A Dew and Two Beers

The view from the window for the last couple of weeks has been of tow-headed kids playing happily in the back yard.   Our daughter-in-law had gall bladder surgery last week and I have been filling in by picking up the boys after school, feeding them supper and then taking supper into town for the ailing mom.  This week I have had the two year old granddaughter all day, too, since her regular baby-sitter is out of town.  It's been a long time since I've been a full time mom and believe me, I'm too old for this!

To make it more fun, it's also tobacco cutting time.  My son and oldest grandson have been helping out friends on a reciprocal basis.  To cut down on labor costs, two or three farmers pitch in and help each other cut their tobacco, thus reducing the amount of labor by the additional hands.  The only thing required when it is your tobacco's turn is that you supply the drinks.  This means coolers iced down with plenty of water, Mt. Dews and beer.  Did I mention beer?

Cutting the tobacco involves working your way down the long rows of tobacco with an implement that looks a lot like a very skinny bladed hatchet, called a tomahawk.  You bend, cut the tobacco stalk, turn and spear it on a piece of wood that is about 1 inch square and four feet long.  Four or five plants will be speared onto one tobacco stick.  Then the sticks are hung in the barn across poles so the tobacco hangs straight down to dry or cure.

Even though my son's crop was severely damaged by the early spring rains, he does have some that will be harvested.  So this week, the guys all gathered at the farm to "bring in the crop".  The little boys were excited to get to go to the patch and listen to the big guys talk and gossip.  The days are hot and the water and dews go down mighty good.  As the day progresses, so do the beers.  It never ceases to amaze me that this crew doesn't maim themselves with the combination of beer and tomahawks, but they never do!  The men are unaffected by their drinks but the little boys return home buzzing with caffeine from the Mt. Dews.

A day or so after the tobacco cutting I looked out to see the little boys climbing the tulip poplar in the driveway with their little sister looking on.  As I watched the idyllic tableau I noticed the little girl take a drink from a green can.  I took off to see who had raided the garage fridge for soft drinks.  I called the little boys down from their tree and sternly lectured them.  "Who told you that you could have a soft drink?"  I questioned.  Heads down, they scuffed the dirt and mumbled, "No one."  "You know that you are supposed to ask before you get a drink.  I always give you something, but you have to ask first.  Besides you know that the Mt. Dew isn't good for your sister." I was in full swing, doing what my daughter calls "beating them to death with my lips".  She says that when I get in full swing I forget to quit. 

I was still going strong when I glanced down into the back of the toy ranger they had been hauling things around the yard in.  Sitting in the back among the boards, rocks, ropes, and toys were two shinning cans of beer.  I stopped in mid-tirade.  "And WHO'S BRIGHT IDEA was it to get the BEERS!!"  I shrieked. 

Without any hesitation, they both turned and pointed at each other and said, "HIS!!"

The good news -- they weren't opened.

Hands-On Hubby

Hubby was a man ahead of his time.  During a period when women were fighting for "equal rights" he was encouraging me to get my education and hunt a job.  The logic of two salaries instead of one was easy for him to figure out.  When I landed the job of County Extension Agent neither one of us knew that it would be a day and night job.  With a six month old child we both were thrown into the world of baby-sitters, feet first.  About the same time he managed to buy a rough, hillside farm out in the county.  It was a 20-30 minute drive, which he made after working all day running an office for a lending agency for farmers.  Soon we were running baby-sitters in shifts as he went to the farm and I went to night meetings. 

To keep from breaking the budget and in spite of careful scheduling, we sometimes would wind up with one or later two children in tow.  Since cows are a little more understanding of a child's disturbances, hubby would often head out to the farm with the kids.  He has always been a hands-on dad and a totally focused businessman which has caused more than one chuckle and astonished expression on those he would meet.  He once had stopped on the way home to call on a client about a loan.  They were deep into conversation when the baby demanded a diaper change in no uncertain terms.  Without missing a beat he whipped a diaper out of the pocket of the truck door, spread the baby out on the hood of the truck and proceeded to "take care of business" with both farmer and baby.  The farmer laughed later that he wrapped up both the baby and the loan in record time.

Remember, this was 40 years ago when daddies didn't do much child care.

