PawPaw, Madison County, NC 2014
Out My Window On Tuesday Night
Out my window on Tuesday Night.
A little snow. A bit of wind.
A pinch in the pipe and a slow shutter speed.
The polar vortex has arrived.
It Could Happen Here
We’ve had an abundance of industrial disasters lately – a fertilizer plant fire in Texas, a train wreck in Canada that destroyed a town and killed 47 people, pipeline ruptures that poisoned wide swaths of farmland, and most recently, the chemical storage tank leak in West Virginia that poisoned the capital city’s water supply. One of the more egregious things about this last incident is the responsible company filed bankruptcy immediately after the spill, effectively absolving themselves of any liability. West Virginians have not only had to live with the direct effects of the spill and lack of water, but they will now have to pay for it too. The company’s name, Freedom Industries, is priceless - must mean the freedom to do whatever they want.
Derailed Norfolk Southern Train, Barnard, Madison County, NC 1978
I like to think we’re somewhat protected here in Madison County, but then I look around. Our portion of the French Broad River, that provides a significant economic boost to the county through recreation and tourism, is also downstream from industrial parks, water treatment plants and large farms. The Norfolk Southern rail line that parallels the river is a major conduit for coal and chemicals coming from Kentucky and West Virginia. A train derailment in Marshall or Hot Springs, or into the River could be catastrophic. Trucks on I-26 could be carrying most anything from hazardous wastes to petroleum products. Yet even with those hazards, our danger from industrial accidents, while worse than many places, is not nearly as bad as many others.
We’ve made the choice to use chemicals and fossil fuels and, despite our encouraging steps toward alternative energy sources, we’ll be burning coal and gas for a while longer. Since the beginnings of the Industrial Revolution, we’ve intertwined our industrial worlds with our personal lives and it’s always been to the detriment of our communities and natural world. Until we decide our public and environmental health take precedence over the irresponsibility and profits of large corporations, I'm afraid we will see only an increase in the type of unnatural disasters we've been seeing lately.
Andy Buckner at the Court House
Madison County Native and aspiring musician Andy Buckner at the Madison County Courthouse, Marshall, NC 2014
Just wanting to wish Andy well on his trip to Nashville today. Knock 'em dead. Break a leg. And all that good stuff. We're all rooting for you.
Melanie and the Jumping Cat
Melanie and the Jumping Cat, Sodom, Madison County, NC 1975
I hadn’t seen Melanie Rice Penland in some time before running into her, her husband Nate, and their son Ezra at a party a couple of weeks ago. Seeing her reminded me of a photograph I made almost forty years ago. Melanie’s mom, Sheila Kay Adams, had taken me up to Dellie Norton’s house for the first of my many visits with Dellie and her family. Sheila had her young daughter with her and I was immediately smitten. Melanie had a presence even then at three or four years old. Direct, bold, and self-assured.
Children are among the hardest subjects for photographers. It’s relatively easy to picture youguns as cute and playful, the apples of our eyes. And they seem to know exactly how we want them to look - endearing, irresistible, and ultimately cute. But making an image that gets beyond the smiling superficialities and into the heart of the child is a different matter. In this case Melanie, with her open and patient gaze, made it easy.
Eccentric
Me and Jasper howling at home, Paw Paw, Madison County, ca. 2010
I was reminded by my friend Betty Hurst of a comment I made while being interviewed by WUNC radio after the publication of Sodom Laurel Album. The interviewer asked why I liked living in Madison County. I answered that Madison County has the highest percentage of eccentrics in the entire state and I found that likable, as well as, challenging and inspiring. Now, that’s an invented statistic on my part; I doubt anyone has ever taken an official "eccentricity" survey. But after forty years here, I remain confident in the accuracy of my statement.
Merriam-Webster gives similar, but subtly different definitions of eccentric: Tending to act in strange or unusual ways; deviating from an established or usual pattern or style; not following a circular path. Synonyms include: bizarre, curious, offbeat, quaint, remarkable, weird, or as Dellie might say, “quar.” They all fit when I think of our home.
