Kentucky road are like New England roads except younger and more confused. I feel like New England roads are curvy in a much more peaceful, old sort of way. I guess that I get the vibe that NH curves make sense. They seem more gracious to the average driver. Kentucky curves never made it out of adolescence. They just JERK and LEAP and go BACKFORTHBACKBACKFORTH like they just can't. make. up. their. MIND! "I wanna go RIGHT nonono LEFT OH! NO! I MADE A MISTAKE RIGHT RIGHT RIGHT!!!" The roads are incredibly hysterical. Also, all speed limits are 55mph, so the roads demand that you careen across them, while they screech at you to GO RIGHT MORE RIGHT MORE MORE MORE WATCH THE RAVEEEEEN!
And also there are a lot of stray dogs in Kentucky and they have their cool kid parties right in the middle of blind curves on the edge of mountains. Yeah.
Besides this, the people that drive on Kentucky roads (trans: Kentucky drivers) also do the darndest things. Last week, T and I got all jammed up behind the funniest motorcade. It's pretty normal to get stuck behind someone who has been intimidated by the berserk highways and is plugging along at 25mpg, but the line was getting super long and we were going super slow. Finally we see that there are some cop cars, with their lights flashing, somewhere near the front of the line. How exciting! Something really thrilling must be going on!
As the road straightens out, we see that there are four cop cars, and they're surrounding a school bus driving at about 15mph. Now speculation is really running high. My bet was that some kid pulled a knife on the bus, and was holding the bus driver hostage until Jackson County succumbed to his demands. Why else would there be four police cars trailing along with this bus?
Well, we finally we see what's going on. The full-size school bus, well covered by its police escort, was empty and being towed.
By a Jeep Grand Cherokee.
This place is really weird sometimes. Awesome, amazing, funny, fabulous... but really, really weird.
Wednesday, September 28, 2011
Friday, September 23, 2011
Green Wool Coat
I found a winter coat that I really wanted a few weekends ago. It was a beautiful dark green wool coat, and it fit perfectly. When I tried it on, I felt like Audrey Hepburn, and I should have moved to New York and worn cute vintage heels and had a real job doing something that required showering before work instead of after work, and wearing purple eye shadow, and also getting a paycheck.
Unfortunately, a paycheck was exactly what I needed to afford the coat, which, despite being ON SALE 50% OFF! rang in at $119.99. The little green coat was not to be. Neither was the little blue dress for contra dancing, or the previously mentioned vintage heels.
I'm mopy that I can't be super wealthy, and buy delicious fresh produce every day, and look fabulous, and have a new car that doesn't shake, rattle, and roll over 50mph. I'm really, legitimately frustrated that I can't just apply to graduate schools like Yale or Boston College and know that all I have to worry about is whether I'm smart enough, not whether I'm rich enough. I'm pouty that I can't just be a Harvard-type Zooey Deschanel vegan living in a gorgeous in-town loft, a walk away from an ocean somewhere.
So here's my pep talk that I give myself when those particular voices in my head get really loud.
You, Laura, live in Jackson county, the 33rd poorest county in the United States. You work in Owsley county, the poorest county in the entirety of the United States. (By annual median household income). The state of Kentucky contains 29 of the top 100 poorest counties, trailed by Mississippi at 13 and Texas at 10. Fully a third of the poorest counties in the country are in your state.
Last week you put flooring into a house that had holes in the bedroom floor and snakes in the walls and one wall that was a foot lower than the other one because the wood had rotted out.
You put a wheelchair ramp on a house with no doors inside, with a sheet hung between the toilet and the living room.
You have walked around dog poo on a living room rug.
You dismantled a front porch and discovered the seven full trash bags stuffed underneath.
You've jammed yourself into a 8 inch gap to drill on porch railings while an able-bodied homeowner watched and provided commentary, and you've nailed on siding next to a well-dressed, high heeled homeowner, who wielded a hammer better than you (even with her manicured nails) before she ran off to work for the day.
