If this is your first time here, click here for this month's first installment.
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It felt like
it’d been an hour.
Normally, on a
long walk, time slips away from you in either direction; you’ll either feel
like you’ve been on the bricks for twenty minutes or three hours. Later in a walk, it feels like it’ll never
end. But here, it felt like sixty solid
minutes of walking.
More
middle-of-the-road standing. I’d passed
so few cars that the grey trail beneath me felt like it was entirely mine. Roads are funny in that way; we think of them
as the only way to get there, but really they’re just flat parts of the earth
where it’s easier to get from A to
B. In the end, roads are only roads
because they don’t have obstructions.
Speaking of
roads in an essential way, here is essentially the Gene Snyder.
Despite the fact
that we drove over this bridge countless times during the course of our
childhood, it took me forever to figure out we were going over the Snyder. To be totally honest, I wasn’t 100% sure
until I snapped the picture myself and realized where I was. All I knew is it was some highway, but I’d
never critically considered it.
A few more steps
across the idle bridge and I was back in relative peace.
There’s so much
being built up such a short distance away that we sometimes forget that this is
still pastoral land in many cases.
Louisville’s expansion out to this part of the county is still ongoing,
and up until about thirty years ago, this was firmly outside of
Louisville. Lives were quieter, things
were more simple, and prices were lower.
This barn looked like it might barely function in its primary purpose
anymore, but it’s hard to tell. It was clear that someone owned it still, as
most of the wind, rain, and storms we get will break down an unattended barn in
short order.
Not a quarter
mile down the road from this agrarian memento was a modern, well-tended, and
exorbitantly expensive property wreathed with a fence and electronic gate. The pristine, calm lake in the distance was
almost a stone’s throw away, but considering I might be attacked for a $35,000
guard dog, I decided to leave the roadside stones where they were.
There’s
something about a winding, quiet path that drives me to follow, but I know
better. Barely, but I do. I wonder what would happen if I did walk down
it? Would I be greeted with a handshake
or a handgun? It’s funny how differently
people can react based on their own history and personality. As the consequences of a firearm outweigh a
friendship, I’ll just keep walking.
The winding path
owner’s neighbor had a house more set towards the road. Alongside it, he has an outbuilding of some
kind, maybe a shed or a garage. The
picture makes it a bit hard to tell, but it had a pretty significant lean on it
to the left. Here it almost looks upright,
but at an angle, you can see the list. I
guess as long as it’s deep enough, it can lean all it wants. Look at the Leaning Tower of Pisa, after all.
I rounded a
corner after walking another couple property lengths, and then the road opened
up significantly, granting a bit of shoulder for more comfortable walking.
Normally, this
is a fairly high-speed road, with cards whipping by much faster than the signs
that read “35” indicate. Still that
quiet Saturday morning, though, so even the few cars I saw weren’t in any
hurry.
In the stillness
of the morning, I passed silently under the swaying cables of the transmission
towers that intersect with Poplar Lane.
I was more silent than they were, though; because it was so peaceful and
the surrounding woods blocked much of the wind, I could hear the hum of
electricity coursing through the wires overhead. I’m not sure what the mechanism of that is,
but it was wild nonetheless. I could hear people turning on their stoves,
watching the news, or charging their phones!
My dad had
trouble with his mailbox for years.
Over the course
of my childhood, our family went through around a dozen mailboxes, each bigger
and sturdier than the last. For whatever
reason, our mailbox was continuously struck by cars or, more likely, errant
youths with a baseball bat, or so my dad claimed. He started to eschew plastic mailboxes for
reinforced, anchored ones that weighed a ton.
I was skeptical, but one night in summer during the late 90s, I was
proven wrong.
It was fairly
late, maybe 10:00 or 11:00 at night, and we saw lights at the end of our
driveway. Our house was at the end of a
fairly long drive, but we’re in the line of sight of the end of that drive, so
we saw the car at the intersection of our paved driveway and the road. It didn’t come down towards us, though. Suddenly, the headlights pulled back out, and
heard the front tires burn rubber as it lurched onto the road, turned abruptly,
and sped off.