One of his favorite stories concerns a trip home after a fun afternoon at the farm for all concerned.  Our son had been dropped off at a neighboring farm to play with their little boy and he had taken our daughter on to "help" him.  After a happy afternoon of following daddy around and playing in the tobacco patch, creek, mud holes, and finishing off with a spell in the fine dirt of the barn floor, she looked a lot more like a small pig than a little girl.  A situation that was pretty common after a visit to the farm.  For that reason we always dressed the kids in "farm clothes".  These were cheap, usually dark colored, and totally replaceable if they were destroyed.  We were old friends with dirt.

On the way home they stopped at the neighboring farm to collect our son.  The farm wife approached the truck to say hello and stopped dead in her tracks when she saw this filthy, totally happy, little girl sitting in the seat.  "Oh, my goodness!" she yodeled in shock.  "What happened?"  Hubby looked back at the truck in confusion.  "Nothing.  She's just been playing."  Before he had the words out, the farm wife had grabbed the dirt covered little girl and started for the house.  "You can't take her home like THIS!  What would your wife say?  I KNOW she would be HORRIFIED!"  (You see, most people never saw me except dressed for work in a suit and heels.  They didn't often see me covered in mud-or worse-after working cattle with hubby. So I guess they thought that I never got dirty and would be offended by it!)  In nothing flat the child was in the tub being vigorously scrubbed.  The wife soon returned  the bemused child, wearing her older daughter's underpants, which covered her from chest to knees and were held up by safety pins.  Her muddy farm clothes had been rinsed out and carefully wrapped in a grocery bag.

Hubby politely took both child and offending clothes, loaded everyone in the truck and laughed all the way back to town.

He's a rare treasure.

The Wedding Bouquet

My daughter's wedding anniversary has just passed and that always brings back memories of that hectic, joyous time.  It was another August, much like this one, when everything was lush and green.  We had spent hours grooming the yard (in fact the whole farm) for the upcoming festivities.  For once everyone pitched in to help with the yard work.  Sometimes it looked more like a party than work but everything seemed to get done.

My daughter was home to make plans and decisions for the upcoming wedding and had pitched in to help with some pruning and weeding.  As we worked around the yard she mused on the trouble she was having deciding what to use in her wedding bouquet.  She had spent the afternoon at the florist looking at books of designs but none of them suited her.  "They are either too formal and stiff or they are so stylishly simple they are silly.  The ornate ones are too fussy for me and the simple, single flower ones are too minimalistic.  I just want something that is simple, but homey too."  She gathered up a pile of weeds from under the hydrangea bush in the side yard.  She sniffed the big white bloom head and sighed, "When I think of home it's the things like this big old bush that come to mind." 

She looked around the yard.  "I love this yard.  It's so shady and full of stuff, yet it all looks like it belongs.  Like the yard and the house somehow grew here together.  It's pretty,  but it also is comfortable, like a warm hug."  I smiled to myself.  The yard blooming with roses, lilies, and hydrangeas in the summer and Iris, roses and day lilies in the spring was a feat of low maintenance beds and hardy perennials interspersed this summer, especially, with lots of bright annuals.  She had put her finger on the exact effect I had worked for--that it looked like it belonged to the farmhouse it framed. 

She gathered up the clippings and carried them to the edge of the hayfield that surrounds the front of the yard.  "Look!"  she laughed, "even the field is pretty!"  She pointed to the gently nodding, delicate blooms of the Queen Ann's Lace dotting the hay field.  Suddenly she turned and spread her arms wide.  "That's the answer.  I want this farm in my bouquet.  I want it filled with the flowers of my childhood and my home.  Roses, Queen Ann's Lace, and hydrangea blooms--that's what I want!"

Fortunately, the florist was a country girl and willing to try anything.  She planned and designed and added a few lilies and a little lily of the valley ("Oh, that's what grew around Grandma's steps." daughter remembered).  The day before the wedding the florist was literally picking flowers from the yard and road-side (Hubby had mowed the front field to manicure the farm for company so she had to broaden her area.) searching out the perfect blooms to make the "memory bouquet".

The day of the wedding the flowers were unveiled.  With a tear in her eye, the bride touched each flower...this is for my home, this one for the farm, and this one for family.  "It's perfect," she breathed.  And it was.

Unfortunately, it also weighed as much as a five gallon bucket of feed.

Thank goodness her farm girl muscles were up to the challenge of carrying it around.

