Just An Old Boker Knife               

Why, you could buy just about anything you wanted at  Wilbur Powers's store there on the banks of the Licking River in Magoffin County. He had gears for the mules, flour for baking, and for fifteen cents the kids at the one roomed school could buy bologna, oyster crackers and a coke a cola for lunch. That's where my grandfather bought his long barrel .38 special he carried in a shoulder holster under his coat. And, that’s where he purchased his Boker knife.

“I don’t know when he purchased the knife. I know he had it when he bought his gun in 1950. I figure he bought the knife sometime in the ‘30’s” my father said when I asked “How old is the knife”.

My grandfather loved his pocket knife. He carried it everywhere he went. He used it to work on practically everything and when he wasn't working he would pull  it out along with a cedar whittling stick he carried and he would whittle. Oh, he never created any wonderful work of art, never carved a fine family heirloom. He just made tiny shavings that twisted as he carved them from the larger stick. He called them whirly Q’s. Granny put the piles of whirly Q’s in tiny bags made from cheese cloth and  put them in her dresser drawers to keep the clothes  smelling fresh.

One day while Paw was disking a bottom with his mules, Barney and Tobe, getting ready to set out tobacco, he lost his knife. He knew he had it when he started work because he used it to work Ole Tobe’s collar. He looked for his knife every day, even had us looking for it when we worked the tobacco. After looking for a few hours one winter day, Paw said “Guess it’s just gone. Don’t matter much. It ain't worth nothin’. Probably couldn't sell it for $5.00 if I tried”.

The next spring as Dad was disking the bottom with Barney and Tobe, getting ready to set out the tobacco, something shiny caught his eye. He thought it was one of those pretty rocks with the flecks in it so he went on about the task at hand. On his next round it seemed the sun caught that shiny thing and cast a beam straight to his eye. He just had to check it out. He followed that beam out into the middle of the field but it seemed to be coming from nothing. He bent down to to look closer and sure enough he pulled Paw’s knife from the ground.

Dad couldn’t wait to give the knife to his father. He cleaned it up the best he could there in the field. At dinner, Dad, with the knife held tight, held his hand out toward Paw.

“Humph, what is it”, Paw asked, “I’m eatin' my dinner”.

 “Well, just hold out your hand and you’ll see”, Dad said.

When Paw held his hand out flat and Dad dropped the knife in his hand, there were no words to say. Paw, shook the knife in his hand, he rubbed the handles with his thumb, and looked from the knife to Dad and back to the knife. He shook his head up and down and from side to side, put the knife in his pocket and continued to eat his dinner.

A few months before my grandfather died in 1983, he and Dad were sitting in the glider on the front porch whittlin’. When Paw was through, he shut the old Boker closed his hand around it and held his hand out toward Dad.

“What!” Dad said.

“Well, it should be yours. You found it. ain’t worth much, probably couldn't get $5.00 out of it if you tried.

There were no words for Dad to say. He took the knife, rubbed the handles with his thumb, tossed it up and down a bit, and put it in his pocket. He carried that knife over 30 years. He used it for almost everything, even to work on Ole Tobe’s gears. Sometimes he would pull it out just to whittle. Oh, he never created any great works of art, no family heirlooms, just made whirly Q’s from a stick of cedar he carried in his pocket. Mom kept some in the dresser drawers to freshen the clothes.

About three weeks ago, I saw Dad with his little knife collection out. He picked up each knife, rubbed the handles, and held them in his hand as if to whittle.

“What are you doing”, I asked my father.

“Well, I’m looking for a good pocket knife. This old one of Paw Huff’s, well, the handles are loose and some of the blades are loose and I’m afraid I might lose it so I’m gonna put it up to keep. I don’t know  why, it ain’t worth nothing. Probably couldn't sell it for $5.00 if I tried. But  I still wanna keep it.”

Dad reached me the knife to look at. “Do you think it could be fixed”, he asked

I held the knife in my hand, it seemed to fit. It felt good. I rubbed the handles with my thumb and tossed it up and down in my hand and thought “if only you could talk oh what stories you could tell’ “Dad I know a knife maker, let me take it and see if he can work on it”. Dad agreed.