Dad immediately
assumed it was some hooligans destroying his mailbox, grabbed his big
flashlight from the counter and ran down the 500-foot driveway. My mother, sister and I, who were playing
Monopoly in the dining room which had a front-facing window, jumped up to watch
the flashlight bob up and down as he dashed up the length of our drive. A minute later, his beam was flitting back
and forth at the street, and a couple minutes later, we saw the light tottering
back our way. Dad came into the kitchen,
clutching the heavy metal mailbox, a massive dent in the side, the flag bent at
the middle, and the small door on the front smashed shut. We all stifled a laugh at my father’s
enraged, but vindicated expression. He’d
been right.
I wonder if a
similar fate befell this mailbox? It
wasn’t likely to have been hit by a car for two reasons: one, a car hitting it
would just destroy it at the speeds people fly down this road, and two, the
damage is localized, and although it almost looks like a side-view mirror hit
it, it’s on the wrong side of the mailbox for the typical flow of traffic. Unless this box was smacked in Britain and
sent back, not much of a chance that happened.
So I bet poor #12609 had been subjected to the pubescent justice of the
baseball bat.
I dipped down to
a stream and back up on the other side.
One lady was walking to her own mailbox on the north side of the street
and greeted me; we conversed about the unusual warm weather and that I’d chosen
a good day to walk. Soon after, it was
time for me to hook a right and push forward.
While before I
had listened to the gentle rustling of the trees and the few non-migratory
birds that weather the winter, I could finally hear the din of civilization:
the low, even rushing sound of road noise.
Nearly every place I passed in the first half mile was for sale,
intriguingly. I never know whether that
means it’s a good or bad place to live.
This might seem
like a pretty typical walking picture, but this was about the only latitude I
felt I had. Directly behind me,
Louisville’s FBI office towered over me, complete with an armada of cameras,
thick, tall walls and a brigade of armored cars. Although I could have probably legally taken
pictures of this new office building, I could see that not sitting very
well. Not a political statement, just
didn’t feel like getting hauled in for questioning on a Saturday morning.
See? That area just to the right is the office,
and I tried to angle it to not capture the facility. Just in case.
Off I went
beneath the underpass, now noisy with the rush of semis and sedans rumbling
overhead. The shade and closeness of the
underpass made it surprisingly chilly compared to the ambient temperature, so I
was happy to pop out the other side when I found this weird bit of trash.
Now as far as I
know, there’s no such thing as Orange Coke; they’ve tried some screwball ideas,
but I’m pretty sure a bastardized Crush cola wasn’t one of them. That means this was probably originally red,
like 90% of Coke cartons. I stopped and
wondered: how long would it have taken for this box to attain that hue? Most sunbleached things you think of are
pinkish, tan, or white. This, however,
being such a bold color to start with, is in-between. Stickers usually bleach in windows within a
decade, but this hasn’t been here that long, so I’d say that Coke carton has
been sitting there, through storms, heat, freezes and breezes for somewhere on
the order of two to four years. It’s
bright enough that someone would see it, but not enough to stop and pick it up
to throw it away, so here it is, meant for only the odd pedestrian to truly
regard.
This stretch of
Tucker Station was pretty straight and flat, so I could already see my next
turn in the distance. On my right, a
subdivision sprawled out into the country, and to the left, a cluster of condos
wreathed by evergreens abutted the road, save this clearing.
If I’d grown up
in Douglas Hills, the nearby subdivision, I would played here. This nice, open, abandoned field would have
been a place to play tag, throw Frisbee, or just lay in the grass and
relax. That being said, who could
actually dump crap on this nice little plot of vacant land? Don’t answer that, I know there’s someone; it
just wouldn’t be me.
After a steep
climb to the intersection of Tucker Station Road and Ellingsworth Lane, one I
dread when I drive here with my stick VW Beetle, I rounded the corner to push
to a familiar road, one I took for a small chunk of my very first Miles By Foot walk.
