The Place Where Rich People Live

The first six years of my formal education was at a little one roomed school at Lakeville, Kentucky. There, Everyone knew everyone else. Why if we weren't family, we were good friends. At recess we played Round Town, Annie Over, High Jump, Drop the Hanky, jump rope and horse shoes. Boys and girls played together. After my sixth year, "they" closed the one roomed school and sent me to this huge consolidated school. It was the biggest building I was ever in. Why, my whole school and the play ground around it would fit inside that gym. I didn't know anyone except Tessie, she went to Lakeville with me but it seemed everyone else knew everyone else. I suppose someone put that loud red headed girl with the bright red freckles in charge cause at recess she put all the seventh graders in a line and told everyone who they could be friends with. "OK, John you can be friends with Phillip, and Sally you and Sarah are friends", and she went on down the line pairing people in twos sometimes threes and even fours until she got to me. Then she stopped and got real quiet. She didn't know me. She looked at my pants with the patch on the knee, my old shoes also got her attention. She looked at Tessie, back at me and all of a sudden she pointed at me and Tessie and said "You two can be friends, cause you're just alike". I didn't know what that meant. Why, Tessie and me, we had been friends all our lives. Our families had been friends too. When my clothes got too little for me, mom passed them on to Tessie. She would always ask me "how they look" and I would always say "They look good, Tessie", then we would play. Tessie couldn't say words like others did. Sometimes she was hard to understand, and she couldn't keep up with school work. Almost everyone in class laughed at her and teased her a lot. I felt bad for her.

We studied cities in the seventh grade. One day the teachers loaded the whole 7th grade class on a bus and took us to the city. I saw big buildings that reached to the sky and more cars than could fit on Stinson Creek. I learned that there’s a lot of money in the city so I decided that people who live in the city must be rich. It just made sense that Mommy and Daddy should move us to the city so we could be rich.

I decided the next evening at supper would be a good time to tell them that we should move to the city. After everyone was gathered around the old wooden table, I asked Daddy if I might make a suggestion. With his permission I said,

“I believe we should move to the city to live. Last week I learned that people who live in the city are rich and I want to be rich. Here is why.

“If we lived in the city Mommy, you could get a job working in a nice store. Why you could wear pretty dresses and cut your hair and make it curly with a permanent. And Daddy, you wouldn’t have to work on the farm anymore you could get a job in an office. You could wear suits and black shinny shoes. You and Mommy could go out to eat in a restaurant where they bring you the food and wash the dishes for you. Why you could go out to a movie and you could go dancing.

“If we lived in the city we could have new clothes and more than one pair of shoes. Maybe if we lived in the city, I would have more friends and they would come visit me and stay all night.

“Our house would be big so we wouldn’t have to sleep together. We would have a new table from the furniture store. Not this old scratched up thing that was made from wood just cut off the farm.

“So what do you think, can we move to the city where we can be rich?”

Mommy and Daddy just looked at each other for a few minutes then they whispered. Daddy took my brothers and sisters outside to do some chores and Mommy stayed with me.

“Sweetie, I know you have learned a lot at the big school. But let me tell you a few things about living on the farm and living in the city.”

It might be nice to go eat at a restaurant one time. Yeah they bring the food and wash the dishes but do you know where the food comes from? Here on the farm, when I cook your food, I know that we grew it with our own hands, and then we put it away for winter’s use. I never did mind washing dishes, there’s something beautiful in a pan of hot water with bubbles swimming all over it”.

This farm is where your great great grandfather grew up. Why he made this old table when he was only 15 years old. When he finished it, he carved his initials on the back of that chair you’re sitting in. All these scratches, they might not look as good as a fancy new table would, but each one is a very special memory. Even that black spot right there, remember, that’s where you set the cooker that was a little too hot. I thought it kinda looked good with all the other memories that are carved into it.

Now you mentioned movies. Do you remember how you like to watch the stars at night? In the city, there are so many lights, you can’t even see the stars. And there are no paths that lead up the hill under the big pine trees, there’s only building after building and maybe a green spot they call a park.

