I was nineteen before I ever saw an ocean because I was raised in Tennessee by Hoosier parents. When I was younger, the destination for every road trip and vacation was a cluster of little towns that orbit Indianapolis. Taken together, Fortville, Carmel and Zionsville comprise the Land of My Ancestors. So every Thanksgiving, Christmas and summer the Smiths made our I-65 pilgrimage.
The best thing about this trip happens in Kentuckiana. (Smith, are you making up that word?) The bridge across the Ohio River from Louisville into Indiana is called the John F. Kennedy bridge because it was finished at the same time as the president. I’ve always loved the bridge. It’s ugly but beautiful, made of chunky, peeling girders that dip and rise like a child’s drawing of water.
Why do I bring this up? ‘Cause look what I found! Next time you’re in Louisville, drive across it and back a few times and tell me what you think.