Walk Across Kentucky

Walk Across Kentucky

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This morning, I walked across Kentucky. Not the 370 miles from Ashland to Paducah, or the 180 miles from Covington to Williamsburg. But the two miles around the Kentucky Arboretum trail, which promises to compress all seven of the state’s geographical regions into one stroll. 

I saw conifers representing the Appalachian Plateau, dogwood and coffeetree for the Knobs and tall grasses for the Pennyrile Region.

The Bluegrass Region, where Lexington is located,  is the most extensive, with bur and chinquapin oaks, several types of ash tree and outcroppings of shaggy limestone. 

Ambling through the Arboretum warmed me up, wore me out and educated me, too. After just one visit I can tell it will be one of my regular hometown routes. 

Ashland Park

Ashland Park

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There are places I visit so often in my imagination that I need to recharge the memories as you would a battery. I did some recharging today when I strolled through Lexington’s Ashland Park neighborhood.

There was Woodland Park with its baseball diamonds and picnic tables, then my old place on Lafayette, the first of several former houses I would visit today (the others I drove by rather than walked past).

I ambled down South Hanover and Fincastle, letting my mind wander, fantasizing what it would be like to live in some of these places, the grand brick colonials, the charming round-doored tudors.  

Till I reached Ashland itself, the home of 19-century statesman Henry Clay, which stopped my reveries in their tracks. Ashland with its shaded walks and formal garden. Ashland with its historic pedigree and bountiful acreage. Even in fantasy, Ashland is out of my league. 

Corridor H

Corridor H

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The climb started as soon as I exited Interstate 81. The flat land became scarcer, the tree tunnels more abundant. My little car felt the difference but handled it better than I’d hoped. 

The first stretch was road I’ve known and driven for years, Routes 33 and 55, which I wrote about years ago. But instead of chugging through Moorefield and Seneca Rocks, I cruised the top of the ridge along Highway 48, which I learned today is part of the Appalachian Development Highway System’s as yet incomplete Corridor H. (Sounds more like a UFO site than a federal roads project.) 

Incomplete might be seen as a disadvantage, given the two-lane stretches in between the four, but not when it takes you to places like this, a pull-off viewing spot I almost missed since it had no sign or build-up. What I found were mountains beyond mountains, Queen Anne’s lace and bumblebees, the quiet of a land out of time.

Going Home

Going Home

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In the waning days of summer, I sandwich in one more trip — this one back to Lexington for my high school reunion. It’s been 10 years since I’ve seen most of these folks and three years since I’ve been in my hometown, a record I don’t want to duplicate. 

I’ve written about trips to Kentucky since I started this blog, describing the drive there and the drive home — even my old high school building makes a cameo appearance. 

There’s a reason for this, of course. It’s because once you’ve grown up in a place like Lexington, it never leaves you. It’s why, even though I’ve lived in this dear house for decades, raised my children here and treasure it beyond measure … when I go to Lexington, I still say “going home.” 

Back to the Bus

Back to the Bus

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The buses are rolling again, yellow school buses not yet matching the color of autumn leaves but rolling just the same. In their rolling I see hope and normalcy.

Yes, the delta variant is abroad in the land. Yes, some of us, too many, are unvaccinated. But in this (now August) ritual (it was always in September when my children were in school), I see a bid for real life with all its prickliness and uncertainty. 

So even though the buses about ran me off the road on my morning walk, even though conditions are not ideal, I’m glad students are heading back to the bus. And from the gleeful look I see on parents’ faces, I think they feel the same. 

The Shore

The Shore

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I’m home now, looking out the window of my office, staring at the trees that aren’t palms, the greenery that’s not tropical. 

Yesterday I took a walk along familiar streets, nodding at neighbors, noting the changes even a week can bring, the house that’s up for sale, the fall clematis about to bloom. There was much rain while I was gone. Not enough to rescue the parched ferns but enough to green the grass that clogs the mower. 

It’s lovely, it’s my home. But I miss the big skies above the palms, the limitless white sand, the confab of shore birds that hung out at a tidal flat near where I would go. I see in my mind’s eye the small crescent beach only reachable at low tide and the alternating blues and greens of the Gulf water, lighter above the sand bar. 

What a magical place! How grateful I am to have gone there again!

Summer Storm

Summer Storm

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One of the things I like about going to the beach is, strangely enough, the rain. Not  the steady, all-day showers but the late-afternoon thunderstorm. 

In this subtropical climate you’re pretty much guaranteed to have two or three (or more) summer days a week with skies darkening after 3 or 4 p.m., the uptick of stickiness in already-humid air, the low rumble of thunder and then, with a release that matches the heat of the day, a lovely, brief torrent.

There was a downpour like that yesterday, a fitting way to say (sigh!) … goodbye to the beach. 

Off-Beach Walks

Off-Beach Walks

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Maybe it’s the Red Tide. Maybe it’s the shade. Or maybe it’s just my frame of mind. But for some reason I’m taking walks off the beach-beaten track this year. And I’m finding …

Spanish moss …

lush greenery,

and quiet canals.

All just steps away from the sand and surf. 

Shooting Rain

Shooting Rain

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I’m an amateur photographer, doing the best I can with my iPhone 7 and enjoying every minute of it. I like framing the shot, trying to capture a digital image of what I see and want to preserve.

But sometimes I try to get technical, to shoot the difficult and ephemeral — to photograph the rain, for instance.

I wasn’t sure I could do it, have tried before. But the rain in New York last month was falling so fast and furiously that I was able to snap this shot of it streaming through the skies, down the tenement fronts and into the rooftop pool of the newish hotel across the street.

This shot captures a moment and a downpour I won’t soon forget. Water was streaming into the New York City subway system that evening, flooding major highways and making national news. 

What I didn’t know then is that the rain would also delay the bass player from the band my cousin leads and in which my brother plays drums— the band we had come to New York to hear. And in fact, the drummer would end up missing all but three songs in the set. 

On the other hand, I did get an interesting rain photo out of it. 

The Canals

The Canals

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The west coast of Florida is not only sun-kissed and sugar-sanded but some of it (my part of it, at least) is laced with a series of narrow canals that make for crazy walking but lovely viewing.

I ran into these canals the other day on the way home from the beach. Thinking I could take a shortcut I found myself going in circles on what was, in effect, a peninsula, bounded on all sides by these watery avenues. 

No cut-throughs here. Instead, languorous streams tucked behind walls of palmetto, elephant ear, bougainvillea and birds of paradise. They move slowly; I’m trying to learn from them.