Sentimental Journey

Sentimental Journey Debbie Hodson "There's not very many people living around here, is there?" out of state folks have sometimes mused to us while visiting. I try to resist replying, "What? Are you kidding? There's oodles of people living around here!" I temper my reaction because I realize their question stems from a lack of knowledge. I really can't fault them. Instead, I explain that by travelling into the area on newer highways, those built within the last fifteen to twenty years or so, they simply aren't able to see where a good portion of the population of Eastern Kentucky lives. Crisscrossing this region on the older two-lane roads, weaving over and through the mountains and along the creeks, it's much easier to glimpse the small towns, side roads and hollows that give evidence that there are, indeed, quite a few people living around here. Of course, I have to admit I don't drive on those old roads much myself these days. Sometimes, though, I miss them a bit. Don't get me wrong. I'm all in favor of the progress that's been made in bringing wonderful new highways to the mountains, and I use them and benefit from them every day. I don't at all miss the torturous little journey we used to make when I was young from Whitesburg, Kentucky, to Pound, Virginia, to visit relatives. And I don't miss the curving, winding roads that took us to the cities of Pikeville or Hazard for "big shopping" events like Christmas shopping or buying school clothes. I don't miss the extra time required back then to take my grandmother to the specialist in Lexington, poking along behind coal trucks until, by a stroke of good fortune, a "straight stretch" appeared. I don't miss those occasions at all. Not long ago, however, on a bright, sunny Saturday, I thought I might reacquaint myself with some of those older roads, just to see what was left of them and what might still be found along them. I convinced my husband to go along, so that I could spend more of my time looking instead of driving. We set off, heading from Knott County into Letcher County, Kentucky, toward the areas where my parents and grandparents and great-grandparents had lived. Though a lot of things had changed, I was surprised at what I could still see just by travelling on those roads again. There's a school standing now near the field where they used to set up the open-air roller rink in the summer. On those warm nights it attracted quite a crowd. Many times I was in that crowd, lacing up clunky, sort of white skates that had obviously been laced up many times by others before me. I wobbled with them heavy on my feet, my hands clammy with nervousness as I clutched the side rail. The jukebox blared with popular tunes, and couples anticipated the 'slow skate' numbers. Sadly, just when I would begin to get the hang of it over time, working my way up to circling the perimeter without holding the rail for dear life or getting run over by more surefooted skaters, it would be time for it to come down! An old school bus stop, a lean-to of boards cobbled together, appeared by the side of the road, along the same curve my bus had rounded those curves many years ago. Suddenly, I could again hear the hiss of air brakes and see the driver's hand reach for the handle that opened the door. For a moment, as plain as day, I could see the kids that waited there each morning, scrambling onto the bus while the rest of us scooted over in our seats to make room! We passed houses where friends and acquaintances of my parents had once lived. Names and faces I hadn't thought of in years came back to me! People long forgotten, and some no longer living, appeared in my mind's eye, once more in the familiar places they had always been. They were on their porches stringing beans, hanging...