Backroads to Kentucky: The Spaus Creek Trip
In August of 2000, I had the once‑in‑a‑lifetime chance to road‑trip through Kentucky with Momma & Daddy (Virginia and Ishmael Rogers) and my Aunt Ruth. It almost didn’t happen—something about gas money or car trouble—but I’ll never forget piling into that rental van at the Marathon Station outside Bunker Hill, Indiana. Dad drove, Aunt Ruth called shotgun, and Momma and I settled into the back, happy just to be together.
We were headed to Fagan, Kentucky, for a Pitts family reunion hosted by Barbara Ingram. First stop was cousin Janda’s house in Mt. Sterling. I *think* we grabbed a late lunch on the road, but what I remember most is climbing out of the van, visiting awhile, then turning in for the night. Next morning we collected Aunt Gertha and Aunt Dorothy—and that’s when the fun truly began. Dad pointed out landmarks as we drove: the spot where Uncle Albert once ran his “storey,” the place Grandpa Rogers bought clothes. I scribbled down every direction on a scrap of paper I still have tucked away.
We paused to visit Arthur Bishop and his wife Virgie—Arthur was Grandpa’s cousin—and their hospitality was pure Kentucky: easy chairs, good stories, and smiles that linger long after goodbye.
One afternoon in Lexington we spent time with Aunt Mary (who married Grandpa Matt’s oldest brother). Her whole face lit up when she spoke of my great‑grandparents, Ruth (Bishop) & Hezekiah Rogers. She shared a memory I’ll never forget: “Rutha was the most beautifullest woman I ever saw—riding side‑saddle with her hair just so—while Hezekiah headed off to register for the draft. Little Matt, in his brown cap and jacket with a poke of candy, stood close by.”
It wasn’t until later, poring over records, that I realized Aunt Mary had likely been *almost the same age* as Grandpa Matt—she was born in 1906; Hezekiah’s draft card is dated September 1918; both Hezekiah and Rutha died that December. She would’ve been about twelve, Grandpa about thirteen or fourteen. No wonder her telling felt so vivid—she hadn’t heard the story, she *watched* it unfold.
She let us scan her photographs—Aunt Loli, Uncle Ishmael, Eugene, Uncle Albert, plus her daughter Glenda Lee with that bright red hair. Every image felt like opening a window to the past.
We made cemetery rounds next—Mountain Springs, Wireman, and Fagan. I snapped pictures of every stone, and if you look hard at the Fagan shots you might spot a ghost or two (depending on how much you believe in such things).
Scattered between visits, I squeezed in a quick dive into the old courthouse ledgers in Stanton—marriage records written by hand. Dad was never one to linger, so I worked fast. Another day Momma and I ducked into the Kentucky Historical Society. We barely had time to scratch the surface before the rest of the crew was itching to move on, but those brief moments of digging felt like striking gold.
Back in Mt. Sterling we bunked at Janda’s—Mom & Dad got the bedroom, Aunt Ruth and I camped on Ella’s floor. Before reunion day Barbara Ingram and her mother Alphie welcomed us like kin. Barbara and I bonded instantly over old photos and family lore.
The high point came when Barbara arranged a trek up to Pitts Cemetery on Spaus Creek. 4-wheel drive & Flatbed trucks carried us partway; the rest we hiked. Some folks veered toward Hatton Cemetery, but my group kept to Spaus Creek. Rolling in, the land looked familiar—like I’d walked it in a dream. Elders pointed out former homesteads and stores and spoke of Aunt Mollie Hatton, the midwife who once rode that trail on horseback. We climbed up through Menifee County and came down on the Powell side, and I wrote notes on the backs of every photograph—names, dates, scraps of story.
At some point we stopped at a KFC in Mt. Sterling—might’ve been the night we opted for a motel instead of Janda’s. We said a quick goodbye to Barbara and finally headed home. I remember not wanting that road to end. Momma and I talked the whole way back, jotting names and impressions, savoring every mile.
during our visit before the Spaus Creek trip. Glenda was always a spark — full of stories, laughter, and a no-nonsense kind of charm. I still remember her hospitality and how she kept things moving, even with a house full of guests.
