BROOKHAVEN, MISSISSIPPI BROOKHAVEN, has practically outlived its antebellum character and with its dairying interests has become a lively modern town. Until 1851, when it was the first northern terminus of the New Orleans & Great Southern R.R., Brookhaven was little more than a straggling group of plantations centered about the crossroads store of Samuel Jayne, who had settled here in 1818. With the advent of the railroad, it slowly took shape as a village of wealthy merchants who ensconced their families in great white-columned homes to live leisurely but formal social lives. Until 1907 it was a place where ladies never made calls without hats and gloves, where the blinds were drawn for afternoon siestas, where streets were unpaved and shadowy with the arching branches of live oak trees, and where the daily arrival of the train and the mail were events to be anticipated. In that year, however, Brookhaven broke with its staid past to pioneer in a new activity in the State. The creamery established here was the first in Mississippi. Today the town is the hub of southern Mississippi’s dairying country, supplying a great part of the milk products shipped to New Orleans. It has a well-knit business section and asphalt-paved streets; and sons and daughters have left outmoded rambling Colonial-style homes to follow every architectural fad in house building. Only burgeoning oaks and here and there a landmark are left as relics of the former easy village life. — Mississippi, A Guide to the Magnolia State (WPA, 1938)  Brookhaven, Mississippi (pop. 12,520)—a town that keeps changing.  * * * David Jones is a State Guide to Mississippi. While going to school, he lived in five of the Southern states, from Virginia to Texas. Currently he can be found traveling the highways and back roads of Mississippi, helping people out when he can and exploring the hidden treasures of the state. You can find him on tumblr at woodprof.tumblr.com.
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BROOKHAVEN, MISSISSIPPI BROOKHAVEN, has practically outlived its antebellum character and with its dairying interests has become a lively modern town. Until 1851, when it was the first northern terminus of the New Orleans & Great Southern R.R., Brookhaven was little more than a straggling group of plantations centered about the crossroads store of Samuel Jayne, who had settled here in 1818. With the advent of the railroad, it slowly took shape as a village of wealthy merchants who ensconced their families in great white-columned homes to live leisurely but formal social lives. Until 1907 it was a place where ladies never made calls without hats and gloves, where the blinds were drawn for afternoon siestas, where streets were unpaved and shadowy with the arching branches of live oak trees, and where the daily arrival of the train and the mail were events to be anticipated. In that year, however, Brookhaven broke with its staid past to pioneer in a new activity in the State. The creamery established here was the first in Mississippi. Today the town is the hub of southern Mississippi’s dairying country, supplying a great part of the milk products shipped to New Orleans. It has a well-knit business section and asphalt-paved streets; and sons and daughters have left outmoded rambling Colonial-style homes to follow every architectural fad in house building. Only burgeoning oaks and here and there a landmark are left as relics of the former easy village life. — Mississippi, A Guide to the Magnolia State (WPA, 1938)  Brookhaven, Mississippi (pop. 12,520)—a town that keeps changing.  * * * David Jones is a State Guide to Mississippi. While going to school, he lived in five of the Southern states, from Virginia to Texas. Currently he can be found traveling the highways and back roads of Mississippi, helping people out when he can and exploring the hidden treasures of the state. You can find him on tumblr at woodprof.tumblr.com.
Zoom Info
BROOKHAVEN, MISSISSIPPI BROOKHAVEN, has practically outlived its antebellum character and with its dairying interests has become a lively modern town. Until 1851, when it was the first northern terminus of the New Orleans & Great Southern R.R., Brookhaven was little more than a straggling group of plantations centered about the crossroads store of Samuel Jayne, who had settled here in 1818. With the advent of the railroad, it slowly took shape as a village of wealthy merchants who ensconced their families in great white-columned homes to live leisurely but formal social lives. Until 1907 it was a place where ladies never made calls without hats and gloves, where the blinds were drawn for afternoon siestas, where streets were unpaved and shadowy with the arching branches of live oak trees, and where the daily arrival of the train and the mail were events to be anticipated. In that year, however, Brookhaven broke with its staid past to pioneer in a new activity in the State. The creamery established here was the first in Mississippi. Today the town is the hub of southern Mississippi’s dairying country, supplying a great part of the milk products shipped to New Orleans. It has a well-knit business section and asphalt-paved streets; and sons and daughters have left outmoded rambling Colonial-style homes to follow every architectural fad in house building. Only burgeoning oaks and here and there a landmark are left as relics of the former easy village life. — Mississippi, A Guide to the Magnolia State (WPA, 1938)  Brookhaven, Mississippi (pop. 12,520)—a town that keeps changing.  * * * David Jones is a State Guide to Mississippi. While going to school, he lived in five of the Southern states, from Virginia to Texas. Currently he can be found traveling the highways and back roads of Mississippi, helping people out when he can and exploring the hidden treasures of the state. You can find him on tumblr at woodprof.tumblr.com.
Zoom Info
BROOKHAVEN, MISSISSIPPI BROOKHAVEN, has practically outlived its antebellum character and with its dairying interests has become a lively modern town. Until 1851, when it was the first northern terminus of the New Orleans & Great Southern R.R., Brookhaven was little more than a straggling group of plantations centered about the crossroads store of Samuel Jayne, who had settled here in 1818. With the advent of the railroad, it slowly took shape as a village of wealthy merchants who ensconced their families in great white-columned homes to live leisurely but formal social lives. Until 1907 it was a place where ladies never made calls without hats and gloves, where the blinds were drawn for afternoon siestas, where streets were unpaved and shadowy with the arching branches of live oak trees, and where the daily arrival of the train and the mail were events to be anticipated. In that year, however, Brookhaven broke with its staid past to pioneer in a new activity in the State. The creamery established here was the first in Mississippi. Today the town is the hub of southern Mississippi’s dairying country, supplying a great part of the milk products shipped to New Orleans. It has a well-knit business section and asphalt-paved streets; and sons and daughters have left outmoded rambling Colonial-style homes to follow every architectural fad in house building. Only burgeoning oaks and here and there a landmark are left as relics of the former easy village life. — Mississippi, A Guide to the Magnolia State (WPA, 1938)  Brookhaven, Mississippi (pop. 12,520)—a town that keeps changing.  * * * David Jones is a State Guide to Mississippi. While going to school, he lived in five of the Southern states, from Virginia to Texas. Currently he can be found traveling the highways and back roads of Mississippi, helping people out when he can and exploring the hidden treasures of the state. You can find him on tumblr at woodprof.tumblr.com.
Zoom Info
BROOKHAVEN, MISSISSIPPI BROOKHAVEN, has practically outlived its antebellum character and with its dairying interests has become a lively modern town. Until 1851, when it was the first northern terminus of the New Orleans & Great Southern R.R., Brookhaven was little more than a straggling group of plantations centered about the crossroads store of Samuel Jayne, who had settled here in 1818. With the advent of the railroad, it slowly took shape as a village of wealthy merchants who ensconced their families in great white-columned homes to live leisurely but formal social lives. Until 1907 it was a place where ladies never made calls without hats and gloves, where the blinds were drawn for afternoon siestas, where streets were unpaved and shadowy with the arching branches of live oak trees, and where the daily arrival of the train and the mail were events to be anticipated. In that year, however, Brookhaven broke with its staid past to pioneer in a new activity in the State. The creamery established here was the first in Mississippi. Today the town is the hub of southern Mississippi’s dairying country, supplying a great part of the milk products shipped to New Orleans. It has a well-knit business section and asphalt-paved streets; and sons and daughters have left outmoded rambling Colonial-style homes to follow every architectural fad in house building. Only burgeoning oaks and here and there a landmark are left as relics of the former easy village life. — Mississippi, A Guide to the Magnolia State (WPA, 1938)  Brookhaven, Mississippi (pop. 12,520)—a town that keeps changing.  * * * David Jones is a State Guide to Mississippi. While going to school, he lived in five of the Southern states, from Virginia to Texas. Currently he can be found traveling the highways and back roads of Mississippi, helping people out when he can and exploring the hidden treasures of the state. You can find him on tumblr at woodprof.tumblr.com.
Zoom Info
BROOKHAVEN, MISSISSIPPI BROOKHAVEN, has practically outlived its antebellum character and with its dairying interests has become a lively modern town. Until 1851, when it was the first northern terminus of the New Orleans & Great Southern R.R., Brookhaven was little more than a straggling group of plantations centered about the crossroads store of Samuel Jayne, who had settled here in 1818. With the advent of the railroad, it slowly took shape as a village of wealthy merchants who ensconced their families in great white-columned homes to live leisurely but formal social lives. Until 1907 it was a place where ladies never made calls without hats and gloves, where the blinds were drawn for afternoon siestas, where streets were unpaved and shadowy with the arching branches of live oak trees, and where the daily arrival of the train and the mail were events to be anticipated. In that year, however, Brookhaven broke with its staid past to pioneer in a new activity in the State. The creamery established here was the first in Mississippi. Today the town is the hub of southern Mississippi’s dairying country, supplying a great part of the milk products shipped to New Orleans. It has a well-knit business section and asphalt-paved streets; and sons and daughters have left outmoded rambling Colonial-style homes to follow every architectural fad in house building. Only burgeoning oaks and here and there a landmark are left as relics of the former easy village life. — Mississippi, A Guide to the Magnolia State (WPA, 1938)  Brookhaven, Mississippi (pop. 12,520)—a town that keeps changing.  * * * David Jones is a State Guide to Mississippi. While going to school, he lived in five of the Southern states, from Virginia to Texas. Currently he can be found traveling the highways and back roads of Mississippi, helping people out when he can and exploring the hidden treasures of the state. You can find him on tumblr at woodprof.tumblr.com.
Zoom Info

BROOKHAVEN, MISSISSIPPI

BROOKHAVEN, has practically outlived its antebellum character and with its dairying interests has become a lively modern town. Until 1851, when it was the first northern terminus of the New Orleans & Great Southern R.R., Brookhaven was little more than a straggling group of plantations centered about the crossroads store of Samuel Jayne, who had settled here in 1818. With the advent of the railroad, it slowly took shape as a village of wealthy merchants who ensconced their families in great white-columned homes to live leisurely but formal social lives. Until 1907 it was a place where ladies never made calls without hats and gloves, where the blinds were drawn for afternoon siestas, where streets were unpaved and shadowy with the arching branches of live oak trees, and where the daily arrival of the train and the mail were events to be anticipated. In that year, however, Brookhaven broke with its staid past to pioneer in a new activity in the State. The creamery established here was the first in Mississippi. Today the town is the hub of southern Mississippi’s dairying country, supplying a great part of the milk products shipped to New Orleans. It has a well-knit business section and asphalt-paved streets; and sons and daughters have left outmoded rambling Colonial-style homes to follow every architectural fad in house building. Only burgeoning oaks and here and there a landmark are left as relics of the former easy village life.

