This Week in...
The Great Hound Match: Day 4 by Martha Wolfe
Harry Worcester Smith’s American-bred foxhounds run a fox at a brutal pace for hours before putting it to ground.
Belle Meade Master Charlie Lewis Steps Down after 21 Years by Norman Fine
Financial Manager, builder of hunt facilities, one-man welcoming committee, retires as Master. (pg. 1)
Keyboard Bullying Harms Your Hunt and Your Sport by Rachel Wilkoski
The author worries, rightly, that incivility and personal attacks on the part of foxhunters on social media is harming our sport. (pg. 7)
The Fox’s Prophecy by D.W. Nash
In a prescient poem for the times, the fox believes that all humans, at both ends of the philosophical spectrum, have something to answer for. (pg. 11)
Robert A. Kinsley, MFH
The Elkridge-Harford Master who built a business empire and gave so much of himself back to the hunt, the community, the cause of preservation, and the nation’s history. (pg. 15)
The Great Hound Match: Day 4
By Martha Wolfe
Harry Worcester Smith in hunting attire, circa 1910, from the Harry Worcester Smith Archive (MC0041), National Sporting Library & MuseumThis week's Bonus article, free to all (no subscription necessary), is an excerpt from Chapter 10 of "The Great Hound Match" by Martha Wolfe―a historical account (with liberties taken) of that famous quarrel between Masters A. Henry Higginson and Harry Worcester Smith over the merits and hunting ability of the English foxhound compared to the American foxhound. The author views the match as “a metaphorical battle in America’s coming of age―her psychic independence from Britain’s lingering shroud at the turn of the twentieth century.”
Saturday, November 4, 1905, Grafton Hunt’s Second Day
“Hounds never ran so fast since the world began.”
−Allen Potts quoting Dr. Charles McEachran, judge for The Match, Richmond Times-Dispatch. Saturday, November 5, 1905
You and Ham trot on ahead with the hounds,” Smith told Mal Richardson. “We’ll not be far behind.”
The party from Upperville set off at half-past four from Oakley this fine clear Saturday morning for an hour and a half hack to the meet in Middleburg. Richardson, Hatcher and Jackson, keeping the coupled hounds within the confines of their triangle, moved off at a good clip, their fresh horses glad to be stretching their legs. They could cover some ground on the Ashby Gap Turnpike, a relatively good road; the visitors from New England were universally appalled at the state of Virginia’s roads. Overturned buggies were a common site. Fatal accidents were not infrequent. Smith was inclined to take it a bit slow this morning due to his broken foot.
Neither his fall at Goose Creek nor that stunt with the narrow wooden gate on Friday had slowed Smith down until he had arrived back at Oakley on Friday evening and found that he couldn’t get his right boot off. “It doesn’t hurt,” he’d told Rozier when the latter had noticed him limping toward the house from the stables. Then, when Smith had asked Ham to pull his boot off, it wouldn’t budge.
Rozier sent a man down to the village to fetch Dr. Rinker. “And don’t bring that new guy Gochnauer, whatever you do,” he’d said.
Dr. Rinker had been practicing in the region since the mid-eighties, the man trusted to do everything from set a bone to deliver a baby. He owned the pharmacy next to Piedmont Inn. His buggy drove up at sunset.
Allen Potts, Paul Whitin, Marguerite and Morley Davis, Mal Richardson and Hal Movius stood around the Dulany sitting room, bourbon’s in hand, watching the doctor cut Smith’s leather boot off with a pair of surgical scissors to inspect his multi-colored foot. “You’ll have to stay off of it for two weeks,” the good doctor told Smith, who laughed in his face, something to which the doctor was not accustomed. “Like it or not,” Doc Rinker said, “You’ll have to keep it up and stay off of it if you want it to heal.”
“I’ll hunt if it kills me,” Smith said.
“Can’t you wrap it?”
“That won’t help much.”
“I’ll keep it up tonight, wrap it in the morning, stick it in a rubber boot and be gone.”
“I’ll leave a bandage. You appear determined.” No one in the room missed the significance of the doctor’s understatement.
Next morning, foot wrapped and encased in said rubber boot, Smith was on his way. “You’ll have to carry the hounds to the meet, then on to the first covert at the Frank place,” he had told Mal Richardson, “but I’ll be hunting them as usual.” Five miles to Middleburg then another four to the meet near the marble quarry at the base of Hog Back Mountain, they would be in the saddle for almost two hours even before hunting began, which is probably why only half the number of people who’d hunted on previous days showed up at Saturday’s meet, about twenty-eight in all.
