From Tamer of Horses

Leesburg, Kentucky does not appear on any map I've ever seen. But I could place my finger on it – the blank space between Cynthiana and Connorsville. The latter was named after some ancestor of my great-uncle Willard Connor who, well into his 90s, continued to tear around the countryside in his Cadillac, even after his son released the air from all four tires. One time we watched him drive up the long lane to my Grandma's farm – his deflated tires flapping loudly onto the paved-over ruts.

He had driven all that way on metal rims to hear my Grandma's latest story: Warren Mallory had redecorated and repainted the interior of his house only to discover an infestation of snakes just below the floorboards in the living room. His wife screamed for him to get the gun and ordered Warren to shoot the snakes dead. Because Warren was from South Carolina, Grandma claimed he was debilitated because he acted as slowly and methodically as he spoke.

"Why – takes him five minutes just t'say his name." Then she gave us an imitation, "Waaarrrrrennnn," and returned to her story.

Obeying his wife's orders in slow motion, Warren started shooting the snakes, which, by the time he fetched his gun, had taken possession of most of the living room – some side-winding up the walls, others traveling toward the kitchen. But, wouldn't you know – as he shot them, they didn't just flop down dead: the severed and decapitated bodies started twitching and convulsing, and, in Grandma's words, "they like to slew blood all over that newly painted living room."

That evening, like so many evenings, I walked around the farm after dinner. Everything in this landscape was torn open with bare hands, but gently, the way one breaks bread. The exposed roots of trees sucked directly from muddy gullies. I walked among the ragged trees – their leaves frayed tenderly by the changing direction of light. Is this the shape of my soul? Handmade, handmade, handmade – like stones ploughed up and stacked into walls. And were the hills that crude and unfair and dear?

The barn, too, was rough: tobacco hung from beams in huge papery sheaths to dry; dust and stacks of hay bales and burlap sacks full of seed; blades of light sliced through the walls; nothing but a wooden latch to secure the heavy door. Two horses followed me home down the gravel path. I forget their names, just that they loved me, nudging my shoulder with their mouths. I left them outside the gate to the farmhouse. Past the anxious hens. Past the rain barrel.

The inside of her house was a human version of the landscape. The walls were cluttered with pencil drawings and "folk art" created by a gifted but untrained hand. On one wall, an etching of a deer; on another wall, a tree glued on felt with yarn for bark and buttons for leaves. Near the south window, an assembly of subtropical plants; under the west window, a piano played simply by ear without lessons, and a voice.

Years later, after a series of heart attacks, Grandma told the same stories over and over like a skipping record. At the time I found this situation frustrating, even excruciating. Each time she told a story I would pretend it was the first time. I was careful not to laugh until the punch line. I suppressed tears at her obvious deterioration. I would ask the right questions in the right places, until, finally, she would say, "I've told this story a dozen times today, haven't I?" And I would answer "yes." She would vent her frustration about being caught, as it were, in a frozen section of time – a place unnamed on any map. Then she would forget her frustration and return to that place.

Her senility had a purpose. I will never forget her stories. Also, she began to tell new stories – to reveal new details. A few months before she died she finally talked about her son's death. They moved to Michigan temporarily, during...