Coast-to-Coast Kentuckians

I was 19 years old, and Brockman and I were on a trip up and down the East Coast from Weehawken, N.J. to Daytona Beach, Fla. While checking out a girls softball game in North Charleston, S.C., an older fella, probably about the age I am now, asked us where we were from.

“Kentucky,” I said proudly.

“Kentucky,” he said. “That’s a great place to be from—as far away from as you can get.

I took umbrage. I took offense.

Looking back now some three decades later, I can see that being far away from any place for some period of time is a good thing. Yes, he meant it as an insult, but from my now-more-mature perspective, I’ll simply say, “Thank you, you gruffy old coot.”

In the past 30 days I’ve found myself in Stockbridge, Mass.—849 miles northeast of my home—and Sacramento, Calif., which is 2,280 miles west—just about as far away as you can get without getting wet.

In both instances my wardrobe easily identified me as a Kentuckian, and I was amazed at how quickly others of my ilk stepped forward and welcomed me.

For years I have played a little game, which I’ve mentioned before, in which I’ve tried to find a Kentucky connection wherever I have gone. I’ve done so successfully everywhere I’ve been, from Tortola in the British Virgin Islands to the narrow streets of London.

In Stockbridge my quest took me to the Norman Rockwell Museum, where I quickly found a Saturday Evening Post cover of three-time Kentucky Derby-winning jockey Eddie Arcaro, who lived most of his life in Kenton County.

My tour guide, amazed with my quest, quickly piped up, “Kentucky. My sister lives in a little town called Hebron—heard of it?”

“Heard of it?” I said. “I used to go to church there. I have friends and even cousins there.”

Quickly my guide and I were family, and she asked if I’d like to see Rockwell’s private studio, a stop not on the everyday tour, but something special for kin such as myself.

studio, a stop not on the everyday tour, but something special for kin such as myself. To my amazement as we stepped into the studio, which even after being moved to its present location is pretty much as he left it when he died in 1978, my eyes were quickly drawn to a certificate just inside the door. It was Rockwell’s Kentucky Colonel certificate, signed by Gov. Wendell Ford. Mission accomplished.

In Sacramento—which, if you do the math, is nearly three times farther away—I quickly found Joan Osborne’s guitar—she’s from Louisville—at the Hard Rock Café. “Well, there you go,” I thought.

Back at the Hyatt, where I was attending a convention, I met in quick succession Martha Jones from Phoenix, a loyal reader of Kentucky Monthly and a proud member of the Honorable Order of Kentucky Colonels, and David Warren, a college professor and Catholic priest from Paducah. “You can’t pooh-pooh Paducah,” I started to say.

“You certainly can’t,” said Warren.

Before I had more than turned around I met Jeff Goodwin, a Lexington native who works as an attorney in Sacramento. His daughter is a student at the University of Kentucky, and despite a 30-year absence, he and his wife still dream of moving back to the Bluegrass.

“I don’t tell too many people how great Kentucky actually is because I don’t want them all moving there,” Goodwin said. “There’s no better place on earth than Kentucky.”

“Kentucky?” said another passing attendee. “My daughter lives in Bowling Green. It’s absolutely great.”

“Did you say Bowling Green?” said another. “My grandchildren live in Bowling Green—Kentucky, right?”

Later in the day I relayed this exchange to Larry Perkins, who, from his nametag, I knew was from northeast Ohio. “Isn’t that something?” I said. “Who would have thought so many people would be here from Kentucky?”

“I was born in Floyd County and grew up in Knott County, not far from Vest,” Perkins said, pointing to my last name. “Vest had some simply outstanding fishing spots when I was growing up. You could catch trout longer than my arm.”

Simply amazing, I thought. Not that you could catch big fish, but how dispersed Kentucky’s population actually is and how drawn the expatriates are to the land of their birth.

“I graduated from Morehead State, and I certainly consider myself a Kentuckian,” Perkins said.

Still shaking my head, I boarded a chartered bus for a tour of the wine country near Lodi, Calif. The only open seat was next to a friendly-looking man from Jacksonville, Fla., named Lindsey Brock.

“I see you’re from Kentucky,” he said.

“Yes,” I said. “Frankfort.”

“I’m from Berea,” he said. “My wife’s from Irvine—heard of it?”

“Heard of it? Certainly,” I said.

During the 45-minute trip I learned that Brock had graduated from Eastern Kentucky University, served in the military and had a 33-year career as a railroad executive, originally with the L&N Railroad, which took him to Jacksonville.

As we exited the bus at Woodbridge, a Robert Mondavi winery in the heart of the San Joaquin Valley, we were directed toward the gift shop to begin our tour.

As we walked I told Brock, “You wouldn’t believe how many Kentuckians I’ve met on this trip. They’re literally everywhere.”

I couldn’t help but think back to the gruffy old coot at the softball game and how absolutely correct he was. Kentucky is a great place to be from—as far away as you wish. Why? Because I don’t think you can be so far away from anywhere else and find yourself right at home.

As Brock and I reached the entrance, I held the door for a middle-aged man and his elderly father.

“Thank you,” said the younger man.

“Thank you,” said the older man, who, as he passed, stopped. He reached out and shook my hand. Looking me in the eye, in a thick Italian-American accent, he said, “Kentucky. I live just off Tates Creek Road—heard of it?”

Readers may contact Stephen M. Vest at steve@kentuckymonthly.com