— Mississippi, A Guide to the Magnolia State (WPA, 1938) 

Brookhaven, Mississippi (pop. 12,520)—a town that keeps changing. 

* * *

David Jones is a State Guide to Mississippi. While going to school, he lived in five of the Southern states, from Virginia to Texas. Currently he can be found traveling the highways and back roads of Mississippi, helping people out when he can and exploring the hidden treasures of the state. You can find him on tumblr at woodprof.tumblr.com.

GALVESTON, TEXAS Texas, it’s been said, is rich in unredeemed dreams. If only in that respect, Galveston is perhaps richer than most places. Possessing one of the long, flat Texas coast’s few openings to the Gulf of Mexico, Galveston’s promise as an economic center was obvious—it had been designated a provisional port of entry in 1825 by the Mexican government and was incorporated by the Republic of Texas in 1839, six years before Texas joined the Union. No less an authority than Stephen F. Austin declared Galveston the “best natural harbor the colony of Texas has to offer.” By the end of the 19th century, Galveston was the world’s leading port for cotton exports and the third-busiest port overall in the United States. A description of the port, observed and documented several decades later in the WPA Guide to Texas, gives some sense of the humming activity: Seen from the wharves, the harbor, protected by artificial moles, is alive with traffic from a hundred ports; grimy tramp steamers, sluggish, wallowing oil tankers, trim passenger ships crowd the docks; bustling, self-important tugs nose among the larger vessels, thrusting a fruit ship out to sea, edging a steamer gingerly to dock. Here is one of the largest cotton ports in the world, where thousands of men are employed to load cotton for foreign destinations, and to handle the yellow cargoes of sulfur and grain which compose a large proportion of the exports. Heavy imports of bananas from the tropics, jute bagging from India, raw sugar from Cuba and elsewhere for refining in Texas, find their way into the harbor. More than half a hundred coastwise and foreign ship companies make Galveston a regular port of call. — Texas, A Guide To the Lone Star State (WPA, 1940) Opulent new hotels along the waterfront, opera houses and other monuments to the island’s newfound prosperity were being erected. Galveston became the first place in Texas with working electricity and telephone service. The city of 37,000, in short, looked ready to become the Southwest’s gateway to the world, and no end to its potential. But on Sept. 8, 1900, Galveston’s course changed forever. On that day, a hurricane of exceptional ferocity made landfall, killing more than 6,000 people—possibly as many as 12,000—in what is still the deadliest natural disaster in U.S. history. Sixteen-foot high stormwaters washed over the island, most of which was just above sea level, destroying 3,600 homes. Isaac Cline, the U.S. Weather Service’s top meteorologist in Galveston who rode across the beach on horseback warning of the coming calamity only to be ignored by residents, wrote in his memoirs, “In reality, there was no island, just the ocean with houses standing out of the waves which rolled between them.” After the flood, everything had to be razed 15 blocks from the coast. The buildings that survived were mostly the ones placed as far inland as the island’s narrow geography permitted. Bodies not swept out to sea were gathered for burning on immense pyres, which continued for weeks after the storm. Many left Galveston permanently after the hurricane, but not everyone. Those that remained set about rebuilding the city, and one of the first tasks was constructing protection from future storms. A 3.3-mile concrete seawall was finished by 1904 and extended years later: Viewed from the air above the Gulf of Mexico, rippling waves wash a smooth, wide, sandy beach, above which looms a solid gray wall of tremendous proportions, grimly guarding the city against its old enemy, the sea. — Texas, A Guide To the Lone Star State (WPA, 1940) Nonetheless, Galveston sustained damage more serious and permanent than even its physical destruction. Fifty miles inland, Houston’s businessmen and civic leaders saw an opportunity in Galveston’s misfortune and successfully agitated to dredge a deepwater channel that would open Houston to the massive container ships that had previously stopped in Galveston. Snaking through mainland Texas for miles, the channel would offer far more protection from the weather than Galveston could, and it was completed in 1914. Houston became America’s busiest port and the wealth of a city blossomed around it. It may be naïve to think that, were it not for the hurricane, Galveston today would have Houston’s money and influence. The island is only 27 miles long and no more than three miles wide at its thickest, necessarily capping its growth potential. With Houston’s emergence as a major port, tourism—and for a period in the early 20th century, vice—became Galveston’s main industry. The city never fully recovered from the storm of 1900. A walk cross the sleepy island today reveals many gleaming new homes and hotels along the waterfront, but also many derelict buildings eaten away by the salty sea air and neglect. It is hard to imagine these ruins standing for long in a more prosperous place. Still, one senses no small amount of pride in Galveston. It has been bloodied, but it survives. Plaques in buildings throughout the city mark a line where the water level crested during the last major storm, Hurricane Ike in 2008. It’s hard not to feel a certain awe for the residents, since those markers are an unspoken reminder of the thousands of determined hours spent gutting, rehabilitating and restoring the city. Among those who stayed after the great storm of 1900 a century ago, the attitude was much the same: As Maj. Robert Lowe, manager of the Galveston Daily News, responded to a suggestion by a Dallas journalist to print the paper in Houston, “You would, would you? Well I won’t,” he shouted. “You never lived here. You don’t know — and you would ask me to desert? No, no, no. This paper lives or dies with this town. We’ll build it again and The News will help.” The newspaper did not miss an issue. — Galveston by David G. McComb (2000) * * * Michael Marchio is a State Guide to Texas. (Photographs by Anne Herman.)
Zoom
GALVESTON, TEXAS Texas, it’s been said, is rich in unredeemed dreams. If only in that respect, Galveston is perhaps richer than most places. Possessing one of the long, flat Texas coast’s few openings to the Gulf of Mexico, Galveston’s promise as an economic center was obvious—it had been designated a provisional port of entry in 1825 by the Mexican government and was incorporated by the Republic of Texas in 1839, six years before Texas joined the Union. No less an authority than Stephen F. Austin declared Galveston the “best natural harbor the colony of Texas has to offer.” By the end of the 19th century, Galveston was the world’s leading port for cotton exports and the third-busiest port overall in the United States. A description of the port, observed and documented several decades later in the WPA Guide to Texas, gives some sense of the humming activity: Seen from the wharves, the harbor, protected by artificial moles, is alive with traffic from a hundred ports; grimy tramp steamers, sluggish, wallowing oil tankers, trim passenger ships crowd the docks; bustling, self-important tugs nose among the larger vessels, thrusting a fruit ship out to sea, edging a steamer gingerly to dock. Here is one of the largest cotton ports in the world, where thousands of men are employed to load cotton for foreign destinations, and to handle the yellow cargoes of sulfur and grain which compose a large proportion of the exports. Heavy imports of bananas from the tropics, jute bagging from India, raw sugar from Cuba and elsewhere for refining in Texas, find their way into the harbor. More than half a hundred coastwise and foreign ship companies make Galveston a regular port of call. — Texas, A Guide To the Lone Star State (WPA, 1940) Opulent new hotels along the waterfront, opera houses and other monuments to the island’s newfound prosperity were being erected. Galveston became the first place in Texas with working electricity and telephone service. The city of 37,000, in short, looked ready to become the Southwest’s gateway to the world, and no end to its potential. But on Sept. 8, 1900, Galveston’s course changed forever. On that day, a hurricane of exceptional ferocity made landfall, killing more than 6,000 people—possibly as many as 12,000—in what is still the deadliest natural disaster in U.S. history. Sixteen-foot high stormwaters washed over the island, most of which was just above sea level, destroying 3,600 homes. Isaac Cline, the U.S. Weather Service’s top meteorologist in Galveston who rode across the beach on horseback warning of the coming calamity only to be ignored by residents, wrote in his memoirs, “In reality, there was no island, just the ocean with houses standing out of the waves which rolled between them.” After the flood, everything had to be razed 15 blocks from the coast. The buildings that survived were mostly the ones placed as far inland as the island’s narrow geography permitted. Bodies not swept out to sea were gathered for burning on immense pyres, which continued for weeks after the storm. Many left Galveston permanently after the hurricane, but not everyone. Those that remained set about rebuilding the city, and one of the first tasks was constructing protection from future storms. A 3.3-mile concrete seawall was finished by 1904 and extended years later: Viewed from the air above the Gulf of Mexico, rippling waves wash a smooth, wide, sandy beach, above which looms a solid gray wall of tremendous proportions, grimly guarding the city against its old enemy, the sea. — Texas, A Guide To the Lone Star State (WPA, 1940) Nonetheless, Galveston sustained damage more serious and permanent than even its physical destruction. Fifty miles inland, Houston’s businessmen and civic leaders saw an opportunity in Galveston’s misfortune and successfully agitated to dredge a deepwater channel that would open Houston to the massive container ships that had previously stopped in Galveston. Snaking through mainland Texas for miles, the channel would offer far more protection from the weather than Galveston could, and it was completed in 1914. Houston became America’s busiest port and the wealth of a city blossomed around it. It may be naïve to think that, were it not for the hurricane, Galveston today would have Houston’s money and influence. The island is only 27 miles long and no more than three miles wide at its thickest, necessarily capping its growth potential. With Houston’s emergence as a major port, tourism—and for a period in the early 20th century, vice—became Galveston’s main industry. The city never fully recovered from the storm of 1900. A walk cross the sleepy island today reveals many gleaming new homes and hotels along the waterfront, but also many derelict buildings eaten away by the salty sea air and neglect. It is hard to imagine these ruins standing for long in a more prosperous place. Still, one senses no small amount of pride in Galveston. It has been bloodied, but it survives. Plaques in buildings throughout the city mark a line where the water level crested during the last major storm, Hurricane Ike in 2008. It’s hard not to feel a certain awe for the residents, since those markers are an unspoken reminder of the thousands of determined hours spent gutting, rehabilitating and restoring the city. Among those who stayed after the great storm of 1900 a century ago, the attitude was much the same: As Maj. Robert Lowe, manager of the Galveston Daily News, responded to a suggestion by a Dallas journalist to print the paper in Houston, “You would, would you? Well I won’t,” he shouted. “You never lived here. You don’t know — and you would ask me to desert? No, no, no. This paper lives or dies with this town. We’ll build it again and The News will help.” The newspaper did not miss an issue. — Galveston by David G. McComb (2000) * * * Michael Marchio is a State Guide to Texas. (Photographs by Anne Herman.)
Zoom
