Before leaving Arkansas Mike and I made one more attempt to find the road to my grandparent’s farm. Using Google Maps we found the Caddo River and the bridge that crosses it. As soon as we saw it I knew that we were on the right track. It was just as I remembered it. It seemed to be a place suspended in time. The old wooden bridge will one day be gone. Little is left of it but enough to bring back such fond memories. It was  so peaceful there. The crystal clear water looked clean enough to drink. Of course we knew better than to try it without some form of filtering. I learned that important lesson from my grandmother long ago and from all of our more recent backpacking adventures. I wanted to just sit along the banks in that quiet place and tarry for a long while but we didn’t have the time. 

We drove down a dusty gravel road looking for my grandparents’ former home. The lane was lined on both sides with trees that made a cool canopy of shade. We both felt that our view was as lovely as any that we have ever seen. I began to remember why my grandparents had so loved this place. Deer skittered in the shelter of the underbrush as though they were unaccustomed to intrusions by humans. Nonetheless it was evident that modernity had come to the mountain. Where there had originally been mostly homes without electricity or plumbing, virtually every place that we saw was fully equipped and many had satellite dishes to deliver television programming. When My grandparents lived there they were known far and wide as a rather wealthy couple simply because they had indoor plumbing, electricity, and a television that picked up several channels. 

We never actually found their house. My guess is that it may have been torn down at some point in favor of a newer model or one of the doublewide trailers that dotted the landscape. Perhaps it had been changed in ways that made it unrecognizable. It has been at least twenty five years since I last saw it and it was fairly old by then and rather small by today’s standards. I didn’t need to view it again to recall how wonderful it was. Perhaps it is better that I am left with my memories intact.

We spent most of yesterday traveling across Tennessee after leaving Arkansas. We drove across the Mississippi River near downtown Memphis. We will return to that city on our journey back home but we were determined to get to our campsite in Kentucky before nightfall so we just got a preview of what is in store.  A few hours later we were battling work day traffic in Nashville and spent a bit more time there than we had planned. I enjoyed seeing people driving Mazaratis and Porches and wondered if they were famous. 

Near Bowling Green, Kentucky we left the main highway and headed down a scenic route to the Lorin River State Park. We passed some of the loveliest farmland that I have ever seen. Stately homes stood watch over massive fields of corn that had turned brown and was slowly being plowed under. There were other plants that were unrecognizable to us. Whatever it was had a deep dark green color and made the land appear lush and vibrant. Herds of cows and horses lounged in the fields creating a pastoral scene that was quite calming and right out of a Currier and Ives painting.

As the road continued we passed through tiny towns with houses sitting on rolling hills. Every one of them was as neat as a pin with manicured lawns, sculpted trees, and beds of fall flowers. They had generous porches that ran the length of the home with rocking chairs just waiting for someone to sit and marvel at nature’s glory at the close of day. Many of the places were decorated with wreaths and pumpkins much like one might see in a September or October edition of Southern Living. I was so taken by the loveliness that I found myself wondering what it might be like to be a part of such a community where no doubt everybody knows everybody else. 

As the road twisted and turned it became more and more rustic and natural. We passed over the Nolin River and saw the dam in the distance, knowing that we would soon be in our retreat for the evening. The state park is perhaps the nicest that I have seen anywhere. I almost wish that I didn’t have to leave today but Indiana awaits us and with it, Andrew.

Our trip has been a backward version of the odyssey of my ancestors. My great grandfather’s parents, Austin Boley Smith and Biddy Ann, had once lived in Kentucky not so very far from where I am now writing this blog. Austin was a cabinet maker by trade and a member of a Methodist congregation. He pledged a tithe to help build the church. He died in Kentucky and is buried on private property in a county close to Louisville. Since it is not certain exactly where that location is I won’t be attempting to find him but I think I now have a fairly good idea of the geography of his home and final resting place. 

It has been fun following my ancestors. I know that it is almost impossible for any of us to fully understand what life was like almost two hundred years ago when Austin was born. We can’t really put ourselves in the shoes of people who lived so differently than we do. We haven’t experienced a world without the luxuries that we take for granted and will never really understand what it is like to live without them. I suspect that mostly the day to day routine for those who came before us was dominated by very hard work for both the men and the women. 

One of the stories that I encountered as I was recently doing my research involved my great grandfather’s brother, James Asbury Smith. Jim as he was called was quite a musician who played several instruments. He was married multiple times and fathered several children. In a photograph that I have of him, he looks just like Jed Clampett from the old television program, The Beverly Hillbillies. I mention this because my grandmother loved that show and always remarked that the members of the Clampett family reminded her of own relatives. Anyway, it seems that Jim Smith just disappeared one day. His family had no idea where he had gone. When they eventually learned of his fate they found that he had died in Oklahoma under an assumed name. To this day nobody in the family has any idea what came over Jim or why he left. Perhaps he just got really tired of the drudgery. Who knows?

I have a couple more pieces of history to unravel a bit before our trip is over. My great grandmother was born in Harrison County, Indiana and I hope to get a feel for that area as we head north today. Additionally Mike and I plan to visit the Shiloh battlefield where my great grandfather narrowly missed battle when his company arrived at the end of the fighting. But for that accident of fate who knows if I would even be writing this today. He may have been one of the many hundreds killed in that deadly fray. As it was he and his men had the horrific job of burying those who had died. Given the extent of the bloodshed it must have been a very gruesome task. I suspect that the ghosts of all of those unfortunate souls still linger over the area. 

There is lots of excitement ahead for me and Mike. I’m grateful that he has been so willing to help me find my story in the past few days. I somehow see myself as being part of something that is far bigger than my own individuality. I feel a closeness to people that I never knew. I realize that who I am is the sum total of so many who have come before me and that like them I will eventually live on in those who are yet to come in the future. There is something incredibly remarkable about that!