In May, it will
have been ten years since I graduated high school. Ten
years.
Since I was
young, I realized that, no matter your age, ten years is a long time for
everybody. You start getting into
percentages of your life at that point, even if you’re a century old. Ten years has always been my mark of “a long
time,” and so lately, I’d been ruminating a bit on my time in school.
As a Louisville
native and resident for my entire childhood, I had the privilege of attending
the same school from kindergarten all the way until I became an adult thirteen
years later. While my sister attended
three schools over the course of her primary and secondary education, I just
had the one: Christian Academy of Louisville.
For those of us who started in kindergarten or first grade, they called
us “lifers,” and on graduation day, we received a plaque indicating our
achievement. I had kindergarten with a
wonderful teacher named Mrs. Jackson, a lady whose curly hair and smiling eyes
stay fresh in my memory despite the decades of separation from that time. There were twelve in our class and twelve in the
other kindergarten class, taught by Mrs. Collins. If you give me a second, I bet I can name
every single one of them. In Mrs.
Jackson’s class at least, there were seven boys and five girls, and from the
original twelve, seven remained on graduation day in 2005.
Two of them
became my best friends through the rest of my grade school days, high school
and today. I was the best man in one of
their weddings and a groomsman in the other.
Another lifer in Mrs. Jackson’s class was the president of our senior
class student council, and I served alongside her as one of the senior class chaplains.
We were based at
the Rock Creek campus, located across the street from Louisville’s Seneca Park
in St. Matthews. The school, which was
formed in the 70s, had been here almost from inception. I have a lot of memories in that place; soon,
though, it became clear that Christian Academy of Louisville, or “CAL,” was
getting too big for the humble Rock Creek campus. From there, I had a string of memorable
teachers which, in order, comprised Mrs. Martz, Mrs. James, Mrs. Rowe, Mrs.
Webb, and Mrs. Law for 5th grade.
Right as I finished elementary school, it was time to move to the new
campus on the east end of town, now called the English Station campus.
The English
Station campus, a purpose-built school complete with new sports fields and
large courtyards, was the future. I
transitioned there at the start of middle school in 1998, where I solidified my
friendships, experienced the awkwardness of puberty and where I developed my
first crush. I joined the chess club in
sixth grade, and I placed in the top three of the science fair and was the own
one in my class to advance to the geography bee finals during my seventh grade
year, and I enjoyed my first acting experience the following year. In 2001, I started high school. I still remember walking down the hallway that
I’d pass coming in the main entrance, scared to death of what high school
meant. I remember watching 9/11 news
live in the auditorium, realizing the world I was coming into wasn’t as cheery
and innocent as I thought. I had my
first slow dance four months later.
During my sophomore year, I battled depression and isolated myself
emotionally. Soon, though, my spiritual faith
was renewed through the fellowship and friendship of several folks at my church,
and my junior year was one of revitalization and growth. I dated my first girlfriend that year, and we
dated through to my senior year. In my
senior year, I starred as the lead in the school play, Cheaper by the Dozen, where I first galvanized my love for performance.
Although I clung
to my middle school friends exclusively at first, I met lots of other people,
learned stuff (I suppose), and built the foundation for my adult life there. I was socially active and engaged, plugged in
at my church, and I even won a superlative my senior year: Most Sincere. It was a very sweet gesture from my
classmates, and I still have the sash they bestowed upon me at that winter’s
formal dance. Perhaps most importantly,
I became close to my now-wife, Beth, who was a long-time pal of my
sister’s. I graduated in May, and we
were dating that September. I love her
more now than ever, and perhaps that’s the greatest thing that my school gave
me. I’ll always be thankful to CAL for
that.
As a child, your
world is surrounded in school. It is your job, so everything you do,
think, and experience is through the lens of a student, a social and academic
being. After you graduate from grade
school, even the experience of attending college and graduate school doesn’t
quite match that feeling of discovery and optimism present in a wide-eyed
adolescent.