GALVESTON, TEXAS Texas, it’s been said, is rich in unredeemed dreams. If only in that respect, Galveston is perhaps richer than most places. Possessing one of the long, flat Texas coast’s few openings to the Gulf of Mexico, Galveston’s promise as an economic center was obvious—it had been designated a provisional port of entry in 1825 by the Mexican government and was incorporated by the Republic of Texas in 1839, six years before Texas joined the Union. No less an authority than Stephen F. Austin declared Galveston the “best natural harbor the colony of Texas has to offer.” By the end of the 19th century, Galveston was the world’s leading port for cotton exports and the third-busiest port overall in the United States. A description of the port, observed and documented several decades later in the WPA Guide to Texas, gives some sense of the humming activity: Seen from the wharves, the harbor, protected by artificial moles, is alive with traffic from a hundred ports; grimy tramp steamers, sluggish, wallowing oil tankers, trim passenger ships crowd the docks; bustling, self-important tugs nose among the larger vessels, thrusting a fruit ship out to sea, edging a steamer gingerly to dock. Here is one of the largest cotton ports in the world, where thousands of men are employed to load cotton for foreign destinations, and to handle the yellow cargoes of sulfur and grain which compose a large proportion of the exports. Heavy imports of bananas from the tropics, jute bagging from India, raw sugar from Cuba and elsewhere for refining in Texas, find their way into the harbor. More than half a hundred coastwise and foreign ship companies make Galveston a regular port of call. — Texas, A Guide To the Lone Star State (WPA, 1940) Opulent new hotels along the waterfront, opera houses and other monuments to the island’s newfound prosperity were being erected. Galveston became the first place in Texas with working electricity and telephone service. The city of 37,000, in short, looked ready to become the Southwest’s gateway to the world, and no end to its potential. But on Sept. 8, 1900, Galveston’s course changed forever. On that day, a hurricane of exceptional ferocity made landfall, killing more than 6,000 people—possibly as many as 12,000—in what is still the deadliest natural disaster in U.S. history. Sixteen-foot high stormwaters washed over the island, most of which was just above sea level, destroying 3,600 homes. Isaac Cline, the U.S. Weather Service’s top meteorologist in Galveston who rode across the beach on horseback warning of the coming calamity only to be ignored by residents, wrote in his memoirs, “In reality, there was no island, just the ocean with houses standing out of the waves which rolled between them.” After the flood, everything had to be razed 15 blocks from the coast. The buildings that survived were mostly the ones placed as far inland as the island’s narrow geography permitted. Bodies not swept out to sea were gathered for burning on immense pyres, which continued for weeks after the storm. Many left Galveston permanently after the hurricane, but not everyone. Those that remained set about rebuilding the city, and one of the first tasks was constructing protection from future storms. A 3.3-mile concrete seawall was finished by 1904 and extended years later: Viewed from the air above the Gulf of Mexico, rippling waves wash a smooth, wide, sandy beach, above which looms a solid gray wall of tremendous proportions, grimly guarding the city against its old enemy, the sea. — Texas, A Guide To the Lone Star State (WPA, 1940) Nonetheless, Galveston sustained damage more serious and permanent than even its physical destruction. Fifty miles inland, Houston’s businessmen and civic leaders saw an opportunity in Galveston’s misfortune and successfully agitated to dredge a deepwater channel that would open Houston to the massive container ships that had previously stopped in Galveston. Snaking through mainland Texas for miles, the channel would offer far more protection from the weather than Galveston could, and it was completed in 1914. Houston became America’s busiest port and the wealth of a city blossomed around it. It may be naïve to think that, were it not for the hurricane, Galveston today would have Houston’s money and influence. The island is only 27 miles long and no more than three miles wide at its thickest, necessarily capping its growth potential. With Houston’s emergence as a major port, tourism—and for a period in the early 20th century, vice—became Galveston’s main industry. The city never fully recovered from the storm of 1900. A walk cross the sleepy island today reveals many gleaming new homes and hotels along the waterfront, but also many derelict buildings eaten away by the salty sea air and neglect. It is hard to imagine these ruins standing for long in a more prosperous place. Still, one senses no small amount of pride in Galveston. It has been bloodied, but it survives. Plaques in buildings throughout the city mark a line where the water level crested during the last major storm, Hurricane Ike in 2008. It’s hard not to feel a certain awe for the residents, since those markers are an unspoken reminder of the thousands of determined hours spent gutting, rehabilitating and restoring the city. Among those who stayed after the great storm of 1900 a century ago, the attitude was much the same: As Maj. Robert Lowe, manager of the Galveston Daily News, responded to a suggestion by a Dallas journalist to print the paper in Houston, “You would, would you? Well I won’t,” he shouted. “You never lived here. You don’t know — and you would ask me to desert? No, no, no. This paper lives or dies with this town. We’ll build it again and The News will help.” The newspaper did not miss an issue. — Galveston by David G. McComb (2000) * * * Michael Marchio is a State Guide to Texas. (Photographs by Anne Herman.)
Zoom
GALVESTON, TEXAS Texas, it’s been said, is rich in unredeemed dreams. If only in that respect, Galveston is perhaps richer than most places. Possessing one of the long, flat Texas coast’s few openings to the Gulf of Mexico, Galveston’s promise as an economic center was obvious—it had been designated a provisional port of entry in 1825 by the Mexican government and was incorporated by the Republic of Texas in 1839, six years before Texas joined the Union. No less an authority than Stephen F. Austin declared Galveston the “best natural harbor the colony of Texas has to offer.” By the end of the 19th century, Galveston was the world’s leading port for cotton exports and the third-busiest port overall in the United States. A description of the port, observed and documented several decades later in the WPA Guide to Texas, gives some sense of the humming activity: Seen from the wharves, the harbor, protected by artificial moles, is alive with traffic from a hundred ports; grimy tramp steamers, sluggish, wallowing oil tankers, trim passenger ships crowd the docks; bustling, self-important tugs nose among the larger vessels, thrusting a fruit ship out to sea, edging a steamer gingerly to dock. Here is one of the largest cotton ports in the world, where thousands of men are employed to load cotton for foreign destinations, and to handle the yellow cargoes of sulfur and grain which compose a large proportion of the exports. Heavy imports of bananas from the tropics, jute bagging from India, raw sugar from Cuba and elsewhere for refining in Texas, find their way into the harbor. More than half a hundred coastwise and foreign ship companies make Galveston a regular port of call. — Texas, A Guide To the Lone Star State (WPA, 1940) Opulent new hotels along the waterfront, opera houses and other monuments to the island’s newfound prosperity were being erected. Galveston became the first place in Texas with working electricity and telephone service. The city of 37,000, in short, looked ready to become the Southwest’s gateway to the world, and no end to its potential. But on Sept. 8, 1900, Galveston’s course changed forever. On that day, a hurricane of exceptional ferocity made landfall, killing more than 6,000 people—possibly as many as 12,000—in what is still the deadliest natural disaster in U.S. history. Sixteen-foot high stormwaters washed over the island, most of which was just above sea level, destroying 3,600 homes. Isaac Cline, the U.S. Weather Service’s top meteorologist in Galveston who rode across the beach on horseback warning of the coming calamity only to be ignored by residents, wrote in his memoirs, “In reality, there was no island, just the ocean with houses standing out of the waves which rolled between them.” After the flood, everything had to be razed 15 blocks from the coast. The buildings that survived were mostly the ones placed as far inland as the island’s narrow geography permitted. Bodies not swept out to sea were gathered for burning on immense pyres, which continued for weeks after the storm. Many left Galveston permanently after the hurricane, but not everyone. Those that remained set about rebuilding the city, and one of the first tasks was constructing protection from future storms. A 3.3-mile concrete seawall was finished by 1904 and extended years later: Viewed from the air above the Gulf of Mexico, rippling waves wash a smooth, wide, sandy beach, above which looms a solid gray wall of tremendous proportions, grimly guarding the city against its old enemy, the sea. — Texas, A Guide To the Lone Star State (WPA, 1940) Nonetheless, Galveston sustained damage more serious and permanent than even its physical destruction. Fifty miles inland, Houston’s businessmen and civic leaders saw an opportunity in Galveston’s misfortune and successfully agitated to dredge a deepwater channel that would open Houston to the massive container ships that had previously stopped in Galveston. Snaking through mainland Texas for miles, the channel would offer far more protection from the weather than Galveston could, and it was completed in 1914. Houston became America’s busiest port and the wealth of a city blossomed around it. It may be naïve to think that, were it not for the hurricane, Galveston today would have Houston’s money and influence. The island is only 27 miles long and no more than three miles wide at its thickest, necessarily capping its growth potential. With Houston’s emergence as a major port, tourism—and for a period in the early 20th century, vice—became Galveston’s main industry. The city never fully recovered from the storm of 1900. A walk cross the sleepy island today reveals many gleaming new homes and hotels along the waterfront, but also many derelict buildings eaten away by the salty sea air and neglect. It is hard to imagine these ruins standing for long in a more prosperous place. Still, one senses no small amount of pride in Galveston. It has been bloodied, but it survives. Plaques in buildings throughout the city mark a line where the water level crested during the last major storm, Hurricane Ike in 2008. It’s hard not to feel a certain awe for the residents, since those markers are an unspoken reminder of the thousands of determined hours spent gutting, rehabilitating and restoring the city. Among those who stayed after the great storm of 1900 a century ago, the attitude was much the same: As Maj. Robert Lowe, manager of the Galveston Daily News, responded to a suggestion by a Dallas journalist to print the paper in Houston, “You would, would you? Well I won’t,” he shouted. “You never lived here. You don’t know — and you would ask me to desert? No, no, no. This paper lives or dies with this town. We’ll build it again and The News will help.” The newspaper did not miss an issue. — Galveston by David G. McComb (2000) * * * Michael Marchio is a State Guide to Texas. (Photographs by Anne Herman.)
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GALVESTON, TEXAS Texas, it’s been said, is rich in unredeemed dreams. If only in that respect, Galveston is perhaps richer than most places. Possessing one of the long, flat Texas coast’s few openings to the Gulf of Mexico, Galveston’s promise as an economic center was obvious—it had been designated a provisional port of entry in 1825 by the Mexican government and was incorporated by the Republic of Texas in 1839, six years before Texas joined the Union. No less an authority than Stephen F. Austin declared Galveston the “best natural harbor the colony of Texas has to offer.” By the end of the 19th century, Galveston was the world’s leading port for cotton exports and the third-busiest port overall in the United States. A description of the port, observed and documented several decades later in the WPA Guide to Texas, gives some sense of the humming activity: Seen from the wharves, the harbor, protected by artificial moles, is alive with traffic from a hundred ports; grimy tramp steamers, sluggish, wallowing oil tankers, trim passenger ships crowd the docks; bustling, self-important tugs nose among the larger vessels, thrusting a fruit ship out to sea, edging a steamer gingerly to dock. Here is one of the largest cotton ports in the world, where thousands of men are employed to load cotton for foreign destinations, and to handle the yellow cargoes of sulfur and grain which compose a large proportion of the exports. Heavy imports of bananas from the tropics, jute bagging from India, raw sugar from Cuba and elsewhere for refining in Texas, find their way into the harbor. More than half a hundred coastwise and foreign ship companies make Galveston a regular port of call. — Texas, A Guide To the Lone Star State (WPA, 1940) Opulent new hotels along the waterfront, opera houses and other monuments to the island’s newfound prosperity were being erected. Galveston became the first place in Texas with working electricity and telephone service. The city of 37,000, in short, looked ready to become the Southwest’s gateway to the world, and no end to its potential. But on Sept. 8, 1900, Galveston’s course changed forever. On that day, a hurricane of exceptional ferocity made landfall, killing more than 6,000 people—possibly as many as 12,000—in what is still the deadliest natural disaster in U.S. history. Sixteen-foot high stormwaters washed over the island, most of which was just above sea level, destroying 3,600 homes. Isaac Cline, the U.S. Weather Service’s top meteorologist in Galveston who rode across the beach on horseback warning of the coming calamity only to be ignored by residents, wrote in his memoirs, “In reality, there was no island, just the ocean with houses standing out of the waves which rolled between them.” After the flood, everything had to be razed 15 blocks from the coast. The buildings that survived were mostly the ones placed as far inland as the island’s narrow geography permitted. Bodies not swept out to sea were gathered for burning on immense pyres, which continued for weeks after the storm. Many left Galveston permanently after the hurricane, but not everyone. Those that remained set about rebuilding the city, and one of the first tasks was constructing protection from future storms. A 3.3-mile concrete seawall was finished by 1904 and extended years later: Viewed from the air above the Gulf of Mexico, rippling waves wash a smooth, wide, sandy beach, above which looms a solid gray wall of tremendous proportions, grimly guarding the city against its old enemy, the sea. — Texas, A Guide To the Lone Star State (WPA, 1940) Nonetheless, Galveston sustained damage more serious and permanent than even its physical destruction. Fifty miles inland, Houston’s businessmen and civic leaders saw an opportunity in Galveston’s misfortune and successfully agitated to dredge a deepwater channel that would open Houston to the massive container ships that had previously stopped in Galveston. Snaking through mainland Texas for miles, the channel would offer far more protection from the weather than Galveston could, and it was completed in 1914. Houston became America’s busiest port and the wealth of a city blossomed around it. It may be naïve to think that, were it not for the hurricane, Galveston today would have Houston’s money and influence. The island is only 27 miles long and no more than three miles wide at its thickest, necessarily capping its growth potential. With Houston’s emergence as a major port, tourism—and for a period in the early 20th century, vice—became Galveston’s main industry. The city never fully recovered from the storm of 1900. A walk cross the sleepy island today reveals many gleaming new homes and hotels along the waterfront, but also many derelict buildings eaten away by the salty sea air and neglect. It is hard to imagine these ruins standing for long in a more prosperous place. Still, one senses no small amount of pride in Galveston. It has been bloodied, but it survives. Plaques in buildings throughout the city mark a line where the water level crested during the last major storm, Hurricane Ike in 2008. It’s hard not to feel a certain awe for the residents, since those markers are an unspoken reminder of the thousands of determined hours spent gutting, rehabilitating and restoring the city. Among those who stayed after the great storm of 1900 a century ago, the attitude was much the same: As Maj. Robert Lowe, manager of the Galveston Daily News, responded to a suggestion by a Dallas journalist to print the paper in Houston, “You would, would you? Well I won’t,” he shouted. “You never lived here. You don’t know — and you would ask me to desert? No, no, no. This paper lives or dies with this town. We’ll build it again and The News will help.” The newspaper did not miss an issue. — Galveston by David G. McComb (2000) * * * Michael Marchio is a State Guide to Texas. (Photographs by Anne Herman.)