As for fine dresses and short curly hair, your Great grandmother had long hair like me. Some people say I look a lot like her. She grew up here on the farm too. Sometimes you remind me of her, sassy and full of energy. Your Daddy and me, well, we couldn’t be any happier than we are right here on this old farm, working the land and knowing our babies are safe when they’re outside playing. I don’t think we would feel that way if we lived in the city.

I heard my Dad call for me and my mom in a soft voice. “Come here, you gotta see this”, he said.

Mom went outside, but I stayed behind. I had to do some thinking. I put my hand behind the chair and traced the initials carved in the wood. Then I looked at all the scratches and wondered who made them.

I walked over to the window to see what everyone was doing. At the end of the yard is a bank. There I saw Mom and Dad and all my brothers and sisters lying on their bellies looking across the way. Out in the field was a big tom turkey struttin’ his stuff. His wings were hanging to the ground and his tail was stretched out like a fan those old women use in church. His neck was red as blood. He walked for a few minutes then stopped and gobbled. Then Daddy raised his hand and pointed across the road to the grass field. My eyes followed. There, munching on the sweet grass was a herd of white tailed deer and right in the middle was a big buck. He raised his head for a few seconds then it was like those heavy antlers pulled it back to the ground. He didn’t mind my family watching him; he just went on munching the green grass. The sun was just going behind the hills. The sky looked like God had gotten a box of Crayola Crayons and used them to color the sky blending the colors till they were just perfect

I sat at the table and made two lists, one was all the good things about living in the city, the other one was the things I like about living on the farm. Since the farm list was much longer than the city one I knew we would never move. And after my talk with Mom and watching our own personal move right in our front yard, I didn’t really want to move. Perhaps there’s more to being rich than having a lot of stuff.

Last week while doing some cleaning, I found that list and I remembered that day just like it was yesterday. How I wanted away from that big consolidated school. How I wanted to be accepted and I thought money and life in a city would make us rich. I think about my mom and dad and how smart they were. I didn’t know until many years later that mom only went to the third grade and Dad, well he finished the sixth.

I visit my parents each week on the same farm that six generations called home. Today my mind is filled with memories.



As my car takes the final plunge from the winding mountain top road to the valley of the Licking River, I feel at ease. As I pass Flynt Branch, I look to the left and see the playground where that one room school stood, I see the ruins of a little store where 15 cents bought a half slice of bologna, oyster crackers, and an RC Cola for lunch. I drive past green pastures where once I helped Mom and Dad and brothers and sisters raise tobacco, where Gladys May brought us cold water and sometimes Kool-aide on those hot summer days. A steep curve takes me past Owens Hoskins' country store where Stinson Creek runs into the Liking River. I think to myself "this is where mom and dad bought flour and sugar and other stuff we couldn't grow on the farm". The tiny road sign that reads "Tin Can" reminds me of the many times I rode Ole Tobe up that dirt road to Paw Huff's barn and walked home. As I round the curve, I see my parent’s tiny house surrounded by garden plots and apple and pear trees, hickory nut and black walnuts. This is the place where my roots grow deep, my connection to the land. As I turn in the drive way I hear sounds of brothers and sisters playing, fussing, working, and being happy. As I walk into the yard, Mom and Dad come to meet me and my heart overflows for I know I've come home to the place where rich people live.

My Year as a Storytelling Apprentice

                 Last year, about this time, my mentor, Pam Holcomb, received word from that Kentucky Arts Council, that our apprentice ship grant was approved.

                 Pam and I submitted the proposal asking for funds to pay her to mentor me through turning my public speaking skills into storytelling.

We immediately began work. Pam began teaching me about storytelling as an art form and as a way to get a message out in an entertaining way.

I have always included storytelling in my extension programs because I believe people pay more attention to stories than they do PowerPoint presentations and written publications.

Last September, Pam and I attended the Cave Run Storytelling Festival. It was there she said she had an idea for the finale of my apprenticeship.

