The Pilgrim rose early, showered, dressed, and shaved – which, except for the dressing part, was unusual because it was Saturday. And more than just Saturday, it was the other Saturday, as in “every-other-Saturday” – the weekend that his wife worked. Those Saturdays were almost always reserved for, if nothing else, sleeping late. But rise he did, and after folding the Rand-McNally United States atlas (that had been serendipitously left out after spring cleaning the week before) over to a map of Tennessee and Kentucky, he filled the thermos with fresh coffee, grabbed some Ritz crackers and went out to start the truck.
Traveling down this lonesome highway
Thinking of my love who’s gone
Knowing soon we’ll be together
She’s the only love I’ve known
It’s mighty dark for me to travel
For my sweetheart she is gone
The road is rough and filled with gravel
But I must journey on alone
The sun had been up for about thirty minutes, but there was moisture in the air – rain and cold were forecast for the day. The clouds cleared some as he warmed up the Dodge, and he thought to take an inventory. Thermos of hot coffee behind the seat, check; a cup full in the right cup holder, check; sunglasses, uh, yep, a look in the rear view mirror confirmed that they were perched on the top of his head, although he’d be surprised if he needed them today. Cigarettes, whoops, two left – a stop at the gas station would correct that. Hm. Fuel and an oil check might not be a bad idea either. What else? Rain poncho, a little lunch cash, bluegrass music in the CD player… all set. If nothing else, he thought, he’d certainly enjoy the drive. He picked up some chocolate milk and smokes at the Texaco, filled the truck with gas, and headed north. The dashboard clock said 7:15, and he noted that if his calculations were right, he would be in Rosine just in time for breakfast. Rosine, Kentucky – the destination and purpose of this pilgrimage – was the birthplace of William Monroe, “The Father of Bluegrass Music”. Bill is also buried in Rosine, and the previous year, newspapers had reported that town fathers were planning to erect a heck of a monument near his grave, but the story never had a follow-up. The Pilgrim wanted to find the monument and the gravesite and see if, when standing where Bill Monroe’s boots had walked, he could sense the presence of greatness.
Well, it was on one moonlight night
Stars shining bright, Whispered on high
My love said good-bye
Blue moon of Kentucky, keep on shinin’
Shine on the one that’s gone and proved untrue
Blue moon of Kentucky, keep on shinin’
Shine on the one that’s gone and left you blue
The Pilgrim had roots in Kentucky too, though as far as he knew no monuments larger than headstones had ever been raised for his family. A search of hillside cemeteries in eastern Kentucky would turn up plenty of ancestors, their names and dates chiseled in stone. His grandfather’s stone had been placed not too many years before, and he had been there for the funeral. Pa was a coal miner who had reluctantly made his way to Michigan to work for the auto industry when times got hard, but when he retired he and Ma finally gave in to the pull of the Appalachians and moved back to the foothills, where he spent his last years. Maybe this explained the draw that the Pilgrim constantly felt for mountainous, rural areas – and why he decided to make the pilgrimage to Rosine.
When I left old Kentucky
Linda kissed me and she cried
I told her that I would not linger
I’d be back by and by
I’m a-goin’ back to old Kentucky
There to meet my Linda Lou
I’m goin’ back to old Kentucky
Where the skies are always blue
The Pilgrim made good time, though the clouds had come back in force and it was dreary weather. Spatters of rain began to fall as he neared the Kentucky border, but were soon left behind in Tennessee. Somewhere around Bowling Green, he checked the atlas, exited I-65 and turned onto the William H. Natcher Parkway, heading towards Owensboro. A toll road, as it turned out, but otherwise quite uneventful. The crows and the buzzards were having a good eating day, what with the possums, raccoons, rabbits, and other dead critters along the roadside. After splitting 90 cents between two toll stops, and smiling and waving at the grumpy worker in the non-exact change lane (she wasn’t getting much business), he stopped at a tourist information site in the median of the parkway. A helpful woman wearing a maroon apron handed him pamphlets on Ohio County (Rosine, Beaver Dam, and Hartford), antiques, and Kentucky music events. She asked, “You know how to get to Rosine, then?” He said yes’m, he sure did, thanked her for her assistance, used the restroom, and got back on the road. The wind had started to blow a little colder, and the foliage was grey. He rubbed his hands together while the truck warmed back up. Spring had officially arrived two days before, but Mother Nature had apparently forgotten to tell western Kentucky.
He exited the Parkway at the town of Beaver Dam. Five miles later he turned off of Main Street, and followed the signs toward Rosine. He imagined a little coffee shop or café in the heart of town, where he would eat home-cooked vittles, meet some locals and spend an hour or two listening to stories of the Monroe boys and their exploits. Maybe he’d hear about the time brother Charlie went north to Ashland to find work in the coal refineries, or the barn dances that Bill and Uncle Pen used to play.
Oh, people would come from far away and dance all night ‘til the break of day
The caller would holler “Do-Si-Do” and you knew Uncle Pen was ready to go
Late in the evening, about sundown high on the hill above the town
Uncle Pen played the fiddle, Lord, how it’d ring you could hear it talk, you could hear it sing
Twenty minutes east of Beaver Dam, however, he sneezed and opened his eyes just in time to see the “Thank you for visiting Rosine!” sign. There’s not actually a “See ya” sign, but there are two “Welcome” signs, one at each end of town, about 300 yards apart: “Welcome to Rosine, The Home of Blue Grass Music.” It seemed to be very a small town, with a general store, a community playground, railroad tracks, and more churches than cars. A weathered sign on the barn next to the general store/post office/barbershop promised a bluegrass jamboree every Friday night. There were some trucks in the gravel parking lot at the store when he went by the first time, but they were gone by the time he had turned around and pulled up to the weathered front stoop. Just as well; he hadn’t realized how small Rosine was – the locals probably weren’t as keen on tourists as he had originally thought. A little nervous, he mounted the steps and turned the handle on the old wooden door. He heard the bells jingle, signaling his entrance as he stepped inside, and he felt immediately home.
