tool name

Monday, Oct. 08, 2007

FLETCHER: Opinions nestle among copious goldenrod

Fletcher, not far from Bush

FLETCHER -- For the past two summers, the Herald-Leader has been visiting Kentucky places with unusual names. Today we bring you a special election-themed edition of Project Dateline, as we go searaching for the essence of Fletcher and Beshear -- the places, not the candidates.

This is perhaps not worth mentioning, but you should know we are not very far from Boreing. The town of Boreing. We're not all that far from Bush either, geographically speaking.

We're in Laurel County on the cusp of being Knox County and we're looking for the essence of Fletcher, the tiny slip of a town known for not very much except, well, its copious amounts of goldenrod. And the constant encroachment of mountaintop removal mining, and the proximity to two Baptist churches, neither one of them having the decency to put Fletcher before Baptist on the big white sign out in front.

It is peaceful here if only because it is one of those mornings when people do not sit and fritter time away on the porch, and neither do they work outdoors so you can see them, and the ones that are available simply do not know where Fletcher is even though the map says it is right where they are standing.

The essence of Fletcher, then, is unclear until Sue Sevier gets out of her truck to unload some oak flooring which was about to be hauled to the dump but would make one or two good rooms or about 4,000 frames. Sue is a custom picture framer (and a tobacco farmer on the side) so she should know. (She also knows everything there is to know about Fletcher, the town. Fletcher, the governor, she has opinions on, too, and we'll get to that.

For now, you need to know that the prominently monolithic stone chimney that graces the very entrance to Ky. 830 used to be the Fletcher post office, the Fletcher grocery and the Fletcher polling place, though Sue remembers that the Stansburys lived there from time immemorial. Old Man Stansbury was known to be willing to exchange a candy bar for a dozen eggs, and that is all the seven Sevier children needed to know about things commercial.

Sue was born in "the old Bolton place" but her parents divorced when she was little and her mama moved the seven kids to "the old Skinner place," which was pretty much the last Fletcher address before the road became the official outskirts of Gray.

Sue is pure Fletcher. She has a mobile home, used to have a great blow-in insulation business until things went bad "in the Carter administration" and she has planted a lot of the trees around her place. She has started a rock pile, she has plans to sell the rusted machinery in the side yard and she works every day of her life.

And, as you can tell by the fact that she refers to all her personal history by presidential administration, she is one political animal. "I am a Church of Christ Republican but I've had to deal with all those Baptist Democrats all my life," she says, managing to get politics and religion in the same sentence without difficulty.

And while she is of the Republican bent, she is only voting for Gov. Ernie Fletcher this time because -- and we are quoting here -- "Beshear is too church-going for me." And quick as that she is back harping on the Carter years, pausing ever-so-briefly to note that "I have to be Christian enough to forgive him, otherwise what is the point of being a Christian?"

Sue, for the record, has not met a question she will not answer and she is onto discussing the University of Kentucky Wildcats. "It does not ruin my day if they lose, and I never gave two cents for football, but they are doing real good, so, go Cats." She is wearing a UK shirt while she is uttering such blasphemous things, but the contradiction is not a problem for this native Fletcherite.

The only thing Sue fears in Fletcher is her neighbors hearing her complain about the coal companies. She was smart, though, and took pictures of her home's foundation before the blasting started and before her heart starting breaking for the beauty of the land.

Fletcher is beautiful. It is goldenrod and butterfly weed in undulating profusion. The logging is only visible if you take the road that way, and the high wall left from pre-regulated strip mining is partially hidden by pine and hemlock and maple that are about to go all autumn on us. Down by the stone chimney, old tires are piled up hiding snakes. Spent shotgun shells are scattered. There is little trash and a lot of quiet.

There are a lot of opinions if you seek them. There is fire in the belly if you just ask around. And there is Sue Sevier, 63, seeing everything that happens there, letting none of it slide.