The next morning I woke up at 9:50, but even as late as I slept I still had to wait for Charlie to get up because I didn’t want to leave without saying goodbye to such a gracious host. As I waited to say my farewells, I packed everything up, loaded it on the bike, talked to Carol Ann, showered, then talked to Carol Ann’s daughter and her children, all the while getting antsy as I postponed leaving. He eventually woke up, and it was almost noon before I left.

I rode through Poole, Sebree, and Onton, briefly meeting people here and there (one of whom was the third “Charlie” I’d talked to in the past twelve hours). My goal was to make it to Malone Lake State Park before dark, but by the time I got to Drakesboro I was starting to feel the fatigue. When I stopped in Dunmor (pop ~300) I didn’t think I wanted to ride the extra ten miles (five there this evening and five back tomorrow) to the State Park, so I asked a man sitting on his front porch if it would be okay if I pitched my tent in his backyard.

Bill Martin had just bought his house in December. He had a decent job as a coal miner but, unfortunately, got laid off three months after closing. (The definition of “decent” being it paid well, not that it wouldn’t kill you, either quickly or slowly) His wife, Sharon, was training to be an LPN, so they had no income with which to pay bills or raise their two children, Amy and Aaron. 

I set up the tent while we talked, then ate six PBH sandwiches and drank some of the Gatorade I had purchased in Drakesboro. A couple of their friends came over, Scott and Dottie, and after I showered the day’s grit off me, the five of us sat on the front porch as I listened to them share stories of the local color. First Bill:

“You know, ‘bout three miles up that road there’s a drive-through bootleg distillery. You just pull up, give ‘em your money, and they hand you your hooch through the window….  they know what they’re doin’ but summa the others've been known to make a man or two go blind.”

Then Scott:

“They tried raidin’ ‘em a couple times but the bootleggers pay ‘em off so they know when they’re coming. One of ‘em dropped off a buncha bootleg whisky at my house ‘bout a year ago and tole me ‘Here, take this. We’re about to get raided.’ Of course, I was just holding it for him.”

Sharon:

“There’s a lot of drunks around here. Most of the time you can just ignore 'em, but this one guy, he tried to beat down our door once. We pressed charges but he was found not guilty. That’s when we realized it’s just no use.”

Dottie:

“Kim’s the preacher’s daughter. She’s the fattest girl I ever met, and she throws the wildest parties of anybody.”

Apparently, all of this (and lots more) is common knowledge to everyone who lives within a 20-mile radius of the spot where we’re seated.

I finished the day by eating some watermelon with my new friends as I wrote in my journal and washed clothes.

The following morning I continued to learn about the town’s residents as Bill took me to the grocery store in his truck. Also, you should know that in the South it’s not a “pick up truck,” it’s just a “truck.”

We drove past a white colonial style house with columns.

“There’s the governor’s mansion.”

I thought it was a bit small, and wondered why the governor of Kentucky was living in Dunmor, then realized he meant “governor’s mansion” instead of Governor’s Mansion. I just couldn’t see the quotes.  Bill continued…

“He built houses on land he didn’t even own, and cheated everyone in the state.”

Here he paused, looked around, then added,

“His son drowned in their pool.”

Bill was convinced that it was a cause and effect relation, a result of Divine Intervention.

By the time we arrived back at their house I felt like I was sufficiently caught up on the local gossip to be able to leave. Bill’s last words as I left were, 

"May God bless you in all your endeavors."

Heart

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