Morning View

After a busy weekend with family, Zach and I were enjoying a quiet breakfast on the back porch when these two visitors joined our sanctuary. Their antics were cute and fun to watch. Eventually, I went inside to get mom so she could enjoy the revelry. We never saw the mother, though her children were definitely enjoying their run of the farm without her supervision.

Bardstown, My Favorite Kentucky Town

One of my greatest vacations was years ago when I spent a week exploring Kentucky with my mom. It was during the yearly jaunt from Portland and my mom took a week of vacation for the visit. Weeks prior, we had created a list of things we had always wanted to see or do in Kentucky, such as Shaker Village and Bureau. It was an amazing week and laid the foundation for us to continue exploring something or somewhere on each of my visits.

A few weeks prior to our arrival stateside this year, I stumbled across a Kentucky bucket list published by the state's travel agency. I sent it to my mom and we chatted about what we had and had not done. In this discussion, mom confessed that she had never visited a distillery. Therefore, when mom asked what I wanted to do one day when she was free from work, I answered that I wanted to head to Bardstown. Two years ago, Zach and I had toured Jim Beam and Makers Mark and thoroughly enjoyed it, so I wanted to share the experience with mom.

After researching, I made a list of smaller, craft breweries for us to explore, as well as potential side jaunts to a museum or cafe should we choose. Aunt Susie joined us for the day (as she is always willing to go anywhere, which I love!)

Around noon, we pulled into Willett Distillery. Located at the bottom of the hill from Heavenly Hill Distillery, Willett is a family owned and operated bourbon operation. It has an on-off-on type of history within the world of bourbon making due to family commitments and business ebb and flows. They are in on-mode, but of course we caught the plant during the annual summer shut down. Instead of seeing mash fermenting and hearing the whir of the distiller, the factory was quiet with a faint whiff of mash in the air. Nonetheless, it was a good tour, one of the longest I have ever been on.

We had planned on another brewery, but our tour guide mentioned that most were on their annual shutdowns as well. We opted to change course to wineries after grabbing lunch at Old Talbott Tavern. Our first stop was at Springhill, which was a let down for a vineyard visit. By the time we left it was late afternoon and many attractions were closed or soon to be closing. We opted to try another vineyard, McIntyre's, which ended up being a highlight of the day. While we forewent a formal tasting, the owner was eager to show and tell us about his small operation. He took us into the kitchen, vividly describing the process and the ingredients he uses. He even took us to his fruit vineyard and allowed us to eat freely of the blueberries still on the bushes.

As we headed home, I realized that once again we left Bardstown with an unfinished list. With each visit, I am reminded how much I like this Kentucky town.

Tale of Two Buzzards

It began long before my arrival to the farm, when my dad, mom, Aunt Susie and Uncle Mac were completely dumbfounded by the appearance of two, squirmy clumps of cottonballs in the barn. Dad was the first to learn of the new inhabitants thanks to their ominous, eerie, foreboding hiss as he opened the door. After a gathering of the clan, intense deliberations and a Google search, it was discerned the new inhabitants were two baby buzzards.

During my three weeks on the farm, I watched them turn from white with black polka dots to all black with a white tuft of fur around the neck and legs. The evil, sinister hissing that was heard when we were disturbing their slumber or space bubble was one thing that never changed - it was ominous. Nonetheless, wings were beginning to flap in the late days, so I expect their stay in the barn is coming to an end. Now the question is whether the Frazier farm will become the new buzzard breeding location in the coming years.

Sparkly Shirts, Sweaters, and Southern Singing

Reminiscent of the days when wooden shingles would announce the inhabitants of a building, the small, weathered, white sign next to the road is the only indication that something unique lies below the hill next to the train tracks. Every Saturday evening, cars, trucks, and church buses make their way to the part weathered, part red metal barn, home of the Corydon Jamboree.

Live music is something I desperately miss while living in China, so when my parentals mentioned an evening spent enjoying Southern singing, I quickly agreed. Unfortunately, our first Saturday venture to Corydon was thwarted when a bad strawberry-banana yogurt smoted my stomach and left me vomiting on the side of the road in Brandenburg. The second try was successful, though it was a father-daughter date as mom was previewing potential wedding venues in St. Augustine with McKinzee.

As for the entertainment, I was thoroughly satisfied. It was everything I expected from a good southern singing. Dad and I had a good laugh that, even with our ages combined, we were younger than most in the audience. The female headliner loved wearing sparkly shirts and sweaters, different colors for each set on stage. We nearly lost ourselves into a fit of giggles when the male headliner of the evening urged the audience to get up and dance. I leaned over to dad and whispered, "I think he did not get a good look at his crowd this evening." Nonetheless, it was quite enjoyable and my need for live music was sated.