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GALVESTON, TEXAS Texas, it’s been said, is rich in unredeemed dreams. If only in that respect, Galveston is perhaps richer than most places. Possessing one of the long, flat Texas coast’s few openings to the Gulf of Mexico, Galveston’s promise as an economic center was obvious—it had been designated a provisional port of entry in 1825 by the Mexican government and was incorporated by the Republic of Texas in 1839, six years before Texas joined the Union. No less an authority than Stephen F. Austin declared Galveston the “best natural harbor the colony of Texas has to offer.” By the end of the 19th century, Galveston was the world’s leading port for cotton exports and the third-busiest port overall in the United States. A description of the port, observed and documented several decades later in the WPA Guide to Texas, gives some sense of the humming activity: Seen from the wharves, the harbor, protected by artificial moles, is alive with traffic from a hundred ports; grimy tramp steamers, sluggish, wallowing oil tankers, trim passenger ships crowd the docks; bustling, self-important tugs nose among the larger vessels, thrusting a fruit ship out to sea, edging a steamer gingerly to dock. Here is one of the largest cotton ports in the world, where thousands of men are employed to load cotton for foreign destinations, and to handle the yellow cargoes of sulfur and grain which compose a large proportion of the exports. Heavy imports of bananas from the tropics, jute bagging from India, raw sugar from Cuba and elsewhere for refining in Texas, find their way into the harbor. More than half a hundred coastwise and foreign ship companies make Galveston a regular port of call. — Texas, A Guide To the Lone Star State (WPA, 1940) Opulent new hotels along the waterfront, opera houses and other monuments to the island’s newfound prosperity were being erected. Galveston became the first place in Texas with working electricity and telephone service. The city of 37,000, in short, looked ready to become the Southwest’s gateway to the world, and no end to its potential. But on Sept. 8, 1900, Galveston’s course changed forever. On that day, a hurricane of exceptional ferocity made landfall, killing more than 6,000 people—possibly as many as 12,000—in what is still the deadliest natural disaster in U.S. history. Sixteen-foot high stormwaters washed over the island, most of which was just above sea level, destroying 3,600 homes. Isaac Cline, the U.S. Weather Service’s top meteorologist in Galveston who rode across the beach on horseback warning of the coming calamity only to be ignored by residents, wrote in his memoirs, “In reality, there was no island, just the ocean with houses standing out of the waves which rolled between them.” After the flood, everything had to be razed 15 blocks from the coast. The buildings that survived were mostly the ones placed as far inland as the island’s narrow geography permitted. Bodies not swept out to sea were gathered for burning on immense pyres, which continued for weeks after the storm. Many left Galveston permanently after the hurricane, but not everyone. Those that remained set about rebuilding the city, and one of the first tasks was constructing protection from future storms. A 3.3-mile concrete seawall was finished by 1904 and extended years later: Viewed from the air above the Gulf of Mexico, rippling waves wash a smooth, wide, sandy beach, above which looms a solid gray wall of tremendous proportions, grimly guarding the city against its old enemy, the sea. — Texas, A Guide To the Lone Star State (WPA, 1940) Nonetheless, Galveston sustained damage more serious and permanent than even its physical destruction. Fifty miles inland, Houston’s businessmen and civic leaders saw an opportunity in Galveston’s misfortune and successfully agitated to dredge a deepwater channel that would open Houston to the massive container ships that had previously stopped in Galveston. Snaking through mainland Texas for miles, the channel would offer far more protection from the weather than Galveston could, and it was completed in 1914. Houston became America’s busiest port and the wealth of a city blossomed around it. It may be naïve to think that, were it not for the hurricane, Galveston today would have Houston’s money and influence. The island is only 27 miles long and no more than three miles wide at its thickest, necessarily capping its growth potential. With Houston’s emergence as a major port, tourism—and for a period in the early 20th century, vice—became Galveston’s main industry. The city never fully recovered from the storm of 1900. A walk cross the sleepy island today reveals many gleaming new homes and hotels along the waterfront, but also many derelict buildings eaten away by the salty sea air and neglect. It is hard to imagine these ruins standing for long in a more prosperous place. Still, one senses no small amount of pride in Galveston. It has been bloodied, but it survives. Plaques in buildings throughout the city mark a line where the water level crested during the last major storm, Hurricane Ike in 2008. It’s hard not to feel a certain awe for the residents, since those markers are an unspoken reminder of the thousands of determined hours spent gutting, rehabilitating and restoring the city. Among those who stayed after the great storm of 1900 a century ago, the attitude was much the same: As Maj. Robert Lowe, manager of the Galveston Daily News, responded to a suggestion by a Dallas journalist to print the paper in Houston, “You would, would you? Well I won’t,” he shouted. “You never lived here. You don’t know — and you would ask me to desert? No, no, no. This paper lives or dies with this town. We’ll build it again and The News will help.” The newspaper did not miss an issue. — Galveston by David G. McComb (2000) * * * Michael Marchio is a State Guide to Texas. (Photographs by Anne Herman.)
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GALVESTON, TEXAS Texas, it’s been said, is rich in unredeemed dreams. If only in that respect, Galveston is perhaps richer than most places. Possessing one of the long, flat Texas coast’s few openings to the Gulf of Mexico, Galveston’s promise as an economic center was obvious—it had been designated a provisional port of entry in 1825 by the Mexican government and was incorporated by the Republic of Texas in 1839, six years before Texas joined the Union. No less an authority than Stephen F. Austin declared Galveston the “best natural harbor the colony of Texas has to offer.” By the end of the 19th century, Galveston was the world’s leading port for cotton exports and the third-busiest port overall in the United States. A description of the port, observed and documented several decades later in the WPA Guide to Texas, gives some sense of the humming activity: Seen from the wharves, the harbor, protected by artificial moles, is alive with traffic from a hundred ports; grimy tramp steamers, sluggish, wallowing oil tankers, trim passenger ships crowd the docks; bustling, self-important tugs nose among the larger vessels, thrusting a fruit ship out to sea, edging a steamer gingerly to dock. Here is one of the largest cotton ports in the world, where thousands of men are employed to load cotton for foreign destinations, and to handle the yellow cargoes of sulfur and grain which compose a large proportion of the exports. Heavy imports of bananas from the tropics, jute bagging from India, raw sugar from Cuba and elsewhere for refining in Texas, find their way into the harbor. More than half a hundred coastwise and foreign ship companies make Galveston a regular port of call. — Texas, A Guide To the Lone Star State (WPA, 1940) Opulent new hotels along the waterfront, opera houses and other monuments to the island’s newfound prosperity were being erected. Galveston became the first place in Texas with working electricity and telephone service. The city of 37,000, in short, looked ready to become the Southwest’s gateway to the world, and no end to its potential. But on Sept. 8, 1900, Galveston’s course changed forever. On that day, a hurricane of exceptional ferocity made landfall, killing more than 6,000 people—possibly as many as 12,000—in what is still the deadliest natural disaster in U.S. history. Sixteen-foot high stormwaters washed over the island, most of which was just above sea level, destroying 3,600 homes. Isaac Cline, the U.S. Weather Service’s top meteorologist in Galveston who rode across the beach on horseback warning of the coming calamity only to be ignored by residents, wrote in his memoirs, “In reality, there was no island, just the ocean with houses standing out of the waves which rolled between them.” After the flood, everything had to be razed 15 blocks from the coast. The buildings that survived were mostly the ones placed as far inland as the island’s narrow geography permitted. Bodies not swept out to sea were gathered for burning on immense pyres, which continued for weeks after the storm. Many left Galveston permanently after the hurricane, but not everyone. Those that remained set about rebuilding the city, and one of the first tasks was constructing protection from future storms. A 3.3-mile concrete seawall was finished by 1904 and extended years later: Viewed from the air above the Gulf of Mexico, rippling waves wash a smooth, wide, sandy beach, above which looms a solid gray wall of tremendous proportions, grimly guarding the city against its old enemy, the sea. — Texas, A Guide To the Lone Star State (WPA, 1940) Nonetheless, Galveston sustained damage more serious and permanent than even its physical destruction. Fifty miles inland, Houston’s businessmen and civic leaders saw an opportunity in Galveston’s misfortune and successfully agitated to dredge a deepwater channel that would open Houston to the massive container ships that had previously stopped in Galveston. Snaking through mainland Texas for miles, the channel would offer far more protection from the weather than Galveston could, and it was completed in 1914. Houston became America’s busiest port and the wealth of a city blossomed around it. It may be naïve to think that, were it not for the hurricane, Galveston today would have Houston’s money and influence. The island is only 27 miles long and no more than three miles wide at its thickest, necessarily capping its growth potential. With Houston’s emergence as a major port, tourism—and for a period in the early 20th century, vice—became Galveston’s main industry. The city never fully recovered from the storm of 1900. A walk cross the sleepy island today reveals many gleaming new homes and hotels along the waterfront, but also many derelict buildings eaten away by the salty sea air and neglect. It is hard to imagine these ruins standing for long in a more prosperous place. Still, one senses no small amount of pride in Galveston. It has been bloodied, but it survives. Plaques in buildings throughout the city mark a line where the water level crested during the last major storm, Hurricane Ike in 2008. It’s hard not to feel a certain awe for the residents, since those markers are an unspoken reminder of the thousands of determined hours spent gutting, rehabilitating and restoring the city. Among those who stayed after the great storm of 1900 a century ago, the attitude was much the same: As Maj. Robert Lowe, manager of the Galveston Daily News, responded to a suggestion by a Dallas journalist to print the paper in Houston, “You would, would you? Well I won’t,” he shouted. “You never lived here. You don’t know — and you would ask me to desert? No, no, no. This paper lives or dies with this town. We’ll build it again and The News will help.” The newspaper did not miss an issue. — Galveston by David G. McComb (2000) * * * Michael Marchio is a State Guide to Texas. (Photographs by Anne Herman.)
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GALVESTON, TEXAS