Ellingsworth is straight
like Tucker Station, but it was a constant uphill push, and I was starting to
feel the pressures of time, pace, and hunger.
The field to my
left opened up, and despite the fact I’d been down this road hundreds of times
in my life, I never noticed the lone chimney standing sentinel atop the hill.
Yeah, that’s
just a chimney. Except for some
contemporary telephone poles, that’s all that’s left of the building that stood
there.
Given the size
of the chimney, I’d say it was a two-story building, but that’s about all I can
surmise. Why would the owner of the
property keep a chimney up without developing anything else on the property? Except for a “No Trespassing” sign, there was
no indication of what the building was, its significance, or its fate. So there it is, quietly surviving the years
until some greater purpose plows it over or moves it offsite.
A house across
the street, likely home to a GPS and/or map lover, had a pillow sitting on the
wicker porch chair out front. On further
inspection, it gave the exact location of the pillow down to the arcseconds. Later, I determined that it was indeed
accurate. Now that’s something that
coordinates well with your house!
(mild laughter)
Just a little
farther, and there’s Blankenbaker!
Blankenbaker,
which isn’t far from where I work, is also where I go to church.
I passed by here
several months ago on my first Miles by Foot trek, and in the interest of time
and distance, I decided to play through in lieu of circumvention.
Southeast is a
big church; and the campus has only gotten bigger since it moved here at the
turn of the millennium. New buildings
and parking areas of sprung up. New
athletic facilities and fields have sprawled out. While a normal Sunday service can draw five
thousand or more, it was a ghost town early on a Saturday morning. There are honest-to-goodness roads that
course through the campus, with speed limits, stop signs, and yields to control
traffic, so it wouldn’t be a problem finding a path to cross the campus. The biggest building is the sanctuary, which
is fed by the atrium, where the majority of the congregation enters.
Again, this is a
church, not an airport or a sports
arena. This drop-off zone is big enough
to accommodate half a dozen school buses while allowing traffic to wiggle
around it. Traffic cops normally fill
this area, moving people along to allow more drop-offs. Today, though, it was silent.
The front doors,
staffed by either an affiliated volunteer group at the church or a reliable
body of willing church members, let in hundreds of people at a time to come
hear the pastor speak.
Yep. That’s one big church. The sanctuary inside has honest-to-goodness nosebleed seats. It’s five stories tall and seats somewhere on
the order of seven to eight thousand, if I recall correctly, and the two
adjacent fellowship halls can each set well over a thousand themselves in
overflow. Many church properties could
fit inside the sanctuary alone.
This building,
while built in the style of the surrounding structures, has gone up since I
came here as a high-school student. They
call it “The Block,” and it’s their youth center. I actually dig all the use of concrete; the
dead trees, while a bummer for some, highlight the lines of the poured
concrete. I’d been inside, and it is
pretty slick.
I have to be
honest. I don’t even remember what was
here before.
At a major
intersection past The Block, I casually crossed where a crossing guard usually
efficiently conducts automotive and pedestrian movement. Along the road out, and I emerged on the
other side.
I’d often walked
this far on my lunch, only to have to turn around and return before my thirty
minutes is up. Now, though, I have the
freedom to push on towards my goal.
Down Moser Road
I went, a familiar and constant road from my childhood. It straddles the line between two major East
End subdivisions, Douglas Hills and Plainview.
A creek runs alongside it, though few would know, given its recessed
nature and currently low levels. There’s
not much of a shoulder to speak of, but soon, a sidewalk appeared from the
grass.
Actual sidewalks
are more regular the closer you are to subdivsions, and downtown, they’re
everywhere. Soon, I’ll be at the point
where these two preferences meet.
Instead of going
through Plainview proper, a relatively droll stroll of different but somehow
indelibly related 1970s homes and standardized mailboxes, so I opted to skirt
the edge of the subdivision and walk the business-centered road of Linn
Station. On a Saturday, businesses are
particularly interesting because most of them are empty, so you get to see the
building more candidly.
