The "Stay at Home" Pictures

 

What Was Once the Bridge to Home, Paw Paw, 2020

 
 

The owners left a few years ago.
Moved to a manufactured home,
high on a hill nearby.
The house is much like the bridge,
falling in, rotting, the inside black with mold.

There’s history here.
A man shot, killed by his step-father.
I don’t know the details, but
the killed man, the stepson, was supposedly drunk,
high on drugs, shooting into the house,
from just beyond the bridge.
With his mother inside.
It was ruled justifiable.
Likely, I’d have done the same.

I pass this spot on my daily walks and
think about what must have been an awful night.
For everyone.
The terror of it.
A mother’s son, dead,
by the hands of her husband.
How does one live with that?

It’s peaceful there now in its disrepair.
Quiet, almost picturesque,
slowly becoming part of the landscape.
Part of the heritage of place.
There are beaver in the creek building their own home.
The creek rises and falls with the rain, sometimes
taking the beaver den downstream in high water.
They try to build back, but are washed out again.
And again.
Until finally moving to a more agreeable location.






 

The "Stay at Home" Pictures

Marshall, North Carolina, at its absolute finest. I’m proud.

 

Marshall, NC 06/06/20

 
 

Marshall, NC, 06/06/20

 

Eight minutes and forty-six seconds, Marshall, NC 06/06/20.

Eight minutes and forty-six seconds, Marshall, NC 06/06/20.

Black Lives Matter Rally surrounding memorial to Robert E. Lee, erected by the United Daughters of the Confederacy in 1926 ,Marshall, NC 06/06/20. It’s time for a change.

The "Stay at Home" Pictures

 
 

Kelsey Green, Sodom, Madison County, NC 04-15-20

 

Leslie and I drove over to Sodom on Friday to visit with Kelsey and buy some plants for our garden. It was Leslie’s first time out of the house since she broke her foot four weeks ago so she was ready to get out. In honesty I was more than ready, too, to see a different place and a fresh face.

It was a beautiful day - sunny and bright with a cooling breeze. Kelsey was working in her greenhouses when we got there. She owns and operates, Our Friendly Allies, www.ourfriendlyallies.com, a nursery that specializes in medicinal herbs, along with edible plants. It was her busiest time of year and her folks, Sherry and Eric, had her boys for a few days affording her long, uninterrupted days to work.

I’ve not been dealing well with our mandated isolation. Lethargic, lacking motivation, accomplishing the bare minimum. Wondering if time will be like this for the rest of my life. Masks. No travel. Fear of being out in public. Little to say that hasn’t been said.

Seeing Kelsey, and other young people in our community, is heartening. They adapt to necessary changes and take the necessary precautions. They maintain distance, but offer abundant air hugs. They do their work. For Kelsey, having her own herb farm has been a long-held dream. And while this virus has been more than a little disruptive, it has not altered the dream.

 

The "Stay at Home" Pictures

 

Catherine Galeano Amberg. Mom at nineteen, Washington, DC, 1940

 
 

Were she still alive, my mother would have been 99 years old today. She died in 2007. I’ve been thinking about her a lot lately.

My mom was a first generation American, born to Italian parents, and raised in the Italian ghetto in Washington, DC. She achieved much in her life. From a poor upbringing she went to secretarial school and on to a much decorated career as an administrative assistant in the Army Corps of Engineers. She survived the Great Depression and World War II, the social upheaval of the sixties and seventies, and the terrifying beginnings of the 21st Century. She and my father built a home in the suburbs and raised their four children there. They retired comfortably. They travelled frequently to see their children and grandchildren, and to Italy to see Mom’s family and other far flung destinations. She had come a long way from Morse Street in NE Washington.

But my mother was never the easiest person to satisfy. I think it is part of the immigrant DNA to always strive for more, for both her and her children. As she aged, becoming more infirm, and often alone, her oft-repeated refrain was, “Where are the Golden Years?”

How does one answer that question from one’s own mother? To me, it seemed she had achieved a lot, done more than she ever dreamed of doing as a young woman of nineteen. Why would you want more?

I don’t put much stock in Hallmark holidays or catchy phrases, so the idea of Golden Years kind of washes over me. I’ve always thought you just lived your life until you didn’t. Yes, I expect to slow down as I age, travel more, visit and walk, and not worry so much about stuff - money, children, drama. But as for some kind of golden light illuminating my life after age 65 that grants entrance into some entitled senior enclave - I don’t think so.

So, now, firmly entrenched in my Golden Years, I’m still working, traveling to see the children, friends, family, and faraway places, and looking forward to more of it. I move more slowly and deliberately.

But suddenly, we (all of us) find ourselves in the midst of a game changing event - something, be we young or old - that will irrevocably mark the rest of our lives. We hear, “Stay At Home. Wear Masks Outside. Avoid Travel. Keep Six Foot Distance.” Let us hope this event doesn’t erase the memory of Golden Years, however illusory that memory may be.

