Visiting Abe Lincoln’s boyhood home in south Indiana was just a way to stretch our legs, as we traveled cross-country during a hot, humid July.
The Husband and I toured a little museum, enjoyed some of Abe’s words carved on the outside walls over beautiful bas relief sculptures of his life, cried over a short movie of his beginnings, then took a mile hike into the hills, in the fermenting heat, to see where his family had lived.
The forest oozed, radiated, brimmed with quietness, except for birds, faded sounds of people, and the distant sounds of pop music. Who would be playing pop music way out here in the woods of Abe Lincoln’s home? Sacrilegious!
Sauntering past a small field of corn, we saw what it looked like in Abe’s day. After chugging up to where his cabin’s foundation still sat, we gazed at the bit of rock-chimney and the old boards in the ground (at most 150 square feet), surrounded by thick, stifling, windless forest. We then experienced life in Abe’s day, chatted with re-enactors, and toured some replica buildings with roughhewn logs and clay chinking. They had such a rough life.
Sweat dripped down our faces as we trekked the sweltering way back to the car, stopping often to rest, thinking and chatting about life in the “good ol’ days.” Both of us felt a rush of gratefulness to all those pioneers who paved the way for people like us to now enjoy cars, freeways, coffee shops, air-conditioning, and iPods—like the one in my purse that had somehow turned on to play the distant, pop music the whole time we toured, which I didn’t discover until reaching the car, much to my chagrin.