You've met Mrs. L, who keeps hinting at all the other work we could be doing; and you've met Mrs. Mary J, who feeds us and bandaids us and takes pictures of us.
You worked for Mrs. H, who called the office every day to see when we would come back and "finish up what we started here." And you've worked for people like Mrs. Julia D.
Mrs. D's house had burned down a month ago, and her husband and her had built the new one, by themselves, in 24 days. When they ran out of insurance money, they were short a porch, siding, and insulation under the house. CAP was there for three week with church groups, working next to Mr. and Mrs. D. when they weren't at their jobs. The house was decorated completely from Goodwill and yard sales, but was still color-coordinated and shiny-new looking. She made us baked beans and mac 'n cheese for lunch, and when she found out that you were living with 9 other people on a budget, she sent all the leftovers home with you. Oh, and she also taught you how to make little flowers for cakes out of frosting.
You have seen some poverty and despair, and some poverty and ingratitude, but mostly - mostly - you have seen poverty and thankfulness, and toughness, and generosity.
So, Ms. Zooey Deschanel wannabe. What do you really want the world to hand over to you? Who do you really want to be at the far end of life?
I'd rather eat Mrs. D.'s baked beans and climb roofs in ratty jeans than eat organic and wear Audrey Hepburn coats to an office job. I'd rather be like Mrs. D. than Audrey Hepburn, anyway.
Sometimes I just forget.
Unfortunately, a paycheck was exactly what I needed to afford the coat, which, despite being ON SALE 50% OFF! rang in at $119.99. The little green coat was not to be. Neither was the little blue dress for contra dancing, or the previously mentioned vintage heels.
I'm mopy that I can't be super wealthy, and buy delicious fresh produce every day, and look fabulous, and have a new car that doesn't shake, rattle, and roll over 50mph. I'm really, legitimately frustrated that I can't just apply to graduate schools like Yale or Boston College and know that all I have to worry about is whether I'm smart enough, not whether I'm rich enough. I'm pouty that I can't just be a Harvard-type Zooey Deschanel vegan living in a gorgeous in-town loft, a walk away from an ocean somewhere.
So here's my pep talk that I give myself when those particular voices in my head get really loud.
You, Laura, live in Jackson county, the 33rd poorest county in the United States. You work in Owsley county, the poorest county in the entirety of the United States. (By annual median household income). The state of Kentucky contains 29 of the top 100 poorest counties, trailed by Mississippi at 13 and Texas at 10. Fully a third of the poorest counties in the country are in your state.
Last week you put flooring into a house that had holes in the bedroom floor and snakes in the walls and one wall that was a foot lower than the other one because the wood had rotted out.
You put a wheelchair ramp on a house with no doors inside, with a sheet hung between the toilet and the living room.
You have walked around dog poo on a living room rug.
You dismantled a front porch and discovered the seven full trash bags stuffed underneath.
You've jammed yourself into a 8 inch gap to drill on porch railings while an able-bodied homeowner watched and provided commentary, and you've nailed on siding next to a well-dressed, high heeled homeowner, who wielded a hammer better than you (even with her manicured nails) before she ran off to work for the day.
You've met Mrs. L, who keeps hinting at all the other work we could be doing; and you've met Mrs. Mary J, who feeds us and bandaids us and takes pictures of us.
You worked for Mrs. H, who called the office every day to see when we would come back and "finish up what we started here." And you've worked for people like Mrs. Julia D.
Mrs. D's house had burned down a month ago, and her husband and her had built the new one, by themselves, in 24 days. When they ran out of insurance money, they were short a porch, siding, and insulation under the house. CAP was there for three week with church groups, working next to Mr. and Mrs. D. when they weren't at their jobs. The house was decorated completely from Goodwill and yard sales, but was still color-coordinated and shiny-new looking. She made us baked beans and mac 'n cheese for lunch, and when she found out that you were living with 9 other people on a budget, she sent all the leftovers home with you. Oh, and she also taught you how to make little flowers for cakes out of frosting.
You have seen some poverty and despair, and some poverty and ingratitude, but mostly - mostly - you have seen poverty and thankfulness, and toughness, and generosity.
