Way Down Yonder, Ole Kentucky

I am not from Kentucky but I do love Kentucky.

You can hear the wind move the pines in Kentucky. Hear the echo of jubilee church singers somewhere deep in those pines, deep in time, the baptism of thousands of souls hundreds of years in the making.

You can hear the word of God in Kentucky. Better than anyplace I’ve ever been to. And I was abroad in Jerusalem and Rome before. And I’ve lived in Texas. But God breathes best under the moon and upon the hills and through the Daniel Boone forests of Kentucky.

You can chase pigs on a Saturday morning from Hale’s farm all the through downtown Lovell on Cedar Street, covered in mud, car horns honking, go-carts and four-wheelers racing by.

You can smell grandma lying in the grass, the chords of a bluegrass banjo always rustling godly music.

I do love Kentucky. But I won’t return.

After about a year living to Lovell, Kentucky, I was invited by my new neighbor to a Kentucky Meat Shower.

He knocked on my door and I answered and he had Colonel Adams chewing tobacco in his mouth and a fifth of Jim beam in his hand.

“Come on on over for an ole fashioned Kentucky Meat Shower tonight my friend. We’re whooping up some brisket and ribs and pork. Cheese grits and collard greens, fried catfish, fried okra, fried chicken, fried pie. Shit, fried everything. Mama’s ole and famous potato salad recipe. We’ll have whiskey, beer whatever you want til you get rowdy like all Hell.

“And I’ll tell you brother,” he said. “It’ll be a hoop and holler and shouting fun. Gonna be a whole lotta drinking, fighting and fucking son let me tell you. Yes sir there ain’t no good a time as a Kentucky Meat Shower.”

I thanked him in kind and asked what I ought to bring.

He said, “It don’t make no difference none. Only gonna be me and you there.”