Photo b﻿y Anjali: The Water Series III: Kentucky River

Photo by Anjali: The Water Series III: Kentucky River

8/19/2015

It was fixing to rain, somewhere south of Lexington, when Anjali snapped this photo.

I heard the girls were heading south on I-75, known in the mountains as Hillbilly Highway because it takes people home on weekends and holidays.
Get off and take the Valley View Ferry, I urged. I used to do it whenever I could, from Louisville to Eastern Kentucky.
Stop at the Kentucky Horse Park, I insisted.
Don't forget the Boone Tavern at Berea.
I sometimes forget how much I love that part of the world.
* * *

It's not Appalachian, per se, but treat yourself to the Gary Bartz version of "I've Known Rivers," adapted from the Langston Hughes poem, "The Negro Speaks of Rivers."

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l9WCFQzznC4

Ed Martin

8/19/2015 04:18:07 am

Her talent, her "eye," is undeniable. I recall attending a weekend conference on civil rights at Berea, the students running the inn as part of their education. Long ago, but still in the memory bank. This trip should be a long-time memory for Anjali and her Mom.

George Vecsey

8/19/2015 12:59:57 pm

Ed, thanks., The students feel part of the Appalachian region. We had friends from Berea -- the McLain Family Band -- and their friend Jean Ritchie moved back to KY from Port Washington and recently passed "back home." GV

Brian Savin

8/19/2015 12:51:36 pm

Got a small connection to that area that is meaningful to me. A year after the Civil War ended, my wife's Great x4 Grandfather had a daughter who had married a Rogers of Cornwall Connecticut. Her husband's family had helped set up Beria College and he was offered a job to teach mathematics after his discharge (it may have been for a new school they wanted to set up with the same standards of neither sex nor race discrimination). He brought his wife and five (pre war) children with him to start a new life. As fortune would have it, after surviving the War, upon arrival he soon died of "a fever of the brain." Great x4 Grandfather Jacob Scoville took an ox cart from Connecticut to Kentucky to bring his daughter and grandchildren back east. In those days, a widow with children had a tough time surviving. He and his brother Samuel built a house for them near the lake so they could take in boarders. There was a train that came up from New York and Cornwall was a vacation destination, as it is now. Jacob gave his farmhouse to his son and moved in with his daughter to help out. That new home, built in 1868, is the house we live in today in our retirement. I'd like to visit that area some day and look forward to any further photos by Anjali.

George Vecsey

8/19/2015 12:56:29 pm

Brian, you should really visit Berea. The inn is terrific...and the school is different from any other place. So much within a short drive -- Shakertown.....Lincoln's birthplace.....Mary Todd home in Lexington (don't miss)....and Laura and Ani saw Funny Cide at the KY Horse Park near Lexington. They would love to meet you at Berea, GV

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QUOTES
More and More, I Talk to the Dead--Margaret Renkl

NASHVILLE — After my mother died so suddenly — laughing at a rerun of “JAG” at 10 p.m., dying of a hemorrhagic stroke by dawn — I dreamed about her night after night. In every dream she was willfully, outrageously alive, unaware of the grief her death had caused. In every dream relief poured through me like a flash flood. Oh, thank God!
Then I would wake into keening grief all over again.
Years earlier, when my father learned he had advanced esophageal cancer, his doctor told him he had perhaps six months to live. He lived far longer than that, though I never thought of it as “living” once I learned how little time he really had. For six months my father was dying, and then he kept dying for two years more. I was still working and raising a family, but running beneath the thin soil of my own life was a river of death. My father’s dying governed my days.
After he died, I wept and kept weeping, but I rarely dreamed about my father the way I would dream about my mother nearly a decade later. Even in the midst of calamitous grief, I understood the difference: My father’s long illness had given me time to work death into the daily patterns of my life. My mother’s sudden death had obliterated any illusion that daily patterns are trustworthy.
Years have passed now, and it’s the ordinariness of grief itself that governs my days. The very air around me thrums with absence. I grieve the beloved high-school teacher I lost the summer after graduation and the beloved college professor who was my friend for more than two decades. I grieve the father I lost nearly 20 years ago and the father-in-law I lost during the pandemic. I grieve the great-grandmother who died my junior year of college and the grandmother who lived until I was deep into my 40s.
Some of those I grieve are people I didn’t even know. How can John Prine be gone? I hear his haunting last song, “I Remember Everything,” and I still can’t quite believe that John Prine is gone.
-----
https://www.nytimes.com/2023/01/30/opinion/death-grief-memory.html
Jan. 30, 2023