One of the first
walks I’d considered for Miles By Foot
was a walk from one campus to the other, a sort of pilgrimage between the two
settings of major growth in my life.
They are not close, so the walk would be independently challenging while
also being emotionally retrospective.
I’d have lots of time to recall those memories, the faces, the events,
the joy of being in elementary, middle, and high school. Things were more carefree then; even for just
a few hours, I could emulate that freedom.
So here’s the
charge: walk from one Christian Academy campus to the other, exploring the path
that separates them and recalling the experiences, emotions of both my youth
and currently.
In planning, the
walk could have been as short as ten miles.
However, the
most straightforward route possible did not provide much variety or deviation
of interest, or so I thought. Thus, I
elected a convoluted route that would pass things that have historical and
current significance in my life and in the city of my own genesis.
Get it? Genesis? Bible joke? Eh, never mind.
Walk
Mid-January is
generally one of the coldest periods in Kentucky, but for some bizarre reason,
this normally frigid month took the day off and, with a forecast of clear skies
and highs in the lower 60s, I decided that this Saturday would be the perfect
opportunity to accomplish this long-awaited walk.
To orchestrate
the awkward car situation presented by a one-way walk, I parked my car at
Seneca Park, directly across the street from my destination, where my mother
met me to do something she hadn’t done for me in a decade: take me to
school. We discussed the walking route
on the ride down and, as was the case with my St. Louis walk, I felt every mile
we drove, knowing I’d have to walk it myself soon enough. Over the rises and dips of I-64, stretches of
long lines of sight that were still short of my destination were laid out
before me. We rolled up to the campus
entrance, recalling those moments of CAL that came to mind. I withdraw my coat, my camera, and my water
bottle once we stopped, egressed onto the entrance drive of the English Station
campus after a word of love from Mom, then I was on my own.
I let the
silence and chilly breeze of the morning wash over me for a moment. The biting wind reminded me that, despite the
forecast, it was still January. I sipped some water, then I sipped again. I considered starting my journey at the centralized
Great Lawn, just up the rise, but given the apparently recent installation of
several trespassing signs, I decided against it. I’m not sure that a decade-old degree gave me
any right to go there today. Besides,
Saturday morning detention was probably underway, unless something had changed,
and I didn’t feel like running into a bunch of faculty and disgruntled teens
first thing in the morning.
On the road,
then.
Well, actually,
hold on. Funny story. Once in middle school, Dad came to pick me
and my sister up late from school. When
we were about to leave, we noticed another parent getting in his vehicle. Nothing special there, but we looked on the
top of his SUV, and there sat an open laptop, vulnerable and alight. As you might expect, he closed the door,
started his SUV and drove away, his black PowerBook jostling and sliding along
the top. Dad took off in a run after
him, calling out, “your laptop! Your
laptop!”
But it was too
late. Dad ran back to the car, started
it up, and we tore down the entrance drive where I currently stand and took a
left (the road to the right in the second picture wasn’t built for several more
years.) My dad, a fairly conservative
driver, took the curves slowly and before long, we’d lost him. Dad
slowed down and scanned the road for the doomed laptop. After only a moment, my sister’s sharp eye
caught it in a ditch about a quarter-mile down the road. She hopped out, climbed into the ditch and
recovered the bulky PowerBook, clamoring up the steep incline back to our
van. It was scuffed, cracked, and
covered in dirt and mud. Dad looked at the
machine resting in her lap as she put her seatbelt on, his expression a
combination of pride and disappointment.
“I’m sure it doesn’t work anymore,” he confessed. She unfolded the laptop as I nodded in
agreement.
“Nope!” she
cried out, her face aglow with the soft fluorescent light of the screen. She turned the computer around, and there was
the little Apple symbol on the boot
screen, and the computer’s fans roared to life.
Dad turned the car around and hustled back to campus, where we found that
SUV parked and its driver frantically looking around to find his missing
charge.
