Labor Day weekend, I experienced a bit of time traveling. 

I’m not sure how many people my age even care to revisit the house where they lived during their adolescence, but the opportunity to do so presented itself, and I got excited about it.

Thanks to Facebook, the current resident of my family’s former farmhouse “friended” me and said that she and her family have lived at the old Crossfield farm since the early ’90s, and I should feel free to come by whenever I’m in the area.

Coincidentally, I was soon going to be in the area, so I “friended” her back and arranged a visit with my wife and kids.

After locking down a date and time, a flood of memories came pouring in. The visit was a week away, yet I was already there. I began reflecting on the passage of time and how the environment of one’s youth can set the stage for adulthood.

As a kid, I lived in a suburban, nondescript tract house, one of many that sprouted up due to baby-boom urban sprawl. It was comfortable, efficient, unremarkable housing for the lower middle class.

But the Crossfield homeplace was early 1800s architecture situated in the middle of endless fields. It was registered by the county as a historical landmark and even had its own cemetery.

I spent four defining years there, from 13 to 17, amongst a couple dozen head of cattle, countless chickens, one young horse, one old gelding, two fishing ponds, a minibike, and the typical dreams of a teenager who wondered what was waiting for him in the real world.

The Crowe family had resided in Lexington, Kentucky since the early ’60s. By 1973, my parents were in their mid-30s and burnt out on what they referred to as their “trough” jobs.

Mom worked for the state in nearby Frankfort and dad worked in town as a claims adjuster for State Farm. Their social circle started splintering. Couples they hung out with were divorcing, moving, or experimenting. They were also worried about me. I was in 7^th grade, smokin’ in the boy’s room, and hanging out with truants.

Mom and dad decided to change gears. They each acquired realtor licenses, quit their jobs, sold the Lexington digs, and moved the family to a major fixer-upper in Lawrenceburg; an eighty-acre farm with a rundown old house in dire need of repair.

I’m amazed at the property’s cost back then. $24,000.

My younger brother and I were divided on this move. He liked the suburban life of Lexington. We could walk or ride bikes not only to our school but to nearby Turfland Mall. The cinemas were there and we saw movies like American Graffiti, Billy Jack, Poseidon Adventure, and other features of the day.

But I was in big-time favor of trying out rural life. The parents cooled little brother’s protests with a used Honda minibike. To even it up, I got a $100 unbroken horse named Carly.

So by the summer of ’74, our family began moderate farming and renovating. Cattle were bought. Hay was mowed, bailed, and lofted into our barn. Post-hole digging and fencing ensued. Chickens were cooped. Stray dogs were adopted.

My dad began a love affair with a used Ford tractor and its Bush Hog attachment. He disappeared for hours on that thing. Mom frequently worried he would overturn down in the valley and mow over himself. But he’d eventually show up at sunset and our farm regularly maintained the look of an enormous fresh-cut lawn.

Everything involved about the farm and renovating the house was hard-ass work, but I remember somewhat enjoying painting the house. Mainly because I got to be up on a tall ladder, painting a fresh coat of white while listening to WAKY-AM out of Louisville. Our house was high enough on a hill to receive signal from Kentucky’s largest city some 60 miles away.

That summer, I heard the songs that would change me from a passive Top 40 listener to an active rock ’n’ roll enthusiast. It also rekindled my interest in guitar. I had learned a few chords when I was 10 but soon got lazy and quit playing.

At this point in time, I was hearing bands like ZZ Top, Lynyrd Skynyrd, Led Zeppelin, Bad Company, The Eagles, Charlie Daniels Band, and Steve Miller, all on AM radio.

It made me want to play the electric guitar. Loud! I wanted to get that sound. I started dreaming of forming a band; making records; touring the country. I was hooked.

Getting back to the present, my wife, kids and I had wrapped up a visit with my in-laws in Frankfort. The old farm in Lawrenceburg would be a pit stop on our way back to Nashville.