The knife maker thought it might be beyond his skills to work on such an heirloom. To no avail, I questioned everyone about getting the knife worked on. No one seemed to know. I had almost given up hope when Gene came in and handed me a neon yellow card with “Danny Ball” and a phone number on it. Underneath he had circled the word knife.

“I hear he can work on your dad’s knife. You should call him” he said

I called Danny. Told him the story of the knife. Told  him it probably wasn't worth anything, probably couldn’t get $5.00 from it I tried to sell it but it’s worth is immeasurable to my father”.

“Yes, I work on knives, bring it over. I’ll take a look at it”. My heart was filled with hope.

“Oh, My! Danny Ball said when he saw the near 100 year old knife, “That’s an old Boker. Look at those handles, why they’re wore paper thin. This knife has really been used. It’s been cared for too”. Danny opened the knife “This is one of the best knives you could ever buy. Them old fellers, they didn’t buy knifes to put in a collection, to look at, they bought knives to use. And this was one of the best”.

Danny looked at me and continued to talk “I can fix the knife but I won’t promise anything about the handles. These handles are made of bone and they get brittle with age. I’m afraid they might shatter when I start working with them. But”, he said, “if they do, I have some authentic Boker handles I can replace them with”.

A few days later Gene picked up the knife. It had new handles. It must have looked exactly like it did when Paw Huff bought it from Wilbur Powers, all shiny and new. Danny had cleaned the blades and sharpened them to a fine edge.

“He said he was afraid to mess with the old handles but he sent them back to you”, Gene said.

 I picked up those old handles and rubbed them with my thumbs. All those years of work and whittling had worn them slick. I could barely see a shadow where the Boker emblem had once told the brand. I put them in a jewelry box to bring to dad. It was almost like they were sacred. So much family history, an heirloom I would never have expected to hold in my hands. Just old knife handles….without a knife…with no value.

 I couldn’t wait to give Dad the knife. He was eating supper when I got there. I went straight to the table with the knife clasped tight in my hands. I held them close to my  father’s plate.

 “What is it? I’m eating supper”, my father said.

 “Hold out your hands. I've got something for you”.

 As I dropped the knife in my dad’s gnarled and twisted fingers, I said “It’s Paw Huff’s knife. I got it fixed for you. He couldn't put the original handles on it but those are authentic Boker handles and he gave me the old ones.”

 Dad looked at the knife. He bounced it in his hands. He rubbed the handles with his thumbs He looked at me, then the knife. He shook his head from side to side, then up and down, then he put the knife in his pocket and went on eating supper.

 The next day Dad asked “Honey, if I whittle and make a mess in the floor, will you clean it up for me?”

 “Dad, if you will make me some of them cedar whirly Q’s for my dresser drawers, I’ll clean up anything”.

 After he got through whittling he put the little black jewelry box on the coffee table.  He said “Honey, I have no reason to keep these handles, if you want ‘em, you can have ‘em”.

 Those bone handles have almost a hundred years of use by my grandfather and father. I intend to have a necklace made from them, maybe two. Neither of them will be worth much, probably can’t get $5.00 from them, even if I try.. But for me, they will be an everlasting hug from two of the most important men in my life. Just the worn out handles off an old Boker knife….not worth anything at all….

                  Love and Family and the Hills of Kentucky

They were teenagers in love. They stood before the preacher and vowed to love and honor each other “until death do us part”. Joined as one in the eyes of the Father, Son and Holy Ghost, they were ready to change the world.

The young couple felt as if they needed to fly, to spread their wings beyond the ancient hills where their family planted roots many generations ago. The young married couple wanted away from the small community where everyone knew everything about everybody and family was far too close….and in their opinion, too nosey. Their dream included a new start where they would create their own place, their own future, where they could make new friends and be away from the same old things they had known all their young lives.  

He soon graduated from college with a degree in journalism. She wanted a career in education. They decided to chase their dream so they packed everything they had in garbage bags threw it in the back of their old jalopy and headed south leaving behind family and loved ones and the landscape that had shaped them.

The old car made it to the land of sunshine and white beaches. Their journey took them to Miami Florida. Night life, the endless ocean, career opportunities, new friends to be made, a whole new life awaited them.

