FRANKFORT — Look, I’m a flatlander. I come from Barren County in southern Kentucky where the hills gently roll from woodland to pasture and meadow.

But I am mesmerized by the Appalachian southeastern corner of Kentucky; its beauty; its physical, cultural and human paradoxes; and its people. It is a mystical place to me. I was fortunate to travel there again this week and was again stunned by the effect on me of those mountains, hollers and winding roads along the banks of little creeks (some sadly polluted by mining) contorting themselves through the mountains. They calm my soul with a quiet joy of contentment.

I find myself thinking I should live there but since that’s not practical for me right now, then I ought at least to visit more often. As I followed a friend’s pickup along the serpentine, undulating road through lush forests and past the Magoffin County line and into Floyd County, I listened to the world’s best radio station: WMMT out of Whitesburg.

I can pick up the signal just this side of Campton on the Mountain Parkway by turning my tuner one click down from a pre-set of Eastern Kentucky University’s public radio station. I never know what I’ll hear. Once traveling to Hazard, I must’ve listened to 20 songs from Campton to Hazard and every last one of them had something to say about Jesus. That same night I listened to Ray Charles and Billie Holliday. And there is an abundance of Bluegrass. But Wednesday, I heard the Rolling Stones from 1967 or so, Bob Dylan, Neil Young and Peter, Paul and Mary.

I love the disc jockeys who obviously love their jobs, the eclectic music and their home in the mountains around Whitesburg. I love the conversational way they speak to (and not at) listeners as they sometimes fumble to cue up the next song. It’s more like someone’s front porch or hearth than the usual mindless rattle of most dee jays.

I didn’t realize it but my friend, photographer John Flavell, was listening to WMMT in his pickup truck just ahead of me. Now, if you’re from flatland Kentucky, you must adjust your driving habits in places like Magoffin and Floyd counties. Roads are narrow, usually hugging a mountain on one side and tip-toeing along a creek or ravine on the other, and they literally reverse direction every quarter mile or so to navigate around the magic mountains. John is more accustomed to those roads than I and he knew better where we were going, so I was following and letting his brake lights warn me of the next hairpin turn.

Suddenly, two things happened. The woman on the radio was chatting with her listeners as she set up the next set of songs and she began ruminating about how fortunate she and her neighbors are to live in that corner of the world. As she talked, allowing her mind to wander where it wanted, she remarked: “You know, I think they put little computer chips in the brains of children around here. So they always know how to come home.”

That’s when John’s pickup started weaving and I knew he was listening too, laughing just like I was. We were both smiling deep in our souls, warmed by the warmth of the woman on the radio and God’s grandeur around us.

And I wondered if maybe when I was little if they hadn’t perhaps put the wrong computer chip in my brain. Because it may not be home, but my soul yearns to go back every time.

RONNIE ELLIS writes for CNHI News Service and is based in Frankfort. Reach him at rellis@cnhi.com. Follow CNHI News Service stories on Twitter at www.twitter.com/cnhifrankfort.