Texas, it’s been said, is rich in unredeemed dreams. If only in that respect, Galveston is perhaps richer than most places.

Possessing one of the long, flat Texas coast’s few openings to the Gulf of Mexico, Galveston’s promise as an economic center was obvious—it had been designated a provisional port of entry in 1825 by the Mexican government and was incorporated by the Republic of Texas in 1839, six years before Texas joined the Union. No less an authority than Stephen F. Austin declared Galveston the “best natural harbor the colony of Texas has to offer.”

By the end of the 19th century, Galveston was the world’s leading port for cotton exports and the third-busiest port overall in the United States. A description of the port, observed and documented several decades later in the WPA Guide to Texas, gives some sense of the humming activity:

Seen from the wharves, the harbor, protected by artificial moles, is alive with traffic from a hundred ports; grimy tramp steamers, sluggish, wallowing oil tankers, trim passenger ships crowd the docks; bustling, self-important tugs nose among the larger vessels, thrusting a fruit ship out to sea, edging a steamer gingerly to dock. Here is one of the largest cotton ports in the world, where thousands of men are employed to load cotton for foreign destinations, and to handle the yellow cargoes of sulfur and grain which compose a large proportion of the exports. Heavy imports of bananas from the tropics, jute bagging from India, raw sugar from Cuba and elsewhere for refining in Texas, find their way into the harbor. More than half a hundred coastwise and foreign ship companies make Galveston a regular port of call. — Texas, A Guide To the Lone Star State (WPA, 1940)

Opulent new hotels along the waterfront, opera houses and other monuments to the island’s newfound prosperity were being erected. Galveston became the first place in Texas with working electricity and telephone service. The city of 37,000, in short, looked ready to become the Southwest’s gateway to the world, and no end to its potential. But on Sept. 8, 1900, Galveston’s course changed forever. On that day, a hurricane of exceptional ferocity made landfall, killing more than 6,000 people—possibly as many as 12,000—in what is still the deadliest natural disaster in U.S. history.

Sixteen-foot high stormwaters washed over the island, most of which was just above sea level, destroying 3,600 homes. Isaac Cline, the U.S. Weather Service’s top meteorologist in Galveston who rode across the beach on horseback warning of the coming calamity only to be ignored by residents, wrote in his memoirs, “In reality, there was no island, just the ocean with houses standing out of the waves which rolled between them.”

After the flood, everything had to be razed 15 blocks from the coast. The buildings that survived were mostly the ones placed as far inland as the island’s narrow geography permitted. Bodies not swept out to sea were gathered for burning on immense pyres, which continued for weeks after the storm.

Many left Galveston permanently after the hurricane, but not everyone. Those that remained set about rebuilding the city, and one of the first tasks was constructing protection from future storms. A 3.3-mile concrete seawall was finished by 1904 and extended years later:

Viewed from the air above the Gulf of Mexico, rippling waves wash a smooth, wide, sandy beach, above which looms a solid gray wall of tremendous proportions, grimly guarding the city against its old enemy, the sea. — Texas, A Guide To the Lone Star State (WPA, 1940)

Nonetheless, Galveston sustained damage more serious and permanent than even its physical destruction. Fifty miles inland, Houston’s businessmen and civic leaders saw an opportunity in Galveston’s misfortune and successfully agitated to dredge a deepwater channel that would open Houston to the massive container ships that had previously stopped in Galveston. Snaking through mainland Texas for miles, the channel would offer far more protection from the weather than Galveston could, and it was completed in 1914. Houston became America’s busiest port and the wealth of a city blossomed around it.

It may be naïve to think that, were it not for the hurricane, Galveston today would have Houston’s money and influence. The island is only 27 miles long and no more than three miles wide at its thickest, necessarily capping its growth potential. With Houston’s emergence as a major port, tourism—and for a period in the early 20th century, vice—became Galveston’s main industry.

The city never fully recovered from the storm of 1900. A walk cross the sleepy island today reveals many gleaming new homes and hotels along the waterfront, but also many derelict buildings eaten away by the salty sea air and neglect. It is hard to imagine these ruins standing for long in a more prosperous place.

Still, one senses no small amount of pride in Galveston. It has been bloodied, but it survives. Plaques in buildings throughout the city mark a line where the water level crested during the last major storm, Hurricane Ike in 2008. It’s hard not to feel a certain awe for the residents, since those markers are an unspoken reminder of the thousands of determined hours spent gutting, rehabilitating and restoring the city.

Among those who stayed after the great storm of 1900 a century ago, the attitude was much the same:

As Maj. Robert Lowe, manager of the Galveston Daily News, responded to a suggestion by a Dallas journalist to print the paper in Houston, “You would, would you? Well I won’t,” he shouted. “You never lived here. You don’t know — and you would ask me to desert? No, no, no. This paper lives or dies with this town. We’ll build it again and The News will help.” The newspaper did not miss an issue. — Galveston by David G. McComb (2000)

* * *

Michael Marchio is a State Guide to Texas. (Photographs by Anne Herman.)