Fried Green Tomatoes

There comes a time when even the most die hard tomato enthusiast has lost their craving for the luscious, red globes adorning the tomato vines in the garden.  When that time comes I sneak out into the garden in the quiet of the evening and pluck a few of the glorious, green, unripe globes for my own craving.  Fried Green Tomatoes.

For years they were a quiet, secret delicacy enjoyed by southern gardeners.  They were a dish dreamed up to use the abundance of tomatoes when the needs of canning and bacon and tomato sandwiches had been met.  Thrifty gardeners then applied their thoughts to other ways to serve up this garden staple.  It was inevitable--after all southerners will fry anything--that someone would try frying up these sour, unripe fruits (vegetables?).  Thus a Southern tradition was born.

The movie "Fried Green Tomatoes" unleashed this treat onto the world.  I doubt that many of the movie-goers had ever eaten or even dreamed of eating such a thing until they appeared on the menu of the depression era, now infamous, barbecue joint the Whistle Stop Cafe.  While the barbecue served at the cafe was questionable the fried green tomatoes became a fad for thousands of movie fans.  It wasn't long before you began seeing them pop up on upscale restaurant's menus, mostly under the appetizers.  Some of them are actually good, but mostly they try to get too fancy.  Fried green tomatoes are down home, simple cooking a its best.

I remember that my mother loved this treat.  She would rescue a perfectly, round green tomato before my dad could decree that it would be allowed to ripen into a perfect "sandwich" tomato.  She would then slice it into neat slices and dredge each slice in corn meal seasoned with salt and pepper.  The mealy slices would then be dropped into sizzling hot bacon grease.  A few minutes to brown on one side and then it would be flipped over to continue browning on the other side.  The resulting crispy, golden brown slices were then placed  on her plate to be enjoyed.  No dipping sauces, no spicy glaze, no additional seasonings--just delicate, slightly sour and delicious. 

Mother ate them as a vegetable for dinner.  My dad liked them with his breakfast, which consisted of fried bacon, fried eggs, fried potatoes, fried tomatoes, and toast with lots of butter. ( His cholesterol at 80 years old was somewhere in the 90's.  Good genes are better than healthy eating!)  No matter when you eat them they are a tasteful reminder of summer's waning and fall's imminence.

I just happen to have the perfect one in sight for supper tonight.

You Can't Take it Back

I recently had a conversation with a soon to be new grandma.  She was a little concerned that ,while her daughter was eagerly awaiting the birth of her child, she was a little too laid back about the upcoming event.  To encouragements to take part in a few of the many preparation for childbirth classes she responded that the nurses would know all about it and would tell her what to do.  Grandma-to-be was a little worried.  I assured her that nature was a good teacher and she would soon pick up the needed skills. 

After all, my son survived.

I don't think there were ever two parents any less prepared to bring home a baby than we were.  Excited, delighted, and tickled pink, but not too prepared.  I had grown up the middle of a family that didn't provide any babies to practice on.  I worked in my dad's store instead of baby-sitting like most of my friends, and had never been exposed to babies other than briefly when they were held safely by their mothers.  The presentation of my wrinkled, squirming little bundle of job filled me with terror!  I had no idea how to deal with this demanding and loud little person.  I literally asked the nurse (a friend from our neighborhood) to dress him before we left the hospital.

We arrived home to the carefully prepared nursery, lovingly painted and decorated, and stocked with 6 sleepers, 3 receiving blankets, 6 t-shirts, and one package of  the newly developed pampers. (no old cloth diapers for us!)  The baby promptly welcomed us home by producing a large bowel movement that reduced his lovely "going home" outfit to green mush.  Fortunately, (for him) our neighbor from across the street had arrived to welcome us home and proceeded to show us how to change a diaper. 

By six o'clock our sweet bundle of joy had been crying for what seemed like hours and hours.  Thanks to our inefficiency and the defects in the design of the early pampers (no elastic at the legs!) everything that went into the diaper wound up all down the legs of the little sleepers. Hubby and I were reduced to walking wounded trying to figure out how to soothe our newborn and what to do next.  We had used all his outfits and were taking turns walking the baby, who was now dressed in his last t-shirt, one of the few remaining diapers and a small afghan (the receiving blankets were history, too.  No one told us what aim little boys had when changing them.)  We were burping on an old t-shirt of Hubby's (we never thought about a few cloth diapers for burpers), and looking pretty pitiful when the back door opened and a friend (with 3 children of her own) walked in with a casserole for supper.  She took one look at us and demanded, "Give me that baby!!" 

