Footloose in America: Dixie to New England (10 page)

I
N
K
ENTUCKY, THINGS WERE DIFFERENT
. Instead of the plainness of the Delta, there were rolling hills with oaks, elms and hickories–some of which shaded the road. And as we trekked through Kentucky’s farm land, we started seeing a crop that we hadn’t seen before–tobacco. Big green broadleaf plants that were being cut down at ground level with machetes, then hauled to a barn and hung to dry Whether the barns were wood or metal, they all had their doors open so fresh air could circulate through the hanging plants. When the wind was right, we could smell a tobacco barn long before we got to it. It’s a fragrance like no other. Although I’m not a smoker, I’ve always found the aroma of non-burning tobacco pleasing. Especially when it’s in clean country air.

Back in the Delta, we didn’t see many people out in the fields, because crops like corn, soybeans, rice and cotton were planted, cultivated and harvested by machine. In places like Grubbs, Arkansas, and Morehouse, Missouri, people blamed the mechanization of farming for the demise of their little towns. A visitor to our camp in Grubbs said, “One man on a tractor can do the work of dozens of people with hoes.”

But tobacco was a hands-on crop. It still had to be planted and harvested by people. And the one’s we saw wielding those machetes were mostly Mexican. Short, brown-skinned men, with jet black hair, who lugged
the floppy crops on their shoulders across the fields to trailers. While we walked through rural Kentucky several small green school buses, packed with Mexicans, passed us. On the driver’s door was usually the name of a corporate farm. And most of those buses had brown arms stuck out their windows waving.

“That’s what happened to the jobs here. The Mexicans got ‘em.”

James Robert invited us to camp in the vacant lot across the street from his house in Crayne, Kentucky. He was born in 1926, and lived in the same house he grew up in. When John Robert asked us to stay in his lot, it was more like he insisted. He was a pasty little man who spoke in short nervous sentences. “The Trail Of Tears wagon train camped here in 1988. You heard of it? It was the 150
^th
anniversary. They followed the Indian’s route. They camped here. You should too. It’s part of history.”

Crayne had a few buildings that looked like they must have had a business in them at some time. But it had been quite a while and most were boarded up. It had a couple dozen homes, some were in good repair but others were not. And there were ruins. Concrete foundations with tall weeds and saplings growing in and around them.

“It used to be different,” James Robert said. “We had three stores, a hotel and a train station. But they closed the mine.”

Up until the mid 1980’s, Crayne had a fluorspar mine. Fluorspar was a fluorite crystal used in making steel. “Still plenty of it in the ground around here. But they found some in Mexico. So the company closed the mine here.” James Robert shook his head. “Mexicans work cheaper than folks in Crayne.”

The train quit coming to town in 1990. Then, the hotel shut down and eventually so did the other businesses. James Robert said, “I kept thinking they’d start running the train again. Then the town would come back.” He sighed. “But they pulled up the tracks. That was two years ago. Now we’re done for.”

Most of the ruins in Crayne were the result of a tornado that ravaged it in 2000–a year after they pulled up the tracks.

Lots of folks paid us a visit in James Robert’s lot, and nearly all of them had a story about the storm. But it was the twins, Bonnie and Connie, who really put that storm and the fate of the town in perspective.

I figured the twins to be in their late forties. They, too, had lived in Crayne all their lives, and both had worked at the same factory for thirty years. TYCO made electronic relays, and the plant was just three miles away. When the tornado hit they were at work. It was Bonnie who said, “Nearly half the families in Crayne had someone working there. We all had our faces pressed to the windows watching that storm.”

Not only did the women look alike, their voices were the same. They both dripped with that honey-sweet y’all sort of accent. The kind you’d expect from a woman born and bred in Kentucky. It was Connie who said. “It was terrible. We couldn’t see what was going on. All we knew was that it was coming right through here, and there was nothing we could do about it. We were stuck in that plant just watching and praying.”

Bonnie said, “I swear the worst part was the drive home. Remember that?”

“Oh lord! How could I ever forget it?” Connie turned to us and said, “Y’all just can’t imagine what it was like. Usually, it takes five minutes to drive home. That night it took more than four hours. So many trees and power lines were down on the highway, we couldn’t go anywhere. We had to wait for them to clear the way. It took forever.”

Bonnie said, “She drove me nuts. Kept trying to get out of my car and walk home.”

“I’d got here faster.”

“If you didn’t get electrocuted.” Bonnie shook her head. “When she tried to do it, the police told her to get back in the car and stay there. They had live wires down on the road and it was raining.”

Connie said, “When we finally got here the whole town was dark. Just car lights and flashlights, and debris everywhere. It took forever to find my husband and kids. I never did find my house.” She clapped her hands together above her head. “But praise the Lord, nobody in our family got hurt.”

A few days after the tornado, TYCO announced it was going to shut down the plant and move to Mexico. “And if we wanted our severance check, we had to teach the Mexicans how to do the job.” Connie sighed. “What a week that was.”

When Patricia and I met the twins, they were both taking computer courses. Bonnie said, “Maybe it will help us find a job that won’t get sent to some other country.”

Another thing that was different about Kentucky was its highways. Most had no shoulder, and the pavement was usually less than three feet from a deep ditch. The edge of the asphalt was notched so that drivers who fell asleep would be awakened by the thumping of their tires. It was a bad situation for us. We couldn’t walk on the edge of the pavement because the notches tripped human and mule feet. And when the cart wheels rolled over them it sounded like a stick being dragged across a picket fence. It jostled the cart so much I was afraid it would vibrate to pieces. With no room between the pavement and the ditch, we had to walk in the lane of traffic.

