My family’s ancestral hollow – nameless by tradition – is the most serene spot in all Kentucky. Leading the way is the winding, ancient path, anew by coarse gravel.
Rushing through our precious land, the cool, clear creek babbles over the silt, sand, and smooth stones. Soft is her song.
Gentle is her stream. Despite her docile nature, she has cut the mighty soil. The bank is lightly decorated with veritable flora: wilful grasses and whimsical daisies and a rainbow of wildflowers. Their earthy scents swell and mix with the dust creating the most natural aroma ever to bless one’s nose. And up the ancient path is Tadpole Hole, obscured to invisibility by ash white birch and elm. Its residents dash and splash from end to shallow end. Standing before the scarcity of water, one can hear the melodic whippoorwills calling, “Whipherifyewill! Whipherifyewill!” Their tunes strain higher and higher then drops to a quick, deep note. They and other birds soar amongst the branches and brambles. Throughout the forest, the wind sways the trees and knocks down several fresh green leaves. Back down the gravely road, near the exit, sits a shack. It stands where nature rules and the trees have all sovereignty. It is haphazard and humanly but has been woven into the scenic tapestry by its oak brown colour, creek stone chimney, and oak brown walls. The land may not build a house, but it forms a home.