With relief we turned him over to more capable hands.  In just minutes the screaming baby gave a few hiccups and thankfully shuddered to silence.  I looked up from my seat at the kitchen table, dazed with exhaustion and terror, and mumbled, "It's just like buying something one sale!  YOU CAN'T TAKE IT BACK!!" 

With sympathy and a lurking giggle, the neighbor took over and in a short while had organized the neighborhood to our rescue.  Soon friends were arriving with left-over baby clothes (one even taking them off her daughter's dolls where they had been recycled into doll clothes.), blankets, and diapers.  Best of all they brought advice and comfort to the distraught parents.  In a short time we had clean clothes in the dryer, dinner on the table and the baby down for a nap.

Our son did survive our ineptness.  We did learn how to be parents.  Probably no class is as effective as the reality of dealing with an infant.

Our son, contrary to the belief that nursing babies never have colic, cried for 6 months. 

It probably was sheer terror at being at the mercy of parents whom he felt were likely to kill him in their ignorance!

Corn Time

Yesterday was garden corn time on the farm.  It's a day I look forward to and dread at the same time.  Sort of like childbirth--hard work and misery but the results are worth the effort.  The problem with corn is that you have it for one day.  Every ear is ready at once and must be picked, shucked, silked, blanched, chilled, scraped from the cob and frozen for the coming winter.  Each year we make great plans to stagger the planting so we'll have a little now and later through the summer.  Somehow it never happens.  One year we planted two plantings, two weeks apart.  I swear every ear was ready on the same day.  This year we were aiming for a month apart, but it rained so much we never got it done. So, as usual, my whole corn crop was ready on one day.

Our garden has been pitiful this year.  The countryside is lush and green instead of the brown and dry of a typical August, but my garden is sad.  Two rows of beans just flat drowned the week we had five inches of rain.  The tomatoes got a blight and the eggplant never made anything bigger than a nubbin.  The only thing that has thrived is the cucumbers and they have been prodigious, producing in numbers and sizes that are staggering.  The corn has done well, we just don't have much of it.  The good news is that picking at 80 degrees is a lot more fun than picking at 100 degrees, which is what we usually have.

I drug the grandsons out of the house with promises of ice cream later and we trooped to the garden.  Armed with feed sacks we attacked the corn rows.  In a short time we had filled our sacks and were sitting under the old Maple tree in the cool shade.  Everyone grabbed a chair and we piled the corn in the middle and began pulling the shucks off.   This is my favorite time.  The quiet, repetitious movements leave lots of time and brain power for "yarns".  The boys chatted about this and that before asking, "Did daddy have to do this too?"  My mind flew back to the early years on the farm when growing a garden meant cheap food through the winter with hungry kids to feed.  The garden was bigger then and I did a lot more canning and freezing than I do now.

"Yes," I replied, "They helped with everything, whether they wanted to or not!  I particularly remember one summer when Papa had had a surplus of fertilizer from another project and decided to apply it to the garden.  It  was  move that should have killed the whole garden but the garden gods were kind (or cruel, however you want to look at it) and instead everything just took off and grew like crazy.  It was one of the years we had planted a lot of corn and, of course, it all came in on one day.  That summer one of my son's friends had become a second son and just about moved in with us.  Spying the three kids going to the barn I quickly corralled them and issued orders to help with the picking.  Gathering up their feed sacks they marched reluctantly into the rows of corn forming tunnels of verdant green."

"All through the hot morning we picked corn, filling our sacks and dumping them under the old Maple tree, about where we sit right now.  The pile of corn grew and grew and still we were finding ears to pull.  Finally, the last ear was found and we gathered around to begin shucking the corn.  The kids stared at  the pile in awe.  They literally had picked a mountain of corn, piled up in a heap taller than the tallest kid.  We were all a little taken back by the sheer size of our task, but with only a little grousing they began to shuck.  Much later,when they finally had finished the corn and reduced the mountain to stacks of yellow goodness, they trooped off to hide in the barn while I proceeded to finish the job of blanching, chilling, scraping and freezing.  On that day I froze 75 pints of corn--my all time record for one day. "

"The little friend announced at supper that night that he thought he would go home for a while.  At least until after frost."

Now grown with children, still wants to know if the corn is ready before he will come visit.

