As Urban Legends go, ghosts and haunted houses usually top the list. There are too many legends around here that have no basis in fact other than to scare your pants off, no other way to put it! Most of them were brought in from some other part of the country or world, and fit it where there were similar living conditions or landscape.
If you are younger than 50 years old, then you may not be aware that one persistent Warren County legend is, in fact, based on 100% truth. Most people would scoff at the idea that a quiet city like Bowling Green, Kentucky, in the heart of the Bible belt, was once notorious for having one of the longest lasting houses of prostitution in the United States, only topped by Dumas Hotel in Butte, Montana which ran continuously from 1890- 1982, and The Chicken Ranch that’s better known as the “Best Little Whorehouse in Texas” which ran continuously from 1905- 1973.
John McDowell asked, “What happens when a young and respectable woman – a Sunday school teacher struggling to support two small sons – suddenly thumbs her nose at convention and embarks on a career as the madam of a whorehouse in her home town?”
Pauline Tabor and her first husband parted ways at the start of the Depression. Moving back in with her parents, she took up selling cosmetics door to door to supply an income to help out with necessities for her and her two sons. She became mistress to a Louisville man she only ever addressed as “the Colonel,” and she ended up going off to Louisville to try her luck at a better life to support herself and her children. She contracted typhoid fever, and her recovery set her back so far her father had to come and bring her back to Bowling Green.
The typhoid affected her glands and she ballooned to over 200 pounds. She was never able to lose the extra weight, and so resigned herself to the lot of most women in that era. Until she had an epiphany one night while at a house party with some friends. She met a gentleman who spoke highly of a woman he respectfully called “Miss May,” who ran a house of prostitution in nearby Clarksville, TN. Pauline informed the gentleman matter-of-factly that she had an interest in meeting May to ask for pointers on how to become a consummate madam. He gave her May’s private phone number and his recommendation, and the rest is history.
Bowling Green’s antebellum tranquility was shattered on Armistice Day in 1933, when Pauline Tabor, after a two-day crash course on the ins and outs of running a “house of ill-repute,” and armed with all sorts of sound and not so sound advice from well-meaning friends and acquaintances, had a rousing housewarming party at her new residence on Smallhouse Road. On the next night, a cold November one for the south, she opened her own sporting house there on the outskirts of town with a rollicking “Whiz bang.”
Pauline was nothing else if not determined to survive the lot that life had dealt her. And survive she did, continuing a quite successful run in the oldest profession on earth for four decades. After finally managing to build her elegant emporium of vice on Clay Street, her success and fame spread beyond Kentucky’s borders, and became a legend in her lifetime.
Her first house, as I mentioned, was on Smallhouse Road. It was a two-story, 5 bedroom relic from an unsuspecting preacher, who had left town for greener pastures. Armistice Day, or as we know it today as Veterans’ Day, 1933, was the housewarming party. By the time she opened for business the next evening, Pauline’s intentions were the worst kept secret in Bowling Green. She later recalled quite fondly that her comparison to business on Smallhouse Road was like “dollar days in Macy’s basement.”
She was only open about a year when necessity forced her to close the house on Smallhouse Road and light out for Louisville, and on into Indiana. She rented a house in Columbus, and did a rousing business there as well. But the rowdiness of the first weekend was the beginning of a very bad end there. Pauline and her girls were eventually busted and fined for prostitution. By the time she got out of jail, the authorities had confiscated everything she had there. Luckily, her shrewd sense of preservation had given her the foresight to send most of her proceeds back to Bowling Green.
On a good faith loan from a friend, she rented a house in the waterfront district of Louisville. The flood of January 1937 put an end to that enterprise and she came home to Bowling Green. In the spring of 1937, she opened a house at First and Center Streets in Bowling Green. It wasn’t long before the house became too small for the rollicking success of her enterprise, and in the spring of 1939, she purchased a lovely 8 bedroom colonial house on 5 acres outside Bowling Green. This house burned in a household accident.
Before she left Bowling Green on an extensive tour of the country, Pauline gave orders to build her replacement house at 627 Clay Street, and this would be her crowning achievement, her last place of business. After months of “aimlessly gadding about the country,” she returned to Bowling Green and opened for business in April 1944.
For assurance of her and her girls’ protection from ruffians and would-be thieves, she kept a pistol in her nightstand and a shotgun under her bed. It has been asserted by some that the foreknowledge they were there assured that she never had to use them. But there was one time a man decided to rob her at the opening of the establishment one quiet evening. He made it out the door and into his get-away car before Pauline and a couple of early guests shot said get-away car full of holes, and then proceeded to beat the crap out of the would-be thief.
Pauline was a large woman, a reminder to her of her almost fatal bout with typhoid fever. As the years went by, the bulk of that 240 pounds became quite muscular. She never had a bouncer for her establishment; instead, it was reputed she could, and would, throw rowdy men out of her establishment with her bare hands! She was not always strict and tough with the men in her house. When local historian Mary Lucas was doing her research on Pauline, she talked with several men who visited the house on Clay Street in their college years, usually not as clients, but as impromptu chauffeurs for their friends. They fondly remembered playing cards and joking with the madam. who was well-known for her sense of humor.
She kept a milk can that was a silent message to perspective clients. If the milk can was on the porch, she was open for business. If it sat in the driveway, they were closed up and you’d have to come back another time. She was eventually forced to put a chain on the can, because people kept stealing it!
Over the years on Clay Street, Pauline contributed large, sums of money to local charities, particularly buying coats for needy school children, and also funding many local political campaigns to prevent them targeting her. Pauline decided not to reopen her establishment on Clay Street in 1968. The city development project – which planned to build new homes for underprivileged residents – condemned most of the Clay Street area.
Pauline retired in 1969, and her Clay Street home was torn down to make way for progress. When the house came down, the three enterprising young men who purchased it for demolition sold the house a brick at a time as “souvenirs” and even crafted other “keepsakes” from the wood of the house!
Pauline purchased a farm (Twin Oaks) in the nearby community of Plano, on Larmon Mill Road. It was the first registered organic farm in the Warren County area, one of the first in the state. When hearing about the auctioning off of the bricks and other items, she resolved to bring down the whole house of cards, and vividly and candidly shared her memories, successes, and failures, in a book entitled “Pauline’s – Memories of the Madam on Clay Street.” It was published in 1971, to large fanfare and several television appearances.
For the record, where her house was on Clay Street, now stands a feed mill, which has been there for the majority of the years since they tore her house down. The exact street number, 627, is the likely location now beneath the silos of Lowe’s Feed and Grain.
Although Pauline moved to Texas later in her life to be near her son, when she died in 1992, she was brought back to Bowling Green for burial. Bowling Green is today a fairly laid back town, considering one of the state’s universities is here. But a few decades back, Bowling Green was infamous for having one of only a handful of brothels in the state. And the Madam of Clay Street definitely kept it interesting!
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