Name and Title, Please.
Job titles are an interesting cultural phenomenon. For centuries, position titles have made it easy to identify the responsibilities of someone who works in an organization. Positions, specifications, and classifications are carefully adjusted with titles to ensure a smooth traffic flow and control over disruptive lane changes. How do we evolve as some professions fade to extinction while others emerge shapeless like caulk, germanely, magically filling unnoticeable cracks and crevices?
The Perfect Middle Child is Central Kentucky
As we study this commonwealth, what consistently strikes me is the good-natured, gracious, almost neighborly quest for progress and prosperity in a state with three distinct regions. It's like the weird family where all the siblings seem to get along, and you can't help but wonder why. And where central Kentucky is the perfect middle child in a family of odd parts and shady reputations.
Appalachia Part One: The Common Wealth of Kentucky Heads East.
Mayor Stapleton sat in a portable chair across from Kelly. She started her outline while he pointed overhead at a perfectly-timed bald eagle and said, "when people came here, they were looking for independence. Not necessarily independence from the government, but yes, not necessarily independence from religion, but yes. They just wanted to be independent, period. They wanted to be left alone wanted to do their thing. That gave them a strength that's second to none. At one time, right here on this point on the side of the mountain, there were cornfields so they could feed their crops and feed their families." Farming on the side of a mountain "that takes determination and ingenuity.
The Common Wealth of Kentucky Project is Born.
I woke up on a padded bench inside a metal van, my body stiff. Big Agnes, my sleeping pad, was deflated and crumbled on the floor next to an open bag of tortilla chips and empty plastic wine glasses. The rotary spew of coffee from the Keurig sounded like bliss. Kelly sat my cup on the edge of the narrow Formica counter, unzipped the door as quietly as she could, and stepped out to the gravel parking lot, Casey Jones Distillery. She set her mug on a moonshine barrel, stretched her arms to the clear blue sky, and groaned. Jill was in the back, curled up, still asleep after tripping over the exploded duffle bag on her early morning trip to the toilet. We were three middle-aged women traveling western Kentucky in a sprinter van, and this was day two of our “Common Wealth of Kentucky” tour.