 OWAA Legends
Conservationist Legend Jim Keefe
By Joel M. Vance
Jim Keefe once was giving a program on a stage, and he reached a fever pitch
of conservation evangelism … and fell off the stage into the orchestra pit with
a great clatter of chairs.
He clambered back on and, as the audience sat in stunned silence, said, “Don’t
ever say I don’t know how to make a point!”
John Madson and I once kept a bunch of OWAA members rolling on the floor at an
annual conference telling Jim Keefe stories.
Jim had a tendency for bizarre accidents. Like the time he shot himself with a
bow and arrow – and the time he ricocheted a black-powder pistol ball right
between his eyes. He told these stories on himself, and we retold them with
affection. Jim was far more than a source of amusing anecdotes though. He was
the best boss I ever had.
When he died in September 1999, he either was the youngest 75 year old or the
oldest – young because he always thought young; old because he was a man perhaps
born out of his time. Philosophically, he was geared to about 1830.
Jim should have been a mountain man. His passion was making and shooting
black-powder guns, and he regressed from caplocks to flintlocks. He would have
been entirely at home in camp with Jim Bridger. Ol’ Jim (Bridger) was a
storyteller of legend, and so was Ol’ Jim (Keefe).
Although his inclinations were toward the 19th century, he was as forward
thinking as anyone I’ve ever known. He was an OWAA legend as deserving as any
we’ve recognized. He led Missouri’s Conservation Department information program
for 28 years, saw it evolve from an Information Section of a few people to a
populated Public Affairs Section to an even more well-staffed Public Outreach
Section.
Jim was dedicated to information, never mind the euphemistic “outreaching.” He
figured that if the department was doing a good job, it would sell itself, and
if it wasn’t, we should try to fix the problem rather than try a cosmetic public
relations job.
Through the early years, Jim’s wife Doris (Dink to everyone) was just that – a
wife. It took a landmark campaign to change her overnight from a housewife to a
tireless organizer who would, even before her husband, be honored as a Missouri
Conservation Hall of Fame inductee.
That campaign was in 1975-76 – to get a one-eighth-cent sales tax on the ballot,
the money constitutionally dedicated to fish, wildlife and forestry. It wasn’t
the first time Missouri conservationists had gone directly to the voters,
skirting a capricious and sometimes greedy state Legislature.
In 1936 voters approved a constitutional amendment, put on the ballot by
initiative petition, to establish a bipartisan Conservation Commission that
would, in turn, hire a professional staff. Missourians created the department by
their vote, and they cherished it for the next 40 years until they once again
were asked to do something revolutionary. That was to tax themselves and to
trust the department with dedicated funds, secure from legislative interference.
I don’t think Jim Keefe ever had any doubt that the issue would pass (it did,
barely). He was convinced that Missourians cherished their conservation heritage
and would put their money behind it. Even critics admitted that the department
was above dirty politics – they might not have liked conservation in general,
but they couldn’t find fault with the way the department administered the
program.
Jim was the information spearhead during what amounted to six years of planning.
In 1969 the idea of increased funding developed, but after conservationists
gathered the most signatures ever on an initiative, a court ruled that the
petition was flawed and threw it out.
The proposal had been for a penny tax on a soft drink container ... probably a
foolish hope, given that 7-Up had its world headquarters in St. Louis and vowed
to spend whatever it took to defeat the measure.
After that balls-up in 1972, the conservationists decided to go for a general
sales tax increase in the 1976 election ... and the Information Section got the
job of selling the program. I joined the department in 1969, just in time to
inherit the writing of the various publications that explained what the
department would do with the money.
I was the ink pen in the hands of planners far advanced over me. Jim was one of
those few who shaped the program that went to the voters. He was the logical
choice to write those sales pitches, but gave that job to me and pushed,
prodded, poked and edited until I came up with what he wanted.
A year before the 1976 election, Dink Keefe appeared an unlikely champion. She
had spent her adult life raising four children and was a sweet, quiet woman who
stayed in the background. All that changed overnight. She knew a vital need when
she saw one.
The Conservation Federation, Missouri’s largest citizen conservation group,
spearheaded the petition campaign. But it was short staffed and overworked. The
executive secretary, Ed Stegner, and two assistants would travel the state,
riding herd on petition gatherers and making talks to sell the idea.
They badly needed someone to organize the office and the campaign, a central
clearinghouse. They found that person in Dink. She volunteered to help and soon
found herself at the Federation office eight hours a day, in charge of
everything.