OREGON COAST US 101, which closely parallels the rocky Oregon Coast and affords striking views of sea and shore, follows in part an Indian trail over which, according to legend, passed Talapus, the Indian coyote god, when he was fashioning the headlands and bays and setting a limit to the tide.  —Oregon, End of the Trail (WPA, 1940) The stone structure in one of the photos, overlooking the fog-bound ocean, was designed and built by the Civilian Conservation Corps in 1933 (Cape Perpetua Shelter and Parapet, Yachats, OR). * * * Evan Kierstead is a photographer (with a day job) living in Oakland, CA. You can find him on Tumblr at evankier.tumblr.com.
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OREGON COAST US 101, which closely parallels the rocky Oregon Coast and affords striking views of sea and shore, follows in part an Indian trail over which, according to legend, passed Talapus, the Indian coyote god, when he was fashioning the headlands and bays and setting a limit to the tide.  —Oregon, End of the Trail (WPA, 1940) The stone structure in one of the photos, overlooking the fog-bound ocean, was designed and built by the Civilian Conservation Corps in 1933 (Cape Perpetua Shelter and Parapet, Yachats, OR). * * * Evan Kierstead is a photographer (with a day job) living in Oakland, CA. You can find him on Tumblr at evankier.tumblr.com.
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OREGON COAST US 101, which closely parallels the rocky Oregon Coast and affords striking views of sea and shore, follows in part an Indian trail over which, according to legend, passed Talapus, the Indian coyote god, when he was fashioning the headlands and bays and setting a limit to the tide.  —Oregon, End of the Trail (WPA, 1940) The stone structure in one of the photos, overlooking the fog-bound ocean, was designed and built by the Civilian Conservation Corps in 1933 (Cape Perpetua Shelter and Parapet, Yachats, OR). * * * Evan Kierstead is a photographer (with a day job) living in Oakland, CA. You can find him on Tumblr at evankier.tumblr.com.
Zoom
OREGON COAST US 101, which closely parallels the rocky Oregon Coast and affords striking views of sea and shore, follows in part an Indian trail over which, according to legend, passed Talapus, the Indian coyote god, when he was fashioning the headlands and bays and setting a limit to the tide.  —Oregon, End of the Trail (WPA, 1940) The stone structure in one of the photos, overlooking the fog-bound ocean, was designed and built by the Civilian Conservation Corps in 1933 (Cape Perpetua Shelter and Parapet, Yachats, OR). * * * Evan Kierstead is a photographer (with a day job) living in Oakland, CA. You can find him on Tumblr at evankier.tumblr.com.
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OREGON COAST

US 101, which closely parallels the rocky Oregon Coast and affords striking views of sea and shore, follows in part an Indian trail over which, according to legend, passed Talapus, the Indian coyote god, when he was fashioning the headlands and bays and setting a limit to the tide. 

—Oregon, End of the Trail (WPA, 1940)

The stone structure in one of the photos, overlooking the fog-bound ocean, was designed and built by the Civilian Conservation Corps in 1933 (Cape Perpetua Shelter and Parapet, Yachats, OR).

* * *

Evan Kierstead is a photographer (with a day job) living in Oakland, CA. You can find him on Tumblr at evankier.tumblr.com.

