Your Voice: The Business of Memory Making

By Jill Hamlin, Executive Director of Winchester-Clark County Tourism

When peo­ple ask what it’s like to be a Tourism Director, I usu­al­ly laugh and say, “Well, it’s part eco­nom­ic devel­op­ment, part event coör­di­na­tion, part ther­a­py, part weath­er chan­nel, and a whole lot of sto­ry­telling.”

Because the truth is, my job is equal parts heart and hus­tle. It’s about lov­ing where you live so much that you can’t help but share it. And then shar­ing it in a way that makes oth­er peo­ple want to love it, too.

But more than any­thing, it’s about peo­ple.
I love peo­ple.
I love meet­ing them, hear­ing their sto­ries, learn­ing their quirks, watch­ing them expe­ri­ence some­thing for the first time, or see­ing it again in a new way. People are the soul of tourism. They’re the spark behind every idea, every event, every plan. And they’re the rea­son I do what I do.

Tourism isn’t just about draw­ing crowds. It’s about build­ing a sense of place. And that starts with how we speak about it—with inten­tion­al, pos­i­tive lan­guage. The way we describe our home­town becomes the invi­ta­tion we extend to oth­ers. And when we speak proud­ly and inten­tion­al­ly, we’re not just craft­ing a message—we’re shap­ing per­cep­tion, com­mu­ni­ty pride, and invest­ment.

Because here’s the truth:
If you build a place peo­ple want to vis­it, you’ve cre­at­ed a place peo­ple want to live.
If you’ve built a place peo­ple want to live, you’ve cre­at­ed a place peo­ple want to invest.
And that? That’s how com­mu­ni­ties grow—not just in size, but in spir­it.

But here’s anoth­er truth: it’s not just the attrac­tions, events, and land­scapes that make a place spe­cial.
It’s the peo­ple. And it’s our dif­fer­ences that make us won­der­ful.

It’s the things that make us dif­fer­ent that make us excit­ing. That make us inter­est­ing. Our dif­fer­ences give us space to learn. To grow. To open our eyes to things we may nev­er have seen or under­stood before. And that’s what makes a com­mu­ni­ty rich, and human, and beau­ti­ful.

And I know this from expe­ri­ence.

When I first stepped into this role, I was viewed—by some—as an “out­sider.”
I grew up just 30-ish min­utes down the road. Not hours. Not states. But still, to some, I wasn’t “from here.” That word… out­sider. It can car­ry weight. It can put a wall between you and a com­mu­ni­ty you love, even before you’ve had the chance to show them your heart. And yet—from the very first moments I relo­cat­ed, stepped into the role, and walked through downtown—I was embraced. This com­mu­ni­ty didn’t just accept me. They wel­comed me. They wrapped me in kind­ness, offered encour­age­ment, and opened their arms and their hearts.

They wel­comed me, this so-called out­sider, into their home.
And I’ve nev­er stopped being grate­ful for that.

That moment—those moments—taught me some­thing I now car­ry into every deci­sion I make in this role: that belong­ing is a gift. And it’s one we must active­ly offer to oth­ers. The feel­ing of being seen. Of being want­ed. Of being part of some­thing big­ger than your­self. That’s what makes peo­ple stay. That’s what makes peo­ple return. That’s what makes peo­ple care.

And just like I love teach­ing oth­ers about the amaz­ing things in this place we call home, I also get to learn.
That’s one of the most beau­ti­ful sur­pris­es in this work—how much it teach­es me. I get to hear sto­ries from peo­ple who’ve lived here their entire lives. They tell me about the build­ing that used to be a five-and-dime, or the street where they kissed their high school sweet­heart. I meet vis­i­tors who return decades lat­er, sim­ply because their grand­par­ents brought them here once, and they’ve nev­er for­got­ten how it felt.

