Finally Walking Those Hills

Back in March, 2010, nine and a half years ago, I wrote about wanting to take a trip to Kentucky with my dad, to the area around Greenup, Kentucky, where the Nelsons and the Gulletts have lived for many generations. At that time I wrote: It has weighed on my mind for some time now that before too much time passes, Dad and I need to drive down to Kentucky and visit the family cemeteries while we can still explore them together. 

Later that same year, working with my dad on cleaning and repairing a rental property of my brother's, he and I spent many hours in his truck driving to and from the site, and many hours working alongside one another. We had not yet gotten down to Kentucky; my brother's broken leg and his needs intervened. Then I wrote: Dad and I are racing to get the harvest in before the snow and the dead of winter. We are each on a small combine, the small beams stabbing the growing dark, combing the fields and wanting so much for one more season together. 

I wrote again in late 2012, after my Aunt Eunice died, that Dad and I had not yet taken the trip. By then I was doubtful we ever would. Mom was sinking deeper into dementia and, even without that hanging over our heads, the reality was we were all getting older. Dad was looking at 80; I was by then eight years into a disease with a prognostic lifespan of only six to seven years. So the trip went on the back burner, perhaps indefinitely.

Time went on. Uncle Burl died, but I did not make it down to the funeral. My brother Dale died. My mom's dementia increased until she went into memory care late last fall. Dad coped with being alone after a lifetime spent as a couple.

And then we took the trip down home, that trip I was not sure would ever happen. On the fourth Saturday in June, from early morning to early evening, Dad, my brother Mark, his wife Jackie, and I all piled in a car and headed south.

So why now? A variety of reasons: age (again, always), health (again, always), wanting to see those sites one last time, wanting to mark places in my mind with dad. Any number of reasons.

And what a day it was.

Greenup is the county seat of Greenup County. By the time we rolled into Greenup, it was close to lunch and we needed to eat. Not knowing the lay of the land (and Google being little help), we parked across from the county courthouse and Mark crossed the street to where a store proprietor was watching to ask him about eating. A few minutes Mark waved us over.

"This guy is asking all about which Nelsons we are," he explained. "I figure Dad can answer the questions."

"This guy" was Charley Osborne, proprietor of a small antique and junk shop (his words, not mine). He and Dad started talking. In about five minutes, they had connected several dots as to who knew who in which family. In another five minutes, they figured out that Charley was related by marriage; one of his brothers had married one of Dad's cousins.

Charley and Dad talking about a cane press

Well, of course.

Charley and Dad talked for some 20 minutes, much of which Mark recorded on his phone. Dad talked about where his family had farmed and lived up in the valleys and hollows of Greenup County. Dad talked about going up on Shell's Form and Charley came back with "Well, go on up and over one hill to Hood's Run and that's where I was raised." He showed Dad some paintings by a local artist of a sugar cane press; Dad responded with that was what his grandfather did and he had memories of it. They talked about moonshine and stills. "My grandfather pulled two years [in prison] for moonshine," said Charley, added that other family members had "pulled some time" for the same. "They done what they had to do to make a living," commented Dad, "This [area] went through a lot to make a living."

It was a great way to start the day.

After taking our leave of Charley, with hugs and handshakes all around, we headed out Route 2 along the Little Sandy River. Dad commented on a few things as Mark drove; we were headed to the Gullett-Lambert cemetery, Dad's maternal side of his family.

A comment about Kentucky family cemeteries, which are common throughout those hills. The cemeteries are at the top of the hills, with a road, usually gravel, winding up to it from the main road. That means you pull into the driveway, sometimes the main one, of someone's home, requiring a brief explanation of why you are there ("Got family up there," I said at one stop) and getting a nod and a "go on up" in response.

And sometimes you chat with the family below, even though you have never met them before, just to be sociable. The man living below this cemetery welcomed us, told us his dogs wouldn't bite (and one, Wayne, went up with us), and that they were expecting cousins in later that day from Ohio.

My great-grandparents are buried in this cemetery: Galen, who died before I was born, and Myrtle, my beloved Grandma Gullett. Grandma Gullett lived until I was well into adulthood and I have wonderful memories of her laughter, of her welcoming arms. She taught me to braid, using one of my troll dolls, when I was young. And she was a great shot with a muzzleloader, apparently able to put a candle flame out without disturbing the candle. Mark shared that story as we were driving along, causing Dad to add "Yeah, Mom [his mother] was a great shot too." Apparently Grandma Gullett and Grandma Nelson, her daughter, spent a lot of time shooting "just for something to do," according to Dad, as once the late fall set in, roads in that part of Kentucky were pretty much impassable until the spring, and you stayed close to home for months on end.

