This one's for you, Kentucky: a love song written in three-quarter time. I mean, it took only a fraction as long as I expected to write a goodbye column. Not even three-quarter time, really. One-hundredth time, maybe. A thousandth. I can't believe my time here is through. Like most goodbyes, this one comes way too soon. I expected to write a column for The Enquirer for a long time. I expected to live out my life in Kentucky. I've loved this state. I've loved this job. I've loved these days.
You, dear reader, are the only person who's ever awakened to the sight of my face and not been scared by the tilt and whirl of my hair. I worked a long time to make myself presentable for that column photo. Wore out the comb. Seems a shame to hang it up now.
But hang it up I must. My plane waits, and a tail wind blows. I can't say I agree with Stuart Little, the hero of my favorite children's book, when he says in the end that he's headed north because it just feels like the right direction. It feels strange to me. I'm Southern, through and through. My i's are light, drifting and floating like dust motes in a sunbeam. My g's are heavy as stones, plunging from the ends of words never to be heard from again. Still, here I am, bound for Chicago. Pray for me every now and then.
When the Chicago Tribune called to ask if I'd be interested in a job, one editor there inquired gingerly: So, how do you think you'd do in the city?
Well, there will be adjustments. Like the wind. One gust off the lake nearly blew me out into traffic on Michigan Avenue. And that was on a clear day. A friend told me I'd have to gain weight or wear heavy boots. But I think I'll survive. I know enough not to drown when it rains, staring up at all the tall buildings with my mouth open.
Truth is, though, that editor's question wasn't too far off base. I've lived in Kentucky most of my life. This is where my heart is, and where it always will be. My family's here; many of my friends; my history; the roads I've loved traveling; the heartbreaking beauty that waits around blind curves in the twilight. And you. In the end, the sounds are what I'll remember most. The cry of the 10:36, northbound. The roar of Rupp Arena. The whisper of soft breezes on a haunted hillside over Southgate. The quiet weeping at a coal miner's funeral. The hymns of the hills.
The things we hear when we don't hear a thing. Like silent music in a dance of sepia tones. Country-western singer Jimmy Dean, now 68, once told me he loves sitting on his back porch of a tender spring evening, nursing a glass of Merlot and watching the sun dip into the James River. I asked if he listens to any music during those moments. "No-ho," he said. "Nuthin. Not a thing."
After a while, all those years of living behind us, we carry in our hearts our own music, of long-ago voices and late-night trains. What strange comfort, our memories. They're a silent song. This is mine, for you.
Someday, when my northern job and my northern life are through, I'll return. Like Barry Larkin, rounding third, throttle wide open, headed south toward home, I'll turn toward Kentucky and never look back.
But for now my song is finished. In the silence, I hear Kentucky singing back. It's a Dwight Yoakam song, and it goes like this:
"If you ever get south of Cincinnati,
"Down where the dogwood trees grow;
"If you ever get south of the Mason Dixon
"To the home you left so long ago;
"If you ever get south of the Ohio River,
"Down where Dixieland begins;
"If you ever get south of Cincinnati,
"I'll be yours again."
This is Rob Kaiser's last offering as The Enquirer's Kentucky columnist. He can be reached through the end of the month at 578-5584.
KAISER ARCHIVE