It was still dark as they left Middleburg, so they stayed on roadways and lanes in a circuitous route to Marble Quarry on Goose Creek, home of a plethora of foxes as well as Potomac marble from which the United States capitol building’s pillars are allegedly built. Sunrise was 6:13 a.m. Hounds were uncoupled and sent to covert precisely at 6:45. “Sinner,” Smith’s good cold-line hound, began to whimper almost immediately, but it didn’t amount to much. He and his mates gave that up and continued on down Goose Creek. They didn’t strike a true line for more than an hour, but there was nothing slow about their progress. Unlike Higginson and his huntsman Cotesworth who “picked the hounds up” with their horn periodically to move them from covert to covert or to bring them together if they were separated, Smith let his hounds work at will, trusting them to find and hunt what they could. They spread out far and wide, which was disturbing to those who were used to watching English hounds work. The American hounds’ ears dragged the ground, their sterns weren’t especially straight, their lack of uniformity in color and look jarred Higginson and his friends. Julian Chamberlain was especially revolted.
A. Henry Higginson, MFH, Middlesex Hunt, in derby and spats with huntsman Robert Cotesworth and his imported English foxhounds of the period. / Courtesy, National Sporting Library and Museum
“They really do work differently,” Allen Potts said to Hal Movius as they watched from a nearby hill top. Hill-topping is one way to get a broader view of the proceedings. Potts was referring not only to the Grafton and Middlesex hounds, but to their Masters as well.
“It’s remarkable,” Movius said. He was from Philadelphia and hunted west of Philly with the Brandywine Hunt. “This is rough country, too. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
From their vantage point, they could see all the way to the Potomac and west to the weather station on the eastern slope of the Blue Ridge Mountains. All around them the landscape dipped and swooped toward hundreds of tiny tributaries then rose again to countless wooded, pastured and orchard-laden hills.
“I’m used to the flat scrubby land around Henrico County,” Potts said. “Considering how hard we’ve been riding, it’s incredible that no one has been more seriously hurt in the past four days. Smith is a maniac.”
“You have to admire both men,” Movius said judiciously.
Just then the hounds gave tongue and flew along the Goose Creek Valley toward Aldie. Allen Potts saw the fox several hundred yards in front of them. “Tally-Ho!” Potts yelled, standing in his stirrups, doffing his cap in his right hand and using it to point toward the fox. It was a beautiful red fox with a great fat white-tipped brush that shook as it bounded between coverts below them.
“He doesn’t seem too worried,” Movius said, and the men galloped after the field.
At the first rail fence a man named Duffy came off his horse when it leaped practically from a standstill into the field beyond. Each rider taking his or her own line to jump and follow the hounds, resulted in the field spreading out at every fence line, road crossing or creek crossing and then coming back together on the other side to continue on the hounds’ line. It was the hounds’ pace that was brutal. As Smith was unable to keep up because of his aching foot, Rozier Dulany attempted to do so, but fell behind when his horse soon became too winded to continue. Other riders tried to do the same. In the end the few who were with hounds after an hour’s run had followed those who knew the country well across dozens of short cuts, listening to the hounds in the distance as they ran. Ham Jackson on Smith’s pony fell, the victim of a hidden ditch on the other side of a seemingly simple fence. The five-foot drop on the far side, which he didn’t notice until mid-air, surprised both he and his pony. They rolled head over heels but came up unscathed.
At the Cross Roads the Grafton hounds lost their scent and checked for about fifteen minutes. Smith had fallen behind. Among the few riders with the hounds was Fred Okie, again acting as Jim Maddux’s replacement judge.
“There he goes!” cried another rider who had chosen to watch from yet another hilltop. The fox could be seen dashing in and out of the underbrush along “the Goose” as the locals called the creek.
“Where’s Smith?” someone asked.
“Not here,” Hal Movius said.
“In that case,” Okie said, “Oui, Sinner, here Sinner,” calling Smith’s lead hound to him.
“Hey! That’s against the rules,” Movius yelled. “You can’t hunt Smith’s pack.”
“To hell with the rules,” Okie said. “That fox is getting away.”
The good hound came running and Okie put him on the track of the viewed fox. Sinner bellowed for his pack mates and off they went again.
