According to folklore, Stephen Foster was inspired to write Kentucky’s song while visiting Federal Hill Mansion in Bardstown, where his cousins, the Rowan family, lived in 1852. They say Foster was in route from Pittsburgh to New Orleans, when he stopped at the Rowan’s. Foster’s trip to New Orleans is well-documented; however, his trip to Kentucky isn’t. His only documented trip to Kentucky occurred in 1833, when his mother took him to visit relatives in Augusta and Louisville. Also problematic is that historians believe the lyrics refer not to the mansion where his cousins lived, but to a little cabin where slaves lived on a plantation. Let the historians haggle over the background of his song, because the fact remains that it was adopted as Kentucky’s state song in 1928, before any of us were born. We can take comfort that each of us has an “Old Kentucky Home.”You could put my home in Fern Creek in the foyer of the Federal Hill Mansion. It was 30-feet long and 20-feet deep; 600 square feet on the main floor where Mom, Dad and my sister slept in two tiny bedrooms. A couple of steps down the hall were the living room, kitchen and bathroom. My two brothers and I slept upstairs, in an unfinished attic, which was about ten feet by fifteen feet. The basement was too damp and dark for anyone to sleep there. The six of us somehow survived in less than 1,000 square feet. Today, one bedroom condos are bigger than our house in Kentucky.When my Dad died in August 1996, his attorney sold the house and divided the money among me and my three siblings. Dad’s personal possessions, including vehicles, bass boats, campers and home furnishings were sold at auction. The day was cold and dreary in March 1997; a miserable day for me. I would live to regret not taking some items that were offered to me by Dad’s attorney during a walk-through before the auction. A WWII helmet my Dad took off a dead German soldier during the Battle of the Bulge, with my name painted inside the rim, sold for $40. Forgetting the sentimental value of a war souvenir I could have passed to his great-grandson, who accompanied me on a trip home this year, that old German helmet would fetch close to $1,000 today. For years after Dad died, I didn’t want to go near the house on Beulah Church Road. Perhaps you feel the same way. Death severed the emotional umbilical cord that connected me to my parents; but this year, I wanted to show my grandson where I lived and where I went to school. I’m proud of my humble heritage.I had intended to stand across the street and take a picture of the house; but, I ran across Beulah Church Road into the front yard, when I saw a couple walk across the patio where my family spent many hot summer nights. Dad refused to install central air conditioning. He said the cool, moist air would make us deathly sick. Living upstairs in the attic, where temperatures often exceeded 120 degrees didn’t make us sick, but it certainly made us sweat.Central air isn’t the only upgrade Daun Gollar has made to my family home. She painted over the knotty pine cabinets and walls in the kitchen and installed French doors to a large wooden deck on the rear of the house. She finished the basement, installing a bar, and combination office and family area. The outdated bathroom with its yellow and black ceramic tile was replaced and the 50s vintage sink, mirror, commode and tub were replaced with modern fixtures. Why pour so much money into a house that was built in 1952? “Because they don’t build houses like this anymore,” said Gollar, who noted that not a single dry wall nail has popped in the past 58 years. I’m constantly spackling popped dry wall nails in my recently-built house in Virginia.When I walked into the kitchen, where my mother labored, preparing delicious meals for her family, I could feel her presence. I couldn’t smell fresh bread baking or her famous fried chicken crackling in a large iron skillet; but, I knew she was there in spirit, and it was comforting to visit “my old Kentucky home.” Next, we were off to Mount Washington, where my parents are buried in Highland Memory Garden. On the way, I stopped at Wal-Mart in Fern Creek, to purchase some silk flowers for their graves. As I was checking out, I mentioned to the woman in front of me that it felt strange, standing in line over the very spot where the main house was located on the Lad & Lassie Farm, where I worked while in high school 55 years ago. “You must have worked for Mrs. Schmidt,” she replied. “Did you know her?” I inquired. “Yes, everyone in Fern Creek knows who she was,” said the woman, who volunteered that she too had graduated from Fern Creek High School in 1984. I replied that I had graduated in 1960.“I graduated with you,” said another woman ahead of us, as she turned with a smile on her face. I knew I had seen her before, but I couldn’t remember, until she said, “I’m Karen Scott.” What a pleasant surprise, at Wal-Mart of all places. Fern Creek may have been swallowed by Louisville, but it still has a small-town quality.If you have time, while in town for the class reunion, drive through Fern Creek and see for yourself how it has changed in the 50 years; and if you’ve never visited the house where you lived while going to Fern Creek High School, I encourage you to drive through your old neighborhood, too. Who knows, maybe the person who bought your parent’s house will invite you to come in, as Daun Gollar recently did for me. I can tell you, it will be a moment you’ll cherish.
Creeker Chronicles
A compendium of anecdotes and stories by
Contributing Editor Ross Simpson
All of us have an "old Kentucky home." Ross visits his and memories are stirred.
Ross with his siblings and dog, caught between poses
in front of the family home on Buelah Church Road.
This aerial of the one-acre property was taken by a police helicopter pilot, a friend of Gollar's.
Alice Simpson's kitchen as it looks today, after extensive remodeling. Even so, Ross could sense her presence there.
Homer and Ross's brothers in their living room, with the all-important encyclopedia in its place of honor on the mantle.