They share those mem­o­ries with me—quiet, fun­ny, emo­tion­al, powerful—and in doing so, they con­nect the past to the present.
Every time some­one says, “Let me tell you some­thing you may not know about this place…” I lean in.
Because tourism isn’t just about what I show peo­ple. It’s also about what I receive—the wis­dom, the her­itage, the heart­beats of this com­mu­ni­ty, passed down and car­ried for­ward.

Part of my job—one I take very seriously—is ensur­ing that every­one, regard­less of per­ceived dif­fer­ences, feels wel­come here. That they know they have a place at the table, a spot on the map, and a sto­ry worth telling.

And some­times, it’s about rec­og­niz­ing the rou­tines we all live in—and gen­tly encour­ag­ing our­selves and oth­ers to step beyond them.

Because let’s be hon­est: we all have rou­tines.

Take mine, for exam­ple.
In the morn­ing, I wake up and head straight for cof­fee. While the coffee’s brew­ing, my dogs know—this is it. Time for their ear­ly morn­ing perime­ter secu­ri­ty check. They race out­side like they’re guard­ing Buckingham Palace. Once they’ve con­firmed the squir­rels haven’t staged a coup, it’s time for breakfast—for them, while I sip my sacred cof­fee.

Then comes what, in my house, is known as Wild Rumpus Time.
This is not a drill. This is a full-blown tail-thump­ing, sock-thiev­ing, zoomie-filled chaos parade where dig­ni­ty is lost and joy reigns supreme. Toys fly. Someone ends up under a blan­ket. Someone else pre­tends to be a horse. It’s ten min­utes of cer­ti­fied car­toon ener­gy. And when Wild Rumpus Time final­ly winds down and the liv­ing room looks like a tod­dler tor­na­do hit a plush aisle, I fin­ish get­ting ready for the day.

Now here’s where it gets fun­ny: the moment my shoes go on?
The dogs van­ish.
Gone.
They’ve dis­ap­peared like lit­tle fur­ry magi­cians.
Because they know shoes mean “Mom is leav­ing,” and their job as pro­fes­sion­al heart­break­ers is to hide under the couch and give me the eyes of aban­don­ment. It’s our rou­tine.

But when that rou­tine changes? Say I pick up the car keys instead of my purse? All bets are off.

Suddenly, we’re not in our famil­iar, rhyth­mic morn­ing flow—we’re in full-blown tail-spin­ning, couch-leap­ing, door-scratch­ing car ride fren­zy. Excitement explodes. Chaos reigns. Everyone’s vibrat­ing with joy. They have no idea where we’re going—but it’s new, it’s excit­ing, it’s won­der­ful. Even if—yes, I admit it—sometimes it turns out we’re going to the vet.

Still, that brief break in rou­tine unlocks a whole new lev­el of joy and antic­i­pa­tion. That’s what tourism is, too. It’s the unex­pect­ed “car ride” that turns a reg­u­lar day into an adven­ture.

Let me explain with anoth­er per­son­al exam­ple.

I love cot­ton can­dy. Love it. The bright, fluffy, suc­cu­lent lint that prac­ti­cal­ly screams “fes­ti­val fun” brings me joy. It’s part nos­tal­gia, part sug­ar cloud, and all smiles. But I have a beloved fam­i­ly mem­ber who can­not stand it. Can you imag­ine?! Of course, I feel sor­row for them—I mean, what a tragedy! But still, every time I have cot­ton can­dy, I offer them a bite. Because that’s how I was raised. You offer. It’s kind­ness, it’s habit, it’s her­itage. And every time, they respect­ful­ly decline. It’s just not their taste. And that’s okay.

Because some­thing that isn’t your taste might very well be some­one else’s main course.
And that’s not just about food—it’s about per­spec­tive. About pref­er­ences. About val­ue.
Not every­one will love the same things. And that’s not a problem—it’s the point.

Flip the coin: I dis­like snow. I’m short. Heat ris­es. You do the math. I’ve nev­er been a fan of cold weath­er, and snow tub­ing or ski­ing? Not on my buck­et list. But that same fam­i­ly mem­ber? Loves it. So one year, they invit­ed me on a trip to the slopes. And I thought, “Okay. One time.”

