The King

Autumn is an exciting time here in Kentucky. As nature ages gracefully, the leaves change and set the hills on fire in a blaze of scarlet, amber, and gold. Mornings wake up the day with a decidedly crisp chill in the air, and the fog is taking longer and longer to burn off in the valley of Booneville. Front yards are slowly filling up with pumpkins, bales of hay, and scarecrows. The old folks are taking turns making predictions about the coming winter, each more ominous than the last and quickly followed up by war stories of Januarys survived.

Perhaps, though, the most exhilarating Fall activities are the slew of county fairs that are threatening to occupy our every weekend. These festivals are no frivolous New York affair featuring beer tents and wire leashes for invisible dogs. Oh, no. County fairs around here are serious business. Young and old battle it out in 4-H contests for canning, quilting, painting, and vegetable-growing, and local musicians show their stuff at down-home talent competitions that win the victors a Walmart gift card and a year’s worth of bragging rights. There are banjos, mandolins, guitars, and more Appalachian clogging than you can shake a stick at. And as far as sustenance goes: well, if you can fry it and run a stick through it, you can most certainly ingest it (before jumping on the giant pirate ship ride and sorely regretting it).

During the past few weeks, my Kentucky family and I have immersed ourselves in the local flavor of our current surroundings. We kicked things off at the Jackson County Fair in our CAP hometown of McKee, which I followed with the Booneville Fair in the OC. A few of the J-House ladies checked out the Richmond Pottery Festival, while the ever-wise McCreary gals opted for the Bourbon Festival last weekend. This past Sunday, a few of my friends and I attended the Berea Spoonbread Festival.

Spoonbread is a type of cornbread that’s pudding-like in consistency, not like the dense, crumbly cousin that we live on down here. Seeing as how there’s a whole festival named after it, five of us splurged on a single three-dollar helping and eagerly gathered around the bowl with our spoons to try it. We all took our bites at the same time and chewed them slowly before looking up into the faces around the circle and seeing our own confusion reflected in each of them. Okay, so spoonbread isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. I’m quickly learning, though, that a small town doesn’t need a real reason to celebrate community.

We wandered about the grounds, looking at the different stands and sampling the various fares offered from brightly colored booths smelling strongly of oil and clogged arteries. Eventually, we found ourselves sitting in a pavilion next to the music tent, eating snow cones and impatiently awaiting the arrival of the final act of the festival and the one for which we’d really come in the first place.

Will “Teen King” Reynolds is a sixteen year-old reed of a boy who – you guessed it – impersonates Elvis Presley. Do yourself a favor and Youtube him. All it took was for us to see his name and promotional photo in the festival program, and we knew there was no question that we’d have to be present for his show. He’s been doing this routine for years. When discussing the show later on in the McKee Rite Aid, the cashier knew exactly who we were talking about; she’d seen him at an Independence Day celebration in Richmond a few years back. What I’m trying to say, kids, is that this fellow if kind of a big deal.

Tamara and I were sitting at our picnic table surrounded by other cheery festival-goers while Christel and Ben went off to make phone calls before the music started up. While we girls were chatting, we heard a blood-curdling scream; we, along with the other thirty people in the pavilion, whipped our heads around to see who’d caught on fire. Alas, Ben came running over to us, eyes like saucers and the Superman symbol he’d had the kids’ face painter draw on his chest just peeking out over the top button of his flannel shirt.

“YOU GUYS. HE’S HERE.”

It took us a minute to realize that he was, in fact, talking about the Teen King. With those around us now looking at all three of us with some alarm and much interest, Tamara and I sprung from our bench and fled the scene, making a bee-line for the parking lot where the King himself was exiting his Oldsmobile with his grandparents and girlfriend in tow.

And what a King he was. He was dressed in a pale blue jump suit, his large white belt and many rhinestones catching the September sunlight and making him sparkle. His perfectly coifed black wig had not a hair out of place, and I can only assume that blue contact lenses allowed him to hold us in so piercing and icy a gaze. He was putting on a white scarf when we approached him, positively star-struck.

He graciously agreed to take a picture with Ben and me. Upon later review, I’m not entirely sure whether or not the curled lip was evidence of Mr. Reynolds staying in character or a sign of impatience for those of us who are so very far below his particular brand of royalty.



The show was just as spectacular as we’d hoped it would be. Afterwards, Ben and Trevor, who himself was sporting Batman’s emblem on his t-shirt, were banned from the Fun Slide for flying down headfirst, Ben bellowing the Superman theme song on the way down. And so we headed out.

But Lee County’s Woolly Worm Festival is right around the corner; its main draw is a massive caterpillar race. “Excited” doesn’t even begin to cover it.

Bless Its Heart

It’d been a particularly rough day. I dragged myself up the steps of the front porch rather melodramatically and pouted as I headed straight for Annie’s outstretched arms, while Ginny cooed, “Bless its heart.”