Remarkably, this old-world place allows its residents the freedom, encouragement really, to be as odd and quirky as they need or want to be. There’s a history of that here, both the individualistic behavior and the community-wide acceptance of it. You're given the opportunity to be yourself, to find your niche, to enjoy your own amusements and passions. There's room to do what you have to do; room to make do. Most places aren’t like that; they’re filled with distractions and celebrate conformity and sameness. Lifestyle and behavior are more standardized and people seem to want those conventional parameters.
I was speaking with a new friend the other night about all the people who have moved to Madison over the last ten years, since the opening of I-26. It’s really quite amazing. But equally amazing is the number of people who have come and gone, scores of people over my time here. For them, this place was a brief stopping point in the span of their lives. For whatever reason it wasn’t for them. Maybe it’s the wildness, or the distances, the lack of work, or the politics. Thankfully, Madison County isn’t for everyone, or most people for that matter. I’m happy it's a place that’s too true, too off-the-beaten-path, and too eccentric to suit most people.
Hero - Gusten Hess
I normally like my heroes to be a little older, but after some time with Gus Hess last week I'm making an exception.
Gusten Hess, Sprinkle Branch, Madison County, NC, New Years Day, 2014.
Gus is eight years old, the son of Matt and Liza Hess who live off of Sprinkle Branch in the Walnut Creek community. On New Years Day the family hosted their annual clay bird shoot and a number men and their families showed up. It was Gus’s first time shooting skeet and to make it a bit harder he was using a small, single-shot .410 shotgun that throws off a very tight pattern of shot. It has a small margin of error. To make a long story short, Gus missed his first five shots, and looked discouraged. But after receiving pats and high-fives from the older men, and some specific suggestions from his Dad that Guss chose to listen to, he came back to hit four out his next ten. Everyone was glowing with him, as he justifiably beamed. But, that’s not why he’s my hero.
What I most loved was the relationship between Gus and the other adults, most especially his parents. The mutual respect, from boy to adult, and from adult to boy, was obvious. How refreshing to see a young person who not only listens, but also absorbs what he hears - life’s lessons, learning how to be a young man. He had clearly learned lessons about safety with guns. He was patient waiting his turn on the range. Inquiring, exuberant, careful. Fun to be around.
Gus shooting, Sprinkle Branch, Madison County, NC, New Years Day, 2014.
I’ve believed for a long time there is no better place to raise a family than Madison County. It’s a unique spot that teaches independence, responsibility, and respect for others. Families are embraced here. And young people have the chance to interact with adults with mutual fondness and regard. The community is readily open to new people who want to invest their lives in this place. And the land itself, in its bigness and diversity, gives children and adults alike an opportunity for humility, and the lesson we are all part of something much larger than our individual selves.
Seldom Scene - Sorely Missed
I lived in Marshall in the early 1980s on the top floor of what is now the Flow Gallery building. It was not an easy time. Newly separated, a young son, and little money and less work coming from my attempts at being a photographer/artist. It was empty warehouse space back then, not the elegant apartments there now. Unheated and unplumbed with rudimentary wiring. Just a big open space.
Main Street, Marshall, 1983.
It was a lonely time, filled with trips to the dark holes that punctuate my life. Guilt. Insecurity. Questioning. Sleepless nights spent writing or in my jury-rigged darkroom. Sometime visits from a similar searching soul would only heighten the aloneness in the morning when she left. Cold. Or hot. Never just right. I did make some nice photographs from that perch. Thank you Gene Smith.
Marshall was visibly slowing then. Boarded up buildings along the entire stretch of town. Any attempts at new businesses quickly closed. The old stores, the mainstays of the town that had been there forever, were still open, but did only a shadow of the business they once did. Court, and its ancillaries, were the only growth industries.
In the morning I’d walk to the post office along Back Street. Past the jail, train tracks and river on my right, the back ends of buildings hovering above me, like a trap ready to spring. "Why here?" I thought. An old question, never far from the surface.
George Penland, Marshall, 1983.
A few more steps and I’m at the back of Penland & Sons store. George Penland, one of the Sons, former mayor, and late husband to Barbara, was out on the stoop feeding the stray cats that lived behind the store. They served a purpose, George knew, rats and whatnot, so he kept them fed. George was cheerful - I remember him as always cheerful - and happy to see me on what was a fine spring morning. We talked, but I don’t recall what was spoken. I do remember thinking this moment of friendliness to me and kindness to cats is one answer to the question of "why here?"
