Backroads to Kentucky:
Summer Visits with Daddy’s People

I remember heading to Kentucky late in the evening after Daddy got off work—usually around midnight or later. He’d come home, sleep a couple of hours, and then wake up around 1 or 2 a.m., ready to hit the road. He always said he wanted to miss the Indianapolis traffic. When he was ready, we’d all pile into the station wagon—me in the very back seat, facing backwards—and head south.

I don’t remember much about Momma packing us up, or who watched the animals while we were gone—maybe Aunt Ruth or Uncle Mitchel—but I do remember the excitement of leaving. It seemed to take forever to get to Indianapolis, but once we did—oh, the lights! The tall buildings, the TV stations, and the Circle with that giant statue in the middle. Everything glowed. I think we took 65 south. Daddy would drive right past the Circle and head on down the road.

Crossing the Kentucky state line was unforgettable—that big ol’ bridge lit up over the river (what I now know is the Ohio River). We’d go on through Lexington and toward Winchester and Mt. Sterling. I believe Aunt Gertha lived in Jeffersonville at the time, in Montgomery County. We stayed with her and Uncle Nick. They didn’t have indoor plumbing, just a well and an outhouse. At night, we used chamber pots. The cousins would haul water, and those little banty chickens roamed all over the place!

I remember playing with cousins Janda, Greg, and Barry. Billy and Joanna were usually around too, but they were older—sometimes working or staying inside. At dusk, we’d catch lightning bugs in jars and then play “fire” with them—smashing them with our hands just to see the glow. I regret that now, but it sure felt like magic then. Janda always wanted to “swap hits”—she’d punch your arm, then you’d punch her back. One mornin, someone came runnin’ from the outhouse hollerin’ about a snake. Daddy grabbed a hoe and took off out the back door to deal with it!

Uncle Nick and the boys used to “junk” metal and haul copper in to sell. I can still smell those hills. Aunt Gertha had a wood-burning potbelly stove—one I got too close to and burned my right arm badly. I think it blistered up like a 3rd-degree burn, and I’ll never forget how it looked after that blister popped.

Roy, their oldest son, lived just down the road. We’d walk to visit, but not alone—they said a “bare” (bear) had been seen nearby. We also visited Aunt Dorothy, who had twelve children and lived up a twisty, winding mountain road. Kathy got carsick and threw up—she had to be moved to the front seat so she wouldn’t see out. To get to Aunt Dorothy’s, we had to cross a creek bed and head up the mountain. Her husband, Hershel, had died of a brain aneurysm, and she raised all those kids herself. They had a tobacco base way up top on the hill.

While we were at Aunt Dorothy’s, I remember her giving Daddy something real special—his old wooden baby high chair. She’d kept it stored out in the shed all those years. I believe my brother Mike has it now. Another thing I remember from that trip was stopping at an antique store down in Winchester. Daddy found an old Indian Head crock butter churn there, complete with the wooden dasher. He kept that churn for years, and later on—when I was grown and in my fifties—he passed it on to me. I still have it, and it’s in beautiful condition. If it ever came down to it, that churn could still turn out a fine batch of butter.

We also went to visit Uncle Ishmael and Aunt Loli—her real name was Lila, but I don’t remember anyone ever callin’ her that. They lived out at Leeco, Kentucky, tucked into those winding roads like they’d always been part of the land. Aunt Loli was my Grandpa Rogers’ sister, and I’m sure somewhere I still have a photo of the two of them. What sticks out the most about their place were the caves out back behind the house. We were never allowed to go in them—Daddy made sure of that—but they were always there, watchin’ from the edge of the yard like a secret we weren’t allowed to know. Uncle Ishmael always wore blue work shirts and dark blue pants, his hair trimmed into a flat top, and he nearly always had a big ol’ stogie hangin’ from his mouth. Aunt Loli was quiet, small, with red hair, and never had much to say. Their daughter Barbara and her son Timmy were living with them then. I still remember Timmy trying to steal one of his mama’s checks and offerin’ it to us like it was candy—we never took it, of course. I also recall stoppin’ at some kind of gas station shop, one of those little roadside places—I can’t remember what folks called them—but we were told plain and clear: “You can look, but don’t touch.”

I remember goin’ to Uncle Bud and Aunt Ettie’s house too. I must’ve been feelin’ shy, because when we pulled up in the car, I hesitated to get out. But once we did, we had a nice visit. Uncle Bud was one of Grandpa Rogers’ brothers, and I remember sittin’ and listenin’ to him talk about the times he’d been bit by rattlesnakes—more than once—right on the hand. Aunt Ettie was in the kitchen fixin’ food. I don’t recall what she was makin’, but I know it must’ve been good, the way all her food was. We didn’t stay very long, and truth be told, I can’t even remember now exactly where they were livin’ at the time. It’s one of those memories that’s grown dim over the years—softened with time, but still there in the corners of my heart. And sometimes that makes me feel a little melancholy, knowin’ how much fades when you’re not lookin’.

I don’t remember much about heading home except for how sad it always felt to leave. It was like a part of our hearts stayed behind in those hills. The last trip we ever took as a family down there was when Michael was a baby. At that point, there were just six of us kids then. We didn’t know it then, but that trip would be the last of its kind.