I suit­ed up—looking like the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man’s Kentucky cousin—and braved the snow. I wad­dled my way through the day, laughed (a lot), fell (even more), and although I still didn’t become a snow lover, I left with some­thing just as impor­tant: a shared mem­o­ry. That one cold, snowy, slight­ly ridicu­lous day became part of our sto­ry.

And that’s what tourism is real­ly about.

We’re in the busi­ness of mem­o­ry-mak­ing.

Whether it’s a first vis­it or a home­town re-dis­cov­ered, a can­non at the Civil War Fort, a fam­i­ly self­ie in front of Holly Rood, a first con­cert dur­ing Rock The Block, or even someone’s “cot­ton can­dy” moment—it’s all about the expe­ri­ence. And some­times, doing some­thing again—but with dif­fer­ent peo­ple, at a dif­fer­ent time, through a dif­fer­ent lens—makes it com­plete­ly new.

And speak­ing of new—that’s real­ly what this work is about at its core: being open to some­thing new.

New doesn’t have to be big. New doesn’t have to be far away.
New can be:
• Taking a dif­fer­ent route to work and dis­cov­er­ing a busi­ness you didn’t know was there.
• Going to a local event you usu­al­ly skip and find­ing that gift for the per­son in your life that’s noto­ri­ous­ly hard to buy for.
• Trying a dish you’ve nev­er had. Like Beer Cheese, or Ale-8-One
• Or walk­ing down­town with fresh eyes and see­ing what vis­i­tors see every day—beauty, com­mu­ni­ty, and poten­tial.

Being open to new means being open to con­nec­tion, to joy, to redis­cov­ery, and to won­der. And in this role, I get to help peo­ple expe­ri­ence some­thing new every sin­gle day—whether they’re vis­it­ing for the first time, or they’ve lived here their entire lives.

Because what’s new for one per­son may be nos­tal­gic for anoth­er. What’s unfa­mil­iar to you may be some­one else’s favorite thing in the world.
That’s why we pro­mote a vari­ety of ameni­ties, expe­ri­ences, tastes, and textures—because someone’s “no thanks” is some­one else’s “must-see.” And that’s the beau­ty of tourism.

And that is exact­ly what makes our com­mu­ni­ty stand out.
We’re not try­ing to com­pare our­selves to anoth­er city. We’re not look­ing side­ways.
We’re look­ing for­ward.
Because the goal isn’t to be like some­where else—it’s for oth­er places to say:
“We want to be like Winchester-Clark County, Kentucky.”

We’re root­ed in who we are. Proud of what we offer. And pas­sion­ate about shar­ing it with the world—flaws, quirks, beer cheese, Ale-8-One, cot­ton can­dy, snow boots, and all.

Because here’s the deep­er rea­son it all mat­ters.

In the end—at the end of our time on this amaz­ing, com­pli­cat­ed, won­der­ful planet—it won’t be our pos­ses­sions or our titles that mat­ter most. It will be our mem­o­ries. The expe­ri­ences we shared. The laugh­ter. The won­der. The peo­ple. It will be the sto­ries behind those mem­o­ries that live on—connecting us to each oth­er, tying us to the human world, long after we’re gone.

That’s what tourism does.
It cre­ates the moments.
It builds the bridges.
It helps write the sto­ries.
And it leaves behind the kind of lega­cy you can’t buy—only expe­ri­ence.

I’m not just hon­ored to be the Tourism Director for Winchester-Clark County, Kentucky—I’m hum­bled. I get to help share our sto­ry with the world, to keep learn­ing, to keep lis­ten­ing, and to remind our own com­mu­ni­ty just how remark­able this place real­ly is. The beau­ty, the fla­vor, the laugh­ter, the heart—it’s all here.

And I get to say, every sin­gle day:
“Welcome. We are awe­some. You are awe­some. We belong here. You belong here. And you nev­er know what NEW might be wait­ing for you around the corner.”