. Her response when confronted with thoughts of these terrors can be found in her diary: “If I only have a short time left to live, I will use it to write the most truthful and substantive things I know.” and “I will love those around me as much as is allowed and be honest with myself about that love.”
Those themes in her writing are what continue to inspire us. It’s amazing that an adolescent girl, who had to live a hidden life, still found ways to so positively effect the world. While she had aspirations of being a writer, she could not have reasonably thought her words would be published or become famous some day. With that understanding, she did what she could do, and she wrote her intimate thoughts down — at least for her own peace of mind, if not also for the possible benefit of others.
By July of 1944, based on her entry of the 15th, Anne has reached her zenith. She proclaims that she has a “good deal of self-knowledge… she feels that she can view herself objectively and assess her strengths and weaknesses.” Anne concludes that “life is far more difficult for the young, given that young people don’t have a strong sense of who they are.” Anne pragmatically feels that life in the Annex has been far harder on her, than on the adults: “…ideals, dreams, and cherished hopes rise within us, only to be crushed by grim reality.” In spite of all of this, Anne still clings to the hope that people are innately good, that her dreams are within reach, and that peace will prevail.
On Friday, July 21, 1944, Anne displays the pluck and puckishness so dearly cherished by all freedom loving peoples by exclaiming: “Good news: somebody has tried to kill Hitler. Unfortunately, Hitler managed to get away with just a few scratches and burns. But it shows that a lot of generals and officers are sick of the war, too. Maybe it’ll make the war end sooner.”
That jubilant observational diary entry obviously caused Anne Frank to reflect upon the contradiction of it all. What was she to make of Nazis killing Nazis for the betterment of a cause so malformed from the beginning? It was all a great contradiction to the little diarist in the attic. She would examine that contradiction in a diary entry on August 1, 1944. Eighty two years ago this week. It would be Anne Frank’s final diary entry.
Next Week: Part II, The Diary of Anne Frank
Al Hunter is the author of “Haunted Indianapolis” and “Irvington Haunts. The Tour Guide.” and the co-author of the “Indiana National Road” book series. His newest books are “Osborn H. Oldroyd: Keeper of the Lincoln Flame”, “Thursdays with Doc. Recollections on Springfield & Lincoln” and “Bumps in the Night. Stories from the Weekly View.” Contact Al directly at Huntvault@aol.com or become a friend on Facebook.

Billy the Kid’s Indiana Connection: A shotgun full of silver dimes, Part 2

Al Hunter — Thu, 23 Jul 2026 05:08:23 +0000

United States Marshall Ameredith Robert B. Olinger (alias “Pecos Bob,” alias “The Big Indian”) was killed on April 28, 1881 outside of the Lincoln County Courthouse by legendary outlaw and fellow Hoosier Billy the Kid with the Marshall’s own gun. A double barrel shotgun that legend claims was loaded with silver dimes did the deed: a shotgun which Olinger loaded specially for the Kid.
Bob Olinger was born in Delphi, Indiana in April of 1850 the son of Wm. C. Olinger and Rebecca Robinson Olinger, from Carroll County, Indiana. Young Bob and his mother moved to New Mexico in the untamed Indian Territory following his older brother Wallace. Both Olinger boys fought for the Murphy-Dolan faction in the Lincoln County War, opposing Billy the Kid’s regulators. In the five-day Battle at Lincoln, Billy the Kid killed Olinger’s close friend, Bob Beckwith. Olinger developed an intense hatred for Billy.
Bob Olinger has been described as a thug and a bully by nearly everyone that knew him. A giant of a man, Olinger was broad-shouldered with long hair that hung down to his shoulders and a fondness for strutting the wooden plank sidewalks dressed to the nines. His oversized sombrero was elegantly tasseled and his boots were ornately stitched. But make no mistake: Bob Olinger was a cold-blooded killer with several notches on the butt of his six shooter. He was fast on the draw, and he was not afraid of shooting an unarmed man, or a man walking away.
