The Kid & Stetson Kennedy - KKK Killer

Sadly we have to record the passing of investigative journalist Stetson Kennedy recently,at 94. Over the years we'd run into him at various writing and book related gatherings around Florida and three years ago helped celebrate a birthday at Anastasia Books, St. Augustine.

This blog is a bitter-sweet record of that event, and a tribute to a pathfinder in the profession.



Florida folklorist icon and Ku Klux Klan investigative infiltrator Stetson Kennedy celebrated his 91st birthday last weekend surrounded by family, friends and fans.

Jack Owen photo
Riley Fox Hillyer (11) and KKK journalist Stetson Kennedy (91)

One of his youngest admirers, an eleven-year-old neighborhood child of the celebrated St. Augustine resident, recited an insightful ode to the sprightly old man:

Stetson Kennedy,
Stetson Kennedy,
The perfect remedy,
For the KKK
* *
Once upon a time,
There was a boy,
He stole fruits from
his neighbors for joy
* *
This boy, now a
young man,
Decided to stop the
Ku Klux Klan
* *
Guess who helped him
rat out those trout?!
It was Superman
who helped Stetson out
* *
Years ago, he was a spy
But at 92, he is still
young and spry
By Riley Fox Hillyer


The assembled politicos, pundits and professionals gathered to sip wine, nibble on cheese and witness the cutting of a birthday cake within the stacked racks at Anastasia Books, owned by Kennedy’s current wife Sandra Parks, enthusiastically applauded the young bard.

Then, less than harmoniously, they rendered several ragged verses of “Happy Birthday” throughout the evening.

For Stetson Kennedy it marked yet another milestone along a journalistic path pocked by plaudits and controversy from the WPA (Works Progress Administration) era of anecdotal recordings of Florida’s rural history, to clashes with the Ku Klux Klan and the book publishing cottage industry that sortie gave birth to.

His young admirer, during an earlier inter-school competitive speech for Fifth Grade, described his initial disappointment when his new neighbors moved in. He had hoped for kids his own age but ”… I discovered it was just another boring old couple, as usual.”

However, his interest perked up when he discovered the character in a book he was reading (about a young man infiltrating the KKK and exposing its secrets to radio-fans of Superman) was none other than his new neighbor.

“ He was a spy. I couldn’t believe it. I had a humongous desire to meet Mr. Stetson Kennedy. I felt very nervous, almost faint, when I met him,” Riley wrote.

Considering Kennedy’s profession, his wife’s occupation and the locale for the reception, Riley’s summary was appropriate.

The fact “the old guy” had led such an interesting life prompted the young boy to echo an oft-repeated observation,

“Well, I guess you can’t judge a book by its cover.”

Ends…

Wish I had This Sign at the Old Book Shop

As a former bookshop owner I firmly believed children of a certain age and disposition should be parked outside the shop, or allowed to play in traffic, before entering my Old Book Shop http://anoldbooklook.com/about.asp (note the little kinder clambering up the shelves in window-painting)

Along with a sign on the door reading: "Open by Appointment - or Chance" I had another which told callers: "Buyers Welcome, Browers Tolerated, Children @#!!$". Most parents got the message and sent the potential book-destroyer and shelf-mountaineer,(think Richmal Crompton's WILLIAM) off with their other half.

Except the fairly distinguished chap who entered one day with a child who had the control of spit on a skillet. I lasted an agonizing 23.01 seconds before cornering and confronting the Young Master and told him unless he treated my precious tomes with respect, he would be ejected. Asking what he was interested in - cowboys, war,seriel-killers, I selected an appropriate book, and seated him on a stool across from my desk.

Papa, poking around somewhere in the stacks in the back, emerged a while later with a puzzled frown, glanced at his wide-eyed son clutching a book, thought better of it, paid for his puchase and left - hurridly.

Years later, said gent and his college-age son returned to my Palm Beach shop. The youth nodded briefly then quietly browsed the stock. Papa smiled and said, before dissapearing to rummage amongst the stacks: "Thank you. He's never forgotten his last visit here."

That was the last time I ever saw the former Canadian Inspector General, and his son.