Lil bounded out
of the car, the still-open laptop in both hands: “Sir! Sir!” The man rushed over to her, beside himself
with happiness. He ingratiated us,
admitting his wife might have killed him if he’d lost such a valuable
investment so carelessly.
And that’s what I think of when I see this
road.
Today, though, I’ll
eschew that northern road for the easterly one.
The school is
divided into three wings and is roughly the shape of a “Y”: an elementary,
middle, and high school wing, with the middle school wing forming the
downstroke. This is the elementary wing,
the only one I did not spend significant time in. I visited there as part of assignments where
we connected with kids through art and reading, but I was never there as a student. Stucturally, it was as a mirror of the high
school wing, so visiting there felt bizarre and surreal; colorful, paper-strewn
walls replaced the rigid, regulated walls of the high school. Not to mention the faint apple juice smell.
Despite the fact
that it was longer (and I’m convinced slower), my dad took us this way every
time we went home. This fact was
confirmed by the first long stretch of my walk.
A hill obstructed the view of the school to the right, and newly
constructed homes on the left flanked the other side. The cold, however, was everywhere, so I found
myself focusing on that more than the sights to see.
As is always the
case in most of Kentucky and in many other non-urban places in the world, the
brand new is built opposite something pastoral.
In this case, this outbuilding, which was adjacent to an occupied
property, has stood much longer than the seventeen-year-old school building,
but its current use or integrity remained a mystery. The paint had worn away from physical
buffeting and sunlight, no doubt, and its exposed structure had probably seen
at least forty years.
Behind the
campus, a large, multi-acre plot stretched out, complete with knee-high grass
and the rustling music it was playing in the breeze. Word has it that CAL wanted to expand, adding
a real theatre, an art building, and additional athletic fields and classroom
space. If you’ll pardon me, I’ll believe
it when I see it; they claimed that years ago but the campus looks largely the
same thanks to a little Google Maps sleuthing, with the exception of new tennis
courts visible near the entrance.
At present, this
is actually on the edge of a gridded subdivision that hasn’t nearly built its
stock of residents yet. As I’m assuming
it probably was founded at the end of the last decade, the financial crisis has
left its mark on the earth; several streets lay with empty lots or unoccupied
houses. It certainly wasn’t a ghost
town, but it was clear that the developers were, how do you say, overly
ambitious.
The developments
got more sparse as I neared the I-64 crossing, and at the edge lied this
mundane-looking property.
It looked like
little more than a storage facility as it was completely without adornment or
activity. However, an apparent outhouse
did grab my attention.
This small
building, with its gaping portal, was obviously little use as a latrine
anymore, unless you have no decency or use it at night. Between me and it, tall, uncut grass blocked
the way. I stepped onto the gravel drive
to approach the outhouse when I found something sweet, but surprisingly vague.
Onto the
outhouse, though.
After wading
through the brush, it was clear that a commode hadn’t been there a long time,
or even ever. There weren’t any slots
for hinges, and the portal was an odd enough shape that a door might have been
impractical, even if it opened outward.
The pipe that came up into the structure was obscured by leaves, and
with as weak as the structure leaked, I might break something if I try to
investigate. Thus, it’ll remain a
mystery.
Now I was out
over the interstate. Without trees or
hills on either side, I felt the wind fully, and my small, internal flame was
extinguished. Although technically above
freezing, the shadow kept that ice formation perfectly intact on the south side
of the interstate.
Looking west,
the Gene Snyder Freeway roared along; in my opinion, this is the fastest and
most dangerous limited-access highway in Louisville, and it always seems I hear
about speeding tickets or fatal accidents taking place on this, the wider of
Louisville’s two circling highways.
This is looking
east, towards Lexington; that big expanse, flanked on either side by
transmission towers and rolling hills, is the first thing I see on the long
stretch of driving to see my in-laws.
Similarly, seeing this part of the road coming back means that you’re
back in Louisville proper.
It was really
bracing on the bridge, so I hurried off the span to the last segment of this
leg.