Think of keeping track of thousands of petitions in eight Congressional
districts, making sure that the petitions were legally correct and that the nine
districts gathered enough signatures. Think of keeping in contact with hundreds
of volunteer petition gatherers and thousands of signatures.
Dink did it, full time, unpaid, for a year. It was a thankless and monumental
job. She never complained, never slacked off. She just did what had to be done.
When it was over and Missouri had given itself a landmark conservation program,
she quietly left the Federation office and went home to her home and family.
When you stack her list of honors against those of Jim’s, it’s lopsided in his
favor, but without her untiring and unpaid organization, Missouri would not have
the $80 million annually that the conservation sales tax brings in and the
concomitant program recognized as the nation’s best.
Jim and Dink married in 1943 and spent military time in Mountain Home, Idaho, an
Air Force base that provided the former Sgt. Keefe with hilarious stories of his
uniformed career. They probably were embellished, but not much.
Their marriage was a powerful union, and when Dink was inducted into the
Missouri Conservation Hall of Fame, Jim said, “I believe Dink is here with us
today.” In the same regard, though they both now are gone and both Hall of Fame
inductees, I can’t help feeling they are together somewhere but also present
where they’re needed.
He was Irish to the core, including, once, owning an Irish setter that was as
dumb as it was beautiful. He and Dink had four kids with eminently Irish names:
Kevin, Kathy, Kerry and Kelly. Once, at a meeting, a fellow who was about 2.5
sheets to the wind, squinted at Jim’s identification badge on which he had
printed “O’Keefe” and slurred, “Okafee – what kinda name is that?”
Jim never said no to an idea, nor failed to support it while it had a chance of
working. His philosophy was to try new things and if they didn’t work, then try
something else.
So, he went along with statewide “conservation fairs” called Evenings With
Wildlife that showcased the department and provided a night out for rural
Missourians.
He endorsed an employee communications contest where non-information types could
win wildlife art prints for their public communications efforts.
He gathered Edgar Denison to his publications’ bosom, and Denison’s Wildflowers
of Missouri became a bestseller even though it had nothing to do with hunting
and fishing. It was one of several natural history books published before the
conservation tax was passed and before the department had a Natural History
Section.
In 1980, Jim became a member of OWAA’s Circle of Chiefs, an award that
recognizes communicators who have had significant input in conservation. It was
an overdue honor. The Circle was founded by Werner Nagel, a co-worker at the
Missouri Department, in 1958, and Nagel preceded Keefe as a Chief in 1964, as
did his predecessor as Information Chief Dan Saults (1973).
Jim accumulated many honors, the latest being induction into the Missouri
Conservation Hall of Fame. He already had been named Master Conservationist in
1998, giving him a clean sweep of the two most prestigious conservation awards
in his home state.
Under Jim, the Missouri Conservationist magazine went from a circulation of
20,000 to 450,000 and was named the nation’s top state conservation publication
five times. Jim wrote the scripts for six department films, all of which won
national awards. He also wrote The World of the Opossum For Lippincott’s Life
History series and a series of children’s readers. But his best writing was a
prickly editorial voice that enlivened the pages of The Conservationist for more
than a quarter century. Sometimes he would write editorials that, essentially,
set Conservation Commission policy – without the knowledge or consent of the
four Conservation Commissioners. “I don’t think they read the magazine anyway,”
he told me once.
He would decide what was right for the department, and then he’d put the
commissioners on the spot to endorse it. Once, when the nation’s governors were
holding their annual meeting in Missouri, the Commission wanted to give them
free fishing permits. Jim adamantly said, “We don’t give free permits to anyone
else. Why should we do it for them?” The commissioners agreed and chipped in
personal money to buy the permits.
Jim and then-editor Mac Johnson persuaded John Madson to write a dozen articles,
each showcasing a month of the year, for The Conservationist. John did it for
free. He had a soft spot for the Missouri Information Section crew and
considered us great friends – as we did him.
We had a congenial group and often hunted, fished or canoed together. It was a
tribulation to quail hunt with Jim because of his black-powder shotguns. The
covey would go up, he’d shoot and a great cloud of smoke would envelop
everything, making it near-impossible to tell if anyone had hit anything.
We’d have to wait while he reloaded and the dogs chased down singles. But it was
worth the wait. The hunting usually was good; the company always was good. It is
a compliment to say, “Yes, I’ve been down the river with him.”
Jim went down the river with many of us – and we’re all better for it.
Joel M. Vance was recruited by Jim Keefe as a writer for the Missouri
Conservation Department and worked with him for 17 years.
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