Driving directions

Leave I-75 south at exit 95. Don't head for the truck stops by the northbound lanes. Go west instead, toward White Hall. You'll see it in the distance on a good day, or at least spot the burnished historical marker in standing at the crossroads by the gas station. Leave White Hall for another day, though. Turn right instead. See a small paper sign stuck in the ground on a stake. The sign is black, and taken up by a large yellow arrow. Inside the arrow reads “This way for Indian Run.”

At the John Deere equipment rental shop, turn left onto Dismal Hollow Road. Pay attention as it cuts its way among the hills that cluster close to the palisades of the Kentucky River, where the countryside begins to undulate, forming a thousand tiny hillocks and dells, all covered with grass picked shaggy by  grazing cattle. Then, near Black Creek Road, there is another sign for Indian Run — this time in bold, yellow letters stamped on a glossy black board. Turn left again here again, and try to not to notice how faded the sign looks — “Homes for sale / Lots for sale / Starting at $140K” — or how tall the ragged grass has grown around its base.

Black Creek Road runs straight enough, with the Black Creek itself winding its irregular way alongside in fits and starts before diving down to join the river below. Keep driving. Look to the right and see White Hall off in the distance. Before it was the home of the famous emancipationist, newspaper publisher, Minister to Russia, friend to Abraham Lincoln, founder of the Republican Party — it was the home of a Revolutionary War hero, and the home of many slaves. Reflect on that, perhaps, speeding down the road, going up and down nearly twice as fast as the posted speed limit — 35 miles per hour, like anyone cares — and look at the woman in the passenger seat, who smiles and leans her seat back, staring at the ceiling. Reach out and caress her knee, then in a mischievous mood pinch and pull at the tights beneath her skirt. Laugh when she slaps back playfully.

Look out at the farm going by, and then the things that replace it — the five-acre home lots, none older than ten years, replacing lazing black cattle and waves and waves of corn that used to line the road. Suppose that the remaining farms, which interrupt the rows of cheap three-bedroom brick houses on toothpick-thin lots that go whizzing by at intervals, will all be gone themselves in the next ten years. What would the old man think? Hell, what would the emancipationist think, who used to stand on the front porch of his Italianate home, his hands stained with newsprint after firing off another broadside round of anti-slavery screeds, surveying all the lands around him? To think that there would soon be few farms left, when all his father had done was whip slaves and distill bourbon, clutching his money tighter and tighter, an old man himself.

Before coming to the Ford farm, there's the Listers' farm, a cattle farm, beef cattle. Remember all the days spent as a child hopping the fence and running through the fields, dodging their dung and listening to them speak to one another, great slow mounds of hair and flesh. Take a look at the black-painted fence as it whips by, the cows staring vacantly behind it. Remember the thrill that came each time it grew near as a child — it meant the journey home was nearly complete. Smile at the woman in the passenger seat — it means the same today.

Start to climb the final hill, one of the tallest hills in Madison County. Look to the left to see Black Creek Baptist Church, gaining fast, sitting on a tiny slice of land the old man donated so that the church would have a place to build. As a deacon he was at the church nearly every day until Betty died, and even after all he gave to the church the pastor rarely came to visit once she was gone. Remember how hurt the old man was by this slight, and how he refused to ever go to the church ever again after that, sitting defiantly in the front sitting room smoking from eleven to noon every Sunday morning. Recall that he did this even though he continued to send his tithe by mail to the church next door, week after week, without fail.

At last the church moves by — along with its vast parking lot and the recreation building the pastor insisted on building five years ago, against the old man's advice, an expense with has dogged the church in debt ever since. It's time to throw on the turn signal and slow down before turning into the driveway. The Ford family farmhouse sits at the very top of the hill, on the north side, close now the the Kentucky River. Beside the road now runs a rough stone wall, only a few feet high, and behind that wall stands the farmhouse, a tall brick Queen Anne. It's a wonder that the Fords built such a high-style house so far out in the country, but then they always were eccentric, so perhaps it's not that unusual after all. Turning left now, and down the slow, rumbling gravel driveway, come on the the huge deck behind the house, crammed full of all the junk the old man never found a place for inside the house. Park the car beside Noah's ramshackle Mercury, held together with twine and hope, and look at the few outbuildings — a storage shed, and a carriage house, which Noah has turned into his art studio. Notice that Noah has built a kiln somewhere in the yard. Probably this is where he fires his pottery, or at least some of it. Of course who knows what he's actually up to most of the time.

Smile at the girl in the passenger seat as she emerges from the car and stands there stretching in the driveway, the sluggishness of the road shaking from her. Give noncommittal answers to her questions about where Noah and Aimee are. Tell her that the place is eccentric, sure, but then all Fords have been eccentric. Once there was talk of two uncles down in Berea, who on a whim bought a Ferris wheel from a group of traveling carnies and set it up in their back yard. It was fun for a while — they even managed to make a little money from neighborhood kids who came out to take a ride — but before long they lost interest and let it go to ruin, sitting high in the grass with the pink and purple paint peeling off, too rusted up to move.

Reflect that family gatherings have always been full of such stories.

Point out to her that there's a small barn here, too — black with a red roof, where the old man kept his tractors and all his farm equipment. It has a quilt block painted on it, flying swallows pattern in red and white and yellow. Tell her that there used to be a field for grazing the cattle, several pastures. The old man kept several trees for them to lie under, and behind that he planted a field of corn. The back of the property was where he planted his tobacco. There's a curing barn back there, not really painted, just there to be utilitarian.

Ignore the way that she wrinkles her nose when the tobacco is mentioned. It's what people do here, and there's no shame in it.

Come around to the front of the farmhouse to see the pond, kept by the old man to provide water for his cattle. This she likes, a little bit. Explain to her how, standing on the easternmost corner of the front porch — it might be helpful at this point to take her there to illustrate — one can see White Hall in the distance on top of another hill. Talk about how the Fords knew Green and Cassius Clay back in the day, and even lent Cassius money so that he could purchase his first printing press. Tell her how White Hall can be readily seen — all lit up at night, too — from the Ford farm. Draw connections and contrast between White Hall and the old rural lifestyle and the new, rapidly expanding exurban lifestyle developing on Black Creek Road. Say this to her sadly, so she will understand how devastating it is, especially when so many childhood memories are tied up in the rural landscape and the farmlands and the whole damn lifestyle of it.

When she asks what you mean when you talk about the loss of traditional ways of life, gesture over the hill towards Indian Run. That's what all the signs have been pointing to, the inevitable end of the pull that's been coming after the car, dragging it inexorably onward since leaving the Interstate. Indian Run is huge, the biggest subdivision development in Madison County, built out in the middle of nowhere. It used to be the site of the Johnsons' farm, before Peter Johnson sold his land to Samuels Homes, who turned it into the biggest McMansion development in the county. No one there works with the land. No one there understands what it means to be part of the landscape. Everyone instead drives big cars and takes long drives to Richmond or Lexington and tries to live in the country while keeping the lifeline open to town, something made possible only by burning lots of gas and spending lots of money.

Watch her closely to see if she understands. Then turn around and go to the front door with her. Knock, and wait for your sister-in-law to answer.