One witness remembers seeing Olinger picking his teeth with a sharp Bowie-knife during a poker game one night in Santa Fe in an attempt to impress people with his toughness. This same witness explained: “Olinger was an expert knife-thrower and was forever tossing his knife end-over-end into trees or hitching rails along the street. ‘Wow!’ the impressed children would squeal, and Bob would smirk and swagger.” Olinger’s fondness for gambling and liquor often placed him in bad company, and situations of poor judgment. Bob Olinger’s own mother said of him, “Bob was a murderer from the cradle, and if there is a hell hereafter then he is there.”
When the Kid became New Mexico’s most wanted man, Olinger was appointed U.S. Deputy Marshall by Sheriff Pat Garrett to help hunt him down. After the Lincoln County War ended, the Kid spent the next two years eluding the law living in and around Fort Sumner, a former military fort transformed into a tiny Mexican village. While in Fort Sumner, Billy killed a drunk at a saloon, but the killing was shrugged off and got almost no attention. However, the Kid’s next killing got plenty of attention.
On December 23, 1880 a posse trapped the Kid and his gang at a cabin in Stinking Springs and during the standoff a deputy, James Carlyle, was killed. The death was pinned on the Kid and ruined any chance for him to get the governor to give the Kid a previously promised pardon. Bob Olinger was delighted to hear that he would be one of the guards assigned to escort the Kid to his trial at La Mesilla. Bob Olinger put Billy the Kid on the southbound train for Mesilla with Billy sitting next to the window anchored in heavy chains and shackles. Olinger sat beside him with a shotgun across his lap, a pistol on each hip, and a Bowie-knife in his belt. All the way to Mesilla, Bob taunted the prisoner: “Your days are short, Kid. I can see that rope around your neck now.” To which Billy coolly replied, “Oh, I don’t know, Bob, There’s many a slip twixt the cup and the lip.”
In Mesilla, Billy the Kid was convicted and sentenced to hang for the murder of Sheriff Brady during the Lincoln County War. The Kid was taken to Lincoln to await his execution on May 13, 1881, which just happened to be Friday the 13th. The news got better when Bob heard that he would serve as one of Billy’s two guards at the Lincoln County jail. Olinger bought a new 10-guage double-barreled shotgun for the occasion. It would be the last purchase he ever made.
The Kid was imprisoned in the Lincoln courthouse shackled to the floor hand and foot and guarded around the clock in the room behind Pat Garrett’s own office, which ironically was the old Murphy-Dolan store from the Lincoln County War. Olinger delighted in tormenting the helpless prisoner by waving his new shotgun under the Kid’s nose while saying: “Whoever gets this will feel it!” Ironically, the Kid’s reported response was, “Make sure it’s not you, Bob.” Pat Garrett himself said that Olinger and Billy the Kid had a ‘reciprocal hatred.’ Olinger supposedly drew a deadline in chalk across the middle of the room and warned Billy that if he ever stepped over it, he would be shot.
On Thursday, April 28, 1881, Sheriff Pat Garrett was away from town collecting taxes in White Oaks and purchasing lumber to construct the gallows from which the Kid would be hanged. Before leaving, Garrett had assigned deputies Bob Olinger and James W. Bell to guard Billy, cautioning them not to be taken in by Billy’s charm and winning ways. He warned them that if the Kid got the slightest chance, he would kill them both. Between 5 and 6 p.m., Olinger took five prisoners across the street to Sam Wortley’s hotel for dinner. Billy remained in his room, with Bell keeping watch.
Deputy James Bell, apparently treated Billy the Kid well; Garrett said that the Kid “appeared to have taken a liking” to Bell. Legend claims that the Kid asked Bell to take him to the outhouse behind the courthouse. Bell obliged and took the Kid outside still shackled in his leg-irons with handcuffs on. Once back inside the building, Billy made his move. Billy got the drop on Bell by slipping his small hands out of the cuffs and using the heavy chains to hit the deputy over the head. He then grabbed Bell’s pistol and told him to throw up his hands, but instead the deputy ran and the Kid had no choice but to shoot him. Billy’s original plan was to take Bell prisoner, lock him up, and slip out unseen before Olinger came back.