                Pam who is a retired theater and math teacher had a young lady in her drama class by the name of Kristy Barrett, better known as Kristy Bee. She asked if I would consider helping her create a storytelling program about Kristy’s life journey. Kristy was diagnosed with Cerebral Palsy at eighteen months old. But she didn’t let it stop her from living an incredible adventure we call life.

                Her parents were told Kristy would probably be mentally challenged and probably would not live past 21 years. Kristy is now 41 and super intelligent.

                My first inclination was to say “I don’t think I’m ready”, but I changed it to “Do you think I’ll be

ready to do something like that”. I had never heard of this person and knew absolutely nothing about Cerebral Palsy.

                “Sure, you will”, she encouraged me.

                I could tell this was extremely important to Pam. So with her encouragement I agreed to help.

                “I want to meet her, so I can get to know her as a person. I can’t write or talk about anything if I don’t know about it personally. I have to feel what I write and what I say because it comes from the heart”, I explained to Pam.

                So our journey began.

                Kristy and I became facebook friends and I got to know her just a little. I was totally blown away by her use of the English language. Each post was very poetic; words strung together like a melody played on a violin.  But I didn’t want to know so much that I would have preconceived ideas when I met her.

                In November, Pam and I met at Kristy Bee’s home in Taylorsville. I had my dandy little recorder and questions galore to ask this person so I could come to know her likes, dislikes, personality, loves and hates, and what she holds dear to her heart as well as what she wants to remove from her life.

                When I walked into Kristy’s room, I didn’t see a crumpled body lying in bed with sunken eyes. I didn’t notice her fingers curving backward or the petite frame. I saw Miss Personality. I heard the friendliest “Hello” I had ever heard. I saw welcoming eyes and friendly gestures. The green and yellows that brighten her room was just an extension of her character. Brightly colored Honey Bees, Bumble Bees, I Love Lucy, Charlie Brown and Snoopy keep her company. Love is obvious through handmade greeting cards, pictures and well wishes creatively displayed on top of stacks of books, books and more books.

 The day spent with Kristy was very rewarding. I asked a few questions but mostly it was filled with Kristy telling stories about growing up, about her parents who are her heroes, and all the friends in her life. Very few stories were about her, there was nothing selfish in the six hours that we talked. She told stories about her family, about achievements, about possessed wheel chairs, about friends and books, about poetry and plays and church and college, but all the stories were about other people and the influence they had on her life.

                After meeting Kristy and hearing her stories, I wanted to know more about Cerebral Palsy (CP). I couldn’t find a lot of information that is written on my level. I learned that CP is caused by damage to the brain and is irreversible. More than 10,000 children are diagnosed with CP each year, one every 15 minutes. A baby can be fine during pregnancy but problems during delivery can result in CP. Usually, it is diagnosed within the first two years of life. Although CP, itself, is a non life threatening condition, however, associative concerns such as bladder and bowel problems, eating disorders, spasms, and/or other problems may occur. They may or may not worsen through life. These conditions are manageable but may be hard to deal with. Cerebral Palsy doesn’t affect everyone the same. The average lifetime medical cost for a person with CP is more than one million dollars and growing.

                After we gathered the stories from Kristy, Pam interviewed several friends and her mom. Then came the overwhelming task of reducing all the information to a 90 minute story telling odyssey.

                There’s no way to look at the map and find a short cut to Putney, (Harlan County) Kentucky from Sandy Hook so Pam and I spent  hours and days and weeks of work on the phone, through e-mail and in person. Finally after several days meeting in Jackson, Hazard, and Lexington we reduced the stories to recap the ups and downs; ins and outs; smiles and frowns; laughter and tears of Kristy’s amazing life into a 90 minute performance which included Kristy reading a poem she wrote just for the occasion. A presentation with lots of pictures teamed with her favorite song of all times, “Hold On”, by 33 Miles told the stories we didn’t have time to tell.

