I Remember It All Too Well: A Taylor Swift-Inspired Guide to Family History
From Love and Loss to Legacy—Storytelling Lessons from a Kentucky Family
Music has always been an important part of my life. It’s been the soundtrack to my memories, the rhythm of my family history, and a way to connect with generations past.
Several of my ancestors and family members were musically inclined, and growing up, my parents filled our home with the sounds of folk music and Elvis. The first concert I ever attended was R.E.M., and my rotation list has only grown more diverse over time.
I don’t listen to just one genre—I’m drawn to the craft of music across styles and eras. My playlist shifts constantly, blending classical compositions, indie folk, electronic beats, and soulful vocals. You might find Vivaldi next to Agnes Obel, or a stripped-down ballad followed by a high-energy track from Martin Garrix. Whether it’s orchestral, acoustic, or synth-driven, I’m always listening for the emotion behind the sound. I’m also a huge fan of The Voice and love watching artists bring stories to life through their performances.
Music isn’t just something I enjoy—it’s woven into how I research. I frequently listen to music while I work on family history, whether I’m at my desk analyzing records or out in the field exploring cemeteries and archives with my EarPods in and playlist queued up. Different tracks help motivate me depending on what I’m researching. Sometimes I need something meditative and atmospheric, other times I need something upbeat and driving to push through a long research session. The right song can set the tone, pull me into a time period, or even help me emotionally connect to an ancestor’s story.
But in recent years, I have found myself wildly impressed with Taylor Swift—not just as a singer, but as a storyteller.
There is both a simplicity and a complexity to her songwriting. Her lyrics pull us in with their emotional depth, yet the structure of her songs is meticulously crafted to unfold like a novel—verse by verse, revealing hidden meanings and layers over time.
As family historians, we can learn much from her by dissecting how she tells stories—how she makes her audience feel, how she chooses vivid details, how she invites listeners into a shared experience.
If we approached genealogy the way Taylor Swift approaches songwriting, our family histories wouldn’t just be records on a page. They’d be stories worth remembering.
Here’s how.
Start With a Feeling, Not Just a Fact
Imagine you’ve uncovered an old census record showing your great-grandmother was a widow with three children. You could write:
"In 1900, my great-grandmother, Mary Ellis, was listed as a widow with three children."
Or you could pull a Taylor Swift and make your reader feel it:
The ink had barely dried on the 1900 census when Mary Ellis folded the sheet of paper and placed it in the worn leather-bound Bible on the table. Widow. The word sat heavy on her heart, a title she never wanted. Outside, her youngest tugged at her apron, unaware of the weight she carried. The world expected her to move on. But how do you move on when half of your story is gone?
Which version would you rather read?
Now, let’s apply this approach to my great-grandparents, James Perry Padgett and Lula Frances Whelan—a love story, a land lost, and a legacy carried forward.
The Beginning: A Love Rooted in Kentucky Soil
Mr. Padgett is an industrious young farmer and Miss Whelan is a very attractive young lady.
— Meade County Messenger, November 6, 1907
A single sentence in a small-town newspaper, and yet it captured so much of what defined them.
My great-grandfather, Perry Padgett, was a tall man and a storyteller, known for his tireless work ethic and deep love of the land. My great-grandmother, Lula Frances Whelan, was his balance—a kind-hearted woman with quiet strength.Together, they built more than a life—they built a home.
Their farm stretched 183 acres at the confluence of Dry Branch and Otter Creek in Woodland, Kentucky. The land was fertile and rich, and they made it thrive, growing corn, tobacco, and other crops in the Kentucky soil.
But it wasn’t just fields and fences; it was a home—a big white clapboard farmhouse with an enormous front porch, built by Perry and Lula’s Whelan brothers. It was the kind of porch made for rocking chairs and storytelling, where children could sit in the warm glow of summer evenings as their father spun tales.
Here, they raised twelve children. But love and laughter were not their only companions. Two of their daughters, Mary Louise and Mary Margaret, died in infancy and early childhood. The loss must have been unbearable, but Perry and Lula endured, together.
Faith carried them forward. They attended Saint Brigid Catholic Church in Vine Grove, and their home, their hands, and their hearts remained full.
For a time.
The Day the Government Took It All Away
Every story has its turning point, a moment that changes everything.
For the Padgetts, that moment arrived on an ordinary day in the 1930s, when four men appeared at their door.
Two in military uniform. Two in dark suits. One a lawyer.
There was no conversation. No negotiation. Just papers, thrust forward with an expectation that they would sign. The U.S. government had come for their land.
As the military prepared for potential conflicts abroad, Fort Knox was expanding, and Perry and Lula Padgett’s farm was in the way. Their home, their fields, the land that had been worked and loved for decades—seized.
They then had 30 days to leave the property.
That’s what Perry’s son, Wilbur Padgett, would later recall. Just like that, the land they had nurtured for generations was no longer theirs.
And they weren’t alone. Across the rolling hills and quiet homesteads of Meade and Hardin counties, families found themselves in the same unthinkable situation. Some had roots stretching back to the earliest Kentucky pioneers. Others had built their farms with backbreaking work, only to see them taken in an instant.
They weren’t given a choice. They weren’t even given fair market value. Compensation, when offered, was often a fraction of what the land was worth. The families had no power to fight back against the federal government. And as the base’s expansion swallowed thousands of acres, the options for relocation dwindled.
But they tried. Perry, along with other displaced farmers, made the journey to Fort Knox headquarters, hoping to meet with the base commander. If they could just explain—if they could make him see that this wasn’t just land, but homes, livelihoods, history—maybe there was a chance.
The commander never met with them.
Instead, an officer informed them that the matter was closed. The land was no longer theirs. The government had spoken.