From that cemetery, we went looking for the original Nelson cemetery (there are two). Dad knew more or less where it was: you take Shell's Fork until it turns into gravel, then pull into a little side cemetery, the McConnell cemetery. "Right there," said Dad. "That bench up there is where the Nelson cemetery is."

My brother Mark got out of the car and looked up the hill, puzzled.

What?

"I'm looking for a bench," he explained.

The bench is just above the trees on the hill, where they level off 

I cracked up. "The bench is that flat strip of land up the hill, up there in the trees," I pointed out. "Not something you sit on."

Dad and I alone made the short trek to where the cemetery was as Mark and Jackie were wearing shorts and the site was clearly overgrown. We climbed up and looked around. There were some stones, but not family names. Dad was sure it was over to the left, but the vines and undergrowth covered so much he couldn't tell. We veered that way, stumbling on the ground, and then found what he remembered: his great-great-grandparents' stone.

Nancy and George. Somehow I did not know or had forgotten that my great-great-great grandmother's name was Nancy. I think of Nancy as a modern name, but with a birthdate of 1817, she was a contemporary of Abraham Lincoln, whose mother's name was Nancy.

Nearby George and Nancy was their son Jacob, my great-great grandfather. Jacob Nelson fought in the Civil War, for the Union. Looking at the dates on his fading tombstone and the military marker, I suspect he was the last Nelson buried in that cemetery:

 When Dad and I made our way back down to the car, Dad said, reflectively, that we would probably be the last ones ever to set foot in that cemetery. In another five years, "it'll be all gone. The land will take it back."

I could not disagree with his assessment. Mark was quiet. "I wish I'd worn jeans so I could have gone up there too."

We turned around on the narrow (narrow) gravel road and made our way back out to the main road. The Nelson cemetery sets off of Route 2 and we were soon there, explaining again to the householders at the foot of the hill where we were headed and could we park our car there? Of
course; they waved us up the hill.

I was last in the Nelson cemetery in 1975,  many, many years ago. If Mark had been up there, it would have been a long time ago also. The climb to the Gullett cemetery is considerable. The climb to the Nelson cemetery makes that one look and feel like a cakewalk. Whichever Nelson started it clearly picked the highest hill in the family, then carved a road up, which has to twist up because you can't climb it in one straight shot.

A small portion of the road up 

When I was there many years ago, for a family funeral, relays of community men waited at several points up the hill, because there was no way a hearse could get up there, and no way just one team of men could carry a coffin that far up.

Now that's steep.

The Nelson cemetery is where my great-grandparents, Linnie and Iven (pronounced I-ven with a short "i") are buried. Iven was Jacob's son. Linnie's parents, William Skaggs and his wife, are buried nearby in a sinking grave. (I do not have her name and the stone is too far sunk to pick it out, if indeed she is buried there.) Many of my grandfather's siblings are there, as well as my dad's cousin Athine, who died in 2011. I suspect, but do not know, that Athine was and is the last burial up there.

After we came down from that third, we twisted our way around the area to see a few key spots. This cabin, moved to this site and restored by cousin Athine, was where the Nelson home where Iven and Linnie lived:

 And up on the flat area behind the RV just sticking into the photo? That's where the log cabin sat that my dad was born in:

He pointed out his grandparents' property a piece down the road and set way back: as a little child (somewhere past two, but not much past three if at all), his mother would set him on a path to spend time with his grandparents. He walked it alone, soon out of sight of one cabin and not yet within view of the other. Looking at the distance between the two sites and thinking of how short a small child's legs are, I was stunned at the expectation that he take himself there. Dad had only shared that story with me recently; seeing the lay of the land and the distances staggered me as to the enormity of that walk.

Soon after turning of W Hollow Road onto Route 1 (where Grandma Gullett lived in a little tiny house when I was growing up; one that it turns out her husband ran a small store out of), we headed back to Ohio, sharing a meal along the way. Our talk turned to other matters; we were all tired. Twelve hours after we left, we were home.

When we dropped Dad off and said our goodbyes, I thanked him. I told him I had wanted to go see those spots with him for a long time, and I am glad we did it before one or both of us weren't able or were gone.

Dad was quiet a moment. "I wasn't sure I'd ever see those places again," he finally said. "I'm glad I did."

I finally got my walk with Dad. And what a walk it was.

Catching My Breath

June has been a bear on the travel front. We were in Nashville early in the month. Then mid-month, Warren and I flew to Denver for a three-day conference I needed to attend. Traveling alone is difficult for me (nigh well impossible); Warren was indispensable. While I immersed myself in the conference, Warren worked on Symphony matters (the 4th of July, the Symphony's annual free concert for several thousand people, is almost upon us) and spent time with his son David, who moved out to southeastern Colorado back in February.

From Denver, we flew to Minneapolis, spent an afternoon with friends and family, then headed south to Rochester and Mayo. Two days later, we were back in Minneapolis to go, finally, home.

That was last Wednesday. Saturday I took off to Kentucky with my dad, brother, and sister-in-law for a long overdue trip. It was just a day trip, but it was one more trip in a month full of them.

I feel as if I am still catching my breath.

But I'm home. At least for now. And that is enough.

I will be writing more  in the days to come. The Kentucky trip especially demands a post. But in the midst of all the travel, in the midst of 4th of July preparations, and in the midst of catching my breath, I ran into a wall. A small wall. A little wall. An insignificant wall, in the big scheme of things. But a wall all the same.

Someone was coming to our house at 9:00 this morning whom I had to meet with. I had a cream pie I needed to get made and in the refrigerator before then. At 8:05, I went to pour the heavy cream into a bowl to beat to soft peaks to fold into the pie base. I opened the cream container (which I had frozen two weeks earlier as we prepared to leave town but had thawed yesterday), went to pour it out, and...nothing.

Nothing. The cream had the texture of butter. I didn't have time to try it, analyze it, and decide whether I could made it work. The clock was ticking: on the pie, on the upcoming appointment, on the day. So I taped this note to the door and left:

"Baking emergency." Seriously? I have to laugh. But I made it. And it served to remind me that life rolls on, on and off the road.

It's good to be back.

A Decade Out And What's Next?

The blogger at Plough Monday, to which I subscribe, recently announced he was closing the blog. His notice was short and went right to the point:

Hello all. I am closing my blog, Plough Monday. I am doing so because I want to redirect my writing efforts towards publishing in literary journals and magazines.  And I have found that my writing here works to undercut this redirection.

My blog will be visible for a short while, and then it will close.

Thanks for reading.

I told Warren that the news gave me pause. The evening before the Plough Monday announcement, I was looking back at my older posts and I realized I have been blogging for over a decade. My first post was in March, 2009.

A decade.

That's a lot of words. That's a lot of posts, this being the 723rd.

And what about my writing? My other writing?

What does that even mean: my other writing?

There is the middle school novel, now about three-quarters done. I recently returned to it for the first time since—wait for it—September 2017.

Yeah, September 2017. But who's counting?

There is the poetry, with my averaging about three submissions a year for the last three years. I am garnering exactly one acceptance a year, the latest being in the Licking River Review.  (I don't know when publication will be.) If I were in the major leagues, that would give me a batting average of .333, which is nothing to sneeze at, but I'm not so sure those same stats hold true in the publication world.

If I spent more time writing poetry and sending it out, would I get more acceptances?

There is my almost monthly column for The Myeloma Beacon. I began writing that in early 2013, over six years ago.

The truth is I wasn't expecting that I would live long enough to see five years of columns, let along be well into my seventh year.

Do I hit reset? Do I redirect my efforts?

I'd like to finish that novel. (I have drafts of other novels, aimed for the adult reader, but this one is near and dear to my heart.)

I'd like to write more poetry. (I came home from Nashville with a poem roughed out, which I tore out of the notebook and stuck in the pile of other poems I have roughed out but not returned to in too many weeks and months.)

I'd like to figure out how to write more. But I also know myself well enough to know I hold other values dear into which I put my time and energy. My marriage. Family. Friends. This community. Reading. Our Symphony. My work at Court. Pies. My garden.

So for now, I am just thinking about the Plough Monday announcement, just thinking about my writing, and just thinking about...what's next.

Rethinking Nashville

I may have to rethink Nashville.

We were there four years ago to pick up a timpani Warren had purchased. We stayed overnight an hour north, in Franklin, Kentucky, and truly just zoomed in and out. We visited the Tennessee state history museum, the Parthenon (yes), and walked around the grounds of the Statehouse.

I was not impressed. I was upset by the museum's presentation of slavery (there were some evils, but most slaves were treated well) and its hagiographic elevation of Andrew Jackson (with nary a word in the museum about the genocide he committed against the Cherokee and other Southern tribes with their forced removal). On the street were historical markers venerating the Confederate cause in the Civil War. On our way back north, we pulled off the Interstate to get gas and found ourselves on a road with another historical marker: the highway we were on was part of the Trail of Tears (the path the Native Americans were marched along under military guard). Its name? The Andrew Jackson highway.

Can you say "tone deaf?"

I wanted out of Nashville. I wanted out of Tennessee. I could decisively mark the state and city off with "don't go there again."

So when it was announced that the 2019 League of American Orchestras national conference would be held in Nashville, let's just say I was less than enthusiastic. But, married to the Symphony as I am, I sucked it up and went back down.

I came away with an entirely different view of Nashville.

For three days, we were in the heart of the downtown. We stayed on the other side of the Cumberland River, near the football stadium, but were only there at night. Days and evenings were spent in downtown Nashville. While the League activities were centered in the Omni Hotel, we were out and about on the streets at times, especially with League-related activities Monday and Tuesday evening.

And I did a fair amount of walking by myself the first morning,  having no session to attend. I ended up walking across the John Seigenthaler Pedestrian Bridge, after skirting the Country Music Hall of Fame (which butts into the Omni) and going around the Schermerhorn Symphony Center. CMA Music Fest was only a few days away (it was getting underway as the orchestra conference was leaving) and there was a lot of activity downtown as the city prepared. There was music of all kinds on the streets, in the halls, in the air.

My view of Nashville started changing.

I looked at the people I passed. Many were no doubt tourists or event-goers, like myself, just in town for a few days. There were street performers on many corners (everyone is a potential performer in Nashville, including one of our Uber drivers). There were street people, just trying to survive, including the one who after trying to wash up in a fountain at the Schermerhorn and being chased away by a guard, came back to debate that the water was there for all to enjoy. The guard listened respectfully, then said, "That's true, but y'all can't take a bath in it." That seemed to satisfy both of them. There were orchestra people talking music, there were country music people talking music, there were just people going about their day.

I spent a surprising amount of time (for me) in Circa, the gift shop of the Country Music Hall of Fame and Museum. I was looking for postcards (which I indeed found) but I found myself engrossed in the books, the clothing, the mugs, the stuff. I told Warren later that I have never come so close to buying just for the sake of buying. I stuck to buying just the postcards to send to family and friends and one ornament for our Christmas tree.

I loved one postcard so much that I went back the next day to buy one for myself:

It is now on our refrigerator. (I found it hilarious, okay? Well worth every penny of the $1.10 it cost.) For the record, I am fine with country music. Had I been feeling better that morning, I would have gone to both the Patsy Cline museum AND the Johnny Cash museum, but I can only burn my candle at both ends and up the middle for so long these days. 

Coming into Nashville on Sunday, we had bypassed the Interstate and traveled back roads to get a sense of the country. I liked what I saw. I want to see more. Some of my dad's family came out of Tennessee and for the first time ever, I found myself wanting to explore more of where they came from. When Dad stopped by the day after we got back, I pulled out a map and he pointed out the likely areas. I may delve deeper into that side of the family, even if I never go back to Nashville or any other part of Tennessee. 

The truth is, I was taken by Nashville and would go back to explore it more deeply. 

There is a wonderful line early on in Moon Over Manifest, the 2011 Newbery Award winner by Clare Vanderpool: "But as anyone worth his salt knows, it's best to get a look at a place before it gets a look at you." That sentence played in my mind as I walked across the bridge on that sunny morning and as I walked around in the downtown. I don't know if Nashville got a look at me, but I indeed got a look at Nashville. 

I liked what I saw. 

In The Garden

The lettuces I planted in our good enough garden were sprouting within 36 hours of being planted. It was quickly obvious that I had planted the seeds with a heavy hand, but I wasn't about to thin them out.

We just got back after five days away. The League of American Orchestras just held its 74th national conference and we drove down to Nashville for it. It was a stunning, fascinating conference; I'm still digesting what I heard and discussed over the three days.

While we were out of town, my dad watered the garden as needed. It was just about midnight when we drove in last night, so it was morning before I took a look from the back deck.

Holy moly: we have lettuce! 

In the spirit of transparency, I will note that we have 75% of the planters going great guns. The fourth planter (planted with Emerald Jewel, a lettuce I picked solely for the name) has shot out a few scraggly shoots. I am not sure we'll see much more from it. 

But we have lettuce!    

Tonight, with great glee, I picked and added the first sprigs from the garden to our supper salad. 

We have lettuce!