Boomer Winfrey 

Varmint County Correspondent

For the past couple of months I’ve dedicated this space to reviewing a little of Varmint County’s colorful history, for the benefit of those readers who are somewhat new to the Slippery Rock Gazette.

We have looked back at how the county got its unusual name, in a compromise when the two competing families of founding father Louis Lowe could not agree upon how to pronounce “Lowe County.” We also learned how the two most infamous moonshining clans in the county, the Hockmeyers and Haigs, arrived here and how their century-old feud got started and finally put to rest.

But the mountain clans and various descendants of old Louis Lowe have been far from the most dominant families when it comes to county politics. In fact, the Haigs and Hockmeyers have for the most part avoided getting involved in the goings- on at the courthouse. The Lowes, by name if not blood, vanished from the county entirely by the eve of the Civil War, victims of “Louie’s Curse” in which no Lowe descendants sired male children for two generations.

Instead, for more than a century through several generations, a handful of family names have dominated the leadership of Varmint County’s political circles. Cornelius Jass, lovingly known throughout the county as “Cornie,” served as County Judge for many years before retiring and ceding the office to his grandson Hugh Ray.

Cornelius was the son of Jacob Jass, who also served in that office for a number of years after the Civil War. Jacob was a retired Confederate officer who had helped escaped slaves flee to the North through the Underground Railroad before the war.

When Hugh Ray asked his grandpa why old Jacob had fought for the South if he hated slavery that much, Cornelius just replied, “I reckon he just didn’t like Yankees.”

At any rate, in honor of his Confederate ancestor, Cornelius refused to celebrate Thanksgiving in the traditional way, instead raising the Confederate battle flag and firing off an ancient smoothbore cannon to kick off what he termed “Mister Lincoln’s Holiday.”

Hugh’s father Quentin rejected the family’s political traditions, instead concentrating on operating various coal and lumber companies and amassing a modest fortune. You can’t say Quentin Jass lacked a sense of humor, however, in the naming of his son Hugh. His wife helped her son avoid a life of embarrassment, adding Ray as a middle name and insisting that folks address him as “Hugh Ray” Jass.

After a couple of decades in office as County Judge (later changed to County Executive), Hugh Ray retired to take his place at the seat of real power in Varmint County, Doc Clyde Filstrup’s weekly poker game.

Doc Filstrup came to Varmint County back in the 1950s as the young company doctor for the Upper Primroy Smokeless Coal Company. The company closed its mines a few years later, laid off everyone and closed the company infirmary. Doc Filstrup had gotten involved in local politics and decided to stay around, serving for over 20 years as Mayor of the county seat of Lower Primroy.

Doc also served a few terms as chairman of the county school board and eventually managed to stay around long enough to have delivered practically every baby in Varmint County for over 40 years. He also specialized in sewing up knife wounds, removing bullets and re-setting broken noses, which made Doc popular with the Haigs, Hockmeyers and most of the patrons of the county’s various bars and other watering holes.

A visit to Doc’s clinic, I soon learned, was an unforgettable experience. A nurse would prep the patient for whatever emergency procedure was needed, then Doc would waltz in, clutching a cheap cigar and glass of whiskey.

He would hand the cigar to the nurse and use the whiskey to sterilize his hands before setting to work with scalpel or needle and thread.

“In 43 years I’ve never lost a mother or a baby,” Doc once remarked about his child delivery methods. “Fathers, now, that’s a different matter.” 

Doc was referring to the time Carl Bottoms dropped dead of a heart attack in the waiting room after learning his wife had given birth to triplets, all healthy little girls. “No, not more women!” Carl was heard to mutter with his last breath, surrounded by his other five daughters and mother-in-law.

At some point while serving as mayor of the county seat and largest town, Doc began to invite the County Judge, first old Cornelius Jass and later his grandson Hugh Ray, to come by and play a few hands of cards while discussing the political landscape of Varmint County.

Also at the poker table would be the county’s “High Sheriff,” local judges and other government officials who wielded power. By the time I began covering news for the War Whoop & Exterminator, Doc’s poker companions included Judge Hugh Ray Jass, Sheriff Smoky T. Bandit, Criminal Court Judge Hobert “Hard Time” Harwell, Hugh Ray’s longtime sidekick, and sometime shady character Archie Aslinger, Road Superintendent “Pothole” Perkins and on occasion, Doc’s son Clyde Junior.