Witness Godfrey Gauss was outside at the time when he heard a shot, and as he looked up, he saw Bell burst out of the back door of courthouse shot through the body. “He ran right into my arms, expired the same moment, and I laid him down dead,” Gauss later said. Olinger, still dining at the hotel, heard the shot and rushed back across the street without his prisoners. While Bob Olinger entered the courthouse yard, Gauss rounded the corner to ask: “Have you killed the Kid?” At that very moment, Olinger heard his name called from above and looked up to see his own double-barreled shotgun pointing down at him from the upstairs window on the courthouse’s east side and replied, “No, but he has just killed me.” Olinger heard the Kid say, “Hello, Bob” just before being blasted into eternity by both barrels of his own shotgun. Deputy Sheriff and United States Marshall Bob Olinger died instantly.
After killing both deputies, Billy leisurely went about retrieving an axe to break his shackles and obtaining a saddled horse. Within moments he noticed he had acquired an audience that included the five other prisoners and many of Lincoln’s finest citizens, none of which seemed eager to interfere with Billy’s plans. Legend claims that Billy the Kid shook hands with many of them before riding slowly out of town whistling a lively tune. One of the witnesses said that by the time Billy finally rode off towards Fort Sumner, Bell and Olinger had been dead for over an hour.
At the courthouse today, two plaques mark the spots where Bell and Olinger fell. A large hole in the wall at the bottom of the stairs is said to have been made by the Kid’s bullet after it exited Deputy Bell’s body. As for the rumor that Bob Olinger loaded his shotgun with silver dimes in hopes of decimating the body of Billy the Kid should he attempt escape, it’s just a legend. But it does make for a disturbing mental image nonetheless.

Billy the Kid’s Indiana Connection, Part 1

Al Hunter — Thu, 16 Jul 2026 05:08:36 +0000

William H. Bonney, alias “Billy the Kid,” is the most misunderstood historical figure of the Old West. Unlike most Wild West outlaws, he was not a cold-blooded killer, he was not a train robber and he didn’t rob banks. He was a gunfighter born of a feud between two factions known to history as “The Lincoln County War.” According to popular legend, he killed 21 men, one for every year of his life, before he was killed in the New Mexico Desert by Sheriff Pat Garrett.
“Billy the Kid” was born William Henry McCarty in the fall of 1859 somewhere in central Indiana, although some historians claim his birthplace was New York City. As early as 1862 official records show that Billy’s mother, Catherine McCarty, and her two sons are living in Indianapolis at 199 North East Street, a stone’s throw from the old Market Square Arena site. According to the 1866 census “Henry” (aka Billy) was living with his widowed mother and elder brother Joseph McCarty in Marion County.
His mother soon shacked up with Civil War veteran William H. Antrim and for a time lived in Indianapolis at 58 Cherry Street and later 70 Plum Street (both addresses that no longer exist). The couple was later married in the town where Antrim was born; Huntsville, Indiana (near Pendleton). Although no marriage certificate has been found for the couple and the exact date of their marriage is uncertain, the family shows up as William, Catherine, Joseph, and Henry Antrim on the Indiana census in 1868.
Although much has been written about Billy the Kid, little attention has been paid to his mother Catherine, the woman who gave Billy the Kid his Hoosier roots. By all accounts, her world revolved around her two young sons, Joseph and Henry. Those who visited her household often spoke of the hospitality they received and the good home she made for her family.
Catherine was born in Ireland around 1829. Her surname, as that of her parents and siblings, is unknown. At the age of seventeen, Catherine immigrated to New York City after fleeing the Irish potato famine of 1845. The name Catherine McCarty is listed as a passenger on the ship Devonshire as it left Liverpool, arriving in New York City on April 10, 1846. She soon found herself alone in a city overflowing with other immigrants and it’s been speculated that she soon became a “soiled dove,” forced to live a life on the streets. Sometime after her arrival, Catherine learned she had contracted tuberculosis, or “galloping consumption,” as it was called in her day.