Twice the fox swam across Goose Creek; twice the hounds followed. At one crossing Smith and three other riders came off in the mud on the steep slippery creek bank, but they soon remounted and caught up with the pack. When dodging didn’t work, the fox took to a straight line across the valley in an effort to outrun the pack. Only nine riders, including Smith, were with the hounds when they came to an abrupt halt at a decrepit tumble-down house on the Pot House road north of Middleburg.
“Sinner! Spic!” Smith called to his lead hounds, trying to cast them in the woods that surrounded the old house. “On to him. Go on,” he said. But the hounds kept returning to the house.
“He’s got to be under it,” Ham Jackson said to Smith as the hounds circled the old foundation again and again. “He must have a hidey-hole under there.” Marguerite Davis, the only woman at the end of the run, her husband Morley, Rozier Dulany, the judges Dr. McEachran and Hal Movius, Fred Okie and Higginson were there.
“Splendid run,” Higginson said to Smith, thinking the day was probably over. Horses and riders looked thoroughly spent.
“We’re not done yet,” Smith said.
“You’re kidding,” Higginson said.
“Not likely,” Smith said ignoring the look of intense disbelief on the faces of those gathered around the old dwelling. “I said I’d hunt until dusk, and I meant it.”
“Look here, old man,” Dr. McEachran said. “Your hounds have done well.”
“You’re damn right they have,” Smith said.
“Hadn’t you better let well enough alone?”
“Well enough isn’t good enough. I want a kill.”
Rozier Dulany cleared his throat. Smith looked around. He saw in the faces of his friends and rivals a look of elation from the chase mixed with disappointment in his stubborn pride. “Ok. Ok,” he said. “Have it your way.” In a moment Mal Richardson came trotting up to the house, finally catching up to the Master. “About time,” Smith said.
Hal Richardson, Ham Jackson, Rozier Dulany and Claude Hatcher took the hounds back to Oakley. Higginson and his entourage headed south to Middleburg.
“Are you still thinking of buying that horse?” Julian Chamberlain asked Mrs. Pierce. She had seen a horse that she liked very much belonging to Courtland Smith, Harry’s brother, in the Dulany’s field.
“I am thinking of buying him,” Mrs. Pierce said. “I’ll drive over this afternoon for another look. I’ll need to ride him. There must be a reason he’s named Champion.”
In the opposite direction, Smith and the Davises walked their horses home to Oakley.
“By God that was a fine run,” Westmorland Davis said.
“It was,” Marguerite said.
“You’ve stayed up front every day,” Smith said to Marguerite.
“That’s thanks to my good string of hunters,” she said patting her horse.
“And your riding. No reason for modesty,” Smith said.
“Well, someone has to be,” she said.
Posted June 20, 2020
The Great Hound Match is available from online retailers and from the author. Click for more information.
Belle Meade Master Charlie Lewis Steps Down after 21 Years
By Norman Fine
Charlie Lewis whipped-in at Belle Meade for fifty years. / Bella Vita Photogaphie
Charlie Lewis announced his retirement as Master at the Annual Meeting of the Belle Meade Hunt (GA) after twenty-one years of service. Charlie has whipped-in to Belle Meade huntsmen for fifty years―to Master and huntsman Epp Wilson and before that to Epp’s late father, James, the hunt’s founder, Master, and first huntsman.
Over the years, Charlie has mentored several Belle Meade youngsters in the art of whipping-in, crossing the country, and growing into responsible adults. He served on the Belle Meade Hunt Committee as well.
“Charlie has been the go-to guy for fifty years,” said Epp Wilson. “He will tackle any problem for the Hunt. Whatever the problem or challenge, anyone in the Hunt could go to him and get wise counsel and advice. From landowner challenges, to friction between certain members, to building new hunt barns after fires.
“Our first fire was in 1978. No horses were hurt. It turned out to be a blessing. We moved the hunt barn and kennels from that location on the edge of the hunt country and next to a busy federal highway. We―Belle Meade Hunt, Inc.―bought twenty-five acres of land in the middle of our hunt country and built stables and kennels there. That was successful largely due to Charlie’s leadership and advice. That hunt barn burned in 2002. Again no horses were hurt. Again we rebuilt. This time on the same site.
“Charlie pulled the rabbit out of the hat and built us a new and better hunt barn. A gifted and energetic builder, he also built us a new club house, Boots Hall, at the same time.