Instead of heading straight on US 127 to the Bluegrass Parkway, we hung a right on US 62 for an achingly familiar seven-mile drive to Anderson City Road, where we took another right and drove a mile on a winding narrow road, then turned left onto the half-mile gravel path that leads back to the old house.

A few changes had naturally evolved over 30 years. Some of the property had been divided up and sold to create three mini-farms with houses. One of the two ponds remained. I’m assuming the other was drained and blended in to pasture.

The one they kept was where we fished and gigged frogs. I was never into guns and hunting, but loved preparing and eating what we caught out of that little pond.

We met the current residents, the Barnes’, who graciously let us walk the property. I took my kids to the barn hayloft. They stood in awe of all the bales stacked up as I told them how I used to throw out “cow breakfast” in the early morning hours of winter while listening to many of the songs they now play on Guitar Hero.

We then toured the old house. The Barnes’ are in renovation mode, so construction and clutter obstructed my parent’s bedroom as well as my brothers. My old bedroom is now occupied by a 13-year-old girl.

I showed my kids where my record player and 8-track stereo used to be. I didn’t show them where the full-length mirror once hung or where I stood to work on my moves and pretend to be Peter Frampton singing and playing guitar to “Show Me The Way’ or Bob Seger rocking out to “Katmandu.”

The back of the house still features the huge stone fireplace that divides the living room and kitchen. When we moved in, the stones were literally held together with horse hair and mud. My dad hired a mason to mortar it and bring it into the 20^th century.

As a family, we used to gather around that fireplace while watching TV shows like Happy Days, All in the Family, Mash, and Mary Tyler Moore. One night, after the parents went to bed, I discovered the rock show Midnight Special and the debut of Saturday Night Live with George Carlin as the host.

We visited for about an hour, made our manners with the Barnes’, then headed back home. As we exited the property, I thought of how lucky my brother and I were to have had the opportunity to experience both city and country living.

With 200 miles to kill, my mind kicked into rewind. The warm and fuzzy memories were soon replaced by the harsh realities of farm life.

Cows aren’t pets. I’m a fan of burgers and steaks, but I never thought about our cows hanging out waiting to be slaughtered. Not to mention, the castration of young bulls in order to fatten them up for market.

In the summer of ’75, with a few of my parent’s professional farming acquaintances and the local vet, I helped and watched as a dozen of our bull calves got their balls cut off. Their nuts were saved, breaded, and cooked in a skillet as “calf fries.” I was told they’re a Southern delicacy. I passed.

Then there was the chicken slaughter party, where the old phrase “running around like a chicken with its head cut off” came to life. Like modern day pioneers, my parent’s hatchet wielding friends were stationed at a tree stump and chopping chicken heads off. I vividly remember headless chickens running around our yard doing back flips with halos of blood swirling around in the air. We ate a lot of chicken that year.

I also remembered the devastation of a tornado that took down an abandoned barn on top of one of our cows. It had busted up #34’s hind legs pretty bad. For about a week, I took care of her until someone could come and provide euthanasia. After a single gunshot to the head, they loaded her up for disposal.

Oh, and how can I forget the kid at the neighboring farm? I hung out with him once. Just once. We were wandering around on his farm and all of a sudden he says, “Check this out.” He scaled this tall tree like a monkey, climbed out on a big branch, dropped his pants, and bombed a turd 20 feet to the ground.

And last, this memory: One late afternoon, I was high in the saddle on my horse Carly, smoking a Marlboro and taking in the scenery. I felt like a real cowboy until Buck, the alleged gelding, disrupted my sunset moment by mounting Carly with me sitting on her.

I finally get it. All of those events were, and still are, valuable, symbolic, metaphorical lessons for the game of life, especially in the music industry. Hell, maybe any industry.

Even though it may have been subconsciously hardwired during my stint at the farm, my credo now has an addendum.

I will continue to try and live my life by these rules: Work hard, play harder, love your family, and always be aware of the possibility of slaughter, castration, decapitation, defecation from above, or a sudden rear attack from an old horse’s cock.

To be continued …