It is believed that Catherine moved her family to Indiana, then the edge of the western frontier, on the advice of doctors in an effort to save her life. It was here she would meet William Henry Harrison Antrim, her future husband. Antrim was a veteran of the Union Army and had served with Company “I” of the 54th Regiment of the Indiana Volunteer Infantry as a private until receiving an honorable discharge in September 1863. It’s interesting to note that Catherine was 14 years older than William Antrim when they met. Antrim’s occupation was variously listed as a teamster, carpenter, farmer and bartender. Known as “Kathleen” by her friends, she was described as being of “medium height, straight and graceful in form, with regular features, light blue eyes, and luxuriant golden hair. She was not a beauty, but what the world calls a fine-looking woman.”
In 1869, Billy’s family left Indiana and moved to Coffeyville, Kansas then moved on to Denver, Colorado before finally settling down in the New Mexico Territory. Before long, the family was living in a fine log cabin with Catherine spending much of her time as a homemaker cooking pies and other treats which she sold easily to the local citizenry. Boyhood friends of Billy the Kid would later rave about “what a good cook Mrs. Bill Antrim was.” Catherine loved kids, and it was a regular occurrence to find many of the neighborhood boys racing for the Antrim cabin after school in search of freshly baked cookies. Although the Antrim household was a happy one, the family struggled for money. Often, Catherine took in boarders for extra money.
For a time, Catherine’s health seemed to improve and neighbors remember that she had enough newfound energy to take young Billy the kid dancing at town “bailes” every week. Neighbor Louis Abraham remarked that “Mrs. Antrim could dance the Highland Fling as well as the best of the dancers.” By the spring of 1874, Catherine’s health began to fail, leaving her confined to a bed for the next four months.
As she lay in bed gasping for breath and coughing up blood, it became clear to everyone that she was dying. While on her deathbed, she told a friend she was worried about leaving her beloved boys in such a “wild country.” On Wednesday, September 16, 1874, Catherine McCarty-Antrim died at the age of 45 with 14-year-old Billy the Kid at her bedside.
Today Catherine’s body rests peacefully in a cemetery off Highway 180 leading into Silver City, New Mexico. Her marker, although misspelled, reads simply: “In Memory of Mrs. Kathrine Antrim 1829-1874 The Mother of Billy the Kid.” William Antrim didn’t want to be burdened with two young boys, so he separated them and placed them in foster homes before leaving for Arizona. Billy the Kid now had to pay his own way, so he was put to work washing dishes and waiting on tables at a restaurant. After a year, with no guidance from his mother, the Kid quickly fell in with the wrong crowd and began to hang out in Silver City’s billiard halls and bars.
Allegedly, Billy killed his first men near the Guadalupe Mountains in 1876 when he mistook a couple of reservation Apaches for “unfriendlies.” Keep in mind that America was still angry over the loss of George Armstrong Custer and his 7th Cavalry at the Little Big Horn that same year. Billy heard that U.S. Army soldiers were looking for the killer of the peaceable people and he fled for the deserts of New Mexico. A life of violence awaited him.
Next week . . . Another Hoosier Billy the Kid connection.

From Hell Gate to the Golden Gate in a Maxwell 30

Al Hunter — Thu, 09 Jul 2026 05:08:21 +0000

It’s summertime in Indiana; the kids are out of school, the days are getting longer, the weather is heating up and Hoosier thoughts turn to . . . ROAD TRIP! Let me introduce you to the woman for whom the term road trip just may have been invented for. Alice Huyler Ramsey (November 11, 1886 – September 10, 1983) was the first woman to drive across the United States from coast-to-coast. On June 9, 1909, the 22-year-old housewife and mother from New Jersey began a 3,800-mile journey from Hell’s Gate in Manhattan to San Francisco in a green Maxwell 30 automobile. On her 59-day trek she was accompanied by her two older sisters-in-law and another female friend, none of whom could drive a car, meaning that Alice was the sole driver for the entire journey. Ramsey’s route roughly paralleled the route that, four years later, Indy 500 co-founder Carl Fisher would turn into the Lincoln Highway or modern day Route 30.