These houses
were a bit older and, although I’m sure technically part of Plainview, were a
bit more unique. I mean, check out the
trees in front of that home on the right?
That’s, like, a 90-foot tree in someone’s front yard! Maybe the picture doesn’t do it justice, but
trust me, most of the trees I see in newer subdivisions are saplings at best.
So this struck
me as odd; since this water line had been put in, the sidewalk had been
poured. Since then, no one’s needed to
get in here. Or maybe they have but just
couldn’t get to it because of the concrete?
Maybe, any second, the sewer will erupt from back-up pressure, spewing
water and detritus about like a fountain?
Nah, they
probably just haven’t needed to. Still,
I think it’s funny that the city didn’t care.
Maybe they don’t know.
Abruptly, the
subdivision ended, and a stretch of office parks lined both sides of the road.
I considered the
owner of the truck. A security guard,
perhaps, or some poor lug dragged in on a Saturday to finish Friday's
work. Maybe he or she is making
overtime. One can hope.
NTS is the same
company that rents the properties near my work.
In fact, I'm pretty sure they technically still own the property I work
in. They're everywhere around here. It's kind of weird to think that one company
furnishes the space in which so many working lives begin and end. It's just the space, but I think about that a
lot.
This could be
one of two things. First, it could be a
starting line for a race. Who knows; if
Plainview or one of the local communities or businesses decided to have a 5K or
something like it, this seems as good a place as any to start. The fact there's a line above
"Start" suggests that might be the case. Alternatively, it could be a utility line,
suggesting this is where some wire or pipe starts. Either way, it's polite. "Start, sir."
You can see the
ResCare system from the highway, but I never realized how big it is. It's kind of isolated, too; I'm guessing when
they built it, they expected more buildings to pop up nearby. Now, though, it's a pretty isolated
thirteen-story building.
The style,
especially given the fixtures and concrete accenting, puts it after brutalism,
perhaps built in the 1980's. It couldn't
have been much earlier, because most of the industrial stuff I've found near
work and in the surrounding communities is, at the earliest, mid-70s. The structure is too little a part of the
aesthetic for me to think it's any earlier, as this, which I think our
generation considers "generic," originates from that time.
Timberwood
Circle is the central boulevard of Plainview, but I'm pretty sure that anymore,
you can't view any plains here.
Plainview is middle-class or slightly above, I'd say, with lots of
two-story homes and good-size yards.
When I was younger, I considered this to be good, but not great. Now that I'm paying my own rent and buying
groceries on sale, I consider this pretty darn classy.
So this is gonna
seem redundant because of all the subdivision stuff I've discussed, but this
apartment complex has a bizarre personal importance. During my senior year of high school, our Government
and Economics teacher, Mr. Whitworth, gave us a project called "Story of
My Life." Through independent
research, we were tasked with developing a plan for the next five years of our
life, whether that involved college, a job, moving out, or any combination of
these things, including the cost and logistical steps to achieve this
plan. Lots of people, even with our age
and life experience, predicted making sixty grand a year with a data entry job
and living in an honest-to-goodness house at twenty-two.
For me, I
predicted that I would be a waiter at the Hard Rock Café, which had just opened
downtown, and living in, you guessed it, Plainview Apartments. The price, amenities, and location were
convenient and well-balanced, as I was much more conservative with my income
estimates than my megalomaniac classmates.
Ten years later,
I've still never paid as much for rent as I predicted my first place would
cost. The first job I had out of college
was, funny enough, being a standardized test examiner. Even though I'll have a master's degree in
eight weeks, I barely make the minimum amount I had set out to as a
waiter.
But I didn't
know, and I'm kind of glad it didn't go the way I planned. I started dating my wife four months later, I
went to college and have held a job for five years that's not remotely related
to waiting tables. Things happened
differently, but regardless of what I planned, that's my life. Looking back ten years ago, as I'm sure I
considered then as well, I would
barely recognize myself now. And if you
haven't changed in a decade, think about it.
We're built for it.
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We're halfway
done, and I can't wait to show you the last two segments! Until then, keep going!
- Matt
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