The frost covered the fields across from our house as we pulled out the driveway just past dawn. The mostly-full moon shined bright in the pale morning sky. I turned the stereo on and "A Whiter Shade Of Pale," by Procol Harum filled the air. I sipped coffee from a go-mug and looked at Leslie, her skin smooth against the mist rising from the land. The thought of how fortunate I am did not escape me.
We drove slightly uphill till we reached the peak of a small rise on the highway toward Russeville. When the road leveled out, a panoramic picture of rolling land lay before me, reminiscent of the English countryside; trees sprinkled the fence lines and filled the far-off hills framing the horizon.
There were signs of commerce along the route amidst the country homes dotting the landscape. I wondered what it'd be like for someone from Europe to see this part of Kentucky for the first time. I often complain about living in Kentucky. "I'd rather be in Europe," I've told my friends upon many a gathering. And if the truth be told, I entertain this thought almost daily.
I like Europe because the people there seem to me to be much more broadminded. But then again, I've never lived in Europe; I've only visited there. No doubt that it's not as grandiose as I make it out to be. I'd imagine it's much like America; views change as often as the scenery. Certainly the French, with their love for wine and insatiable appetite for sex, would be much more accepting of the liberal minded than the Italians who live in the shadow of Roman Catholicism. They, much as we who live in the southern states of America, never escape the all-seeing eyes of the church; ours, of course, is Southern Baptist.
The English have conservative and liberal political parties, as we do. So they too, must be fraught with frivolous arguments of who-knows-best. But I must admit, there's a great advantage to having a pub on every corner, as England does, and trains and buses in even the smallest of villages. So, I cannot totally escape the fantasy of owning a farm in the English countryside. But what would an Englishmen think of this view I'm seeing right now, or a Frenchmen or an Italian? No doubt that they would be no less enchanted watching a beautiful woman drive them faithful toward Russellville. And when they'd return home, they'd tell their friends America is beautiful. And yes, I can verify she is. I'm lucky to have known her.