Land prices soared outside the new boundaries of Fort Knox. Displaced families found themselves competing for what little land remained, many unable to afford anything comparable to what they had lost. For some, it meant leaving the region altogether.
For Perry and Lula, it meant returning to what they knew. They packed up their lives and moved to Blue Ball Hill, where Lula’s family had lived for generations. The Whelan farm became their new home, and though it was different, it was still land with history, still Kentucky soil beneath their feet.
Their land was gone. Their home, erased.
But their roots? Their roots were still planted deep.
From Farmer to Gold Guardian
Fort Knox took Perry’s farm.
And then, in an irony history so often delivers, it gave him a job.
By the late 1930s, the United States was preparing for more than war—it was preparing to safeguard its economic future. Amid the turmoil of the Great Depression and growing global instability, the government made the unprecedented decision to move much of the nation’s gold reserves from coastal cities to a more secure, inland location. Fort Knox, now cleared of its former residents, became home to the U.S. Gold Bullion Depository.
And Perry Padgett, the farmer who once tilled Kentucky’s soil, now stood watch over America’s wealth.
He became a guard at the Fort Knox Gold Bullion Depository, protecting the treasure of a nation on the very land he once farmed. He even bore witness to history—the arrival of the original U.S. Constitution and Declaration of Independence, secretly transported to Fort Knox for safekeeping during World War II.
A photograph, captured in history, shows Perry at his post.
In front of him pulling a cart of gold is his nephew, Alton Padgett—two men linked by blood and by duty, guarding something as untouchable as the past itself.
A moment in time. A reminder that even when history takes, it sometimes—in strange, roundabout ways—gives something back.
Their past had been erased from the land, but their legacy was now intertwined with history itself.
The Story Lives On
Perry and Lula are laid to rest in St. Brigid Catholic Cemetery in Vine Grove, alongside two of their sons and other family members.
The farm they lost was never developed by Fort Knox. The land sat empty—left untouched, its intended military use never realized.
Yet, though the land was left untouched, its memory remained deeply rooted in those who once called it home.
For years, their son Wilbur kept that memory alive. Every Memorial Day, he returned with his family to the old homeplace. They would stand on the concrete steps—the last remains of the farmhouse Perry built.
When Wilbur passed, the tradition faded. But in 2018, the story was told again. The Gold Standard, Fort Knox’s official newspaper, published a feature on Padgett Farms on June 7, 2018, marking its place in history.
And the source for that story?
Me.
A reporter, having come across a published account I had written, reached out to me for background information and an interview.
For decades, the story had been passed down through word of mouth. I made sure it was recorded. The land may have been taken, but the Padgett family’s history was finally acknowledged.
Cancer took Perry, but his story did not end there. He rests now beside Lula—his partner in all things, his anchor when the land beneath them was taken away.
While homes can be lost and land seized, the Padgett family history remains. Their story is still told.
And perhaps the greatest legacy isn’t found in newspapers or official records, but in the people who carry Perry and Lula’s story forward.
From their twelve children came a vast and accomplished family—51 grandchildren, 118 great-grandchildren—who have carried the Padgett legacy into fields as diverse as engineering, medicine, education, business, and even professional sports. Among them are doctors, educators, lawyers, entrepreneurs, artists, skilled tradespeople, veterans, and an NBA player.
Had Perry and Lula lived to see it all, they would be in awe.
That spark, first kindled in Woodland, Kentucky, in a farmhouse built by hand, did not die when the land was taken. It grew into something greater—a Kentucky bloodline of resilience and perseverance that continues to thrive.
And isn’t that the most important thing of all?
The Taylor Swift Playbook for Family Historians: Lessons from Perry & Lula’s Story
Taylor Swift’s storytelling magic boils down to six key elements—each of which has transformed how I shared my family history. When I looked at the story of my ancestors, James Perry Padgett & Lula Frances Whelan, I realized just how much these principles applied.
Make It Personal – I didn’t just say they farmed—I told the story of the big white farmhouse with the wraparound porch, built by Perry and the Whelan brothers. That house wasn’t just a structure; it was the heart of their world.
Embrace Emotion – I didn’t just mention that they lost their land—I felt it. The weight of forced signatures, unanswered pleas, and the 30-day countdown to leave made the loss real, not just a footnote in history.
Use Layers and Easter Eggs – Perry’s story came full circle. He farmed the land, only to later guard the gold stored nearby at Fort Knox. The irony of that twist wasn’t lost on me.
Reimagine the Past – His time at Fort Knox wasn’t just a job—it was a twist of fate. The land he once farmed was lost, but years later, he found himself working on nearby land that now held one of the nation’s greatest treasures. History had shifted, but in an unexpected way, he was still tied to the land.
Invite Others In – This story wasn’t locked away in old records—it lived on. It was passed down through family visits to the homeplace, through stories told at kitchen tables, and even in a Fort Knox newspaper decades later.
Honor the Past While Creating Something New – Their legacy didn’t end when they did. It grew—branching into new professions, new places, and new stories that Perry and Lula could never have imagined.
Because a life well-lived is more than just a name on a stone. It’s a story waiting to be told—layered, emotional, and full of meaning, just like the best songs.
We, as family historians, are the storytellers of our past. By embracing these techniques—making it personal, leaning into emotion, layering meaning, reimagining history, inviting others in, and honoring the past—we give our ancestors the narrative depth they deserve.
Perry and Lula’s story isn’t just a chapter in a family tree; it’s a ballad of resilience, loss, irony, and hope. And just like any great song, it lives on—retold, reshaped, and remembered with every new generation.
So, how will you tell the stories of your ancestors?
Copyright 2025 Christopher Padgett
Thanks Christopher, that analogy worked for me for ancestral storytelling. It is also a great inspiration for developing effective AI prompts to transform statements of fact into engaging narratives!