Lined up at the edge of the woods where stories and footsteps linger, the Rogers family paused for a photo that says more than words ever could. From sisters to sweethearts, each one carried memories of Spaus Creek in their heart. Aunt Ruth stood strong in her red, Mama steady at Daddy’s side, and Aunt Dorothy—true to form—offering that no-nonsense wisdom in her gaze. The ties of family ran deep that day, as deep as the hills that cradled their kin.
—one group bound for Hatton, the other for Spaus Creek. Not everyone’s name is known, but every step taken that day honored the ones who came before.
where the old Pitts store once stood.
this was taken looking across the road from where they said the old Pitts store once stood. It’s wild and overgrown now—but once upon a time, this patch of Kentucky hillside held homesteads and stories now mostly forgotten. You can almost feel them whispering through the trees.
and from a slightly different angle—still looking out from where the old Pitts store once stood. Hard to believe homes and a little country store once bustled here. The brush has taken over, but the land still remembers.
Overgrown, quiet, and worn with time—yet it still carries the weight of so many footsteps before ours. This was the final stretch before reaching the old burial ground tucked deep in the hills.
The road grows narrower, the brush a bit bolder—as if the land itself is reclaiming the way. This stretch always felt like stepping back in time, with each bend whispering memories of those long gone.
with the vehicles and had to hike the rest of the way up to the top of the mountain. The trail was narrow, rocky, and thick with growth—but we were determined to find what was left of the past.
Rocky, rutted, and shaded by thick trees—it was clear no vehicle could pass. We were on foot from this point on, tracing the same path that once led to homesteads, stories, and resting places high on the ridge.
Aunt Ruth is in the red shirt, taking a moment to chat and smile. I wish I could name everyone here, but what mattered most was the company and the shared journey up the mountain—feet in the dirt, hearts in the past.
faces turned toward the trail, and the hush of the woods all around. The older gentleman standing at the left had such a familiar mountain stance, like he’d walked that path before. The trees parted just enough to show the hills rolling in the distance, watching us climb.
Family gathered in the shade of the trees, standing on sacred ground at Pitts Cemetery on Spaus Creek. Some bowed their heads, some shared memories, and others simply stood in quiet reflection. It was more than a visit. It was a homecoming.
Jan 16, 1804 – Dec 10, 1908
My 3rd great-grandfather. He lived through a century of change, and rests now in the hills of Spaus Creek. We climbed that mountain not just to visit a grave, but to pay respects to a legacy.
This stone was placed years later through the kindness of Barbara Ingram, who honored his memory.
—no name, no date, just a quiet reminder that someone once walked these hills and now rests in their shade.
Time and weather have worn away the names, but these humble stones still stand. Quiet sentinels marking the final resting places of those who came before—many likely family, their stories now whispered only by the wind through the trees.
One more grave among the many scattered across the forest floor. The stone leans with age, surrounded by the curious company of family—and one fluffy four-legged visitor who made the climb right alongside them.
The climb was steep, but the view from the top whispered of stories buried deep in the hills. Trees swayed gently in the breeze, bearing silent witness to generations laid to rest beneath the soil. Up here, time stands still.
Pausing for a moment before heading back down the mountain, carrying the weight of memory and love in every step.
– the path walked in both memory and reverence."
– a path well-traveled in heart and history
🕯️ In Memory of George Washington Pitts
photo courtesy of Barbara Ingram
Born: January 1808, Tennessee
Died: December 1908, Spaus Creek, Menifee County, Kentucky
Buried: Spaus Creek Cemetery
Marker placed by Barbara Ingram
My 3x great-grandfather – a man remembered for both his longevity and his unyielding spirit.
Help Us Remember the Backroads
Do you have stories, photos, or memories of Spaus Creek, Pitts Cemetery, or any of our family places in Kentucky or Indiana?
We’d love to hear from you! Every memory helps us stitch the past to the present.
Rebecca – Keeper of the Family Stories
rebecca@rebeccas-treasures.com