The hills of middle Tennessee and central Kentucky are a lot alike. There’s a green here that goes on forever. It’s like the whole world is made of velvet. The mountains are soft and green. The valleys are brilliant and green. The trees are thick and green. The lakes stretch out through the hollows between the ridges like the arms of an octopus. Even the water is green.

Putting Chattanooga and the interstate behind us feels to me like putting the cares of the world behind us. I can’t help but be absorbed into the beauty of the landscape. Small slithers of fog sitting tight against the curves of the mountains.

The sign reads 8% grade next three miles.

As we roll downhill the valley opens up in front of us. The cornfields are spread out like a blanket, the rows contoured to the sway of the land. The late evening sun reaches down under the dark clouds on the horizon and spills its gold across the valley.

Our little house for the next few days is just south of Liberty, Kentucky. It sits amongst these very hills. Far removed from the interstate. The fescue fields are lush. The sun is catching the very tops of the trees on the hillside across from where I’m sitting. I can hear thunder rolling in the distance. And behind me, I hear the familiar clip-clop of a horse drawn buggy headed home for the evening.

We are in Amish country.

Our first stop this morning was only a couple miles from here. We rolled into the gravel lane off the highway and turned into a small lot filled with pole sheds and tents. Off to the right, men in straw hats, wearing suspenders, and sporting lots of chin hair were stacking watermelons and cantaloupes. Beneath the first shed, women in long plain dresses, aprons, and the traditional kapp that covers their pinned up hair were tending to the dishes, bowls, baked goods, and assorted items spread out across the tables.

As I stepped away from the truck I had to hold fast for a moment as a buggy passed by. A young boy of maybe 10 at the reigns. He tips up the front brim of his straw hat as a good morning gesture, then continues on his way.

Marion is talking to an older lady who is selling cinnamon rolls the size of dinner plates. The dough kneaded by hand. The butter churned from yesterday’s milk. The icing swirled and oozing between the layers. Each one individually wrapped, sealed, and begging for a new home.

Silently, I pray that Marion will buy one, and I am not disappointed.

Down at the far end of the lot is another shed. I can see a man working behind the counter, which is a chest freezer hooked up to a generator. At first, I’m not sure what they are selling, but then I see the man in the straw hat reach down inside the freezer with a large spoon. It still hasn’t hit me, but then he reaches over and hands a young girl a cup of ice cream.

It’s not even 10am. I’m not hungry. Breakfast hasn’t completely settled. But I am drawn to this scene. The little girl is walking toward me as I’m walking toward the shed.

“Is it good?” I ask her.

She throws her head back and giggles, looking away like she’d rather I had not asked.

“Yes.” She says.

The closer I get the more aware I become of a sound I can’t quite identify. Click-uh-ty-clack. Click-uh-ty-clack. It reminds me of the rumble of a chain driven manure spreader.

Then I spot it. To the far right of the ice cream shed is a horse on an inclined treadmill. He’s plodding away going nowhere. Out the side of the treadmill, at a right angle to the direction the horse is walking, there’s a PTO shaft that’s about 30 feet long, the end of which is attached to the biggest wooden ice cream churn I’ve ever seen.

I am about to eat ice cream churned by a horse.

“What else do you use the treadmill for?” I asked.

“Oh, it can be used for a lot of things,” he says to me. “We can run the washing machine or corn sheller. I have a grinding wheel that I run with it, too.”

“How long can he walk like that?”

I ask because it’s humid and I can tell the horse has worked up a sweat to satisfy my sweet tooth.

“Oh, I’ll let him go for about 15 minutes and then give him a break. My sons are bringing two more horses over to help us finish the day.”

Right on cue, two young boys, 8 and 10, come around the corner of the shed. The cropped hair. The straw hats. The calf-high muck boots. The pocketless pants with suspenders. They’re each leading a horse that dwarfs them like an ant. Their father pulls the lever on the tread mill and the noise of making ice cream falls silent.

I swear the horse smiled and whinnied.

Across the way, Romona is buying freshly made fried pies. As soon as I finish this, I’m going inside to warm one up and put a scoop of ice cream on it.

There’s furniture under one shed. If you know anything about the Amish, you know about the craftsmanship of what they build. Headboards. Dressers. Tables. Most of it made from spalted Beech. A few pieces made of cedar.

Along one side are smaller pieces. Wall shelves. Bird houses. Unusual boxes. A young teenager seems to be in charge of these items. He’s putting price stickers on them and is rearranging the display.

The father says to us, “I build the furniture. The boys make the smaller items. It’s a good way for them to make a little extra money.”

Marion buys a bird house made from Sassafras. It’s a very beautiful piece. She already has bird houses all around the yard, so I give her the look.

“I’ve gotta help the kid out,” she says.

We’re there for only about an hour all total. My belly is full. The sun is getting warm. Back in the truck we head north in search of more treasures.

And I’ll tell you, we did find a few treasures. Things we can use. Things we just wanted for the fun of it. A few gifts that will make their way to a birthday or maybe Christmas. Even a small pair of rubber boots for a grandchild who already has three pair of rubber boots. But these came with manure already on them.

But to me, it’s not so much about the things we find as it is about the experience of the people we meet and the things we learn along the way. We know a little more about cast iron cookware now than before this trip. I met a guy who knows every piece of Tupperware ever made since he graduated high school in 1964.

And I met a horse who makes ice cream.

Some things in life you just can’t buy.