By Phil Gladden, Paris
A friend from out of state asked what Kentucky is like. I told him to sit, and I offered him an Ale-8-One and some Grippo’s Bar-B-Q Potato Chips. This is what I told him.
Kentucky is secret ingredients in family recipes passed down for generations, cooked in cast-iron skillets. It’s stringers filled with bluegills caught by kids with muddy feet using cane poles and a can of nightcrawlers.
It’s dressed eggs, rather than deviled eggs, at potluck dinners because Sister Bonnie doesn’t allow the devil into her house, her mind or even in the names of foods. It’s Sister Martha’s incredible banana nut bread and deer stew from the six-point buck Brother Johnson harvested from the forest he practically lives in. To know Brother Johnson is to have a true friend, someone to be counted upon, and a freezer full of meat.
Kentucky is sweaty horses crossing finish lines and men covering their faces as they curse and throw losing tickets on the ground. It’s women wearing second glance-worthy, one-of-a-kind hats while sipping mint juleps as they smile and soothe their husbands with encouraging words. “Maybe next time.”
Kentucky is Wildcats that are known for being strong and swift. They will overcome all foes that are unfortunate enough to cross their path. One of them is over 7 feet tall and can dunk without bending his knees.
Kentucky is casual acquaintances who turn into family that you shudder to imagine life without. People you love so much you wish you could carry them in the bib pocket of your overalls, then take them out for long talks when the rest of the world rains down on you.
It’s lush green cornfields and hay in huge white plastic-covered rolls that look like giant marshmallows. It’s cardinals, blue jays, and meadowlarks flying over fields of wildflowers hand-painted by God.
It’s young folks who gas up, pack up and then search for adventure in other states, and then have happy homecomings with family and friends when they return. There truly is no place like home.
Kentucky is yard sales with meager offerings because someone in the family always gets offered the good stuff for free. After all, people are more important than profits, and, around here, family is everything.
Kentucky is fields of tobacco packed into black barns and rock walls that have been around since before barbed wire. It’s glass curio cabinets filled with bourbon in limited-edition bottles for those who respect the history in all of it.
Kentuckians care deeply about the people with whom they share this blue and green marble. It’s where my heart is; where my soul has been set free; and where my ashes will be scattered.
My friend ate my last Grippo’s chip, licked his fingers, then finished his Ale-8. Afterward, he smiled and said, “You’re a fortunate man. You have cast off the evil and found the good in life in a grand place on this earth.”
I nodded as he stood to leave and told him the only place I’ll ever see anywhere near as beautiful as Kentucky will be heaven. He nodded, then turned and traveled down the dirt road where the sun sank below the horizon, and I heard him whistling My Old Kentucky Home as he disappeared into the distance. Stephen Foster most definitely got it right.