Happy Birthday, Dad

Mom: We will make him a coconut cream pie.
Me: I have never made one.
Mom: It is easy. Ooo, I need to buy a pie crust.
Me: Why?
Mom: I cannot make a homemade pie crust.
Me: It is easy.
Mom: Well, it seems we are a good pair for this birthday pie.

I love celebrating birthdays, so getting to celebrate my dad's birthday in person this year was extra special. The pie was a hit, as was the reasoning for only have nine candles; too many more would have singed the meringue.

Cave Hill Cemetery

A metal tiger doorstop. Easter eggs filled with grapes stashed around her apartment. A double and twin Jenna Lynn bed that I loved. A radiant smile. She never had children of her own, but loved us as her own. While my days with Aunt Popo were limited, her legacy among my family is continually felt. After her death in 1991, I learned of her wealth. Her husband, years and years ago, had invested in a small sugar company called Domino Sugar. The inheritance left behind allowed my dad to invest in the hardware store and our university education.

Weeks prior to arriving in Kentucky, my mom and I discussed things we wanted to do while I was stateside. For years, mom has mentioned that she wanted to return to Cave Hill Cemetery, as she had not been back since Aunt Popo was buried 23 years ago. Plus, she knows I love to ramble around old cemeteries and Cave Hill is one of the oldest in the state.

Upon entering the grounds, we conversed briefly with the guard who gave us a map. While we had researched the plot number of Aunt Popo, I had not looked at the website beyond that one query. With one piece of paper, the guard bestowed upon us an epic recipe for a tombstone treasure hunt.

We decided to start by finding our aunt, but we quickly learned the map was not to scale and found ourselves by Colonel Sanders. Of course, I snapped a picture since every person in China who hears that my family lives in Kentucky will immediately ask if I have met the Colonel. Now, I can respond with yes. On our backtrack, we became sidetracked by a large bronze magician and the rabbit trail continued. Eventually, we found Aunt Popo between two ugly bushes. Mom remarked that they were not ugly 23 years ago.

The hours passed quickly as we lost ourselves among the smallest of headstones to the behemoth towers of remembrance. We walked among the fallen soldiers of the Confederate States of America, where a confederate flag still flies. We lamented that the woman who wrote "Happy Birthday" did not have at least a birthday candle somewhere around her tombstone to mark her song to the world.

We gazed at European royalty via the Caldwell Sisters. Homage was paid to George Rogers Clark, the brother of Oregon trailblazer William Clark. We gazed at family mausoleums tucked into the rolling hills like hobbit houses. We found Batman.

We compared epitaphs, shapes, sizes and colors. We agreed that our favorite tombstone design was for Mr. Foree, who died on a ship off the coast of Nicaragua attempting to save his men from drowning. We loved the ship and how the stone had aged so well.

For nearly five hours we walked throughout the 296 acres. We saw a small swath of its offerings, but knew we had to beat the Louisville rush hour if we were going to make it home at a decent hour. Plans have been laid to return for more of the treasure needs to be found.

Afternoon Nap Snapshot

The skill to sleep anywhere in this country continues to amaze me. I never knew cardboard and concrete could be so comfortable.

See How the Garden Grows

In front of our apartment we have a small garden. While it will not keep us completely fed, thanks to villagers snatching anything that remotely gets ripe even though we have vowed dishonor on their ancestors and posted a sign saying such, it is a place to piddle and get our hands dirty. Currently, a pumpkin plant has gone berserk, two avocado trees are growing, basil is thriving and Zach's Guizhou pepper plant wanes between death and life. However, our biggest prize of the moment is a papaya tree. Last year, Yvonne started it from seed and transplanted it out front when it outgrew her pot. We believe it has tapped into one of the water pipes because over the past two months, it has exploded in size. While my pumpkin monstrosity is wider by the day, the papaya tree seems to be taller by the hour.

Last week, excitement spread throughout the apartment for blooms appeared. Our excitement quickly dissipated as we realized that, in all likelihood, none of us will be available to harvest the fruit thanks to our summer travels and job changes. It was a mere moment of sadness for the happiness of something actually growing was greater.

Beauty Prevails

Zhanjiang was about 75 miles from Chengdu, a journey of two days and two night by rail. It was the southernmost large port in China, and quite near the Vietnamese border. 

It felt like a foreign country, with turn of the century colonial-style buildings, pastiche Romanesque arches, rose windows, and large verandas with colorful parasols. The local people spoke Cantonese, which was almost a foreign language. The air smelled of the unfamiliar sea, exotic tropical vegetation, and an altogether bigger world. 

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...and because of his contempt for the areas of Chinese civilization that he did not understand, such as architecture, art, and music, Mao destroyed much of the country's cultural heritage. He left behind not only a brutalized nation, but also an ugly land with little of its past glory remaining or appreciated.

- Jung Chang, Wild Swans: Three Daughters of China