So, Ms. Zooey Deschanel wannabe. What do you really want the world to hand over to you? Who do you really want to be at the far end of life?
I'd rather eat Mrs. D.'s baked beans and climb roofs in ratty jeans than eat organic and wear Audrey Hepburn coats to an office job. I'd rather be like Mrs. D. than Audrey Hepburn, anyway.
Sometimes I just forget.
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
Bloodstopping
I cut my knee last week at work, and Mrs. Mary J, our participant, loaded me up with sympathy, bandaids, and some Appalachian advice to stop the bleeding: recite Ezekiel 16:6.
Some Wikipedia background on this:
Bloodstopping refers to an American folk practice once common in the Ozarks and the Appalachians, Canadian lumbercamps and the northern woods of the United States. It was believed that certain persons, known as bloodstoppers, could halt bleeding in humans and animals by supernatural means. The most common method was to walk east and recite Ezekiel 16:6, a Bible passage which reads
For the interested, here's some more stuff about healing from North Carolina's Appalachian hills, and some information on handling in Appalachia from National Geographic. Haven't been to a handling church, yet, but would like to visit one before I leave. It's so strange to be just two days drive South from my home state, but to be in such a completely different culture. I flew 3000 miles to get to England, and the culture there seemed closer to New England life and times than it does down here.
To quote Sweet Home Alabama, "you should need a passport to come down here!"
Some Wikipedia background on this:
Bloodstopping refers to an American folk practice once common in the Ozarks and the Appalachians, Canadian lumbercamps and the northern woods of the United States. It was believed that certain persons, known as bloodstoppers, could halt bleeding in humans and animals by supernatural means. The most common method was to walk east and recite Ezekiel 16:6, a Bible passage which reads
| “ | And when I passed by thee, and saw thee wallowing in thy blood, I said unto thee: In thy blood, live; yea, I said unto thee: In thy blood, live; | ” |
For the interested, here's some more stuff about healing from North Carolina's Appalachian hills, and some information on handling in Appalachia from National Geographic. Haven't been to a handling church, yet, but would like to visit one before I leave. It's so strange to be just two days drive South from my home state, but to be in such a completely different culture. I flew 3000 miles to get to England, and the culture there seemed closer to New England life and times than it does down here.
To quote Sweet Home Alabama, "you should need a passport to come down here!"
Sunday, September 18, 2011
Otheriness
Mrs. Mary J needed insulation blown into her roof last week.
Something happened while I was standing there on the ladder, peering into the attic, holding up the plastic tube, while my co-volunteer shoving insulation into the air blower on the ground and Steve bumped around in the roof, blowing lint and whatever else they make this dirty, gray, blowing insulation with. Something funny was going on in that roof.
Something holy.
Something happened while I was standing there on the ladder, peering into the attic, holding up the plastic tube, while my co-volunteer shoving insulation into the air blower on the ground and Steve bumped around in the roof, blowing lint and whatever else they make this dirty, gray, blowing insulation with. Something funny was going on in that roof.
Something holy.
The attic had a vent across from me, and the sunlight crossed through the dust, the beams, Steve's bent over body, leaving streaks across everything as if wet paintbrush had taken a swipe at them. The lines of the attic and the lines of light were this ridiculously beautiful geometric cross, like it had all been planned out from long ago that here, now, there would be sunlight, and dust, and the roof, exactly like it was in that minute. The dust and lint and bits of paper filled up all the light beams, and the light looked thick and heavy, and I wanted to reach out and pick it up, except it looked so heavy that I didn't think that I would be strong enough if I tried.
At the monastery in England, the incense would cloud up around the skylight and the beam of light would take on the same illusion of weight and tangibility. Everything seemed more deeply real and everything seemed to cross over from where it belonged - the light had weight, the noise of the bells sounded three dimensional, the smell of the incense was tactile.
