The Perfect Middle Child is Central Kentucky
As we study this commonwealth, what consistently strikes me is the good-natured, gracious, almost neighborly quest for progress and prosperity in a state with three distinct regions. It's like the weird family where all the siblings seem to get along, and you can't help but wonder why. And where central Kentucky is the perfect middle child in a family of odd parts and shady reputations.
Part Two: An Appalachian Epiphany
The theme of leaving and returning is strong in Appalachia; it is difficult to make a living without the coal jobs. Many people must travel hours to work each day in Georgetown, Somerset, wherever industry has jobs with wages enough to feed their families. It is easy to see why they must move away, and it is easy to see why they yearn to come home. The mountains pull them in, wrap them up, a warm fleece that safeguards them from unfamiliar winds; they nestle in, scrapping to sustain the foothold of their common connections.
Appalachia Part One: The Common Wealth of Kentucky Heads East.
Mayor Stapleton sat in a portable chair across from Kelly. She started her outline while he pointed overhead at a perfectly-timed bald eagle and said, "when people came here, they were looking for independence. Not necessarily independence from the government, but yes, not necessarily independence from religion, but yes. They just wanted to be independent, period. They wanted to be left alone wanted to do their thing. That gave them a strength that's second to none. At one time, right here on this point on the side of the mountain, there were cornfields so they could feed their crops and feed their families." Farming on the side of a mountain "that takes determination and ingenuity.
The Common Wealth of Kentucky Project is Born.
I woke up on a padded bench inside a metal van, my body stiff. Big Agnes, my sleeping pad, was deflated and crumbled on the floor next to an open bag of tortilla chips and empty plastic wine glasses. The rotary spew of coffee from the Keurig sounded like bliss. Kelly sat my cup on the edge of the narrow Formica counter, unzipped the door as quietly as she could, and stepped out to the gravel parking lot, Casey Jones Distillery. She set her mug on a moonshine barrel, stretched her arms to the clear blue sky, and groaned. Jill was in the back, curled up, still asleep after tripping over the exploded duffle bag on her early morning trip to the toilet. We were three middle-aged women traveling western Kentucky in a sprinter van, and this was day two of our “Common Wealth of Kentucky” tour.