THE SEARCH FOR FAMOUS GRAVES IN NEW ENGLAND (PART II) Mt. Auburn Cemetery (free map at gate) has famous graves of nearly every one of note who has died in or near Boston for the past hundred years. … The reason for the choice of Mt. Auburn by the families of so many celebrities, before it became so historically noted, was that it was for many years the only garden cemetery in the environs of Boston. It is still one of the two most beautiful. Its grounds are thickly wooded with rare trees and shrubs, landscaped with occasional ponds, and they rise to a commanding hill, from which is a dreamy view of the winding Charles River, Cambridge, Boston, and distant hills. … Sleepy Hollow Cemetery, lying in an oval basin surrounded by high ridges and tall trees, holds the graves of many of Concord’s notable dead…The tombstone of Ephraim Bull, who lacked the shrewdness to profit by his development of the Concord grape, bears the significant epitaph: ‘He sowed, others reaped.’ —Massachusetts, A Guide To Its Places and People (WPA, 1937) Editor’s note: Part I of this dispatch appeared yesterday on The American Guide. While Jon and I were working on this project, we noticed the amount of ‘offerings’ left at each gravestone. These famous resting places were covered with sentiments from admirers and followers.  Signs of people visiting and leaving behind coins, empty bottles of gin, cigars, flower pots, a single rose, poetry, and figurines were the most touching moments of the search. Discovering these items, tenderly placed and  left behind in homage, was uplifting. Although they may be deceased (some of them passed 150+ years ago) they are definitely not forgotten. They are so much remembered that there are still many museums, festivals, and conventions dedicated to them.  Here is a list of some current and upcoming organized events happening across the country: Jack Kerouac, Lowell Celebrates Kerouac Festival, Lowell MA Lizzie Borden, Lizzie Borden Bed & Breakfast/Museum, Fall River, MA B.F. Skinner,B.F. Skinner Foundation Conferences Minor White, Madison Museum of Contemporary Art, Madison, WI Buckminster Fuller, Toulouse International Art Festival, exhibition of The Fly’s Eye Dome; Buckminster Fuller Institute Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Maine Historical Society/Wadsworth-Longfellow House, Portland, ME Henry David Thoreau, The Thoreau Society  - Annual Gathering, Concord, MA H.P. Lovecraft, H.P. Lovecraft Festival - Radio Theater, NYC; NecronomiCon, Providence, RI Nathaniel Hawthorne, Hawthorne Community Association - Events, Raymond, ME Robert Creeley, Oral History Initiative: ON ROBERT CREELEY, Harvard University, Cambridge, MA Winslow Homer, Winslow Homer Studio Tours, Portland, ME * * * Brittany Marcoux is a Guide to Rhode Island and an At-Large Guide to New England for The American Guide. She’s a photographer and a native New Englander. Follow her work on Tumblr or via her website. Jon Creamer is a teacher and photographer, currently on sabbatical from the Groton School in Groton, MA, based in Providence, RI between his travels. More of his work can be seen at his website and on tumblr at years-of-indiscretion.tumblr.com.
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THE SEARCH FOR FAMOUS GRAVES IN NEW ENGLAND (PART II) Mt. Auburn Cemetery (free map at gate) has famous graves of nearly every one of note who has died in or near Boston for the past hundred years. … The reason for the choice of Mt. Auburn by the families of so many celebrities, before it became so historically noted, was that it was for many years the only garden cemetery in the environs of Boston. It is still one of the two most beautiful. Its grounds are thickly wooded with rare trees and shrubs, landscaped with occasional ponds, and they rise to a commanding hill, from which is a dreamy view of the winding Charles River, Cambridge, Boston, and distant hills. … Sleepy Hollow Cemetery, lying in an oval basin surrounded by high ridges and tall trees, holds the graves of many of Concord’s notable dead…The tombstone of Ephraim Bull, who lacked the shrewdness to profit by his development of the Concord grape, bears the significant epitaph: ‘He sowed, others reaped.’ —Massachusetts, A Guide To Its Places and People (WPA, 1937) Editor’s note: Part I of this dispatch appeared yesterday on The American Guide. While Jon and I were working on this project, we noticed the amount of ‘offerings’ left at each gravestone. These famous resting places were covered with sentiments from admirers and followers.  Signs of people visiting and leaving behind coins, empty bottles of gin, cigars, flower pots, a single rose, poetry, and figurines were the most touching moments of the search. Discovering these items, tenderly placed and  left behind in homage, was uplifting. Although they may be deceased (some of them passed 150+ years ago) they are definitely not forgotten. They are so much remembered that there are still many museums, festivals, and conventions dedicated to them.  Here is a list of some current and upcoming organized events happening across the country: Jack Kerouac, Lowell Celebrates Kerouac Festival, Lowell MA Lizzie Borden, Lizzie Borden Bed & Breakfast/Museum, Fall River, MA B.F. Skinner,B.F. Skinner Foundation Conferences Minor White, Madison Museum of Contemporary Art, Madison, WI Buckminster Fuller, Toulouse International Art Festival, exhibition of The Fly’s Eye Dome; Buckminster Fuller Institute Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Maine Historical Society/Wadsworth-Longfellow House, Portland, ME Henry David Thoreau, The Thoreau Society  - Annual Gathering, Concord, MA H.P. Lovecraft, H.P. Lovecraft Festival - Radio Theater, NYC; NecronomiCon, Providence, RI Nathaniel Hawthorne, Hawthorne Community Association - Events, Raymond, ME Robert Creeley, Oral History Initiative: ON ROBERT CREELEY, Harvard University, Cambridge, MA Winslow Homer, Winslow Homer Studio Tours, Portland, ME * * * Brittany Marcoux is a Guide to Rhode Island and an At-Large Guide to New England for The American Guide. She’s a photographer and a native New Englander. Follow her work on Tumblr or via her website. Jon Creamer is a teacher and photographer, currently on sabbatical from the Groton School in Groton, MA, based in Providence, RI between his travels. More of his work can be seen at his website and on tumblr at years-of-indiscretion.tumblr.com.
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THE SEARCH FOR FAMOUS GRAVES IN NEW ENGLAND (PART II) Mt. Auburn Cemetery (free map at gate) has famous graves of nearly every one of note who has died in or near Boston for the past hundred years. … The reason for the choice of Mt. Auburn by the families of so many celebrities, before it became so historically noted, was that it was for many years the only garden cemetery in the environs of Boston. It is still one of the two most beautiful. Its grounds are thickly wooded with rare trees and shrubs, landscaped with occasional ponds, and they rise to a commanding hill, from which is a dreamy view of the winding Charles River, Cambridge, Boston, and distant hills. … Sleepy Hollow Cemetery, lying in an oval basin surrounded by high ridges and tall trees, holds the graves of many of Concord’s notable dead…The tombstone of Ephraim Bull, who lacked the shrewdness to profit by his development of the Concord grape, bears the significant epitaph: ‘He sowed, others reaped.’ —Massachusetts, A Guide To Its Places and People (WPA, 1937) Editor’s note: Part I of this dispatch appeared yesterday on The American Guide. While Jon and I were working on this project, we noticed the amount of ‘offerings’ left at each gravestone. These famous resting places were covered with sentiments from admirers and followers.  Signs of people visiting and leaving behind coins, empty bottles of gin, cigars, flower pots, a single rose, poetry, and figurines were the most touching moments of the search. Discovering these items, tenderly placed and  left behind in homage, was uplifting. Although they may be deceased (some of them passed 150+ years ago) they are definitely not forgotten. They are so much remembered that there are still many museums, festivals, and conventions dedicated to them.  Here is a list of some current and upcoming organized events happening across the country: Jack Kerouac, Lowell Celebrates Kerouac Festival, Lowell MA Lizzie Borden, Lizzie Borden Bed & Breakfast/Museum, Fall River, MA B.F. Skinner,B.F. Skinner Foundation Conferences Minor White, Madison Museum of Contemporary Art, Madison, WI Buckminster Fuller, Toulouse International Art Festival, exhibition of The Fly’s Eye Dome; Buckminster Fuller Institute Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Maine Historical Society/Wadsworth-Longfellow House, Portland, ME Henry David Thoreau, The Thoreau Society  - Annual Gathering, Concord, MA H.P. Lovecraft, H.P. Lovecraft Festival - Radio Theater, NYC; NecronomiCon, Providence, RI Nathaniel Hawthorne, Hawthorne Community Association - Events, Raymond, ME Robert Creeley, Oral History Initiative: ON ROBERT CREELEY, Harvard University, Cambridge, MA Winslow Homer, Winslow Homer Studio Tours, Portland, ME * * * Brittany Marcoux is a Guide to Rhode Island and an At-Large Guide to New England for The American Guide. She’s a photographer and a native New Englander. Follow her work on Tumblr or via her website. Jon Creamer is a teacher and photographer, currently on sabbatical from the Groton School in Groton, MA, based in Providence, RI between his travels. More of his work can be seen at his website and on tumblr at years-of-indiscretion.tumblr.com.
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THE SEARCH FOR FAMOUS GRAVES IN NEW ENGLAND (PART II) Mt. Auburn Cemetery (free map at gate) has famous graves of nearly every one of note who has died in or near Boston for the past hundred years. … The reason for the choice of Mt. Auburn by the families of so many celebrities, before it became so historically noted, was that it was for many years the only garden cemetery in the environs of Boston. It is still one of the two most beautiful. Its grounds are thickly wooded with rare trees and shrubs, landscaped with occasional ponds, and they rise to a commanding hill, from which is a dreamy view of the winding Charles River, Cambridge, Boston, and distant hills. … Sleepy Hollow Cemetery, lying in an oval basin surrounded by high ridges and tall trees, holds the graves of many of Concord’s notable dead…The tombstone of Ephraim Bull, who lacked the shrewdness to profit by his development of the Concord grape, bears the significant epitaph: ‘He sowed, others reaped.’ —Massachusetts, A Guide To Its Places and People (WPA, 1937) Editor’s note: Part I of this dispatch appeared yesterday on The American Guide. While Jon and I were working on this project, we noticed the amount of ‘offerings’ left at each gravestone. These famous resting places were covered with sentiments from admirers and followers.  Signs of people visiting and leaving behind coins, empty bottles of gin, cigars, flower pots, a single rose, poetry, and figurines were the most touching moments of the search. Discovering these items, tenderly placed and  left behind in homage, was uplifting. Although they may be deceased (some of them passed 150+ years ago) they are definitely not forgotten. They are so much remembered that there are still many museums, festivals, and conventions dedicated to them.  Here is a list of some current and upcoming organized events happening across the country: Jack Kerouac, Lowell Celebrates Kerouac Festival, Lowell MA Lizzie Borden, Lizzie Borden Bed & Breakfast/Museum, Fall River, MA B.F. Skinner,B.F. Skinner Foundation Conferences Minor White, Madison Museum of Contemporary Art, Madison, WI Buckminster Fuller, Toulouse International Art Festival, exhibition of The Fly’s Eye Dome; Buckminster Fuller Institute Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Maine Historical Society/Wadsworth-Longfellow House, Portland, ME Henry David Thoreau, The Thoreau Society  - Annual Gathering, Concord, MA H.P. Lovecraft, H.P. Lovecraft Festival - Radio Theater, NYC; NecronomiCon, Providence, RI Nathaniel Hawthorne, Hawthorne Community Association - Events, Raymond, ME Robert Creeley, Oral History Initiative: ON ROBERT CREELEY, Harvard University, Cambridge, MA Winslow Homer, Winslow Homer Studio Tours, Portland, ME * * * Brittany Marcoux is a Guide to Rhode Island and an At-Large Guide to New England for The American Guide. She’s a photographer and a native New Englander. Follow her work on Tumblr or via her website. Jon Creamer is a teacher and photographer, currently on sabbatical from the Groton School in Groton, MA, based in Providence, RI between his travels. More of his work can be seen at his website and on tumblr at years-of-indiscretion.tumblr.com.
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THE SEARCH FOR FAMOUS GRAVES IN NEW ENGLAND (PART II) Mt. Auburn Cemetery (free map at gate) has famous graves of nearly every one of note who has died in or near Boston for the past hundred years. … The reason for the choice of Mt. Auburn by the families of so many celebrities, before it became so historically noted, was that it was for many years the only garden cemetery in the environs of Boston. It is still one of the two most beautiful. Its grounds are thickly wooded with rare trees and shrubs, landscaped with occasional ponds, and they rise to a commanding hill, from which is a dreamy view of the winding Charles River, Cambridge, Boston, and distant hills. … Sleepy Hollow Cemetery, lying in an oval basin surrounded by high ridges and tall trees, holds the graves of many of Concord’s notable dead…The tombstone of Ephraim Bull, who lacked the shrewdness to profit by his development of the Concord grape, bears the significant epitaph: ‘He sowed, others reaped.’ —Massachusetts, A Guide To Its Places and People (WPA, 1937) Editor’s note: Part I of this dispatch appeared yesterday on The American Guide. While Jon and I were working on this project, we noticed the amount of ‘offerings’ left at each gravestone. These famous resting places were covered with sentiments from admirers and followers.  Signs of people visiting and leaving behind coins, empty bottles of gin, cigars, flower pots, a single rose, poetry, and figurines were the most touching moments of the search. Discovering these items, tenderly placed and  left behind in homage, was uplifting. Although they may be deceased (some of them passed 150+ years ago) they are definitely not forgotten. They are so much remembered that there are still many museums, festivals, and conventions dedicated to them.  Here is a list of some current and upcoming organized events happening across the country: Jack Kerouac, Lowell Celebrates Kerouac Festival, Lowell MA Lizzie Borden, Lizzie Borden Bed & Breakfast/Museum, Fall River, MA B.F. Skinner,B.F. Skinner Foundation Conferences Minor White, Madison Museum of Contemporary Art, Madison, WI Buckminster Fuller, Toulouse International Art Festival, exhibition of The Fly’s Eye Dome; Buckminster Fuller Institute Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Maine Historical Society/Wadsworth-Longfellow House, Portland, ME Henry David Thoreau, The Thoreau Society  - Annual Gathering, Concord, MA H.P. Lovecraft, H.P. Lovecraft Festival - Radio Theater, NYC; NecronomiCon, Providence, RI Nathaniel Hawthorne, Hawthorne Community Association - Events, Raymond, ME Robert Creeley, Oral History Initiative: ON ROBERT CREELEY, Harvard University, Cambridge, MA Winslow Homer, Winslow Homer Studio Tours, Portland, ME * * * Brittany Marcoux is a Guide to Rhode Island and an At-Large Guide to New England for The American Guide. She’s a photographer and a native New Englander. Follow her work on Tumblr or via her website. Jon Creamer is a teacher and photographer, currently on sabbatical from the Groton School in Groton, MA, based in Providence, RI between his travels. More of his work can be seen at his website and on tumblr at years-of-indiscretion.tumblr.com.