“He has been the financial manager of our Hunt for many years. The man has so many talents. One of his best is his ability to take newcomers out in his truck and get views of the coyote, with hounds in hot pursuit. He has made many a fine foxhunting supporter that way, and some have become regular foxhunters.
“Charlie was instrumental in all the kennel upgrades. He is a gifted horse trainer, dog trainer, and people trainer. He has a knack for finding a win/win solution for even the most vexing of problems. He has the unique ability to listen―even tell you something you don’t want to hear in a way that not only doesn’t make you mad or hurt your feelings, you end up agreeing that he is right.
“We will all have to work extra hard to keep things going smoothly without Charlie. Rest assured we will be calling on him a lot for advice.”
A grateful Belle Meade Hunt presented Charlie Lewis with a Belinda Sillars Bronze foxhound in commemoration of his years of service as Master.
Belle Meade is one of those “destination hunts” in North America, discovered and cherished over these many years by foxhunters with an itch to travel and visit. And Master Charlie is one reason that visitors keep coming back.
Belle Meade is a family hunt and a community hunt. As a visitor to Belle Meade, you meet the foxhunters, as you would at any hunt, but you’ll meet non-hunting spouses—like Charlie’s wife, Trudy—and members’ children as well. It’s a place where ‘Southern hospitality,’ a well-worn phrase in this country, is not simply a phrase but a way of life, embedded in how the community relates to each other, to family members, and to their guests. The children are brought up as their parents were brought up, to treat others with respect. You’ll routinely hear words from the distant past—words completely unknown to most youngsters in the country today—like “yes, sir,” or “no, ma’am.”
Except for Epp, who whipped-in to his father and has hunted the country himself since he picked up the horn in 1985, I can think of no one who knows the country and how the quarry runs as does Charlie Lewis. If he’s not on a horse of late, he is filling the necessary job of ‘road whip’ in his truck. Charlie sees more of the hunted quarry from his truck than do those in the mounted field because he knows just where the coyotes will cross—vital for the safety of hounds when running coyote. And when hounds need to be stopped before reaching a state highway or leaving the hunting country, Charlie is there to stop them.
Charlie is one of the last great raconteurs. His après-hunt monologues at the hunt’s clubhouse, Boots Hall, for the benefit of members and guests have long been part of the Belle Meade agenda, and many of his little talks are as unforgettable as is Charlie himself.
Ed Maxwell, longtime and popular hunting member of the Belle Meade community, was appointed Joint-Master at the annual meeting. He brings a wealth of knowledge, experience, and ability to the task. Ed may be taller in height than Charlie, but admitted readily at the meeting that “Charlie leaves some mighty big shoes to fill!”
“Ed is a natural hunter,” said Epp. “He was born to be a gentleman, a family man, and a hunter. His father took him deer and turkey hunting in our hunt country for many years before he even thought about getting on a horse and foxhunting. His lovely wife, Saundra, is the one who got him to ride horses and foxhunt.
“Ed quickly became a whipper-in, as he knew the territory and he understood hunting. He and Saundra have been tremendous assets to Belle Meade ever since―serving on many committees. Ed has been the Tally Ho Wagon Master for more years than we can count. It’s no easy task organizing twenty-five wagons and 500 people annually on Tally Ho Wagons. Ed makes it look easy. He is certainly an excellent choice to help lead Belle Meade into the future.
“Y’all come hunt with us,” said Epp, finishing his tribute, “and see for yourself the many things that make Belle Meade special. Come have your own Belle Meade experience!”
Posted June 26, 2020
Keyboard Bullying Harms Your Hunt and Your Sport
By Rachel Wilkoski
Happy time for our author is sitting on a good horse and following a topnotch pack of hounds. She worries that incivility, personal attacks, and coarseness on the part of foxhunters on social media is harming our sport and our clubs.
As a twenty-two-year-old, I have grown up in the age of extreme technological and social media growth. Everyone has it; everyone uses it. I’ve also grown up in the hunting field and follow hounds three days a week. I travel to hunt and do my best to experience all types of hunting, all over.
My happy place is on a good horse, behind a great pack of hounds. The hunt field is the place where you can leave all other thoughts behind for a few hours and turn your focus to staying topside and keeping up with hounds. The hunt field is a place to be at peace, away from our own and the world’s struggles, whether big or small. But recently...
...I have found that the world’s turmoil has weaseled its way into hunt fields and hunt relationships, both at the hunt meet and on online public forums. It is becoming dangerous to the fate of hunts everywhere as our comments, posts, likes, and shares are tearing us apart when we should be coming together to enjoy a sport that we all love.