Winter Light - A Fiction
He sinks to the depths about now.
Plunging, and making no effort to still the descent.
Taking comfort in the pitch where no one else is allowed,
or wants to be.
The safest place ever.
It begins with a confluence, a perfect storm.
Christmas, another fucking birthday, the New Year.
Rarely measuring up to images conjured.
Memories blurred without remorse,
but not without contrition.
The lapsed belief in the baby Jesus.
The Big Cheese altar boy at Midnight Mass.
Nothing more special to his mother.
And the strange non-Uncle,
the perfect Santa except for those roaming hands.
Green soup and lasagna. A ham.
The candles blown out, the ball dropping.
It all saddens the man.
The missing of those moments.
How he loves winter.
Visible breathe with the first step out.
The biting air, the sharper the better.
Add some wind, he prays.
The depth of the forest.
Frozen ground – crunching and hard.
The smell of wood smoke and
soup simmering on the stove.
Dogs laid up on the couch. Like they own the joint.
New images, he thinks.
A clear reality not faded by time, or muted by innocence.
Seen with gratitude and lived with pleasure.
The Darkened Roost
They kept chickens. Sometimes they had more than others, often as many as thirty. The chickens did their jobs – they laid eggs, ate ticks and other bugs, and kept the ground stirred up with their always scratching and pecking. And they were pretty to look at, what with the different breeds and colors.
At night, they closed them up in a wired coop to keep them from the fox, bobcats and other critters looking for an easy meal. After the chickens jostled for spots on the roosting poles, the man would enter the coop. It’s dark, his headlamp the only illumination. As he stoops low to close the opening to the threatening outside, the birds coo and cluck their approval from above and around him – so peaceful and calming. But it’s an eerie peace that hints of havoc. Perhaps a peck on his hairless head. Sometimes, the man thinks Hitchcock or remembers stories of farmers knocked to the ground and flogged to death by their chickens. They go for the eyes first, he’s heard – striking at the shiny reflections of themselves.
A Good Walk Soiled
It was their first walk together in a long time. The bum hip had kept them from it. But now, new joint in place and mostly healed, they set off down the driveway as they did when they first met. Talking, holding hands, enjoying the time and place together, free of aches, and pain. Remembering reasons for being here in the first place.
The forest this time of year is a soft brown, devoid of the brilliance of spring and fall, so open you can see deep into the trees. Around a turn, a flash of bright assaults us from the edge of the road. Plastic bags, filled with all manner of shit, literally, as they mostly hold used disposable diapers. Tossed, left for dogs and creatures to shred, the earth won’t ever absorb it. You think, “What ignorant fool would do this?” But it isn’t the first time and you know it won’t be the last.
Along Anderson Branch Road, Madison County, December 2013
We get to the one-lane bridge that is our turnaround spot on this day. The creek is beautiful here – light and water tumbling over rocks, creating large pools of sunlight where one can spot an occasional fish, following its age-old path to the river and the sea. A bubbling brook some writers might call it, but not in a heavy rain. A look from the other side of the crossing reveals the dead deer – hide, a skeletal carcass, forelegs with just enough sharply-cut meat attached to the bone to tell you this was the work of man. Killed, skinned, gutted, and butchered; the remains thrown in the creek, where it will feed others for days to come.
At Anderson Branch where it meets PawPaw Road, Madison County, December 2013
ShatterZone - a fiction
The road leveled out and they passed an overgrown field, barely enclosed by an ancient fence with rusted wire and still sturdy posts. “What was that for?” The boy asked. “Grandma and Grandpa had a lot of animals up here." the man answered. "You've never seen many animals. They had goats and sheep, lots of chickens. Mama said when she was little they had horses and llamas too. Grandma liked working with the animals, Grandpa did too. He liked them for the work they did around the place and he liked to eat them."
Deaf and Blind on Shelton Laurel
Hickey's Fork, Shelton Laurel, Madison County, NC, 2013.
