Day Six... Dumbo's Magic Feather
I wake in the a van in the driveway of a house in a fenceless neighborhood in Eastern Kentucky and my first thought is that I’ve abducted myself. I slip quietly into the Rosenbergs’ house, surprised not to find them doing morning Western yoga in the living room then I step into their bathroom shower and turn the knobs half expecting to time travel into the 1970s. They materialize when I emerge, of course they’ve been up since dawn, Sadie joins us for breakfast and John runs down all the things I have to see before I hit the road again. I’m anxious, not to leave, but to get some miles, I haven’t really put up any numbers in three days. I give John until 1pm to show me the world. By 2pm, Jean will be prodding him to let me go.
The Rosenbergs roll me through town, showing off their Prestonsburg: the remodeled AppalRed office with its brick front, the restored classic buildings rescued from ravages and repurposed by the industrious few, of which, I could be one, until we get out to walk at the PaddleFest launching in the Big Sandy. For 10 bucks you can drop your kayak in the water, cruise down eight and half miles and they’ll pick you up, bring you back and give you lunch. Mayor Les Stapleton, presiding, calls out the familiar, “John Rosenberg!” Handshakes and intros and lowdowns exchanged, Sadie meets a crew up from Tennessee to try the float who wanna take her with in a canoe. Walking back to the car we pass a bow legged 70 year old man with a Kenny Rogers white head of hair and beard and a far off glassy look in his eyes. I recognize a fellow time traveler. Bob Margette has just ridden here with his daughter, to revisit the location of the tragic crash of ’58 that killed a bus full of children. Bob was called up as part of the Kentucky National Guard, spent a week stationed here, dredging the river for small bodies. He was just 17. His daughter tells us, “It impacted his life.” John Rosenberg directs them to the memorial marker just up the road behind the old school which is now the new school. Bob Margette remembers.
When we pull up to the half a dozen or so booths in a line off the road that’s referred to as the farmer’s market, it takes about half a second for a couple of ladies to call out, “Jean Rosenberg!” I shake hands and smile and head down the line, I’m on a bit of a side-quest for honey, but all I find are honey-made soaps and I don’t wanna eat that. A Mennonite family in long pants and long sleeves sells me fresh banana bread, a handful of peppers, a slab of bacon and cooked sausage links on a 90 degree morning. I’ll discover in about two days that this is the best bacon I’ve ever had in my life. I wish I'd got the name of that pig.
We ride around the corner to wash second breakfast down with a cup of iced coffee from the new coffee house. It’s got a clever name, a play on ‘Perk,’ quiet seats and wifi and art on the walls and these places are popping up off every Main St these days and I’m grateful for it. These spots are good imports from the city, much more welcome than the vapor shops. We sip and ride with time for one more stop and Middle Creek Battleground and the Town of David lose out to the MAC — The Mountain Arts Center just off the parkway back to their house. I regret nothing about this choice. Although, The Town of David apparently has an incredible Luthery, I feel I could take nothing better from that experience other than learning that ‘Luther’ means someone who strings lutes.
Paid for and built by the community, showcasing the history of coal mining in the lobby exhibit and touching on the legacy of race car driving, The Mountain Arts Center is an absolutely gorgeous, thousand seat arena and performance space. Of course there’s a party going on in one of the gathering rooms and it’s the Rice baby shower and everyone knows John and Jean Rosenberg and I’m introduced to three of the forthcoming four generations of family and friends. Jean gets the staff to turn the lights on in the arena and we walk through, just the three of us and my jaw hangs open while John’s telling me about local singing competitions they host called Idol and Front Porch Pickin’ and I see the percussion left onstage and… for about a year and a half now I’ve had this idea… I’ve had this picture in my head of a sort of free comedy tour. Get all the city people in an RV, white people, black people, gay and straight, Jewish and Hindu and Muslim, men, women, and trans, and show up in the tiniest venues in the tiniest towns, maybe put up a sign that says ‘Free Beer’ and give away entertainment. Before or afterwards sit around and talk, and more importantly, listen. Maybe look at peoples’ artwork or hear their jokes and stories, not for any other reason than to bridge the gap. Look eye to eye. Reduce the foreign and the unknown. On all sides.
I’m still in my head about the venue when we’re in the hallway talking to a sweet senior lady in pink named Waunelle who went to Berea College where it was integrated and co-ed in the 50s and she never knew anything was supposed to be any other way. Berea’s got a financial needs based admissions policy which tends to mean that alumni’s kids can’t get in because their parents done too well after catching that education. This entire stop plants seeds in my brain.
Pushing 2:00 and burning daylight, I finally hug the Rosenbergs goodbye, assured that there’s still plenty to see on my next visit, and wondering if that continuous refrain which initially sounded comical might end up bearing fruit. The future will have to wait, though, since I’ve still got some of my father’s footsteps to trace.