                Pam and I presented “Bee Still, Embrace My Gift” May 11^th at the First Baptist Church, Shelbyville, KY to a room full of Kristy’s family and friends. It was an amazing evening. Kristy had never heard or read the stories we had taken from her life, she sat on the front row and listened intently to every word. She smiled, she laughed, she cried and slung her arms in joy when her favorite band, 33 Miles, skyped in and sang “Hold On” live from Texas. Her joy spilled from her eyes and those of everyone in the room just knowing how such a show of love and encouragement brightened her day.

Kristy says “Cerebral Palsy is my gift from God. I wouldn’t change it if I could because this is the way God made me”. But she feels like the Velveteen Rabbit, like her fur has all been loved off. She wonders why people just see her wheel chair and not the person inside. “CP has been a wonderful gift from God but sometimes gifts come in crumpled packages. When they look at me, people just see the bent and crooked body and sunken eyes. Why can’t they see beyond the package to the present inside. If they look close enough they will see I have a heart and soul and lots of love. Disabled people are beautiful people. Please don’t allow your eyes to stop at the package. Look inside for the complete person. You may be surprised at what you find.”

                 I was super nervous when we first started the show but once settled in, I did it. We got great comments from the audience. Kristy  Bee Barrett, you have made a remarkable impact on my life. You've made me look at things differently. Small things I've taken for granted, like those Three Steps that touched Pam's heart, mean much more to me. Thank you for sharing your Gift from God with me. 

               Thank you, Kentucky Arts Council, for believing in me and allowing me to have this profound experience with a great storytelling mentor, Pam Holcomb.

A Day in Rural Serbia with my friend Biba, 

I’ve written about some of  my Serbian friends and how they work to make their homeland and villages a better place to live. They want to preserve and revitalize the villages of their ancestors. It is much like it is here; outward migration has taken the young people from the villages to cities where they can find work.

            My friend, Biba, drove us through “the village of my mother” as she referred to it. In her broken English, Biba explained, “My mother came to the city when she got older so she could be near doctors. She lives with me and my husband so we can help her.” She drove us around a narrow mountain road close to the Bulgarian border. The one lane dirt road hung to the cliff edge. With no guard rails to block the view we look out the car window straight to the river basin.  It must be at least a mile to the bottom. The view was spectacular. Stara Planina, or Old Mountain, is rich with breathtaking panoramic views. Pure water gushed from the mountain and followed a familiar path to the river below. Green fertile valleys with remnants of farms where once sheep grazed under the watchful eye of the farmer and his dogs dotted the landscape. A peaceful relaxed feeling swept over me. I felt at home in this distant land.

            It was Biba’s day to teach Ron and me about Rural Serbia. She decided to drive us to a small country church, one that isn’t used much any more. “Most of the young people have left the village and the old people can not make it so far to go to church there”, Biba told us. “There is a woman who lives by the church, she lives all alone. I love her, she is my friend. I must take her a gift”. Biba said.

            As we drove through the village Biba saw friends and distant relatives that she knew as a child. Her emotions took control and tears fell from her eyes. “I must stop, I must speak, they will not understand if I don’t speak to them”, she said as if to ask permission for a few seconds of time. She stopped her car and backed up. There, beside an old house with a rock roof stood an elderly woman, Biba rolled down her window, and with a quivering voice called her name. “Do you remember me” she asked the old woman. When she spoke her mother’s name a smile spread across the old woman’s face and a gleam came into her eye, she and Biba embraced and held hands out the window.  They spoke in their native language. Silence over ruled the conversation as we drove away. From the corner of my eye, I saw Biba wipe away her tears.             

Biba explained that her friend at the church was getting old and not in good health. She expressed her concern about her living alone so far from people

            We arrived at the church welcomed by a woman in a long black habit. She had a huge brown long-haired dog walking with her. Biba translated her native language so Ron and I could understand. “He just came here”, she said, I don’t know if he has an owner but he has been a great friend to me” she said as she extended her hand to Ron and me. Emotion was once again Biba’s companion. they greeted each other with a heartfelt embrace. Then she smiled into Biba’s eyes and said, “My dear, you look tired, you should slow down, live life, enjoy while you are young, you work too much, you should have a baby”. Biba smiled.