A couple of weeks ago, as we drove up Hickey's Fork looking for a barn with tobacco hanging in it, we passed by this sign. We were already driving slowly, but immediately slowed even more in case we encountered this unseen "deaf resident." I thought of this person and the sounds he was missing - the wind and rain in the forest, the bugs at night, a screech owl calling a mate. I also thought of a photograph I had made in 1998, also shot in Shelton Laurel, not far from where I was today. In it, the driving public was warned of a "blind resident" who walked Highway 212. I included the earlier photograph in my book, The New Road: I-26 and the Footprints of Progress in Appalachia.
The two signs are, for me, reminders of the intimacy and immediacy of small places. They tell me of the concerns of real people, of neighbors and family, who have real concerns that could be affected by our actions. These are not signs one would see on the Interstate. Rather, they are gentle suggestions of acceptable behavior in this small, quiet and slow place. A place where values and lifestyle are such that disabled residents are at ease walking our roadways; knowing drivers will heed their personalized appeals, slow down, and respect them for their strength and resilience.
Highway 212, Shelton Laurel, Madison County, NC, 1998.
Hero - Corey Gradin
Corey Gradin on Her Seventeenth Birthday, November 12, 2013, Durham, NC.
On this Thanksgiving Day, I have much to be thankful for – health, friends, family, our home and community, my life itself. Fortunate and blessed are words I like to use. But today I find my thoughts repeatedly returning to one of my present-day heroes – Corey Gradin.
On a recent trip to Durham, I had the distinct honor of photographing Corey on her seventeenth birthday – November 12. It was a gray and rainy afternoon when we set up for the portrait in her backyard. We were both shivering and bundled against the weather and the resulting pictures present a slightly-blurred vision of this remarkable young woman.
Corey is the daughter of dear friends, Harlan Gradin and Elise Goldwasser, and has been a model of strength and wisdom for me since I first met her as a baby. You see, Corey was born with cystic fibrosis and her life has been an endless stream of hospital stays, missed school and activities, and delayed dreams. Her health issues have recently progressed to include diabetes and hearing loss. This past summer she and her parents spent long months at Washington University Hospital in St. Louis where Corey had a successful double lung transplant, which has given her some relief from the respiratory problems she’s endured forever. What has impressed me most has been Corey’s total lack of self-pity. That, and her ability to take full ownership of her illness, handling most of her own daily treatments, and accepting the cards that life has dealt her.
So, today, I am thankful for Corey – her friendship, her life, her warmth, her intelligence and sense of humor. I think back to a visit with her a couple of years ago – a particularly good period of time for her. She walked into the room – a vivacious fifteen-year old, hair in curled ringlets, a short skirt and tight blouse advertising her strong sense of self. “Geez, you look hot,” I proclaimed in my best dirty old man imitation. Corey looked me in the eye, obviously pleased by my observation, and with customary grace and glowing pride said, “Well, thank you.”
ShatterZone in Shelton Laurel
Driving around the county today - a tour guide of sorts with a visiting photo friend - on a search for tobacco curing in barns. It’s an image that used to be everywhere in the county, but is now mostly gone. It takes phone calls and driving to find that important piece of our county’s history. But we do find some and my friend is happy with the outcome.
Shelton Laurel, Madison County, NC, 2013 11 22. With Kelly Culpepper.
It’s a funny thing – driving around with another photographer and seeing what attracts his eye. Often, people are looking for nostalgia and memory, a sense of days gone by, and we certainly have our fair share of that here in Madison. Our traditions take us back and often hold us in place. But, more importantly, I sense people from the outside, from cities and bigger places, are looking for what Melville would have termed a true place – a place not down on maps that has remained relatively untouched by the modern world. Madison fits that definition, too, and we seem to draw people looking for that kind of experience. I worry our place will become known as a museum and not the actual living, breathing, evolving community I’ve always known it to be.
Permanent RV, Hwy. 212, Shelton Laurel, Madison County, NC, 2013 11 22. With Kelly Culpepper.
Throughout its history, Madison County has been a place of refuge and resistance to the outside world. The Native Americans, the Anglo settlers, war resisters, and present-day refugees from urban living have all found Madison to be a receptive place for people wishing to get away from it all or living off the grid. For some people that vision of refuge is fulfilled with an image, and for others it may be a retreat to a part-time palace in the mountains that resembles their home in Florida. For others, that wish is more of an insistent need and people who are supposed to be here always find their niche.