Such was the situation on the west side of Paducah when ominous clouds began to roll in. It was a Thursday, in the middle of the afternoon. That morning on the radio, they said we could have severe thunderstorms later in the day. And as fast as those thunder heads were moving, it looked like their forecast was correct. Near the intersection for the road to the Paducah airport was a wide gravel spot where we pulled off the highway. I mounted our orange rotating beacon on the back of the cart, while Patricia pulled our rain gear out. She was handing me my yellow raincoat, when simultaneous lightning and thunder exploded overhead. A heartbeat later, the sky let loose with a deluge. It was so fast and furious, that both of us were drenched before we got our slickers on. I was shoving my arms into the sleeves when I said to Patricia, “Get in the cab!”

“Why?”

The rain was so intense, I had to yell. “No sense in both of us being out in this!”

It was such a fierce rain that it hurt our faces. But Della ignored it. The traffic, thunder and lightning, none of it phased her. She just tucked her ears back and plodded through the storm. I squished along beside her in my flooded boots, saturated socks and frayed nerves. The rain intensified, and so did the traffic. Rush hour was on, and we were in the way.

When we came to a place where we could pull off the road, we did. Usually it was someone’s driveway where we would stand and let the traffic behind us get by. But those places were few and far between. Each time we pulled over, it would be several minutes before we could get back out on the road.

While we stood in one of those driveways, a car stopped and the driver motioned for me to get out into the lane. Through the storm, I motioned for him to continue on. But he kept waving for me to pull out. Finally, as I saw him roll down his window, I yelled, “Go on sir. It’s OK.”

He stuck his head out into the storm and yelled back. “No it’s not! I live here!”

A couple of driveways later, we had just gotten back into the lane, when I heard a big truck pull up behind us. As the motor babbled down into low gear, I looked to my right at the ditch. It was overflowing and sending rapids across the pavement. I couldn’t see the edge of the road–or the brink of the ditch. It was all covered with water.

Suddenly, from behind us, an air horn blared. Della bolted, but she quickly settled back into her normal pace. I turned around and found an eighteen wheel dump truck one car behind us. The driver blew his horn again and wildly waved behind the windshield for us to get off the road. His mouth was moving, but through the storm I couldn’t hear him. But it was obvious what he wanted. It was impossible.

So sloshing backwards, I yelled, “What am I supposed to do?”

Out the window of the truck emerged a black hand with all of its fingers–except the middle one–clenched into a fist. And it was pointed skyward and shook as he screamed something. I couldn’t hear, but I got the
gist. So I shook my head, turned around and continued on. From then on, it seemed like every thirty seconds the truck horn would blast. But Della and I ignored it.

Finally we came to a driveway, and got off the road. The moment we started into it, the truck’s engine revved spewing black smoke out its stack. I heard gears grind. Then after two rapid blasts from its horn, the truck roared around the car behind us. When it pulled up next to me, the passenger window was down. Again, he gave me the finger as he roared. “You stupid honky! Get your ass off the fucking road!”

About half a mile from there, Highway 62 turned into a four-lane with a wide shoulder. The rain had eased into intermittent sprinkles. We were out of the traffic lane, and the storm was going away. Patricia wanted to get out and walk.

While we three strolled further into Paducah, the rain stopped, clouds parted and people seemed to get friendlier. Every couple of minutes our arms were in the air returning waves, and a few times we heard shouts of “Welcome to Paducah!” And we saw several hands with their thumbs up. What a difference a digit makes!

That night, a priest at Saint Thomas Moore Catholic Church gave us permission to camp in a field near the church. Next morning, when I poked my head out of the tent, there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. The air was crystal clear from the rinsing it got the day before. I fed Della, got the stove out and started a pot of coffee. In the middle of breakfast, Father Ken Mikulcik walked into our camp and announced he had come to bless Della. Earlier that morning, when we went down to the church to use the bathroom, Patricia–who is Catholic–asked the priest if he would bless the Big Sis. She didn’t tell me about it. So I was surprised when Father Ken showed up with his book and holy water.

While he performed the ritual, a few clouds began to sail over us. Later, while I took down the tent, a car pulled into the church parking lot and
a man with a camera got out. He was a reporter with the
Paducah Sun
. During his interview the clouds got thicker, and a breeze picked up. The sky was completely gray when the reporter closed his notebook and said, “They’re calling for thunderstorms this afternoon. What do you do when it rains?”

In unison, Patricia and I said, “Get wet.”

Unlike the rain the day before, this one started gradually. Initially it was just occasional drops, but by the time we reached downtown, it was a steady downpour. I didn’t walk on Jackson Street, I waded in it.

Paducah was founded in 1821 at the confluence of the Tennessee and Ohio Rivers. It quickly became an important river town. Fortunes were made trading tobacco, fruit, timber and coal. The ornateness of the buildings downtown–near the Ohio River–stand as testimony to the wealth that was generated there. Paducah is a treasure-trove of 19
^th
and early 20
^th
century architecture. But that Friday afternoon, as we sloshed toward the river front, I was not able to appreciate it. The rain was too heavy and the traffic too intense to do more than wade on by.