I think of holiness as a word to describe the other. Tom Wright says that it is wherever the "thin partition between spheres becomes transparent." "We are called to live at the overlap of heaven and earth," he says, "where God's future comes rushing into the present." Where light and smell and music all dig deeper into our senses until each one encompasses the other. This is holiness, or magic, or the weight of glory.
I'm glad that there is holiness under an attic roof in Kentucky with your ears full of lint, just as much as at a monastery in Europe.
At the monastery in England, the incense would cloud up around the skylight and the beam of light would take on the same illusion of weight and tangibility. Everything seemed more deeply real and everything seemed to cross over from where it belonged - the light had weight, the noise of the bells sounded three dimensional, the smell of the incense was tactile.
I think of holiness as a word to describe the other. Tom Wright says that it is wherever the "thin partition between spheres becomes transparent." "We are called to live at the overlap of heaven and earth," he says, "where God's future comes rushing into the present." Where light and smell and music all dig deeper into our senses until each one encompasses the other. This is holiness, or magic, or the weight of glory.
I'm glad that there is holiness under an attic roof in Kentucky with your ears full of lint, just as much as at a monastery in Europe.
thanks to Tamara for the picture
Friday, September 16, 2011
Strictly Vegan
Two months ago a vegan moved into my community house. A panic attack hit the house (most particularly, hit our gourmet chef in residence, who was halfway through making his sauted apple/pork loin dinner). Discussion ensued! (what exactly does she mean by "no animal byproducts"? Forget animal byproducts - what's a byproduct???) Questions surfaced! ("so can she eat eggs?") And I decided to go on a Vegan Adventure! Since we'd have to be shopping for vegan food anyway, and cooking a separate meal for dinner, it seemed the perfect time to experiment. I've been vegetarian on and off for the last three or four years, and this seemed a natural next step. I decided to take a month and be strictly vegan and see what happened.
Here's what I learned.
The fewer the options, the better the fun.
For serious. When all the main roads are shut down for construction, you get to learn and love the twisty, windy back roads. (Who knew that chick peas were the most versatile bean on earth?!)
Food is on my team now.
When I walk into the kitchen, I feel like I'm going on an adventure with food, not against it. Food wants me to succeed and wants me to be healthy and wants me to party with it. I feel very connected to my food now, and with it, the world and the earth.
Everything fun revolves around food.
Eating differently from your community is like being a leper. Getting ice cream with friends? Out. Eating Erin's birthday cake? Out. And if you do join the community, it won't make it better, because if you join but don't partake - people are sad that you can't eat with them, and sad that they cooked something that you couldn't eat, and talk about it a lot, and you end up feeling crummy that you've made them feel crummy. This reason alone is enough to make me want to drift back towards omnivorism.
There is no substitute for spinach and feta omelets.
This speaks for itself.
People have opinions about food.
Strong opinions. Almost every day, I get to decide if I'm going to have a strong opinion back, or just chillax, let them have their opinion, and quietly go my way, doing what I believe is healthy and right. Sometimes it's too exhausting to put up a fight ("Yeah, you're right, I don't get enough protein. Or B-12. Or iron. Or Omega-3's. Yeah, I'm wasting away. One foot in the grave, the other in the 5K."). Sometimes it's too exhausting not to. ("YOUR BODY IS JAMMED WITH PROCESSED CRAP AND CHEMICALLY ALTERED ANIMALS AND YOU'RE ASKING ME IF I GET ENOUGH PROTEIN? IS THIS A SICK JOKE?") I think (hope?) I'm finding a gracious balance of the two. It's sort of the same balance I've had to find with Christianity ("whaddaya mean, Christians don't have any fun???")
Metamucil producers must be engaged in a world-wide coverup of veganism.
It's the only theory that makes sense!!!
Everything comes from somewhere.
I had never thought about this very much before. When I started looking at ingredients on the back of cereal boxes, I started seeing objects as a collection of their parts - a collection of parts that compiled somewhere (China?) by someone (a child?) out of something (an animal?). My desk was made somewhere. My shoes, my lightbulbs, my yogurt, my car - everything was touched by so many people before it got to me. Who are those people? Where do they live? How were they treated? Everything I'm touching right now has a story - from my computer to to my chocolate bar. The Amish say that "one must accept all personal moral and spiritual liability of all harms done at any distance in space or time to anyone by one's own choices". I don't know if I can do that. But eating vegan, and thinking about where my stuff comes from, is a start.
