Sometimes a roadÂside scene gets me thinkÂing about how things used to be. This is one of those times.
My wife and I were explorÂing the backÂroads. This time we crossed the 627 bridge into Madison County, made a left onto Red House Road, then turned east, travÂelÂing the roads that roughÂly parÂalÂlel the southÂern side of the Kentucky River.
This is Kentucky River hill counÂtry. The roads are narÂrow, folÂlowÂing the ridgetops where they can, periÂodÂiÂcalÂly dipÂping down into a narÂrow valÂley to cross a creek, mostÂly dry now, before climbÂing back up to anothÂer ridgetop. Other than farms there’s not much out here — not even a Dollar General Store.
The rustÂed remains of a horse-drawn sickÂle mowÂer were off to the side of a fenced area. I wonÂdered how long ago it got parked there. Forty years? Sixty years? Eighty years? Did the ownÂer have any idea when they unhitched their team that day that it would nevÂer be used again? The mule in that lot gave me a sideÂways glance, and I imagÂined it thinkÂing it wantÂed nothÂing to do with that mower.