A tiny apartment not far from the beach and in walking distance to all the major event venues seemed just perfect. They were ecstatic with life and each other.

He soon found his dream job as sports journalist with the largest newspaper in Florida, the Miami Sun. She took some time away from college and got a part time job at the public library. He attended all the major sports events, met the biggest names in the industry…she filled her spare time making their apartment uniquely theirs. Happiness radiated all around them.

Together they spent evenings at the beach, going to concerts and just being together. They saw all the big name bands, not the little local groups like back home. Weekends were spent at the beach or sports events. There was never a dull moment in their lives. They were truly living the dream.

The hills were far behind them. Conversations with family back home were few and far between.

            As time flew by it seemed the concerts were all the same and the large crowds were hard to handle. The beach didn’t create the same thrill as it did at first. They sat in the sand and looked across the endless ocean but the excitement wasn’t there anymore. It was always the same.

            He knew something was weighing on her mind because her giggle wasn’t perky and she recently had become very quiet, almost withdrawn. 

            “Something doesn’t seem right”, she said one evening. “I feel something is missing”.  Days went by then she came to him and said quietly, “I want to have a baby”.

            He felt the same. Perhaps a little one would be exactly what they needed to renew their enthusiasm toward life. Yes, a baby would make their family whole.

            A few weeks later the EPT showed positive. The same thrill they felt the day they were wed filled the tiny apartment. They couldn’t wait. Happiness radiated from their faces. They began looking for a larger apartment and buying baby clothes.

            “I don’t want to tell Mom on the phone about the baby. Let’s go for a visit” she said.

            It had been three years since they left the family and hills behind. Maybe a visit would do wonders. Maybe it would remind them of  why they left their childhood home far behind.

            They threw a few things in the back of the car and took off.

            The conversation was lively for a while.

            “What will we name her” she asked

            He called off names of great sports figures.

            She shrugged them off.

            She talked about pink paint and ballerina shoes

            He spoke highly of baseball and college sports

The car became very quiet with each watching in awe as the hills of Central Appalachia popped into the horizon.

            She spoke first “Who will watch our baby?”

            “We will find a day care place” he answered

            “But how will we know if they really watch her”?

            Both were remembering their childhood and the days spent with family, on the farm, and growing up with cousins all around.

            “Let’s not worry about it right now”, he said, “we will find someone to come to the apartment if that’s what you want”.

            She remained quiet.

            “Look there’s where we saw our first movie together”, her voice trembled

            “And there’s the Mountain Arts Center where we went to our first concert” he was excited too.

            As the car followed the twists and turns of the mountain terrain, both knew what they had been missing. It was early spring. Red buds and dogwoods lined the roadways. They were filled with awe at the beauty they once took for granted. “This is what’s missing”, he said. “The hills are never the same”.

            They pulled into the drive way of “home” and family was waiting in the yard, by the road and poured from all doors to meet them.

            Hugs and kisses and “where you been so long”, and “welcome Home” and “we’ve missed you” and more hugs and more kisses welcomed them. She glanced at him from the corner of her eye but turned away when she saw the tear on his cheek.

            A country supper with all the trimmings was a part of the gathering. With the announcement of a new baby, the house broke into cheers.

            That night they sat on the front porch, gazed at the stars in the night sky and listened to the sounds of their childhood. Crickets and whippoorwills filled the air with song while song and lightening bugs danced to the tune.

            “I don’t want a stranger to keep our baby” she said.

            He put his arm around her shoulders. He knew she was holding back tears.

            “Who do you want to be the babysitter”, he asked as gently as possible.

            “I want to come home. I want our baby to grow up with family and know where he came from and who he is. Can we come home”. Now her tears were more than she could hold back.

            “I think that’s the greatest idea yet”, he said

            He gave two weeks’ notice, she packed up the apartment. They moved back to the hills that wrapped them in love and bought a mobile home. He got a job with the Salyersville Independent as sports editor. He covered every high school game in the region. She got a job at McDonalds. They went to concerts of local bands and danced to traditional music. Happiness radiated from them.

            That little boy, named after two great sports stars, grew up with family and is now a sophomore in college.

            And they truly lived happily ever after.

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.