Crawley, The Crawdad

I took the grandsons to Cumberland Falls State Park last week for our annual (or semi-annual) State Park trip.  We arrived on a beautiful afternoon that felt a lot like fall, with temperatures in the upper 70's.  We were way early for check-in but the helpful girl at the front desk located a cabin that was ready and allowed us to check in early.  After dumping our stuff in the compact, brown cabin we headed out to see the falls.  Surprisingly, I don't remember ever visiting this park as a child of park visiting parents.  It's possible I did but kid-like just don't remember.  So I was a little unprepared for the overwhelming experience of seeing the Falls themselves. 

The Cumberland River tumbles down the steep gorge, full from all the recent rains.  The broad expanse looks serene as the sun sparkles off he little riffs and white ripples of the green water as it moves toward the drop-off.  We first walked down to the shore above the falls, which is mostly limestone rock that has been worn smooth over time.  The kids soon tired of wandering along the rocks and we moved on down to the overlook area.  We could hear the falls thundering and see a mist rising above the river but it wasn't until we reached the edge of the overlook that we could see the falls themselves.  The river rushes into a drop of 65 feet, literally pouring thousands of gallons of water a second in a cascade that can reach 300 feet across at flood stage.  The curving expanse of water is breathtaking.  Even for a five and seven year old.

After several seconds of amazement (about as long as the little boys could take without climbing on something) we decided to take the trail down to the lower look-out.  The well traveled trail led to a lower over-look that let us view the expanse of water from about the middle level.  We then continued on the trail to the area below the Falls.  Here the river spreads to a fast moving but deceptively placid looking body of water.  We exited the trail onto a smooth rock, sand and mud beach that had obviously been created by surging overflow from the river.  Several downed trees had been left, providing seating for watching the river and the children enjoying the space.  A constant flow of visitors provided ample people watching while the little boys dug in the sand and happily got filthy.

We finally moved to go back up to the visitor's center driven by thirst and a need for a potty break.  Not ready to leave yet the little boys wanted to go back to the rock area above the falls.  There they spent their time exploring the various spots where water had collected in dips in the rocky ledge along the shore.  Soon I was called to watch as they discovered the various puddles were home to dozens of crawdads, mudbugs to some, or crayfish if you like.  It wasn't long until the seven year old had captured a lovely, big crawdad, who looked around in surprise at viewing the world from such a lofty height.  He rinsed out his cup from our slushy earlier, and filling it with river water placed his new friend inside.  Capping the cup with the lid, he continued his exploration with his friend, Crawley, carefully carried along.

When we left for the truck, nothing would do but for Crawley to come along.  Now I know some of you are starting to think about cruelty and environmental issues and maybe even the legal issues of removing a creature from a State Park.  You are right, but he's seven and logic and demands are met with determination and frustration.  Also, I know from experience that crawdads are resilient, adaptable and tough.  So, Crawley came along.  Did you know that crawdads can actually live for quite a while out of water?  The kids and I once spotted one trudging across the back field heading for the creek.  How he got there we have no clue--dropped by a predator, moving to a new location, who knows, but there he was, seemingly unperturbed by a stroll through a cow pasture.  So I wasn't too concerned about his ability to survive for a while in a cup of water. 

For the next two days, Crawley was our constant companion.  He slept (?) on the bedside table, watched t.v. from the living room table, went to craft classes and supervised the painting of a wooden snake, and rode in the truck as we moved around the park.  I thought we might lose him when the five year old decided he needed clean water and dumped him in the bathroom sink and refilled his cup with tap water.  I figured the tap water chemicals would do him in by morning, but he greeted us with feelers waving the next day.  (We did make a trip to the river to refill his cup with river water.)

The morning arrived to leave and I began to wonder if I could make a two hour trip with a crawdad without them dumping him out in Hubby's new truck--which was already suffering from feet returning from trails and muddy pursuits.  Sitting down with the boys I wondered how to reach a small boy with logic.  "You know, Crawley has had a pretty amazing experience."  I started.  "He has gotten to go to craft class, visit a cabin, see a playground, and make new friends.  However, he is probably missing his brothers and sisters and wishing he could tell them all about his adventure."  Blue eyes looked at he seriously, "But I'm going to take him home and put him in the creek at the farm.  There are lots of crawdads there for him to be with." (Hmmm.  Now what?) ."Well, but they won't be his family.  How would you feel if we stopped on the corner in Somerset and just dropped you off by the street.  There are lots of people there, would you feel right at home?"  He thought about this for a few minutes and the steady gaze began to waver.  Rushing in for the coups de grace I hurried on, "Just think.  He has had a grand adventure and he must really want to tell everyone at home about it.  Just like you want to tell your parents and sister about your trip!"  Finally, his face lit up and he agreed, "OK, let's take him to his home!"