As I go down to that river Jordan, just to bathe my weary soul
If I could touch just the hem of His garment, I believe that it would make me whole
I am a pilgrim and a stranger, traveling through this wearisome land
And I’ve got a home in that yonder city, good Lord, and it’s not made by hand
The store was much more than it appeared from the outside. The first thing he noticed was the hardwood floor that had seen some use and was desperately in need of refinishing. To his left along the wall stood three bottled-drink coolers, and a row of shelving that ran half the length of the long room, displaying bread and spaghetti sauce and barbecue supplies. The shelves were mirrored by more racks in the center of the room with cookies and canned goods. Along the right wall were the cash register and various sundries. Immediately to his right was an entry way into a faded blue room that had a couple of tables with plastic flowered tablecloths. As he walked through the store looking at the dry goods (what are wet goods, anyway?) he noted a sign promising “Air Conditioned Eating” and a menu above the cash register – they apparently served lunch: ham sandwich, chicken salad sandwich, turkey sandwich, $2.75, chips 50c, all sandwiches served with pickle, etc. Halfway into the building, the room opened up. A few more tables with mismatched tablecloths, every one with a glass ashtray, and in the back, INSTRUMENTS! A stand-up bass lying on the floor on its side – he could see the grooves in the fingerboard from years of use; a shiny chrome banjo in a stand on top of a glass case containing strings and picks and other gear; a rack with a brand new Kentucky mandolin, a dobro, and three or four guitars of various makes and vintages. There were other signs that this place was “home” to more than just a few folks. The traffic picked up and dropped off while the Pilgrim stood looking, remembering other general stores in other towns, some still in use. The owner, a fellow everyone called George, greeted the regulars from a table in the center of the room.
The Pilgrim approached the only employee in the store, an older woman that, at 9:15 am, appeared as if she had already worked a full day, and asked if they served breakfast. George had called her Doris. “Why sure,” she said, “step around the corner. The breakfast menu’s on the wall.”
And sure enough, it was. A small counter separated the tables from the cooking area. The tables were set with picnic-ware in plastic wrappers and plastic salt and pepper shakers. More glass ashtrays. If nothing else, he thought, he could have a smoke in a warm place. And it appeared as if he’d found breakfast. Doris, it turned out, was also the waitress and cook. She was dressed in blue jeans and a flannel blouse, but put on an apron and politely asked, “What’ll you have?” The Pilgrim asked for two eggs, two slices of bacon, and after a pause, added the biscuits and gravy breakfast. Over medium. “Do you want coffee with that?” she asked. The coffee smelled fresh and he said yes. He noticed she was already pouring. “Refills on coffee are free, Hon.” He started wondering if she was a mind-reader, when there was another question, this time hesitant. “Did, uh… did you want one biscuit or two with your gravy?” He smiled and suggested that he probably looked like a two biscuits and gravy kind of guy – and then she smiled, too. “Yep, you do look like a two biscuits and gravy kind of guy.” They both laughed.
He went out to the truck to get his cigarettes and noticed that the wind had stopped blowing. By the time he got back to the table the coffee was the perfect temperature. Between the eggs, biscuits, coffee refills, and other customers, Doris told the Pilgrim about the Memorial Day weekend festival when the town celebrates Bill’s birthday, and suggested that he come to the next one. They talked about the musicians that perform at the event, and she proudly noted that tourists come from all over the country and across the Pacific, Australia even. She pointed out the church where Bill Monroe’s funeral was held. “The cemetery is just down this street,” she said, pointing north, “and the monument is very nice. In fact, Mr. Monroe’s relatives are also buried there, and you can look around at the headstones to find them. His uncle Pendelton Vandiver’s isn’t located near the rest, on account of his passing so long before, but you can find it if you look for the fiddle on the marker.” Uncle Pen had taken-in nine year-old William after his mother passed away.
The wind is blowing cross the mountains, and out on the valley way below
It sweeps the grave of my darling, when I die that’s where I want to go
Lord send the angels for my darling, and take her to that home on high
I’ll wait my time out here on earth, love, and come to you when I die
The Pilgrim learned that on Friday afternoons in the summertime, the gravel lot in front of the store fills up with bluegrass pickers of all ages and experience levels. It becomes a place to meet old friends or make new friends, learn new songs or old ones, and soak up the music and fellowship that defines bluegrass and Rosine, Kentucky. There’s a show afterwards in the barn next door, and since the lot is always full, the barn always overflows. The store stays open late Fridays and sells cold drinks and coffee. The clouds were clearing, and the lunch crowd that had started as a trickle suddenly became a steady stream of diners. The Pilgrim’s hostess was back behind the counter. He thanked her for everything, paid for his breakfast, and headed out into the afternoon. Back in the truck, he retraced his route home, and with the sun now beaming down he was glad that he had remembered to check for his sunglasses.
I am a poor wayfarin’ stranger, traveling through this world of woe
And there’s no sickness, toil or danger, in that bright land to which I go
I’m going there to see my father, I’m going there, no more to roam
I’m going over Jordan – I’m going over home
The Pilgrim rose early, showered, dressed, shaved, and headed to work – which was usual because it was Monday. He reminisced about the trip two days before, and discovered that he had no regrets about not seeing the gravesite or monument. Sometimes a general store with “Air Conditioned Eating” is all we are really looking for, but maybe we don’t discover it until the coffee cools. He’d think about that more on his next pilgrimage – but today was a Monday, like every other Monday, and was reserved for working, if nothing else.