A century ago, it was thought that driving a car, like voting, required manly virtues, including “sound judgment” and “thoughtful decision-making.” More than a decade before women got the right to vote, Alice Ramsey proved to the world that a woman possessed the necessary virtues.
Alice Ramsey’s first love was horseback riding, and after showing a keen interest in the “new” automobiles she witnessed traversing the streets of Hackensack, her husband presented her with a shiny new 1908 Maxwell. After taking driving lessons at the local Maxwell dealership, Alice hit the roads of New Jersey, driving thousands of miles within the Garden State that summer. When the dealership heard about Ramsey’s driving, she was asked to enter an automotive endurance test in September 1908, a grueling 200-mile drive on unpaved roads. She handled the vehicle masterfully, received a perfect score, and drew great media attention as one of only two women drivers in the event.
After this, Maxwell sales manager Cadwallader Washburn Kelsey asked Mrs. Ramsey to undertake what became the biggest publicity stunt of the year, a cross-country drive from New York City to San Francisco, in a new Maxwell. Kelsey called the 21-year-old Vassar graduate (class of 1907) “the greatest natural woman driver I’ve ever seen.” He asked Ramsey if she would like to drive the company’s new 30-horsepower, four-cylinder Maxwell cross-country to prove that the car could make it and that a female motorist could do it. This open-air touring car seated four with a top speed of 40 mph.
In a time before interstate freeways, when many of the busiest back-country roads were not yet paved or even graveled, transcontinental drives were rare and respected accomplishments. The transcontinental speed record had recently been reduced from 63 days to a mere 15 days, but no female driver had yet accomplished the feat. The Maxwell company paid all expenses, and informed its dealerships of her itinerary, instructing them to have parts and mechanics on call in case of mechanical breakdowns. She was accompanied by a Maxwell press team in a separate car trailing behind.
In the late spring of 1909, Alice left her new baby with a nursemaid and set out on a rainy day in June from New York City, north to Poughkeepsie, and then made her way west through Buffalo, Cleveland, Gary and Chicago. Alice and her passengers/navigators used maps from AAA to chart their journey — no small feat considering that only 152 of the 3,600 miles the group traveled were paved. Over the course of the drive, Ramsey changed 11 tires, routinely cleaned the spark plugs, repaired a broken brake pedal and once had to sleep in the car after it got stuck in mud.
In 1909, only 155,000 of 80 million Americans owned cars. Most of the vehicles were in the East and Midwest; the land of good roads, comfortable lodgings, conveniently located service stations and plentiful eating places. Consequently, the expedition’s first half was relatively easy, with the only impediments to the journey’s progress being the incessant promotional meet-and-greets staged by Maxwell that seemingly stopped in every little town and burg to give locals the chance to gawk at and talk to the pioneering women. Her drive was more of a spectacle than a speed competition. Of course, it didn’t hurt that Alice was easy on the eyes.
The adventurous Ramsey seemed disinterested in this part of the excursion and mostly fidgeted her way through the circus-like stopovers and interviews as she itched to get back out on the open road. On Day 2, for instance, she noted, “We drove north past the handsome estates at Hyde Park and of John Jacob Astor near Rhinebeck, N.Y. . . . and continued with little in the way of diversion.” In fact, she bypassed the press corps waiting for her at the historic 1766 Rhinebeck Hotel, a place where George Washington actually did sleep.
All was peaches and cream over the flat lands and reasonably passable roads of Pennsylvania, Ohio, Indiana, and Illinois until the group crossed over the Mighty Mississippi.
Things changed dramatically once the group arrived in Iowa. Heavy rains and floods washed out roads and bridges in Iowa as Ramsey resisted suggestions to ship her Maxwell to Omaha by train. Alice recalled, “We were doing quite well until we entered Mechanicsville. . . . A sudden torrent descended upon us. We made quickly for the first shelter we could find . . . a livery stable. There were several buggies standing around, horses still hitched to them. To say the animals were astonished to be joined by a horseless carriage from which came the noise of a pulsating engine is putting it mildly!”
