Leticia Cline’s Love Letter to Cave City
Words by Ashley Locke
Photos by Natasha Wilson
Most people drive through Cave City without thinking twice. It’s a dot on the map—right off the interstate, just close enough to Mammoth Cave to catch the overflow, just small enough to disappear in the rearview. But for Leticia Cline, Cave City is the center of the universe. Not because it’s perfect, but because it’s hers.
Leticia was raised in a roadside rock shop, the kind of place where tourists pulled off the highway to stretch their legs and leave with a chunk of geode or a polished arrowhead. As a kid, she rang people up at the register and peppered them with questions about where they were from. “The world came to me,” she says. And she listened. Really listened. “I’d hear about these amazing little things people loved about their towns, and I’d take mental notes.”
She wasn’t romanticizing it, though. Even as a kid, she could see the cracks in the sidewalk and the missed opportunities. She told her mom she’d grow up, get rich, and buy Cave City—fix it up herself if nobody else would. And in a way, she did. Just not by writing a check.
Before that could happen, Leticia had to leave. She chased stories of other places—big cities, fast motorcycles, loud music. She wanted to stretch, to grow. She got knee-deep in the wild world, literally and figuratively—until a bison charge in South Dakota forced her to come home for knee surgery. She planned to rest. Just for a bit. But grief, boredom, and the dust of her father’s old motorcycle garage pulled her back into something bigger.
Leticia started sweeping out the shop. Neighbors started stopping by. A few bikes turned into a community hangout, which turned into a volunteer-built garage. “We worked all day, we were so hot and sweaty, just hanging out and listening to music,” she says. “That was honestly some of the happiest times in my entire life.”
That garage was the spark. From there, Leticia opened The Dive, a bar built on the bones of Cave City’s newly-passed wet laws. “There was nowhere to eat. Nowhere to drink. Nothing really open past 5 p.m.,” she says. “And every big business deal I’ve ever made happened over a cocktail.” The town pushed back—a trio of single blondes opening a bar across from a church wasn’t exactly what they expected. But she stayed true. And now? The bar has become an anchor of the community. Leticia and her crew have funneled money back into the fire and police departments, built parks, and thrown fundraisers for neighbors in need.
She followed that with The Ace, a coffee shop that doubles as a community hub. There’s free Wi-Fi, two-dollar used books, poetry nights, and sometimes tai chi in the parking lot. The idea came from a high school marketing class she taught, where a student showed her a screenshot of the diner from Saved by the Bell. “All they wanted was a place to go after school,” she says. So she built one.
She’s trying to make it better for the next generation, for every kid who grows up thinking there’s no reason to stay.
For Leticia, the work is never about her. “I don’t care if people remember me,” she says. “I just hope people just keep doing what I’m doing, keep fighting the good fight and pushing forward and sharing our story and our history and getting others to believe in it and invest in it and build on it.”
Still, change hasn’t come easy. Running for city council in a town run by good ol’ boys meant pushing against tradition, confronting corruption, and doing it all while being underestimated. But she did it anyway. “They were just more so offended that I was trying to have a seat at council,” she says, “but if something needs to be done, I’ll just do it or I make it happen or I figure out the answer to it. And I get tired of just waiting around, so naturally I would just fall into leadership roles in my entire life because I would just take charge.”
Leticia’s legacy is both fierce and tender. She speaks fluent small town—deep roots, pride in place, the kind of love that doesn’t leave when things get hard. She honors Cave City’s history with every business she opens, every ordinance she helps write, every photo she hangs on the wall. She’s trying to make it better for the next generation, for every kid who grows up thinking there’s no reason to stay.
When asked what makes her proud to call Cave City home, she doesn’t hesitate. “Because I’m from here. And because I could never do what I’m doing anywhere else.” It’s all real life—the coffee shop, the neon signs, the people walking through her door. “You can’t build like this in a big city. You can’t expand like this. You can’t walk into the bank president’s office and make a pitch. But you can here.”
Leticia Cline’s story is proof that you don’t have to leave forever to live a big life. Sometimes, the biggest thing you can do is go back. Show up. Sweep out the garage. Open the doors. Let the community come in.
Leticia never did buy Cave City. But in the ways that matter, it’s hers.