Some days you stumble. Not every drive is beautiful. Not every road is a perfect metaphor. Some need a little unpacking. We pick a route out of Prestonsburg that’ll take us to Whitesburg and on to the site of the Scotia mine where 26 people were killed in 1976. We take 80 to Hindman where I’m tempted to turn towards Hazard because of The Dukes, but instead I go left and get caught behind a funeral procession on 160. I lack the good sense to pull off into an Odds and Ends shop that may have had something perfect. I keep meaning to stop just a hair too late. The French call that L’Esprit de l’escalier. When you come up with the perfect thing to say while you’re on your way down the stairs. I try not to complain about my first bout with “traffic” since I’ve been making an active effort to refrain from using my LA voice. Only occasionally have I called someone a fucking jerkfuck when they didn’t give me adequate heads-up that they were slowing to a complete stop to turn off onto a tiny bridge road or something. Stopping distance is not Dumbo’s strength. We need more than a little heads-up.
The Rosenbergs have told me Whitesburg has a fascinating arts and cultural community so I call up a local film-maker named Mimi Pickering who did an incredible documentary on Buffalo Creek. The footage on youtube was part of what sent me to see for myself. Mimi is hosting a class/showing tonight at 6pm and I tell her if I’m still in the area then I’ll be sure to come by. I’m itching to get some miles, to put a dent in Kentucky, I’ve still got a long way to go.
I turn up 119 and climb a mountain in second gear and get rewarded for my troubles with a view of God’s green and blue creation. My tension eases and I know I won’t be going back down to meet Mimi Pickering, not after that climb. I realize I need a little break from people. I get filled up and I need time to absorb and process and be alone with my thoughts and my dog. I ride on with the radio off, listening to the music of my head.
I’m chasing the GPS location of a Historical Marker on the roadside in Oven Fork and I find the most photogenic general store outside of a backlot. Rusted hulks of red Fords sit on the lawn on either side of the street. I pause to snap a few photos and continue on until the GPS keeps urging me onto coal road which can’t be right. I pass a couple painting their house and slow enough to draw a wave and I ask for their help. He comes over to the window with his mustache and directs me down the road, across the bridge and then they’ll be a wide space on the left. “If you can’t find it, I’ll take ya.”
Sometimes I feel like I’m in a videogame. Not one of the ones I made where you kill everybody. One of the big sandbox ones where you can stop and talk to any non-playable character and the NPC will offer directions or help or lodging or food or weapons or a game.
Here’s what the marker says…
“One of the worst mine disasters in U.S. history. Faulty equipment ignited methane & coal dust due to lack of proper ventilation. On Mar. 9 & 11, 1976 twin explosions took the lives of 26 coal miners and federal mine inspectors in the Scotia mines located nearby. This led to the passage of The Federal Mine Safety & Health Act of 1977.”
On the other side it says “In Honor of those who lost their lives” and all their names are listed. All men. My father represented the widows. He tells their story better than I ever could in his book The Scotia Widows. The part that hangs with me is the two explosions, the devil’s double-tap, the rescuers drawn into the first one were killed by the second. It’s a terrorist’s tactic.
I just wanna drive.
We don’t have a destination in mind anymore. Just need that open road medicine. Need to hear it, listen to it, feel it. We roll 119 South hugging the Tennessee border watching county markers through Cumberland, Pine Mountain, Pineville, and Harlan the home of Justified. I tally in my head adding Floyd, Knox, Letcher, Bell, I think we’ll touch maybe 40 counties before the border. Kentucky’s got 120 counties. We roll -burgs and -villes all afternoon until I notice Dumbo gasping and the needle sagging. I hit a gas station before the next big junction and chat up everyone inside about the best campgrounds, trusting the man with the greasiest hands and face won’t lead me astray. It’s here at this gas station of no particular regard that Dumbo finds his magic feather: high octane, super premium 93. We’re about to fly.
We turn North on the inscrutable South 15 E (no kidding) and just soar through green fields and undulating roads of Flat Lick, Bimble and Barbourville until the dread creeps in. A decayed steam-shovel by the side of the road like a dinosaur fossil from a previous generation that went extinct signals the deterioration of the landscape into that post-imagination wasteland that indicates the presence of an Interstate. In this case Interstate 75. Which’ll take you to Lexington if you’re so inclined. I may have been at one time. I may not be anymore. I feel the anger of the hungry.
The Interstate delivers poison. National chains and mass distribution of high-calorie low nutrition foodstuffs meant to increase the volume of people has really succeeded in increasing the mass of people. And decreasing joy. All the wood and paint and metal of roadside shops replaced by plastic and garish colors, mass-produced and mass-distributed in ubiquitous uniformity, it’s so ugly. Next to the individual artistry of necessity and choices and using what’s available here rather than trucking in what was proscribed elsewhere. Corbin, Kentucky, you are God’s perfect asshole.
We manage to find a KOA campground up near the town dam, still within earshot of the highway noise, but family friendly, like a village out of the 50s. Not sure I’m gonna trust a greasy face again, though. I can feel the humming of a road religion forming, tenets being written as I realize that next steps will have to be chosen more carefully. Slightly.