After two stagnant hours, the soggy party decided to brave the storm and ran to a nearby restaurant where Ramsey sat down at a vintage piano to entertain some “country lads” as she “tossed off a couple light numbers.” (This, by the way, in one of the few buildings Ramsey visited that is still standing: It’s now Bubba’s Sports Bar & Grill, 211 1st St. in Mechanicsville, in eastern Iowa.)
That wet spring of 1909 turned Iowa and Nebraska into a muddy morass, and the usually hard packed dirt cart paths turned to sticky, rutted muck. Tires went flat and the Maxwell became mired so often that the engine regularly overheated. It didn’t faze the indomitable Alice Ramsey though — she loved it. “This was the route which later became the Lincoln Highway — I almost feel as if I was the ‘Mother’ of it!” she wrote. “And believe me, the labor pangs prior to its birth were terrific!”
Wyoming, Utah and Nevada were more forgiving; the roads were rough to nonexistent, but the weather was better and the land was mostly flat. Fording rivers was an imposing challenge that led to broken axles in the 4-foot-deep gullies and creek beds. Calling upon her skills as a mechanic as well as a driver (she was founder and president of the Women’s Motoring Club of New Jersey at age 21), Ramsey coaxed her battered vehicle across desert and over mountains. Still, the crew had time to enjoy the scenery. Seeing the Devil’s Slide natural rock monument southeast of Ogden, Utah, Ramsey turned tourist: “Quite a sight! So all-by-itself, and so stupendous.”
On August 10, 1909 Alice and her weary group of intrepid travelers arrived in San Francisco, nearly two months after they started. The quartet arrived in the City by the Bay to much fanfare and hoopla, but most importantly, they were all safe and sound. Most notably for her sponsors, sales of Maxwell autos more than doubled overnight. In case you’re wondering, the Maxwell company let Ramsey keep the car.
Alice was named the “Woman Motorist of the Century” by AAA in 1960. In later years, she lived quietly in Covina, California, where in 1961 she wrote and published the story of her journey, Veil, Duster, and Tire Iron. (In 2005, the story was updated and retitled as Alice’s Drive, which can be ordered through Amazon.) Between 1909 and 1975, Ramsey drove across the country more than 30 times. She was married to New Jersey Congressman John Rathbone Ramsey, Sr. and the couple had two children. Her husband never shared his wife’s passion for automobiles. He never learned how to drive and was uncomfortable riding in cars throughout his lifetime. Alice Ramsey continued driving until a year before her death in 1983. On October 17, 2000, she became the first woman inducted into the Automotive Hall of Fame in Dearborn, Michigan.
Alice’s closest moment to perfection came not in San Francisco where she was hailed as a hero and showered with roses, but as she entered California south of Lake Tahoe, heading down the Sierra slopes to Placerville. “Majestic sugar pines, Douglas firs and redwoods lined our road on both sides. What a land! What mountains! What blue skies and clear, sparkling water! Our hearts leapt within us. None of us had ever seen the like — and we loved it.” With that introduction to the state and her lifelong passion for the road, it feels appropriate that she settled in that region in the 1950s just as California was becoming the car culture capital of the world.
Perhaps Alice Huyler Ramsey voiced her own epitaph during an interview 17 years before her death when asked about her life: “I’m probably happiest,” she said, “when I’m holding a wheel.”

The Real Story of “The Natural”

Al Hunter — Thu, 02 Jul 2026 05:08:41 +0000

But did you ever stop to think, is Robert Redford’s character in The Natural based on a real life player? Well, the answer is yes — and no.
It would be more accurate to say that the film is based on an event, rather than an individual player. On June 14, 1949 Philadelphia Phillies “Whiz Kids” (and former Chicago Cub) first baseman Eddie Waitkus was shot by an obsessed fan named Ruth Ann Steinhagen in a Chicago hotel room. The comparison between Waitkus and the movie character pretty much ends there. But it is a helluva story.
Just a few years into the start of what seemed a very promising career, Waitkus was shot in the chest at the Edgewater Beach Hotel in Chicago. A 19-year-old typist at the time of the incident, shooter Steinhagen became infatuated with Eddie when he was a Cub and seeing him play every day fed her obsession. However, once he was traded to the Phillies, Ruth Ann’s sanity snapped when she realized that her “crush” would only be in Chicago 11 games that season.