            Dim light filtered into the church through vibrant stained glass windows. Ron, Biba and I lit candles and stood them in containers filled with sand. One soft flickering glow was in memory of someone we had lost, another in honor of someone living.

Biba and her friend spoke their farewells in their native dialect that I couldn’t understand but a hug and a smile and a tear, they’re a language all by themselves. Ron and I thanked our hostess for her time and wished her well. I noticed the dog, her companion, stayed right by her side. While we were in the church, he lay beside the door and stood to greet her when she met him on the outside. She explained that he leads her to her front door but won’t go inside the house. He lies beside the door until she comes outside, then, once again, he accompanies his new master on her journeys to and from the church. With a soft hand, she patted him on the head as we walked down a narrow path to the car.

As we drove away, I looked back at that small church sitting under huge trees  that would take five people to reach around. They must be more than a hundred years old. My mental snapshot recalls a wooden footbridge that greets visitors and leads them across a clear babbling stream to a well-worn path that guides them through tall grass until they reach the tiny one roomed church.  A swing, much like the ones on porches in the hills of Eastern Kentucky, welcomes company to sit under those giant trees and talk a spell. How peaceful it is here where there are no car horns, no loud noise, no phones, and no electricity. How noble of someone to accept a life of solitude dedicated to the study of Jesus and the bible.  I wish I could remember her name. She is a guardian angel  for a tiny one room church that has been standing more years than our country is old; the church of Biba’s childhood and her mother’s village. I think about that big brown dog and wonder if her surprise companion really has a worldly owner.

MY JOURNEY THROUGH A STORYTELLING APPRENTICESHIP

             Thanks to a grant from the Kentucky Arts Council I started on a journey in July. A mission that has taken me to worlds I had never before visited. it's a journey through storytelling. Although I've just traveled a short way down the first trail, I'm amazed at what I've learned. I'm enjoying this expedition with a friend, my guide, Appalachian Storyteller, Pam Holcomb. She has shown me the way to places I never would have visited on my own.  Worlds such as fables, imagination, and creativity are all ready to come into your life if you open your mind. With Pam's guidance, I have learned that through stories, anything is possible. Teaching youth the truth about difficult topics, talking to an audience about complicated issues, or getting the attention of those you never thought would listen to you, they're all possible through storytelling.

            A spur off our main trail has taken me into an unlit land I never realized was so amazing and misunderstood. Sometimes dark places appear evil and  forbidden, but if you conquer your fears and enter the passage, there may be a bright spot waiting for someone to find it. This life event has opened my eyes and my world  to a condition that approximately 10,000 babies born in the United States each year will develop. It's name, Cerebral palsy (CP),  a group of disorders that can involve brain and nervous system functions, such as movement, learning, hearing, seeing, and thinking.

            Why did Pam lead me to CP? it wasn't just the condition that took us to this place, it was the person. She was born in January 1972 and weighed just a bit more than two pounds. She tried to come before Christmas but the doctors talked her into waiting a bit so she was born two months early.  She, as Pam, is a native of Harlan County Kentucky. Her name, Kristy "Bee" Barrett, one of Pam's very special High School students.   

            Kristy's mom felt her daughter's growth and development wasn't on time with other babies, but the doctors kept saying "its because she was a preemie, she just has to catch up". Kristy didn't catch up, she was diagnosed with CP at eighteen months old. She and her family also began an amazing life journey. Although she didn't catch up with age developmental expectations, Kristy has flown past most people her age when it comes to life long achievements.

         
  Kristy is now forty-one years old. She and Pam are very close friends. Kristy refers to her CP as "my Gift from God. I am the way He wanted me to be"

            Pam tells a story titled "Three Steps". Through emotional words and expressions, she explains how excited Kristy was when she took three steps without the assistance of a walker, wheel chair or other device. She couldn't wait to tell Pam and all her other friends at school. Just three steps, that's all she has ever taken. But the races she has won are countless. It's those races and Kristy's attitude toward life, people, and her gift, that encouraged Pam to ask me to join her in telling Kristy's story as the culminating project for my storytelling apprenticeship.