So in a drizzly rain we trooped back to the river one last time and placed Crawley in the same hole of water to tell his friends all about his grand adventure!

(We also spent a couple of hours the next day scrubbing all the evidence of our great adventure out of Hubby's truck!)

Kentucky's Fabulous State Parks

School starts next week for the grandchildren, so it was time for our trip to a State Park.  My father was a huge supporter of the State Park system, taking us to the parks and teaching us about our natural resources while we had fun.  I am trying to do the same with the grandkids.

Kentucky is blessed to have one of the finest state park systems in the United States.  It is often under appreciated by those who live closest to these wonderlands.  The state parks have over 50,000 acres of land ranging from the Appalachian mountains in the East to the Mississippi shores in the West.  Each year over 7 million people visit these parks to enjoy a variety of activities from mountain hikes, boating, canoeing, white water rafting, horseback riding, nature trails, cave exploration, and just relaxing.  You can visit State Historic sites such as the Perryville Battlefield (most destructive Civil War battle in Kentucky), Big Bone Lick(an early salt lick and the site of a large prehistoric fossil discovery in 1807), Lincoln's Birthplace, My Old Kentucky Home (home of the outdoor drama "The Stephen Foster Story") or the William Whitley House (first brick house west of the Appalachians and in my home county).  If you are adventurous you can explore one of the 24 recreational parks that feature outdoor camping facilities and various activities,from fishing and picnicking to hiking and swimming.  Or if you are like me and prefer your experience a little more comfortable, you can stay in one of the 17 State Resort parks that have full lodges (with dining rooms) as well as comfortable cabins with full kitchens.

The system, which was started in the 1920's, was designed to be economical on all levels.  The lands acquired were all donated or gifted to be used as part of the State Park system.  Many of the facilities and improvements were made during the period of 1930's with Civilian Conservation Corps (CCC) and the Works Progress Administration (WPA).  They were never intended to be luxurious escapes for the wealthy but rather an economical recreational area for the normal, everyday citizens of the state.  The lodges are rustic, the cabins basic and the settings breathtaking!  What they lack in the high dollar amenities (don't expect an in  room massage or a fancy health club) they more than make up for with balconies that look out into the side of a forest covered mountain, crystal blue lakes surrounded by virgin timberland, well maintained hiking trails through hundred year old woods with stunning vistas of natural beauty, and some of the most spectacular natural phenomenon in the world.  You can see natural rock arches (bridges), spectacular caves, towering mountains, thundering waterfalls and abundant wildlife. Besides the natural beauty the resort parks also feature swimming pools, tennis courts and golf .  The best thing may be the charming and enthusiastic employees who seem so eager to answer your questions and assist in any way.  Each park also has a naturalist that will present programs and information on the local area wildlife and landscape.

Did I mention golf?  I don't play myself but we travel with others that do and if you can trust their word, the courses are great!  There are dozens of courses snuggled into mountain valleys, hugging rugged hillsides, overlooking sparkling lakes, and rolling over the bluegrass.  Many were designed by world class course designers and represent a challenging and visually stunning game. 

If you prefer water sports to hiking or golf you can enjoy one of the many lakes that were created for watershed and flooding control.  From east to west you will  find parks like General Butler, Kentucky Dam Village, General Burnside Island, Barren River, Green River, Lake Barkley, Rough River and many others that feature facilities for launching your boat, docks, beaches, campsites, resorts, trails, and picnic areas.  On a recent trip to Kentucky Dam Village State Park we found ourselves in a modern, tastefully decorated room with a balcony overlooking a sparkling marina of beautiful sailboats. We sat until evening watching the lovely boats tack their way into the harbor, then wandered into the dining room and sat next to a 10 foot wall of glass and watched the sun set over the lake.

No, I don't get a commission from the State Park System.

Don't take my word for these treasures--come and visit them.

For more information www.parks.ky.gov