Born two days before Christmas in 1929, Ruth was the daughter of immigrant parents from Berlin, Germany. Born Ruth Catherine Steinhagen, she adopted the middle name Ann at some point in her youth. While she never actually met Waitkus before she shot him, she created a ‘shrine’ to him inside her bedroom with hundreds of photographs and newspaper clippings — sometimes spreading them out and looking at them for hours, according to her mother. She would often set an empty place across from her at the dinner table reserved for Waitkus.
In 1948, Steinhagen’s family sent her to a psychiatrist, but her obsession didn’t diminish, even after Waitkus was traded to Philadelphia. After the shooting, police found extensive clippings in her suitcase and even pictures papering the ceiling of her bedroom at home. On June 14, 1949, the Phillies came to Chicago for a game against the Cubs. After the game, which she attended, Steinhagen sent Waitkus a handwritten note through a bellboy, inviting him to visit her in her 12th floor room in the Edgewater Beach Hotel where they were both registered.
Claiming to be Ruth Anne Burns, the note began: “Mr. Waitkus–It’s extremely important that I see you as soon as possible. We’re not acquainted, but I have something of importance to speak to you about. I think it would be to your advantage to let me explain to you.” After insisting that she was leaving the hotel the next day and stressing the urgency of the request, she concluded: “I realize this is a little out of the ordinary, but as I said, it’s rather important. Please, come soon. I won’t take up much of your time, I promise.”
According to Waitkus’ friend and roommate, Russ Meyer, Waitkus received the note, which was attached to the door of their 9th floor room after returning from dinner with Meyer’s family and fiancé past 11 p.m. Waitkus called the room but the woman would not discuss the details over the phone. The Sunday Gazette Mail said Waitkus knew some people named Burns. Waitkus’s son later speculated that his father may have “thought he had a hot honey on the line.” For whatever reason, he went to meet her in the room.
The details of what happened in the room are a little sketchy. According to the Associated Press report the day after the shooting, Steinhagen told police that as Waitkus entered the room, she greeted him by saying, “I have a surprise for you,” after which she retrieved a .22 rifle from the closet and shot him in the chest. Meyer said that Waitkus told him that when he entered the room, the woman claimed to be “Mary Brown.” He said that Waitkus claimed Steinhagen’s words after retrieving the gun from the closet were “If I can’t have you, nobody else can.” Another account claimed that Steinhagen said, “You’re not going to bother me anymore.” Waitkus, who later said he believed the woman was joking, stood his ground and was shot. He said he asked her, as she knelt beside his prone body with her hand on his, “Oh baby, what did you do that for?”
Steinhagen later told police that she had originally planned to stab Eddie, and use the gun to shoot herself, but changed her plans when Waitkus walked into the room and sat down. Steinhagen still intended to shoot herself, but evidently could not find another bullet. While Waitkus was lying on the floor bleeding from the chest, Steinhagen called down to the front desk of the hotel and told them “I just shot a man….” After the shooting, she went to wait for the authorities on the benches near the elevator, although she later claimed that she stayed with the wounded man and held his head in her lap until help arrived. The phone call, which brought quick medical attention as well as police, saved Waitkus’ life.
Steinhagen was arrested and then arraigned on June 30, 1949. Questioned about the shooting, she told police she did not know why she had done it, explaining that she wanted “to do something exciting in my life.” Strangely, when taken to Waitkus’ hospital room the day after the shooting, she told Eddie that she didn’t know for sure why she had done it. She told a psychiatrist before she went to court that “I didn’t want to be nervous all my life,” and explained to reporters that “the tension had been building up within me, and I thought killing someone would relieve it.” She said she had first seen Waitkus three years before, and that he reminded her “of everybody, especially my father.”