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THE SEARCH FOR FAMOUS GRAVES IN NEW ENGLAND (PART II) Mt. Auburn Cemetery (free map at gate) has famous graves of nearly every one of note who has died in or near Boston for the past hundred years. … The reason for the choice of Mt. Auburn by the families of so many celebrities, before it became so historically noted, was that it was for many years the only garden cemetery in the environs of Boston. It is still one of the two most beautiful. Its grounds are thickly wooded with rare trees and shrubs, landscaped with occasional ponds, and they rise to a commanding hill, from which is a dreamy view of the winding Charles River, Cambridge, Boston, and distant hills. … Sleepy Hollow Cemetery, lying in an oval basin surrounded by high ridges and tall trees, holds the graves of many of Concord’s notable dead…The tombstone of Ephraim Bull, who lacked the shrewdness to profit by his development of the Concord grape, bears the significant epitaph: ‘He sowed, others reaped.’ —Massachusetts, A Guide To Its Places and People (WPA, 1937) Editor’s note: Part I of this dispatch appeared yesterday on The American Guide. While Jon and I were working on this project, we noticed the amount of ‘offerings’ left at each gravestone. These famous resting places were covered with sentiments from admirers and followers.  Signs of people visiting and leaving behind coins, empty bottles of gin, cigars, flower pots, a single rose, poetry, and figurines were the most touching moments of the search. Discovering these items, tenderly placed and  left behind in homage, was uplifting. Although they may be deceased (some of them passed 150+ years ago) they are definitely not forgotten. They are so much remembered that there are still many museums, festivals, and conventions dedicated to them.  Here is a list of some current and upcoming organized events happening across the country: Jack Kerouac, Lowell Celebrates Kerouac Festival, Lowell MA Lizzie Borden, Lizzie Borden Bed & Breakfast/Museum, Fall River, MA B.F. Skinner,B.F. Skinner Foundation Conferences Minor White, Madison Museum of Contemporary Art, Madison, WI Buckminster Fuller, Toulouse International Art Festival, exhibition of The Fly’s Eye Dome; Buckminster Fuller Institute Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Maine Historical Society/Wadsworth-Longfellow House, Portland, ME Henry David Thoreau, The Thoreau Society  - Annual Gathering, Concord, MA H.P. Lovecraft, H.P. Lovecraft Festival - Radio Theater, NYC; NecronomiCon, Providence, RI Nathaniel Hawthorne, Hawthorne Community Association - Events, Raymond, ME Robert Creeley, Oral History Initiative: ON ROBERT CREELEY, Harvard University, Cambridge, MA Winslow Homer, Winslow Homer Studio Tours, Portland, ME * * * Brittany Marcoux is a Guide to Rhode Island and an At-Large Guide to New England for The American Guide. She’s a photographer and a native New Englander. Follow her work on Tumblr or via her website. Jon Creamer is a teacher and photographer, currently on sabbatical from the Groton School in Groton, MA, based in Providence, RI between his travels. More of his work can be seen at his website and on tumblr at years-of-indiscretion.tumblr.com.
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THE SEARCH FOR FAMOUS GRAVES IN NEW ENGLAND (PART II) Mt. Auburn Cemetery (free map at gate) has famous graves of nearly every one of note who has died in or near Boston for the past hundred years. … The reason for the choice of Mt. Auburn by the families of so many celebrities, before it became so historically noted, was that it was for many years the only garden cemetery in the environs of Boston. It is still one of the two most beautiful. Its grounds are thickly wooded with rare trees and shrubs, landscaped with occasional ponds, and they rise to a commanding hill, from which is a dreamy view of the winding Charles River, Cambridge, Boston, and distant hills. … Sleepy Hollow Cemetery, lying in an oval basin surrounded by high ridges and tall trees, holds the graves of many of Concord’s notable dead…The tombstone of Ephraim Bull, who lacked the shrewdness to profit by his development of the Concord grape, bears the significant epitaph: ‘He sowed, others reaped.’ —Massachusetts, A Guide To Its Places and People (WPA, 1937) Editor’s note: Part I of this dispatch appeared yesterday on The American Guide. While Jon and I were working on this project, we noticed the amount of ‘offerings’ left at each gravestone. These famous resting places were covered with sentiments from admirers and followers.  Signs of people visiting and leaving behind coins, empty bottles of gin, cigars, flower pots, a single rose, poetry, and figurines were the most touching moments of the search. Discovering these items, tenderly placed and  left behind in homage, was uplifting. Although they may be deceased (some of them passed 150+ years ago) they are definitely not forgotten. They are so much remembered that there are still many museums, festivals, and conventions dedicated to them.  Here is a list of some current and upcoming organized events happening across the country: Jack Kerouac, Lowell Celebrates Kerouac Festival, Lowell MA Lizzie Borden, Lizzie Borden Bed & Breakfast/Museum, Fall River, MA B.F. Skinner,B.F. Skinner Foundation Conferences Minor White, Madison Museum of Contemporary Art, Madison, WI Buckminster Fuller, Toulouse International Art Festival, exhibition of The Fly’s Eye Dome; Buckminster Fuller Institute Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Maine Historical Society/Wadsworth-Longfellow House, Portland, ME Henry David Thoreau, The Thoreau Society  - Annual Gathering, Concord, MA H.P. Lovecraft, H.P. Lovecraft Festival - Radio Theater, NYC; NecronomiCon, Providence, RI Nathaniel Hawthorne, Hawthorne Community Association - Events, Raymond, ME Robert Creeley, Oral History Initiative: ON ROBERT CREELEY, Harvard University, Cambridge, MA Winslow Homer, Winslow Homer Studio Tours, Portland, ME * * * Brittany Marcoux is a Guide to Rhode Island and an At-Large Guide to New England for The American Guide. She’s a photographer and a native New Englander. Follow her work on Tumblr or via her website. Jon Creamer is a teacher and photographer, currently on sabbatical from the Groton School in Groton, MA, based in Providence, RI between his travels. More of his work can be seen at his website and on tumblr at years-of-indiscretion.tumblr.com.
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THE SEARCH FOR FAMOUS GRAVES IN NEW ENGLAND (PART II) Mt. Auburn Cemetery (free map at gate) has famous graves of nearly every one of note who has died in or near Boston for the past hundred years. … The reason for the choice of Mt. Auburn by the families of so many celebrities, before it became so historically noted, was that it was for many years the only garden cemetery in the environs of Boston. It is still one of the two most beautiful. Its grounds are thickly wooded with rare trees and shrubs, landscaped with occasional ponds, and they rise to a commanding hill, from which is a dreamy view of the winding Charles River, Cambridge, Boston, and distant hills. … Sleepy Hollow Cemetery, lying in an oval basin surrounded by high ridges and tall trees, holds the graves of many of Concord’s notable dead…The tombstone of Ephraim Bull, who lacked the shrewdness to profit by his development of the Concord grape, bears the significant epitaph: ‘He sowed, others reaped.’ —Massachusetts, A Guide To Its Places and People (WPA, 1937) Editor’s note: Part I of this dispatch appeared yesterday on The American Guide. While Jon and I were working on this project, we noticed the amount of ‘offerings’ left at each gravestone. These famous resting places were covered with sentiments from admirers and followers.  Signs of people visiting and leaving behind coins, empty bottles of gin, cigars, flower pots, a single rose, poetry, and figurines were the most touching moments of the search. Discovering these items, tenderly placed and  left behind in homage, was uplifting. Although they may be deceased (some of them passed 150+ years ago) they are definitely not forgotten. They are so much remembered that there are still many museums, festivals, and conventions dedicated to them.  Here is a list of some current and upcoming organized events happening across the country: Jack Kerouac, Lowell Celebrates Kerouac Festival, Lowell MA Lizzie Borden, Lizzie Borden Bed & Breakfast/Museum, Fall River, MA B.F. Skinner,B.F. Skinner Foundation Conferences Minor White, Madison Museum of Contemporary Art, Madison, WI Buckminster Fuller, Toulouse International Art Festival, exhibition of The Fly’s Eye Dome; Buckminster Fuller Institute Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Maine Historical Society/Wadsworth-Longfellow House, Portland, ME Henry David Thoreau, The Thoreau Society  - Annual Gathering, Concord, MA H.P. Lovecraft, H.P. Lovecraft Festival - Radio Theater, NYC; NecronomiCon, Providence, RI Nathaniel Hawthorne, Hawthorne Community Association - Events, Raymond, ME Robert Creeley, Oral History Initiative: ON ROBERT CREELEY, Harvard University, Cambridge, MA Winslow Homer, Winslow Homer Studio Tours, Portland, ME * * * Brittany Marcoux is a Guide to Rhode Island and an At-Large Guide to New England for The American Guide. She’s a photographer and a native New Englander. Follow her work on Tumblr or via her website. Jon Creamer is a teacher and photographer, currently on sabbatical from the Groton School in Groton, MA, based in Providence, RI between his travels. More of his work can be seen at his website and on tumblr at years-of-indiscretion.tumblr.com.
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THE SEARCH FOR FAMOUS GRAVES IN NEW ENGLAND (PART II) Mt. Auburn Cemetery (free map at gate) has famous graves of nearly every one of note who has died in or near Boston for the past hundred years. … The reason for the choice of Mt. Auburn by the families of so many celebrities, before it became so historically noted, was that it was for many years the only garden cemetery in the environs of Boston. It is still one of the two most beautiful. Its grounds are thickly wooded with rare trees and shrubs, landscaped with occasional ponds, and they rise to a commanding hill, from which is a dreamy view of the winding Charles River, Cambridge, Boston, and distant hills. … Sleepy Hollow Cemetery, lying in an oval basin surrounded by high ridges and tall trees, holds the graves of many of Concord’s notable dead…The tombstone of Ephraim Bull, who lacked the shrewdness to profit by his development of the Concord grape, bears the significant epitaph: ‘He sowed, others reaped.’ —Massachusetts, A Guide To Its Places and People (WPA, 1937) Editor’s note: Part I of this dispatch appeared yesterday on The American Guide. While Jon and I were working on this project, we noticed the amount of ‘offerings’ left at each gravestone. These famous resting places were covered with sentiments from admirers and followers.  Signs of people visiting and leaving behind coins, empty bottles of gin, cigars, flower pots, a single rose, poetry, and figurines were the most touching moments of the search. Discovering these items, tenderly placed and  left behind in homage, was uplifting. Although they may be deceased (some of them passed 150+ years ago) they are definitely not forgotten. They are so much remembered that there are still many museums, festivals, and conventions dedicated to them.  Here is a list of some current and upcoming organized events happening across the country: Jack Kerouac, Lowell Celebrates Kerouac Festival, Lowell MA Lizzie Borden, Lizzie Borden Bed & Breakfast/Museum, Fall River, MA B.F. Skinner,B.F. Skinner Foundation Conferences Minor White, Madison Museum of Contemporary Art, Madison, WI Buckminster Fuller, Toulouse International Art Festival, exhibition of The Fly’s Eye Dome; Buckminster Fuller Institute Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Maine Historical Society/Wadsworth-Longfellow House, Portland, ME Henry David Thoreau, The Thoreau Society  - Annual Gathering, Concord, MA H.P. Lovecraft, H.P. Lovecraft Festival - Radio Theater, NYC; NecronomiCon, Providence, RI Nathaniel Hawthorne, Hawthorne Community Association - Events, Raymond, ME Robert Creeley, Oral History Initiative: ON ROBERT CREELEY, Harvard University, Cambridge, MA Winslow Homer, Winslow Homer Studio Tours, Portland, ME * * * Brittany Marcoux is a Guide to Rhode Island and an At-Large Guide to New England for The American Guide. She’s a photographer and a native New Englander. Follow her work on Tumblr or via her website. Jon Creamer is a teacher and photographer, currently on sabbatical from the Groton School in Groton, MA, based in Providence, RI between his travels. More of his work can be seen at his website and on tumblr at years-of-indiscretion.tumblr.com.
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THE SEARCH FOR FAMOUS GRAVES IN NEW ENGLAND (PART II) Mt. Auburn Cemetery (free map at gate) has famous graves of nearly every one of note who has died in or near Boston for the past hundred years. … The reason for the choice of Mt. Auburn by the families of so many celebrities, before it became so historically noted, was that it was for many years the only garden cemetery in the environs of Boston. It is still one of the two most beautiful. Its grounds are thickly wooded with rare trees and shrubs, landscaped with occasional ponds, and they rise to a commanding hill, from which is a dreamy view of the winding Charles River, Cambridge, Boston, and distant hills. … Sleepy Hollow Cemetery, lying in an oval basin surrounded by high ridges and tall trees, holds the graves of many of Concord’s notable dead…The tombstone of Ephraim Bull, who lacked the shrewdness to profit by his development of the Concord grape, bears the significant epitaph: ‘He sowed, others reaped.’ —Massachusetts, A Guide To Its Places and People (WPA, 1937) Editor’s note: Part I of this dispatch appeared yesterday on The American Guide. While Jon and I were working on this project, we noticed the amount of ‘offerings’ left at each gravestone. These famous resting places were covered with sentiments from admirers and followers.  Signs of people visiting and leaving behind coins, empty bottles of gin, cigars, flower pots, a single rose, poetry, and figurines were the most touching moments of the search. Discovering these items, tenderly placed and  left behind in homage, was uplifting. Although they may be deceased (some of them passed 150+ years ago) they are definitely not forgotten. They are so much remembered that there are still many museums, festivals, and conventions dedicated to them.  Here is a list of some current and upcoming organized events happening across the country: Jack Kerouac, Lowell Celebrates Kerouac Festival, Lowell MA Lizzie Borden, Lizzie Borden Bed & Breakfast/Museum, Fall River, MA B.F. Skinner,B.F. Skinner Foundation Conferences Minor White, Madison Museum of Contemporary Art, Madison, WI Buckminster Fuller, Toulouse International Art Festival, exhibition of The Fly’s Eye Dome; Buckminster Fuller Institute Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Maine Historical Society/Wadsworth-Longfellow House, Portland, ME Henry David Thoreau, The Thoreau Society  - Annual Gathering, Concord, MA H.P. Lovecraft, H.P. Lovecraft Festival - Radio Theater, NYC; NecronomiCon, Providence, RI Nathaniel Hawthorne, Hawthorne Community Association - Events, Raymond, ME Robert Creeley, Oral History Initiative: ON ROBERT CREELEY, Harvard University, Cambridge, MA Winslow Homer, Winslow Homer Studio Tours, