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.