Before you became a huntsman, whipper-In, Master of Foxhounds, or just a hunt member, you were/are simply human. You have hopes, dreams, and opinions that have been molded by what you have learned and experienced in your life time. You probably also have Facebook or another form of social media upon which you post your opinions. It is your life, your account, your freedom of speech and expression to which you are entitled in the United States of America. So you ‘like,’ ‘share,’ and ‘comment’ on whatever you feel is important. That said, we must be careful how we express and convey those opinions to others on social media, as it is a direct reflection of not only ourselves, but of our hunt clubs.
When interacting with others online who have varying viewpoints on political and social issues, especially in these trying times, how are you conducting yourself? Do you find yourself engaging in polite discussions where you are able to see the other side of the argument, but still support your beliefs with facts, research, and a calm demeanor that may be the turning point in a discovery for the other party and may alter how they understand the issue you are discussing? Or do you find yourself angrily typing out insults, baiting your friends list, name calling, berating, belittling, and attacking anyone who holds a different stance on the issue at hand? Are you an activist or just simply a keyboard bully? Are you friends with landowners, hunt members, hunt employees, hunt supporters, or potential hunt enthusiasts on Facebook, Instagram, or Twitter? Do those individuals see how you engage with others?
Stand up and fight for what you believe in, educate yourself to be aware of issues out in the world, and support the causes that you feel strongly about, but allow others to do the same. Your view points are not the issue, but the way you discuss them can be. Hunt clubs are fighting harder than ever to stay active, fighting financial battles, shrinking membership, and decreasing land availability in some instances. Do not be the reason the clubs have to fight even harder, soothing ruffled feathers, reclaiming lost members, re-opening closed country. Understand that the successful and fruitful running of a hunt club requires members and staff from all backgrounds, so just like you want to feel heard and respected, make sure you are giving what you want to get. Remember that much of the land over which we ride and follow hounds may belong to people who have opposing beliefs and views from our own, and that your conduct, actions, and language on social media can have serious consequences on your entire club if you abandon civility.
Posted June 23, 2020
Reader Comments (see below) are always invited.
The Fox’s Prophecy
By D.W. Nash
Painting by Anthony BarhamThe Fox’s Prophecy was written in 1871 by D. W. Nash and presented to the then Master of the Ledbury Hounds. Foxes have forever been suspected of harboring deep thoughts, and this poem certainly reflects those ancient superstitions. Through Nash’s fox we read predictions of a future that might well be recognizable to many readers in these times.
However, Foxhunting Life remains apolitical, as always, and, if you read carefully, you will find that for every stone cast by this poem at anyone who might take offense, be assured that there is a stanza here casting a stone as well at the opposite end of the spectrum. The fox, also apolitical, seems to believe that all humans have something to answer for.
For swiftly o’er the level shore
The waves of progress ride;
The ancient landmarks one by one
Shall sink beneath the tide.
Time-honoured creeds and ancient faith,
The Altar and the Crown,
Lordship’s hereditary right,
Before that tide go down.
Base churl shall mock the mighty names
Writ on the roll of time;
Religion shall be held a jest
And loyalty a crime.
No word of prayer, no hymns of praise
Sound in the village school;
The people’s education
In England’s ancient pulpits
Lay orators shall preach
New creeds, and free religions
Self-made apostles teach.
No harvest feast nor Christmastide
Shall farm or manor hold;
Science alone can plenty give,
The only God is Gold.
Homes where love and peace should dwell
Fierce politics shall vex,
And unsexed woman strive to prove
Herself the coarser sex.
Mechanics in their workshops
Affairs of State decide;
Honour and truth old fashioned words
The noisy mobs deride.
The statesmen that should rule the realm
Coarse demagogues displace;
The glory of a thousand years
Shall end in foul disgrace.
Trade shall be held the only good
And gain the sole device;
The statesman’s maxim shall be peace,
And peace at any price.
Her army and her navy
Britain shall cast aside;
Soldiers and ships are costly things,
Defence an empty pride.
The footsteps of the invader
Then England’s shore shall know,
While home-bred traitors give the hand
To England’s every foe.
But not for aye yet once again
When purged by fire and sword
The land her freedom shall regain
To manlier thoughts restored.
Taught wisdom by disaster,
England shall learn to know
That trade is not the only gain
Heaven gives to man below.