 

The "Stay at Home" Pictures

 

Our driveway, PawPaw, Madison County, NC 03312020

 

I saw it on my walk.
Lifeless in the culvert pipe.
Firm and cool to the touch.
The tail the giveaway.
Hairless, the body possum gray.
Born dead, or aborted from its mother’s pouch.
Perhaps it lost its grip and fell out on its own.
Either way, it’s dead now.

I’m not one to mourn possums.
I don’t like to see them killed randomly.
But when they kill our chickens, they must be dispatched.
They kill in a most gruesome way,
sucking blood from the bird’s neck and head,
leaving the meat to rot.
I won’t worry about this one.

Yet, this baby’s death touched me.
Partly, it was knowing
It would never experience whatever joy a possum feels.
The taste of chicken blood.
Hanging by its tail from tree limbs.
Testing their ability to cheat death by deception.
It would miss all of that, and more, I’m sure.

Rather, my emotion was about the time we’re living in.
Socially distant.
Suspended.
Fretting, worried, scared,
for ourselves, our families, our communities.
Wondering how long this will last and how it will play out.
How will we know when it’s safe to come out and play once again?
Emotion so overwhelming that
the death of a baby possum
leaves me saddened for the world we live in.


 
 

The "Stay at Home" Pictures

 

Zuma, Marshall, NC, March 5, 2020.

The next to last day we were among people.
Charlie was so excited to play with Bobby Hicks in the Zuma Jam.
We were excited to hear him. And we did hear him.
Along with a young man with a voice like Hank Williams.
Little did we know what was coming.
Now, Zuma is closed and voices are stilled until further notice.

 

The "Stay at Home" Pictures

 

Our Pasture, Paw Paw, Madison County, NC, March, 2020

The news is so depressing, exhausting really, and will likely get worse, much worse. Still, up here in our mountains, we have it  so much better than most people that I know I shouldn’t complain. But time itself seems to be pausing, not yet stopping, like in a photograph, but taking a break, saying, “let's just stay right here for a bit, mark time, and catch our breath before we move on again.”

 

The "Stay at Home" Pictures

 

Paw Paw, 2020

 
 

I remember a conversation with my friend, Dellie Norton, that would have taken place about 1978. She told me about a time, sixty years earlier in 1918, when the Great Flu swept through her community of Sodom and the entire world., killing an estimated 30 to 50 million people. Now, 102 years after the time Dellie described, we’re faced with a similar pandemic and I wonder who will tell this story one hundred years from now.

It’s been a long time ago. It was long before I was married. They had that bad flu through here. I don’t remember what year, but I sure remember the time. I must have been about thirteen years old. I can remember it good. We lived right over there in that old big house. We all had the flu. Every time I raised up, I’d faint. My nose bled so. Daddy, he got out and gathered this red willow. That’s the best medicine for flu and fever ever was. He got out and would break it up. Get the tender limbs and boil them and that would just cool you off if you had the highest fever ever was. He’d have you drink the water from it.
There were so many that died. All the pregnant women died. Every one of them. I knowed them all. Matthew Ramsey’s wife died. James Davis’s wife died. There’d be seven and eight dead at a time. Couldn’t get people to strip them. They didn’t take them to the funeral home back then like they do now. They had people in the community dig their graves, put their clothes on them, and bury them. Jack Ramsey used to make coffins. There was the awfulest bunch of pregnant women that died ever was. I think it was the fall of the year. Nowadays, people will say they’ve got the flu, but they know nothing about the flu unless they had that kind.

Dellie Norton
—from Sodom Laurel Album

 



The "Stay at Home" Pictures

 

Inside Toby’s Deerstand, Paw Paw, Madison County, NC 2020.

 
 

I’ve never needed much of an excuse to stay at home. Rather, over the years, I’ve taken every opportunity to not leave our place. To wit, the question I’m asked most when I do venture into town is “I haven’t seen you in awhile, where you been hiding?” I’ve long recognized our land as my shelter, my quiet place, my spot to hunker down and avoid the outside world. I’ve always loved how these mountains embrace you in that quiet way, but only if we allow them into our lives to work their magic.

 


Ben and Chall - a Fish Story

 

Benny, aka Banjo Amberg, with Chall Gray and Catfish, McDowell County, NC 1986.

 

When I picked up Ben at the airport last week, he asked if we could visit Chall Gray at his bar in Asheville, Little Jumbo. We did. Nice place. We had a drink, a snack, more than a pleasant visit with Chall who I hadn’t seen in a few years. Chall and Ben are both thriving in the cocktail business.

Seeing the two of them together reminded me of this photograph of their first meeting - Ben, fish in hand caught in Chall’s father’s pond, and Chall, a toddler in swaddling clothes, mesmerized by the flopping catfish.