            So this unknown land called Cerebral Palsy is more than something to pass through. Its a place to pause and reflect, a place to learn and share, a place to listen and grow. I have learned about CP, but my short time with Kristy taught me about life and how to live it to the fullest. From her I learned you have to conquer your fears and take chances. Kristy has done both. She can show the world that a person is not defined by a condition, the person defines the condition. Kristy has chosen "Bee Still, Embrace My Gift" as the title for her Life Story.

            I have written four short stories about Kristy and have a couple others in my mind. I fear there's way too many great things to tell than 90 minutes will allow. What I hope is that Pam and I can wrap our arms around Kristy's many accomplishments and relay them to the public as an inspirational production that makes her proud and celebrates her life and her gift.

            The CP spur is only one pause in my journey, it certainly didn't stop it. February 23, I joined my mentor and other Kentucky storytellers for a program in Harlan, KY. Harlan County Extension Agents, Jeremy and Theresa, understand the importance of storytelling, so they host events for the public and invite storytellers to participate. I helped with "Storytelling in the Mountains, Spring Event" and also told a story for the first time to a public audience. Learning by doing is wonderful but learning by watching Kentucky's great storytellers perform...priceless.

            Only half of my storytelling apprenticeship journey remains. Where will it take me...I dare not imagine because my guide is creative and doesn't care to enter untamed territory. Perhaps you and I will bump into each other on the trail. Thank you Kentucky Arts Council for the oppotunity to blaze a new life trail.

STUCK IN BEOGRAD (Belgrade)

In 2005/06 I was part of a University of Kentucky team teaching Community Development in Rural Serbia. My most precious extension memories were created during the time I spent in Serbia. This shares some of those memories. I have lots of others.

            I looked out the window of the taxi and wondered if I would 
ever see the Beograd Fortress again. Built in the third century B.C. Kalemegdan, guardian of the city, sits high on a hill overlooking the confluence of the mighty Danube and Sava rivers.  My co-worker, Ron, and I left the Belgrade Hyatt Regency at 4:00 am Sunday morning to board a plane home after teaching community development workshops in Eastern Serbia, a land where the English language is spoken by few.

           On the motion of the attendant I stepped to the check in counter reaching her my passport and tickets. “Liquids?” she asked. I traded liquids for my boarding pass.

 I asked for my passport and tickets. “I gave them to you. You cannot leave the country without passport” she said and called for the next passenger.

Ron and I frantically removed every item, one at a time, from my bag. The passport was not there. We dug through trash cans and around the desk with no success.

“I think they fell on the luggage conveyor” I said to her.

“Not possible” was her reply “search your bags; I gave them to Mister. You cannot leave Serbia without your passport”.

          Over and over again airport personnel asked us to look one more time in our bags. With each search I asked them to follow the baggage and see if they were on or beside the conveyor belt. They refused.

          A uniformed officer approached us “look in your bag” he said.

          “I’ve looked. It isn’t there. You look” I told him trying to stay calm.

          Airport security brought my checked luggage to a secure place to be searched. Ron was not allowed to accompany me inside the area.

          “It isn’t here” I said, “I know it must have fallen off the counter onto the conveyor belt, will you please look”. My body was trembling from head to toe. I certainly did not want anyone else to tell me “you cannot leave the country without your passport”.

          My guide escorted me back to the large empty waiting room. I looked for Ron but he wasn’t there. The pounding of my heart echoed off the blank walls. There were no

 windows. The stench of yesterday’s cigarette smoke filled the cool air. I felt trapped. “Your friend got on the plane to America”, She said.

          Tears wanted to spill out of my eyes but I held them back. How could he leave me here alone? A cold shiver captured my body and held on tight. “No” I said.

