Otherwise known as "How This Yankee Girl Came to Love Bluegrass"
Telling our families we were moving to Kentucky was hard. Our mothers cried to be losing us, and our fathers thought we were crazy to be leaving great jobs for Pineville, located in Bell Country, the "poorest county in the United States." It's actually the 82nd poorest county in the country. They understood, though. However they disagreed with our decision, God meant for us to go to Kentucky, and we were going.
The day we moved was a church day. We skipped church and huddled with our families in our emptied out apartment to pray and cry together. One more hurried look through closets and bedrooms to make sure nothing was forgotten and we were on our way.
We left after dark.
Steven's best friend, Bogie and his brother, Billy accompanied us, along with our friend, Ryan and my sister, Becky.
We had a huge moving truck, our old Cutlass, and our beloved Lumina, Antonio (RIP). We also had walkie talkies for ease of communication during our eight-hour trek.
The trip started out easily enough. We joked on the walkies, listened to music and speculated on what life would be like in the mountains.
When we got hungry, we stopped at a Waffle House. It happened to be about 3 a.m. in downtown Cincinnati. When we pulled into the parking lot, three of the waitresses ran up to the moving truck grinning and laughing. I felt like a celebrity. Turns out, they thought we were selling soap. I am absolutely not making this up. They asked if we had apple-scented soap for sale. When we said no, they were disappointed and walked dejectedly back into the restaurant. I hoped they wouldn't hold any grudges while making our food.
Inside, we were greeted and seated by a policeman wearing some kind of coveralls like you sometimes see on a mechanic. Yes, he was a policeman, complete with gun and handcuffs. Still, we sat. And ordered, no less.
Looking around the seating area, we saw a man with his arms around two scantily clad women, and few drunk guys boisterously chatting up the waitresses, and some truckers drinking coffee.
Sarah's inner monologue: Okay, we just need to drink our coffee and get out of here. Oh my God, that guy is looking at me. Oh, if he comes over here I'm going to lose it. Oh, he's walking over. I'm going under the table to hide. Oh my God!
Steven's spoken monologue: Guys, drink your coffee and let's get out of here. Hurry up, hurry up, here comes the cop!
Steven drank three cups of coffee and ate two waffles in about five minutes. Then he had to go potty, as often happens. The policeman escorted him to the restroom and unlocked the door for him. How helpful.
We paid our check and hit the road...