One of the beauties of photographs is their ability to help us remember. They inform us of long ago - a gesture, a look, the way we were back then. For me, looking at this image, I see two young boys, each expressing his feelings about a long-dead fish, and I recognize my own amazement that after 34 years the two boys still have things in common.

Travels With Charlie (Thompson)

 

My long-time friend and collaborator, Charlie Thompson, will be reading from his new book, Going Over Home: A Search for Rural Justice in an Unsettled Land, at the Madison Container Company in downtown Marshall on Friday evening, March 6, at 6:30p.m.

We will also share the stage together for a few minutes looking at photographs from our trips and talking about them.

 
 

Jim Smyre and Family planting tobacco, Harmony, North /Carolina 1987.

When I think about Charlie Thompson, a number of things come to mind. There is his overwhelming commitment to the common man - the underserved, the small farmers, the downtrodden, those among us who haven’t been able to achieve their dreams. I think about his intensity of belief, his integrity, and the value he places on dialogue and story. I think about his love of tradition, of old ways, and the importance of holding our history close to our hearts. But mostly when I think about Charlie, I think about the soil, the land, the dirt under fingernails, and understand that that is where his true happiness lies.

 

Travels With Charlie (Thompson)

 

My long-time friend and collaborator, Charlie Thompson, will be reading from his new book, Going Over Home: A Search for Rural Justice in an Unsettled Land, at the Madison Container Company in downtown Marshall on Friday evening, March 6, at 6:30p.m.

We will also share the stage together for a few minutes looking at photographs from our trips and talking about them.

 
 
Man with fire ant bites, the Hurricane Floyd Flood, eastern North Carolina 1999.

Man with fire ant bites, the Hurricane Floyd Flood, eastern North Carolina 1999.

 
 

In 1999, Charlie Thompson and I travelled through eastern North Carolina documenting the aftermath of Hurricane Floyd and the ensuing flood, which left the eastern third of the state under water. We were working with the Southern Oral History Program at Chapel Hill and our goal was to try to understand the effects of this unprecidented natural disaster on the numerous small, rural communites in its path.

We met an elderly man in front of his home and he described the night the waters rose around him, flooding first his fields and then his home. As he waded four feet of water, trying to get to higher ground, believing he would die, he noticed massive balls floating in the water around him. Fire ants.

That day, two months after the storm, he lifted his pants leg for us to reveal his limb, still covered with ant bites.

 

Travels With Charlie (Thompson)

 

My long-time friend and collaborator, Charlie Thompson, will be reading from his new book, Going Over Home: A Search for Rural Justice in an Unsettled Land, at the Madison Container Company in downtown Marshall on Friday evening, March 6, at 6:30p.m.

We will also share the stage together for a few minutes looking at photographs from our trips and talking about them.

 
 

Charlie Thompson (second from left) talking with farmers in a feed mill in Iredell County, NC, 1986.

 
 

In 1986, I was a freelance photographer and had been hired by the Rural Advancement Fund (RAF), a non-profit farm advocacy organization, to photograph in rural communities in the two Carolinas. I was introduced to Charlie Thompson, one of the organization’s field organizers, who would take me to meet some of the farmers RAF worked with. This trip, our first of many, marked the beginning of a relationship that has lasted thirty-four years and taken us to numerous far-flung, out-of-the-way places.

 

Little Worlds

 
 
 

My original intention with my blog was to simply put my work in front of people. My friend and co-worker, Jamie Paul, suggested I blog, and while I resisted it at first, it’s become a perfect avenue of expression for me. It’s allowed me to combine my photography with an equal obsession with words. I could cover any subject that interested me - photography, Madison County new and old, family, the landscape, travel, just to name a few. And I could work at my own pace with little pressure and no deadlines. I’ve thoroughly enjoyed producing the posts, most especially for the new people they have brought into my life.

But I’ve decided to take a break from blogging and most social media. I can’t imagine not talking for very long, or not wanting my work to have a public venue. Yet I can imagine, and welcome, taking a break from it. For those of you readers who have followed this blog over the last seven years - thank you. Your goodwill, support, criticism, and positive reinforcement have kept it moving forward, and I’m sure those same offerings will bring me back to it at some yet-to-be-determined time in the future.

Rob

 

Little Worlds - Staring at Jenna after Chemotherapy

 

Jenna Nagle, after completing chemotherapy treatment for breast cancer, Guntertown, Madison County, 2019.

 
 

I love Jenna.
I love her openness and exuberance.
Her lack of pretension as she pulled off her scarf to show me her hair.
I love her strength to face the world.
Her life is in the moment.
The most human and real person I know.
But, being honest, and more than a little selfish,
what i love best about Jenna is that
she is always happy to see me. Always.
That is not the case with everyone I know.
And that simple gesture, that unrestrained pleasure in seeing me,
Always lifts my day.

Thank you, Susie.