Hwy. 212, Shelton Laurel, Madison County, NC, 2013 11 22. With Kelly Culpepper.
Catch Up
It’s been six weeks since I last wrote on this blog and I must admit I’ve enjoyed the break. There have been a number of intervening life issues that have made writing difficult, notably Leslie’s recent hip surgery and the temporary loss of all our help around the place, which has returned me to “chore” mode. It's served to remind me exactly how much work the young people do while staying with us. Most agree to let me photograph them, which is a bonus for sure. Muses come in many forms, from many directions. But these are flimsy excuses for not writing. So, call it writer’s block, or whatever, but the reality is I just haven’t felt like writing.
Ekho Hawk, one of our great helpers and an incredible model, PawPaw, Madison County, NC, 2013.
The break has allowed me the time to ponder some of the good things that have come my way over the last year. There were one-person exhibits at Wake Forest University and the Carrboro Arts Center and group shows at Duke University and the Madison County Arts Council. And, with the help of my irreplaceable assistant Jamie Paul, my work has been included in a number of online photography magazines and websites including http://www.lightleaked.com/, https://www.lensculture.com/, http://walkyourcamera.com/, http://sxsemagazine.com/, and http://www.artphotoindex.com/.
Chickencatcher, Samson, Alabama, 1994
from Way of Nature, Way of Grace
And beginning on November 8, six of my photographs will be included in an exhibit titled Way of Nature/Way of Grace, www.ashevillearts.com/exhibits/nex-exhibit/, sponsored by the Asheville Area Arts Council, at Pink Dog Creative in Asheville’s River Arts District. This show has been organized by my old friend, Ralph Burns, and includes the work of a number of fine photographers – Tim Barnwell, Steve Mann, Brigid Burns, Mike Belleme, Erin Brethauer, Eric Tomberlin, and others, a total of eighteen artists. It’s an impressive group and I’m proud that Ralph chose one of my images for the exhibit announcement. The show explores the unsettled, and often unsettling, relationship between humans and other life on our planet.
I expect to return to the blog soon.
Hero - Doug Wallin
Doug Wallin, Folk Festival, Cullowhee, North Carolina
It’s hard to think of Doug Wallin and not smile. One of my first times around him, I helped him and his brother Jack hang tobacco in the barn next to their cabin on Crain Branch. Doug was high in the barn, moving between the top two tier poles. I was new to the work and he didn't want me handling the heavy sticks of burley while up too high in the barn. After we got into a rhythm with the passing of the tobacco, Doug began singing. His voice echoed from the tin roof and filled the barn with his unique soft voice, eloquent phrasing and unaffected style. It gave me goosebumps and made me smile back then and does the same thing now as I write about it.
Doug always made me smile. He was a bit of a jokester and player of pranks as his father, Lee Wallin, was noted to be. He had a song to fit most any occasion and reputedly knew over 300 ballads and songs. Doug could be cantankerous and suspicious and he didn't suffer fools or what he perceived as disrespect. When his mind was made up about something or someone, he wouldn't change it. He would quickly drop an offender from his life. He was an incredibly gifted singer, many say the best Madison County has ever produced.
I was fortunate in that Doug’s mother Berzilla, Dellie Norton's 83 year old sister, really liked me. Her daughter Berthie once said her mother used to daydream about me, which I find amazing and flattering given our 55 year age difference. As is the case in any community that celebrates family as Madison County does, my relationship with Berzilla carried over to Doug and over the years we grew fond and comfortable with each other.
Years later, after Berzilla died, and Jack was needing increased attention at the VA Hospital in Asheville, the brothers moved to a small apartment near the Marshall bypass. As much as I loved spending time at the cabin, listening to music and stories, eating, working, sitting on their porch, my favorite memory is from the time when they were living in town.
Doug Playing Fiddle for Kate, Crain Branch, Madison County, North Carolina, 1992
I stopped at Ingles on the way home today. I had Benny and Kate with me and walking through the canned food aisle we ran into Doug and Jack who were doing their weekly shopping. We visited for a time and talked briefly of their lives in town. I begged off, needing to get the kids home and fed, and told them I’d come by soon for a visit. As we turned to go, Doug and Jack both reached into their pants pockets and pulled out their wallets. They each found two one-dollar bills and ceremoniously presented one to each of the kids - a gesture so stunning in its simplicity and sheer goodwill.
