The road was narrow and crowded, so unlike Kentucky. Ronan was so accustomed to the wide country lanes, slightly overgrown with thick foliage. Most of these plants are delicate but full blueberry bushes, which hitchhikers snack on and kids enjoy while walking along the gravel, pavement, and dirt roads. The buildings and homes are constructed not of sheer metals, but of gritty brick and fine wood. Some homes are simple, and many run down, but even more are elegant, with natural but well groomed hedges. White fences enclose pastures of rolling Kentucky bluegrass, prize mares and foals running under the supervision of the watchful and valiant mustang. So much about Lexington is picturesque, yet in every corner there is a bar, a banjo, and an outlaw. Hats and boots will forever remain the formal attire, and the lawman of the Athens of the West remain either corrupt or foolishly brave. Andrew Jackson said it quite well: “I have never in my life seen a Kentuckian who didn't have a gun, a pack of cards, and a jug of whiskey.” This was what Ronan had seen as a boy, teenager, and for most of his adult life. He had lived for a short while as a young man in Washington D.C., but home was the Bluegrass State, and the busy freeways and plain, inorganic homes and streetways of Ellswood made him a bit uneased.