My body needs to be treated kindly.
For me, it comes down to loving my body, living in it entirely, and treating it gently - it's been through a lot, and it's done its best for me in some tight spots. C.S. Lewis said that "You don't have a soul. You are a soul. You have a body." My body isn't an inseparable "me," but something that "me" has charge over. (Philosophically, this idea has some huge holes, but they're all really boring holes, so I won't take the trouble to patch them up here.) I want to encourage it, coax it to be good, reward it when it succeeds, be understanding when it fails. All in all, having a body is like having a puppy - a lot of patience, flexibility, and kindness are necessary when dealing with its very unruly ways. My soul has been charged with taking care of my silly body, and I need to be kind to it and treat it with compassion, and veganism helps me be more aware of my body, the types of food that I eat, and what my body needs in order to thrive. Poor body. It really does try.
So. My one month trial of eating vegan ended two weeks ago. There were definitely some cons. I'm not sure how long I can live in community and be a pre-hibernating bear, eating berries and nuts while cheesecake is being passed around. But I also don't know how long I can live with myself with questions like "where did this come from?" and "what is this doing to my body?" So for now -
the vegan adventure continues! Long live plant life! Long live tofurkey! Long live Ghirardelli chocolate bars! Viva La Veg!
Here's what I learned.
The fewer the options, the better the fun.
For serious. When all the main roads are shut down for construction, you get to learn and love the twisty, windy back roads. (Who knew that chick peas were the most versatile bean on earth?!)
Food is on my team now.
When I walk into the kitchen, I feel like I'm going on an adventure with food, not against it. Food wants me to succeed and wants me to be healthy and wants me to party with it. I feel very connected to my food now, and with it, the world and the earth.
Everything fun revolves around food.
Eating differently from your community is like being a leper. Getting ice cream with friends? Out. Eating Erin's birthday cake? Out. And if you do join the community, it won't make it better, because if you join but don't partake - people are sad that you can't eat with them, and sad that they cooked something that you couldn't eat, and talk about it a lot, and you end up feeling crummy that you've made them feel crummy. This reason alone is enough to make me want to drift back towards omnivorism.
There is no substitute for spinach and feta omelets.
This speaks for itself.
People have opinions about food.
Strong opinions. Almost every day, I get to decide if I'm going to have a strong opinion back, or just chillax, let them have their opinion, and quietly go my way, doing what I believe is healthy and right. Sometimes it's too exhausting to put up a fight ("Yeah, you're right, I don't get enough protein. Or B-12. Or iron. Or Omega-3's. Yeah, I'm wasting away. One foot in the grave, the other in the 5K."). Sometimes it's too exhausting not to. ("YOUR BODY IS JAMMED WITH PROCESSED CRAP AND CHEMICALLY ALTERED ANIMALS AND YOU'RE ASKING ME IF I GET ENOUGH PROTEIN? IS THIS A SICK JOKE?") I think (hope?) I'm finding a gracious balance of the two. It's sort of the same balance I've had to find with Christianity ("whaddaya mean, Christians don't have any fun???")
Metamucil producers must be engaged in a world-wide coverup of veganism.
It's the only theory that makes sense!!!
Everything comes from somewhere.
I had never thought about this very much before. When I started looking at ingredients on the back of cereal boxes, I started seeing objects as a collection of their parts - a collection of parts that compiled somewhere (China?) by someone (a child?) out of something (an animal?). My desk was made somewhere. My shoes, my lightbulbs, my yogurt, my car - everything was touched by so many people before it got to me. Who are those people? Where do they live? How were they treated? Everything I'm touching right now has a story - from my computer to to my chocolate bar. The Amish say that "one must accept all personal moral and spiritual liability of all harms done at any distance in space or time to anyone by one's own choices". I don't know if I can do that. But eating vegan, and thinking about where my stuff comes from, is a start.