Seldom Scene - Farmworker
Migrant Farmworker, Tarboro, North Carolina, 1999
This time of year hurricanes and tropical storms are not far from my mind. I’ve photographed the aftermath of many storms and the people affected by them over the years and I’m always struck by the numbers of unsung heroes who play a role in the clean-up and rebuilding.
This image was made near Tarboro, North Carolina, in 1999 after Hurricane Floyd and the ensuing flood that covered most of the eastern third of the state. This young man was working on a poultry farm that had been washed over. The barn was knee-deep in thousands of dead chickens, water, and fecal matter. His job was to help remove the feed and water lines before front-end loaders were brought in to remove the toxic soup. I think it is important for us to see the people doing this incredibly awful, but vital work in our communities and take that into consideration as we debate our nation's immigration policies.
Of Quiet and Dark
Full Moon, PawPaw, Madison County, NC, August 22, 2013,
When my mother was alive and visiting from Maryland, she would invariably complain at some point during her stay that she didn’t like it at our place because it was simply too dark and too quiet. I think about her comments most every night as I sit on our deck relishing the depth of our night sky and listening to the same sounds people have heard in our holler for hundreds of years – frogs peeping, the wind, a duo of screech owls calling one another.
I inherited many of my mother’s fears and as a child growing up in suburban Washington, D.C., I was petrified of the dark, avoiding it whenever possible. The walk from late-night basketball practice at school was especially traumatizing because the preferred, shorter route home cut through an unlit section of woods. At bedtime, I insisted on a nightlight and fell asleep to the sounds of a local rock n’ roll radio station. More than once I called out to my parents in the middle of the night, convinced there was a predator in my closet, and I regularly poked under my bed with my baseball bat in a futile search for alligators.
It happened over time and with the help of many different experiences – night compass hikes in Junior ROTC, working in the darkroom, and living by myself among them – that I eventually outgrew those fears. But it has been living in Madison County that has taught me not only to be comfortable with quiet and darkness, but also to embrace and anticipate them for the healing, solitude and connectedness they offer.
We’re fortunate, here in Madison, to have the stars close at hand, and the crickets as background music. It’s not the case in most places, certainly not east of the Mississippi River. I recently read an interview with the author Paul Bogard about his new book, The End of Night: Searching for Natural Darkness in an Age of Artificial Light. In the Verve magazine article, linked here, http://v-e-n-u-e.com/In-Search-of-Darkness-An-Interview-with-Paul-Bogard, the author talks about the importance of darkness in our lives from health, security and environmental perspectives, as well as, the fact that it simply isn’t as dark as it used to be. He includes a map of North America made by Fabio Falchi that illustrates the change in artificial lighting from the 1950s to the projected level in 2025. It clearly shows that even the northeast corridor, around the time I was trolling for alligators and dreading my late night walks home, was much darker than it is today. The eastern mountains, including Madison County, stayed pretty dark until the early 1980s, but have steadily brightened over the last thirty years. We see immediate evidence of it in the increased numbers of security lights around people’s homes, the over lit convenience stores, and the broadened glow of Asheville. It’s disheartening for a now lover of the dark. But for my mother it could never have been bright enough.
Blinking and Staring
Sylvester Walker's Granddaughter Playing Basketball in the Back Yard, Spivey's Corner, North Carolina 1989
I love it when photographs both stare and blink.
When they look intently, with time spent in the seeing.
Revealing detail as only a photograph can.
The background and backboard.
Chickens frolicking with tires.
Piled-up stuff you know has been there for awhile,
And will likely be there a while longer.
A freezer on the porch - so Southern.
Staring is like that – it offers us the particulars.
But there is nothing like the blink of an eye.
The instant the crux is revealed.
The Decisive Moment, the master Henri called it.
To trust eye and hand, and mostly instinct.
Knowing to push the button right Now.
With ball poised between hand and ground.
The foot in ballerina pose, anticipating the next movement.
A shoelace, attached to the shoe, but seeking its own direction.
Blinking is like that – it lets the breath of life invade our stillness.