Clyde Filstrup Junior shared his daddy’s political ambitions but not his common sense. He served on the county commission and ran unsuccessfully for a number of higher offices, always falling short. Clyde Junior did not follow his daddy into the medical profession, deciding that becoming the town’s undertaker would be more lucrative or at least require less schooling.

Some of the less generous wags around town referred to Doc as “Stab ’Em” Filstrup and Clyde Junior as “Slab ’Em” Filstrup. Doc loves his son after a fashion, I’m sure, but shows him little respect and unfortunately, Clyde Junior seldom fails to disappoint.

Sheriff Smoky T. Bandit was the youngest son of longtime Sheriff Shirley Bandit, who had continued the family tradition of giving girl’s names to sons so “They will have to fight growing up, and it’ll toughen them up.”

By the time Sheriff Shirley dropped dead of a heart attack after seeing his first long-haired hippie protester on television, his “toughen up” plan had worked a bit too well with his oldest son, Connie, who had racked up a list of felonies and was serving time at Brushy Mountain state pen.

With Connie out of the running, Doc, Hugh Ray and others turned to Shirley’s youngest son, Julienne Thadius Bandit. Deciding that “Julienne” might lack the proper image for a 20th Century Sheriff, the powers that be persuaded the younger Bandit to run using his nickname “Smoky,” earned for his preference for cheap cigars.

Later, when that Smoky and the Bandit movie came out in the 1970s, folks couldn’t resist adding the middle initial “T” to Smoky’s name. Hardly a female voter in Varmint County could read “Smoky T. Bandit” on the ballot and not think of Burt Reynolds, thus clinching half the votes automatically.

When Sheriff Smoky decided to retire and become a full-time member of the county’s real power elite at Doc’s poker table, he had the misfortune of having fathered only daughters, and it appeared the 100-year reign of Bandits as County Sheriff would come to an end.

Smoky’s daughter Stephanie, however, decided to run for the office against Smoky’s longtime Chief Deputy Hiram Potts. Hiram won the race when Smoky secretly supported his campaign, not wanting his daughter to embark on a dangerous career in law enforcement.

The plot backfired when Hiram ended up falling in love with his opponent, marrying Stephanie and naming her as his Chief Deputy.

Other regulars at the poker table include Judge “Hard Time” Harwell, who has earned a reputation for being tough on convicted criminals. Hard Time for many years took his vacations by volunteering to serve as a judicial witness at state executions. 

People thought the Judge was hard-nailed and ruthless, but he once confided to Doc that, “The State pays all my expenses there and back and look where the states are that still enforce the death penalty – Nevada, Texas and Florida among others. I just go on to the casinos in Las Vegas or the beaches on the Gulf Coast while I’m in the neighborhood.”

Also joining the poker table on occasion are other politicians and a few other notables such as lawyer Philbert McSwine. Philbert once told this tale on himself: “I was standing in front of my daddy’s pool hall one day when old Doc Gag, the dentist, was nearly run down by a drunk driver.”

‘I need to find me an honest lawyer and sue that fool,’ Doc blurted out, but my daddy replied, ‘An honest lawyer? Why on earth would you want an honest lawyer?’ I knew right then and there what I wanted to be when I grew up.”

Philbert was true to his word. He never attended law school but went up to Virginia and “read for the law,” serving as an apprentice to a judge for several years while he studied law books and later returning home to pass the bar exam and hang out his shingle across from the courthouse.

Most folks around here know Philbert as the lawyer to hire if you’re guilty. If you’re guilty, Philbert will get you the best deal he can negotiate. If you’re innocent, people, including juries, will assume you’re guilty when you hire Philbert to defend you.

This “Good Ol’ Boy” system served Varmint County, more or less successfully for the better part of 30 years, political leaders debating policy at public meetings and then consulting with the men around Doc’s poker table before making their actual decisions.

It took a basketball star, a jovial grocery store cashier and a cheating husband to put the good ol’ boys in their place. Next month, I’ll refresh your memory about the latest chapter in Varmint County history: “The Weaker Sex No Longer – Women Take Control.”