Annie’s a tiny woman, part Cherokee with a full head of red hair that she usually wears in a plait that reaches the small of her back. She lives in a beautiful old white house sitting on top of a hill in Vincent; it’s one of my favorite spots in Kentucky. The walls are layered with cream planks that are turning yellow with age, and the dark wooden doors are covered with intricately hand-carved molding. After my visits with her in the spring, one of my favorite things to do was to run across her back property with her dog Ginger on my heels. I’d reach its highest point and throw myself down in the tall, sweet-smelling grass, sending up a plume of jewel-colored butterflies against an achingly blue sky. A big wrap-around porch conducts the most beautiful breeze on balmy summer evenings when we sit with her family on the swing and wave at the passing cars. Annie considers me to be a daughter to her now, and I see her children and granddaughter as my own relatives. There are few things to which I look forward more at the end of a long day than unwinding with the whole lot of them in a cloud of cigarette smoke at their kitchen table.

Annie’s granddaughter Kelly is eight years old and cute as a button. So, when she asked me to buy something for her school’s fundraiser to assist her in her generation’s relentless pursuit of Silly Bandz, I had no choice but to succumb to the requests of the freckle-faced little sprite. I signed up for twenty issues of Time magazine (I know it goes against all of my “El Rushbo” upbringing, McCormacks, but I’d already bought a subscription to Southern Living from another kid, and People en Español just wasn’t that enticing). As I didn’t have the cash on me that afternoon, I arranged with Kelly and her mother Ginny to meet me at the elementary school at 7:30 the next day.

Ginny greeted me with a warm smile in the chilly gray morning light as I waited for them outside the cafeteria. At thirty-seven years old, her face is beginning to show the effects of years of sun and smoking, but her brown eyes lend a pretty softness to her expression. Kelly sleepily took the ten bucks I handed to her and let the corners of her mouth curl up ever-so-slightly in thanks.

I hugged Ginny and said, “See you at your mom’s house later?”
“Of course,” she chuckled. “We always wind up there one way or another.”

I drove up Annie’s hill at about 4:30, looking forward to listening to their family banter for an hour before returning to my own Kentucky family. I walked in to a very different scene, however. Annie, her son, and her daughter-in-law sat silently around their table, chain-smoking their cigarettes and silently staring straight ahead. Annie looked up at me, her deeply wrinkled face creased even further with worry. “Ginny and Kelly were in an accident over in McKee. Kelly was taken to Berea, but they flew Ginny to UK.”

I looked at them, startled, and sat down in the vacant chair at the end of the table. “How are they now?”

“No one’s telling us anything when we call,” Annie said helplessly. She pushed the phone into my hands. “You try.”

I got through to the emergency room and discovered that Ginny was responsive, but in bad shape. I asked if it would be helpful to have a family member there, to which the nurse replied, “Uh, yeah.”

The obvious dawned on me then: neither Annie nor her son have a car and therefore had no way of getting to UK. I asked Annie if it would be alright for me to represent her family at the hospital, and she eagerly agreed. Bringing her daughter-in-law with me, I jumped into my minivan and sped off for Lexington.

After spending a fair amount of time in the waiting room, we were allowed to make our way through the maze of gurneys and plastic curtains back to Ginny’s bed in the ER. Her tiny 108-pound frame lay twisted up in the sheets, her left foot visibly swollen and her face contorted in pain. I rushed to the side of the bed and began to sweep her dark brown hair away from her face. She tried to open up her swollen eyes to look at me without much success. “It’s Bridget, Ginny. I’m here. I’m here.” She tried to repeat my name, but the left side of her mouth remained stubbornly limp, and she looked alarmed at the realization that she was unable to speak normally.

She’d suffered a stroke while driving. Kelly later explained that her mother had been acting rather strangely upon leaving their appointment, and that she’d just “fallen asleep” on their drive back to Owsley. They’d careened into a ditch on a remote roadside (something that proves to be a constant threat around here). Once their vehicle had come to a stop, Kelly had crawled out of the car with a chipped collarbone, up the embankment, and to the first house she saw. When nobody answered her knock, she ran into the street and flagged down a coal truck, saving her mother’s life.

As doctors and medical students drifted in and out of the room, Ginny continued to writhe in pain; due to the fact that she hadn’t been given an MRI yet, she was unable to take any sort of pain-killers. When the doctors revealed that she’d not only broken her foot in three places, but had also crushed her pelvis, I really wasn’t sure how much longer Ginny could take it. It’d already been hours since the accident and, because of the lack of family presence and pertinent personal information, nothing had been done to her in that time except for the insertion of an IV of fluids.

The doctors saw the need to stabilize her heel before proceeding with an MRI. The fracture wasn’t compounded, but the nature of the break was such that every movement threatened to push the broken bone through the skin. Two medical students began to cast it, and Ginny cried for them to stop, trying to lift herself up. I gently held her shoulder down, stroking her hair and shushing her the way I imagined my mom would have if it were me laying on that bed.