My body needs to be treated kindly.
For me, it comes down to loving my body, living in it entirely, and treating it gently - it's been through a lot, and it's done its best for me in some tight spots. C.S. Lewis said that "You don't have a soul. You are a soul. You have a body." My body isn't an inseparable "me," but something that "me" has charge over. (Philosophically, this idea has some huge holes, but they're all really boring holes, so I won't take the trouble to patch them up here.) I want to encourage it, coax it to be good, reward it when it succeeds, be understanding when it fails. All in all, having a body is like having a puppy - a lot of patience, flexibility, and kindness are necessary when dealing with its very unruly ways. My soul has been charged with taking care of my silly body, and I need to be kind to it and treat it with compassion, and veganism helps me be more aware of my body, the types of food that I eat, and what my body needs in order to thrive. Poor body. It really does try.
So. My one month trial of eating vegan ended two weeks ago. There were definitely some cons. I'm not sure how long I can live in community and be a pre-hibernating bear, eating berries and nuts while cheesecake is being passed around. But I also don't know how long I can live with myself with questions like "where did this come from?" and "what is this doing to my body?" So for now -
the vegan adventure continues! Long live plant life! Long live tofurkey! Long live Ghirardelli chocolate bars! Viva La Veg!
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
Rainy Day
I got behind in posting some of these, so the next batch of posts are a bit old.
It rained today in Kentucky.
I've been here since May, and today was the first "Rainy Day" we've had. Apparently it takes a hurricane's sideswipe [Lee's] to get some all out rainy days. It does rains here, but usually loud and demanding and short cloudbursts - "GET OFF THE ROOF, SHE'S ROLLING IN!" - that take you from blue sky with white clouds to purple sky with green lightening in under 3 minutes. From the time that we first spot the darkness rolling in, sometimes there's barely time to get all the power tools under a porch. There are some days that we wait out the cloudburst sitting in the truck ("Is she passing?"..."Maybe.".... "Is it lightening up?".... "Could be"...."Could you scootch your leg over a bit?".... "Sorry."....). There are some days that it's gone from sunny to hurricane back to sunny in under half an hour.
It started raining Sunday night, and rained all Labor Day, and when I woke up this morning, I got to listen to rain on our metal roof for awhile before rolling out of bed. Three months of sweltering, humid, sun-blasting work days had conditioned me so effectively that I am now unable to make common-sense clothing decisions, and I deeply regretted my choice of shorts for every minute of our freezing cold, soaking wet afternoon.
Well, maybe just chilly and damp.
So we did what we do on rainy days in Kentucky - which is actually the same as what we do on sunny days in Kentucky - which is build us some houses! We did a (mostly) inside job today - ripping up old flooring in a kitchen and putting down some new stuff. There was some water damage on the kitchen floor, so our plan was to rip up the first layer and put down some linoleum. We ripped off the first layer - imitation wood - and found that the plastic tiles underneath were destroyed, too. So we ripped up the plastic tiles, and found that the plywood underneath the plastic tiles was rotten, too. So we ripped up the plywood and found out that the 2X6 supporting beams under the whole house were rotten as well...
So we spent a rainy, Kentucky day in a wee little broken down kitchen, ripping up floors for what seemed like all eternity. Ogres are not the only thing like onions.
It rained today in Kentucky.
I've been here since May, and today was the first "Rainy Day" we've had. Apparently it takes a hurricane's sideswipe [Lee's] to get some all out rainy days. It does rains here, but usually loud and demanding and short cloudbursts - "GET OFF THE ROOF, SHE'S ROLLING IN!" - that take you from blue sky with white clouds to purple sky with green lightening in under 3 minutes. From the time that we first spot the darkness rolling in, sometimes there's barely time to get all the power tools under a porch. There are some days that we wait out the cloudburst sitting in the truck ("Is she passing?"..."Maybe.".... "Is it lightening up?".... "Could be"...."Could you scootch your leg over a bit?".... "Sorry."....). There are some days that it's gone from sunny to hurricane back to sunny in under half an hour.