The greed for gold departed,
The golden calf cast down,
Old England’s sons again shall raise
The Altar and the Crown.
Posted June 16, 2020
Published at the request of a reader.
Robert A. Kinsley, MFH
Douglas Lees photoRobert Allen Kinsley, MFH of the Elkridge-Harford Hunt (MD), passed away peacefully at his Pennsylvania home on Wednesday morning, June 10, 2020. He was surrounded by his wife Anne (Whalen) Kinsley and his family.
Bob loved his time in the hunting field and on the wooded trails of his farms—riding, fishing, and hunting. He will be remembered for his unfailing love for animals. He created an amazingly successful business, was a hunting member of the Elkridge-Harford Hunt for thirty years, served as Joint-Master for sixteen years, and he ran steeplechase horses.
Cubhunting last season from Bob’s Hanlon House in Monkton, MD / Douglas Lees photo
Writing for the Temple Gwathmey Steeplechase Foundation, Albert J.A. Young, President Emeritus of the Elkridge Harford Hunt Club said, “Hardly a week would go by without seeing red trucks at the hunt club, or mowing, fence building or jump building projects all over the hunt country. Loads of stone and stacks of fence boards and pole jumps mysteriously appeared exactly where needed. We have all crossed the steel fabricated bridges that are scattered throughout the hunt country. Guess where they all came from?”
“More important than all of that,” Mr. Young added, “is the life Bob Kinsley led as a man, a husband, father, grandfather, great grandfather and friend. He was a role model. He is, was and will always be my hero. I admired and respected him truly more than anyone I have ever met in my life. His morals. His work ethic. His leadership skills. His generosity. His kindness. His love of animals and children.”
Born on October 17, 1940, in Philadelphia, the son of the late Robert Wright Kinsley and the late Molly (Savin) Kinsley, he was a graduate of William Penn High School, attended classes at York Junior College, Penn State, York, and the University of Baltimore. He received an Honorary Degree from York College of Pennsylvania.
Bob felt a strong responsibility for land preservation. He was a founding member of the Farm and Natural Lands Trust of York County and felt proud to have preserved thousands of acres of land in southern Pennsylvania and northern Maryland.
Throughout his life, he was passionate about history and preservation. One of his proudest accomplishments was his founding and chairmanship of the Gettysburg Foundation and their work and partnership with the National Park Service to design and build a new museum and visitor center for the Gettysburg National Military Park. His leadership in Gettysburg has revolutionized the visitor experience and created a legacy to not only preserve the historic landscape but also to provide fitting education about the causes and consequences of the American Civil War for future generations of Americans.
Bob began his career in the construction industry directly after his high school graduation in 1958, working for C. Joseph Deller of Dallastown. Within just a few years he had established his own lawn grading business. By 1967, Kinsley Construction was incorporated and shortly after entered the general construction field. He and his wife, Anne, grew and shepherded their business and their family together.
Bob was especially proud of their partnership growing the businesses with their five sons. He was known for his business mind, his quick wit, and his unlimited energy. Mr. Kinsley continued working full time until his death. Under his leadership, the Kinsley family of companies grew to include construction management, general construction, specialty construction trades, real-estate development, property management, manufacturing and professional services. Mr. Kinsley strongly believed he owed his success to his employees and his community.
He served on numerous corporate boards including York Bank and Trust, Mercantile Safe Deposit and Trust Co., D&E Communications Company and Ruscilli Construction Company. Mr. Kinsley was known equally for his business skills and as a champion for civic and community involvement. He was a founding member of the Agricultural and Industrial Museum of York County. He was also a board member of Better York, the York County Community Foundation, the York-Adam Area Boy Scout Council, Junior Achievement and the Chesapeake Bay Foundation. He served as the chairman of the Board of Trustees of the York College of Pennsylvania, the chairman of the South George Street Partnership and chairman of the York County Industrial Development Authority.
A private service will be held later this summer. Kuhner Associates Funeral Directors, Inc., 863 South George Street, York is in charge of arrangements.
Donations in lieu of flowers may be sent to the Gettysburg Foundation, 1195 Baltimore Pike, Gettysburg PA 17325; or York College of Pennsylvania, 441 Country Club Road, York PA 17403.
Posted June 14, 2020
Bob Kinsley’s Incomplete with Charlie Fenwick, III, winning the 2008 Rokeby Bowl. Incomplete also won the Virginia Gold Cup in 2012 and the International Gold Cup in 2011. / Douglas Lees photo