On my day off, I took a miniature road-trip with my dad around Kentucky. We visited Olive Hill, Kentucky, where dad's grandparents (Doc and Helen) had a farm. The farm wasn't there, but we're pretty sure we found the spot where it was. Then we visited dad's parents' (Johnny and Evelyn) farm in Hitchins, Kentucky. And, of course, the farm wasn't there anymore. Dad talked to the lady who lived on the spot in Hitchins, and she said she still had pictures of the old farmhouse. In Olive Hill, he found an old-timer (Mrs. Bond) who said she remembered Doc and Helen and that "it wasn't much of a farm."
After Hitchins, we headed over to Ashland, Kentucky, where my dad spent most of his childhood. I also have fond memories of Ashland: I spent three weeks of every summer in Ashland until I was probably twenty or twenty-one years old. In spite of the pervasive coal odor in the air, I
attach happy nostalgia with revisiting the lifeless, gravelly streets of Westwood.
As I stand, First Street dead-ends behind me. I can see Phil and Bill, childhood friends now in their fifties chatting in the middle of the road. To their left is Phil's house. To their right is Grandma's old house. Everyone lives close to the people they care about it in Westwood. To my immediate left as I take the picture is Phil's parents house (Amos and Betty).
This is Grandma's old house. It looks tiny. Maybe it always was. It also looks bare and depressing. I guarantee it never seemed that way when Grandma lived there. The front yard had trees; the back yard had trees. Dad would wash and wax the cars in the back yard in the shade on those summer days. The hollow screeching of the screen door would be followed by a vibrating metallic slam - and you'd be inside Grandma's house, with the hum of air conditioner and the creaking of her uncomfortably low swiveling, rocking chair.
This is Grandma's old house from up near the dead-end of First Street. Notice the abundance of gravel. In our more recent visits to Westwood, we'd spend mornings throwing rocks (to Grandma's and Dad's dismay) at the mailbox. Yes, there were other things to do in Ashland. But have you ever thrown rocks at a mailbox? It's addicting.
This is where Phil and his wife Regina live. They have four kids now; only the youngest lives at home. My sister Ashley and the second youngest, Nicole, were childhood friends. My brother and I grew up as close friends to the two oldest, Jason and Keith. Jason now does engineering for the Marines (which, in retrospect, seems like it was always the perfect job for him). Keith still lives in the Ashland area. He is either a youth pastor or associate pastor and also works in insurance. No insult intended, but it's kind of hard to imagine either Jason or Keith as mature adults. I'm sure they'd both say the same thing about Matt and me (not that we actually are "mature" adults).
When we'd wake up on those summer mornings, we were immediately curious to see if Jason and Keith were awake. When they were, they would open the curtain on the sliding door leading into the living room (it's a French door now). Then we'd charge over to their house to watch TV or play Nintendo.
This field lies between Phil's house and his parents house. When we'd appropriately dumbed ourselves down inside by watching TV and playing Nintendo, we'd head outside to play (or Regina kicked us out of the house). In our early years, our play revolved around toy guns (playing Scarecrow & Mrs. King) or spastic marital arts impersonations (playing Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles). Even then, our play revolved around this field. But it usually spread from the creek at the far reaches of Amos's yard that ran parallel to First Street - all the way to my Grandma's backyard. We climbed trees a lot, too. But our favorite climbing trees are all gone. I don't have pictures of my Grandma's basement, but that was probably the third most-frequented spot for our imaginative play. We played saloon down there. Ashley and Nicole would set up shop and sell us Pepsi for "two bits." Then we'd have showdowns that usually spilled out into the backyard or field.
This is the view of the filed if you were to stand on First Street and look back towards the creek (pronounced by most Kentuckians as "crick"). For the majority of our childhood, Keith's and Jason's uncle June (short for Junior...as in Amos, Jr.) had some rusty, black mega-car parked immediately to the right of the field. The front left tire served as third base for when we played Wiffle ball. We'd also play Home Run Derby, which involved standing at home base (located right at the point where the hill started to slope down to the creek) and hitting a tennis ball with a fat, red plastic bat toward my grandma's house. If we cleared the power lines that ran across her front lawn, it was a home run. By our teen years, we frequently cleared those lines - and the house - and occasionally her property entirely.
After World Cup 1994, Matt decided that we would forevermore be soccer fans. So, we set up make-shift goals (from folding stools) and played hours of the "beautiful game" in that field. On some occasions, we would get Ashley, Nicole, dad, and Phil to join in the game. We'd play until we could see the fireflies.
Then we'd go back inside and watch our favorite TV shows: Scarecrow & Mrs. King, Father Dowling, Get Smart, The Dick Van Dyke Show, and, our all-time favorite Mystery Science Theater 3000.
This image is from Mystery Science Theater 3000: The Brain that Wouldn't Die. Although it wasn't the first episode we ever saw, it was the first that we brilliantly recorded from television. The man on the screen is Kurt, the conscientious lab assistant.
Hopefully, my brother will correct me if I'm wrong. Hellcats, I think, was the first ever episode that we saw. After the initial confusion died down, our thirteen and fourteen year-old minds quickly embraced and savored this peculiar brand of humor.