It started raining Sunday night, and rained all Labor Day, and when I woke up this morning, I got to listen to rain on our metal roof for awhile before rolling out of bed. Three months of sweltering, humid, sun-blasting work days had conditioned me so effectively that I am now unable to make common-sense clothing decisions, and I deeply regretted my choice of shorts for every minute of our freezing cold, soaking wet afternoon.
Well, maybe just chilly and damp.
So we did what we do on rainy days in Kentucky - which is actually the same as what we do on sunny days in Kentucky - which is build us some houses! We did a (mostly) inside job today - ripping up old flooring in a kitchen and putting down some new stuff. There was some water damage on the kitchen floor, so our plan was to rip up the first layer and put down some linoleum. We ripped off the first layer - imitation wood - and found that the plastic tiles underneath were destroyed, too. So we ripped up the plastic tiles, and found that the plywood underneath the plastic tiles was rotten, too. So we ripped up the plywood and found out that the 2X6 supporting beams under the whole house were rotten as well...
So we spent a rainy, Kentucky day in a wee little broken down kitchen, ripping up floors for what seemed like all eternity. Ogres are not the only thing like onions.
Friday, September 2, 2011
Kentucky
For the first time today, I loved Kentucky.
I was up on the roof, 95 degrees out, wearing my cutoff t-shirt and a 10pb tool belt. Sweat was beading up and rolling into my eyes, and I could feel my arms getting a sunburn. I'm crawling around on all fours, holding an electric drill in one hand and a fistful of screws in the other, dropping twice as many screws as I get into the roof. My fingers are having trouble with the screws - the tin roof is so hot from the sun that I'm wearing super bulky leather gloves to keep from burning myself. My sneakers are damp and slipping, just a bit, on the metal.
And I stand up, and just look. Old cracked sheds on the property and across the street. A lame beagle trotting unevenly, aiming for the shade of a cluster of old trees. Chickens running loose across the one lane dirt road. A tractor in the back yard, just finished digging up the lawn for the garden. Hazy, light gray-blue sky that's thick and muggy. Cicadas and grasshoppers buzzing and buzzing and buzzing, mixing with the noise of air conditioners.
Just over the edge of the trees, I can see the hills - the pseudo-mountains of Kentucky, like moss-covered, mellow boulders just gently breaking the surface of the world, going on and on as if there is no world but this world, no country but this country, nothing but Kentucky hills forever and for always. And right then, on top of the roof, I knew that I was where I supposed to be, when I was supposed to be there, and that I love Kentucky and I love her people and I love her land.
This is good country.
I was up on the roof, 95 degrees out, wearing my cutoff t-shirt and a 10pb tool belt. Sweat was beading up and rolling into my eyes, and I could feel my arms getting a sunburn. I'm crawling around on all fours, holding an electric drill in one hand and a fistful of screws in the other, dropping twice as many screws as I get into the roof. My fingers are having trouble with the screws - the tin roof is so hot from the sun that I'm wearing super bulky leather gloves to keep from burning myself. My sneakers are damp and slipping, just a bit, on the metal.
And I stand up, and just look. Old cracked sheds on the property and across the street. A lame beagle trotting unevenly, aiming for the shade of a cluster of old trees. Chickens running loose across the one lane dirt road. A tractor in the back yard, just finished digging up the lawn for the garden. Hazy, light gray-blue sky that's thick and muggy. Cicadas and grasshoppers buzzing and buzzing and buzzing, mixing with the noise of air conditioners.
Just over the edge of the trees, I can see the hills - the pseudo-mountains of Kentucky, like moss-covered, mellow boulders just gently breaking the surface of the world, going on and on as if there is no world but this world, no country but this country, nothing but Kentucky hills forever and for always. And right then, on top of the roof, I knew that I was where I supposed to be, when I was supposed to be there, and that I love Kentucky and I love her people and I love her land.
This is good country.
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