“You’re doing a great job,” I whispered as she whimpered under my hand. “I’m so proud of you. And Kelly’s going to be so proud of her Mama.”

“For what?” she mumbled through her uncooperative lips as a tear slipped down her broken nose.

I smiled and loved her so much at that moment. “For being so brave.”

The plaster eventually hardened, and Ginny fell asleep out of pain and sheer exhaustion as I held her hand. It sounds ridiculous, but I felt a strong protective, maternal instinct as I hovered over her pain-stricken face and broken body. It felt like somebody else – someone much older and more confident – was answering the doctor’s questions, giving direction to Ginny’s sister-in-law on how to update the family, and filling in Ginny’s husband when he finally arrived at UK from Berea Hospital. I felt as if Ginny was my very own, and I wanted to stay by her side through everything the doctors did to her that night. This was impossible, I knew, but I was so grateful to have been able to be with her as she endured all of that suffering. There’s a certain intangible but extraordinarily resilient bond that forms between people where intense suffering is involved. It can’t be created amidst everyday circumstances, and it can’t really be explained. It’s a bond that transcends normal human contact because suffering, like true joy, taps into psychological and emotional wells that are only accessed rarely, when something so deeply affects an individual that the usual reactions just don’t suffice.

When the surgical team wheeled her away to put pins in her foot and to scan her brain, I kissed her forehead and told her I loved her. Her “I love you, too” was muffled, but it meant the world to me.

Coming Home

Sunlight streams through the windows and shines off the whitewashed walls of the tiny church as blue-haired women in their Sunday best shuffle their way into pews reserved by tradition and habit. This weekend is Homecoming here at the Green Hollow Methodist Chapel, and one of my gals has invited me to be a part of her family today. I’ve taken my seat in the back, right behind Ella Mae and her son. Slowly, the rows in front of me fill up with generations of people who have come through this place at various points in their lives; hugs and excited greetings are exchanged as folks catch each other up on the past year.

As the conversation dies down, the pastor walks up to the front of the church and grins broadly at his congregation before inviting everyone to stand and sing. A hundred voices meld together and rise to an arched ceiling that embraces the joyful noise like an old friend. I mouth the words but don’t allow any sound to come out; aside from not being familiar with these old hymns, I feel like my voice would stick out amongst that gathering above us, a harsh New York accent trampling on beautifully soft Southern lilts. I’m content to listen, and my voice is content to rest (for once).

After a few verses, we sit and the pastor begins to take a role call. He announces the last name of each family in the parish, and all those present from that group stand. Some families have upwards of twenty members present, coming from as far away as California. Others – like Ella Mae’s – have two, but they represent their lineage and stand just as tall. The pastor introduces the oldest member of the congregation; at ninety-four, she stands proudly behind me as he calls out her name, beaming in a bright pink and purple floral print dress and surveying her church family, one which she has seen grow and change more than anybody else in this building has. Our attention is then directed to the youngest member who, at four months old, sleeps blissfully through the first of many homecomings, completely unaware that the eyes that smile on him now will watch him closely as he develops a little personality and contributes in his own way to Green Hollow's rich history.

After some preaching and more beautiful singing, we get up and file slowly through a door at the front of the church into a gathering area. Miles and miles of Southern cooking stretch out in front of me. In a traditional show of friendly competition, each lady has made her own specialty dish with the flair and panache of a five-star chef. Oh, sure, they’ll bat their eyes and dispense cordialities, but don’t be fooled: this is a blood sport (my compliments to whoever whipped up the potato salad, by the by). These people know how to cook. And they sure know how to eat.

We eventually roll away from the banquet tables and back into the church, where it’s open mic time. I’m blown away by the natural talent within this tiny community; each young singer that steps up to the front of the congregation is better than the last. While keeping an ear open, I make my way to the vestibule, where there are large scrapbooks set out featuring thousands of newspaper clippings from years past about the church’s members. I skim through the generations, watching one girl grow from a birth announcement to an engagement announcement to a wedding announcement. I look around and see her sitting close to her young husband, and I smile when I notice that she’s just starting to show. A pretty blonde woman comes and stands next to me, serving as a guide of sorts as I continue to explore this church through its periodical records. She tells me that she’s thirty-nine and a teacher at the county high school, but she has a youthful light and warmth about her that makes me feel like a peer. We fall into conversation easily, and I learn that the expectant mother inside is her younger sister. Hearing my accent – or lack thereof – she asks me where I’m from and which church I attend. I answer New York and give the name of my parish, and I notice the slightest trace of a raised eyebrow (Catholics aren’t traditionally all that popular in these parts). I quickly explain, “My horns and pitchfork are in the car.”

I’d had high hopes of being the recipient of a few smiles at this church, perhaps of being granted the chance to be graced by a conversation or two with its charming members. I’m happy to report to you that, due to that comment, I am known as the “Catholic New Yorker with Sass” to the Green Hollow Methodists, and have since received numerous dinner invitations. How’s that for ecumenism?