James, who had fought from Virginia, moved his family about 20 minutes south of where we were sipping bourbon at the office Christmas party. (In the interest of full disclosure, I am more of a white wine girl, should you be compiling your gift list.)
We carved out a quick look-see into what is now mostly horse country and grape vineyard.
I could imagine a barn just like this.
And a house like this.
Given the exigencies of the very early 19th century, it seems unlikely (and too Architectural Digesty) to be anyone's then-homestead.
But then! We found this very early house. Definitely more substantial than a dog-trot cabin. (Needless to say, the ancestral paperwork doesn't mention an estate.)
This is probably more along the lines of what's left.
(While I'm thinking of it, thank you to the residents of Fayette County for not shooting me as I tried to crane my neck around 200 years for a glimpse of James, or what might be left of his life in Kentucky.)
(#M.NightShyamalan check out your next movie set.)
Stacked stone walls range everywhere in this part of the country.
One-laner, just west of where we are deducing
James and his wife are buried.
I'll keep you posted if we catch a break with a homeowner who may remember seeing a tumble of rocks in the corner of his pasture.
So, anyone else out there drawn to this particular (or as my brother likes to point out, mind-numbing) past time? What exactly have you done with your genealogy? Do you see dead people? Leave me a comment.