New Vest, Old Story
Because I’m an absolute sucker when it comes to family heirlooms and objects that provoke nostalgia, I carry my great-great-grandfather’s 1912 L.C. Smith Field Grade, a few of his paper shells, his dog whistle, and some photos of him when I’m afield. The vest I wear is brand new, but people still ask me, “Was that also your great-great-grandfather’s vest?” Well, no. But I understand why someone could draw that conclusion. The vest gives off a timeless vibe; built so well it could’ve been passed down four generations.
I’d be willing to bet most folks couldn’t name their great-grandparents, yet I could tell you all eight of mine and everything about them. Great-great-grandparents? Yep, could name all sixteen. I wear one’s wedding ring, cook in one’s cast iron, use one’s china, and sleep under one’s quilt. But I’ve been obsessed with one, Everett Swaim, since I was a boy. My maternal grandfather’s father’s father: “Father” as he’s referred to in the family. I’ve collected his stories, photographs, letters, and an assortment of his belongings over the years. I even grew up on his farm, where my Grandaddy lived through the woods in his house. Swaim was an upland guide in central North Carolina for over sixty years and was credited by The American Field as the most outstanding guide in the south. Starting in 1903 at the age of sixteen, Father went to work for The Thomasville Shooting Club. Not the Thomasville where you can buy a fine shotgun, but the one where you would pawn a fine shotgun.
At the turn of the century through the mid-1900s, the Piedmont of North Carolina was some of the highest regarded quail shooting in the country. J.P. Morgan had a private lodge in Climax. W. Gould Brokaw, the real-life inspiration for Jay Gatsby, had a lodge near Archdale that could hold its own to the Biltmore. Clarence Mackay entertained millionaire guests at his Deep River Lodge in Jamestown. But the Thomasville Shooting Club was unique. Made up of twenty-five members, primarily Wall Street brokers, lawyers, politicians, doctors, and the like from New York and Philadelphia, they came to Thomasville to enjoy fine sport with their custom guns and heavy-on-the-pocketbook pooches. Father acquired land leases for the Club, 60,000 acres in total, and bred, raised, and trained the heavy-on-the-pocketbook pooches. He became head guide not long after his start.
For the past fourteen years, I’ve taken it upon myself to tell his story, The Thomasville Shooting Club story, and the stories of the lost and forgotten quail lodges of North Carolina. I’m in the throes of finishing a book dedicated to that chapter of lost history, publishing in 2027. Swaim’s dedication to a few ounces of feathers and the dogs responsible for pointing them led me down the path as a writer, hunter, and passionate historian. I inherited his side-by-side in college and have since used it to kill my first woodcock and bobwhite and set pheasant, the bobwhite and pheasant taken from one of the very farms upon which Swaim guided.
Looking back, I understand why it took me so long to kill my first bobwhite. I wanted it to have a deeper meaning, one that would honor Swaim’s legacy. I knew I wanted to use Swaim’s side-by-side, which continues to pull double duty as my gun now, and knew I wanted to take it on a particular farm with a pointing dog and my buddy Grayson Guyer. But my modern bird vest didn’t suit the narrative I was after. Enter the Strap Vest from Tom Beckbe.
I had wanted it since the first time I laid eyes on one in Middleburg, Virginia. The canvas was the same dark brown as Father’s boots and the straps as toasted as the tobacco he grew. I was woodcock hunting with Grayson a year later and saw he was wearing one complete with a brass plate with his initials. Now I really wanted one. I ordered the vest and hatched a plan to make it unique to me.
The Thomasville Shooting Club had their own china pattern. Each piece had the head of an English Pointer with “Thomasville Shooting Club” written beneath. I sent the china logo off for digitization, and it sat in a file on my computer for three years before I finally knew what to use it for.
On the back of my Strap Vest, I had the logo embroidered as big as possible. On the front right pocket I had Swaim’s signature embroidered. The old school, high-quality vest was now uniquely mine and ready just in time for my legacy quail hunt. Vests weren’t a thing back in the early upland days. But I do know if Swaim were to pick one today, it’d be a Tom Beckbe. Plenty of room in the back for birds and a post-hunt bottle, deep front pouches for shells, and pockets on the back of the front pouches for long, thick cigars—all the essentials.
I like it when someone asks about the huge logo on the back of my vest or the signature on the front pouch. The back panel of my vest is a billboard that pulls back the curtain on a lost chapter of history and the signature a permanent reminder of an incredible man who dedicated his life to a few ounces of feathers.