Steinhagen’s counsel presented a petition to the court saying that their client was “unable to cooperate with counsel in the defense of her cause” and did not “understand the nature of the charge against her.” The petition requested a sanity hearing. At the ensuing sanity hearing (which also occurred on June 30, 1949), Dr. William Haines, a court-appointed psychiatrist, testified that Steinhagen was suffering from “schizophrenia in an immature individual” and was insane. Chief Judge James McDermott of the Criminal Court of Cook County then directed the jury to find her insane, and ordered her committed to Kankakee State Hospital. The judge also struck “with leave to reinstate” the grand jury’s indictment of Steinhagen on a charge of assault with intent to commit murder, meaning that prosecutors could refile the charge if Steinhagen recovered her sanity.
Steinhagen never stood trial, but instead was confined to a mental institution until 1952, when she was declared cured and released. Waitkus did not press charges against Steinhagen after she was released, telling an assistant state’s attorney that he wanted to forget the incident. After her release, Steinhagen moved back home to live with her parents and her younger sister in her parents’ small apartment on Chicago’s north side. She shunned publicity in the ensuing decades, and remained a recluse for the rest of her life. In 1970, she and her family purchased a home in a crowded, racially mixed neighborhood on Chicago’s northwest side. She lived in the home with her parents and sister and, after their parents died in the early 1990s, continued to live there even after her sister died in 2007. She employed full-time caregivers in her final years.
She lived a quiet and secluded life, steadfastly maintaining her privacy, avoiding reporters, and refusing to comment publicly on her shooting of Waitkus. She never married and worked an office job for 35 years, and her neighbors and coworkers never knew of her place in infamy. Court records and routine background checks reveal no information about her career. On December 29, 2012, Steinhagen died in a Chicago hospital of a subdural hematoma that she suffered as a result of an accidental fall in her home. She was 83 years and six days old, and left no immediate survivors.
The bullet that struck Waitkus lodged in a lung, barely missed his heart, required four surgeries and prevented his return to baseball for the rest of that 1949 season. Eddie nearly died several times on the operating table before the bullet was successfully removed. The incident profoundly influenced Waitkus’ career and personal life as well; he was never the same player after the shooting. Eddie developed somewhat of a phobia worrying that others might not understand why he had visited Steinhagen’s room. He also, according to roommate Meyer, developed a drinking problem after the incident.
On August 19, 1949, the Phillies held “Eddie Waitkus Night” at Shibe Park and showered their wounded first baseman with gifts. Waitkus appeared at the stadium in uniform for the first time since he was shot in Chicago. Although the shooting left Waitkus knocking on death’s door, he was back in the Phillies’ Opening Day lineup the next year, going 3-for-5. After the 1950 season, Waitkus was named the Associated Press Comeback Player of the Year.
The Waitkus shooting is regarded as the inspiration for Bernard Malamud’s 1952 baseball book The Natural, which was made into a film by Barry Levinson in 1984. Other than the shooting, it’s hard to make a comparison between Eddie Waitkus and Roy Hobbs, the character played by Robert Redford in the film. In The Natural, Hobbs was shot as a teenage phenom before ever reaching the majors and the shooting kept him from reaching the big leagues until the age of 34, at which point he immediately started hitting like Babe Ruth with his miracle bat “Wonder Boy.” When shot, Waitkus was a 29-year-old veteran of both World War II and 448 major league games.
Miraculous comeback aside, Waitkus, who died in 1972, was no Hobbs at the bat. Though he was enjoying his finest season when he was shot, he had just one home run in 246 plate appearances, and when he retired in 1955 at age 35, he had just 24 home runs in 4,681 at bats. Waitkus hit for respectable averages (.304 in 1946, .306 in 1949 before the shooting, .285 for his career), but they were empty. He hit for little power and drew only an average number of walks. He did make a pair of All-Star teams and drew some low-ballot MVP votes in two seasons, but was by no means a Hall of Fame candidate.
Whether it was the seasons lost to World War II, his advancing age or the shooting, Eddie Waitkus never really lived up to the Roy Hobbs hype. Turns out that author Malamud built his iconic character around what was by far the most interesting thing about Waitkus’s career; the shooting. The similarities between fact and fiction end with the echo of that gunshot.