Once off the
bridge I felt a sharp pain in my leg.
Not a strong pain, but a prickly pain.
I looked down and realized that my pants had collected prickly seed pods
from the tall grass I’d waded through a few moments ago. I plucked each one off, eventually moving to
brush large clods off that had clung to my thighs.
Shortly after
doing so, I found this intriguing scene off to my left.
I don’t know if
it’s the “No Trespassing” sign, the gate behind it, or the gravel road leading
into the woods, but this seemed surprisingly rural. I liked it; this could be anywhere in
Kentucky, or even Ohio, Pennsylvania, Tennessee or Virginia. It just looked
rural.
I followed on
the side of the old asphalt for another quarter-mile, warming my hands in my
hoodie, keeping my camera stowed. I came
to my first turn and followed the bend westward to a nearly one-lane road. To my left is a property with something that
I would totally want if I had the
money.
“Oh, that’s a
nice barn. Oh, and a lake too! But, really, Matt? That seems –“
Look closer.
That’s a
windsock, my friend, which means only one thing. He has a runway on his property. You might
think I’m exaggerating, but when I was younger, I would see him lift off,
hitting his takeoff roll as he came into view.
I’ve seen him flying around, too low to be a plane landing at Bowman
Field or SDF. Can you imagine? “Beth, I’m gonna fly to Lexington. Back in an
hour or so.” Just practicing.
After looking
longingly and realizing he probably wasn’t planning to take off today, I
marched on to the next turn.
This could also
be about anywhere in Kentucky. As with
many rural towns, churches are the nicest building in town, the anchor of the
city. While the town seems to be pretty
detached from this isolated church, it still has that same look. This is Poplar Lane, but intriguingly, the
church is named Poplar Level Baptist Church, named for a road located on the
southeast part of downtown Louisville.
It’s not unusual for a church that’s moved to retain the street from
which they left, but I’m pretty sure this church started here, not ten miles in
towards town. Weird.
When my sister
and I were younger and Dad would take us “the back way,” we frequently saw several
white horses at this water trough. On
the frequent occasion that we saw four together, we would begin singing a
Caribbean song we’d learned in music class as kids: “Four White Horses.” Do you know it? Four
white horses, on the river, hey, hey, hey, up tomorrow, up tomorrow is a rainy
day! That’s all I remember anymore,
but I always think about it when I round the bend in the car. That doesn’t change when I’m on foot.
This little pond
stretched out to my left; a thin sheet of ice bobbed on top of the melted water
at the shoreline. A toss of a bit of
asphalt confirmed that yes, it was a stone’s throw away. The ice crackled around the impact, and the
morning fell quiet again.
Now, they might
be new, but in the hundreds of times we curved along this road, I never noticed
these. They are as isolated as they look, right in the middle of a field, one
on each side of the road. I assume that
they work; part of me thought they’d have a twisting switch like a floor lamp,
but I guess that’s pretty silly.
This fallow
field was covered in frost; you can just see the hoary coating in the shadow,
but it was actually scintillating in the shade.
The sunlight had melted the exposed frost into dew, no doubt.
As can be made
clear by the positioning of this photo, traffic was practically nonexistent at
this time of day. After being on the
walk for nearly an hour, I’d encountered perhaps five cars. It was an early Saturday morning, though, and
few people in this part of town work on a Saturday, if you know what I mean.
In case I
thought again that it was a typo, there it is again: “Poplar Level.”
At the corner of
Pope Lick and Poplar Lane, we find this recognizable landmark.
No, I don’t know if there’s anything significant or important about this home, but its bright red roof has always been a landmark on the drive home. It appears to be a well-restored farmhouse, tended by a single owner, or series of owners, who care very much about the state and upkeep of the home. I’m glad they did; I love taking pictures of neglected buildings and natural decay, but it’s nice to see something well-kept once in a while.
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The next steps will post each Wednesday!
Keep going,
Matt
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