“Yes, the plane has left”, She said. “there is nothing else I can do; I must return to my post”.

Silently I spoke to myself. “Stay calm, Gwenda. You have to depend on her. Be nice. Don’t break down now. Eyes please hold the tears. Mind, stay strong choose your words wisely”. I took a deep breath, closed my eyes for a second, and asked for God’s guidance. It seemed someone else was speaking the slow calculated words coming from me. “I had my passport when I got to the airport. I gave it to the attendant otherwise she wouldn’t have given me my boarding pass. My passport has to be in the airport”.

She pivoted several times on her red spiked heel as if she was looking for someone. “Come with me”.

My legs were rubber as I followed her through a maze of long halls with blank cold walls, turning corner after corner. An elevator took us to another floor. It seamed as if we walked miles through hallways, up and down stairs, round and round. Then we entered a room with only a desk, two chairs and a telephone, no flowers, no pictures. She dialed the phone and spoke in her native language. All I could understand was American and passport. Soon she guided me through security doors, past guards and down more hallways until we got to another office.

A man with unruly hair and three days stubble slouched in a chair behind a desk. “Anyone in America can FAX your passport” He growled in broken English.

It was midnight at home. I felt myself sinking into the chair hugging my backpack as if it were a long lost friend.

My mind was held captive in a dark locked room. I couldn’t think. I had no money, no where to stay and no way to contact my Serbian friends on a Sunday. Home was so far away.

At the moment my tears were ready to flood my face, a tall slender man in a security uniform came into the office. He was smiling as if he had won the lottery. Stress had seized my ability to control my emotions. Tension inside me wanted to lash out at someone, anyone. I wanted to scream at him for laughing at me. The three of them talked in Serbian and laughed. I thought he was going to take me away. To jail maybe? Then he smiled at me and pulled an envelope from his pocket; he had found my pass port and tickets!!!

My fear turned to relief. I crashed. My head thumped the desk like an apple falling from the top of the tree to the ground. Uncontrollable tears likened to a flash flood on a mountain stream poured across my face. My hands trembled. I remember babbling some forms of “thank you” and eternal gratitude.  The man behind the desk said “you need drink?  I think so? I think you need drink. I think Vodka?” he said holding a bottle in his hand. They drank the vodka, I accepted a bottle of Voda Voda, a Serbian brand of bottled water.

          The airport arranged for next day flights, a room at the Hyatt (at my expense) and gave me a ride to the hotel. It’s a good thing charge cards are universal. The next morning, the hotel furnished transportation to the airport. Everyone, from the bell boy to the flight attendant, made sure the American had her passport.

          I won’t let the passport experience cloud the beautiful memories of my work in the Stara Planina region of Eastern Serbia. I went there a stranger from a foreign land to teach them what small towns and communities in America are doing to help the economy. Many years ago Belgrade needed people to work in the factories. The government encouraged young people to move from the villages to the city. They offered good jobs and good education. The villages are dying now. Some have as few as nine people living in them. Young professionals want to revive their homes. We talked. Now the people are my friends. I’m one of them. Our languages were strange to each other, but as a person, they understood me. I’ve climbed their mountains and walked along their rivers. I’ve experienced Mother Nature’s endless beauty.

I shared their laughter and felt their sorrow. I heard them cry from deep within their soul “our villages are dying, we have to save them; we have to keep what is old.

We must save them to honor our mothers and fathers; so our children will be safe as they grow.

          My friends have a vision and a passion to build a future laced with gold. That gold is a culture—a way of life for people who love to live and live to love. It’s a world filled with wildflowers, butterflies, birds and free spirits; of children laughing and learning; growing and sharing.

          From Stara Planina in Eastern Serbia to the Appalachian Foothills of Eastern Kentucky, we share a dream – a dream for a better and happier tomorrow.

          These people, my friends, my comrades they stand strong and determined with a will that won’t be shattered. This will, this power, this dedication will make their dreams come true. And I, I am a better person for knowing them. For learning from them.

          .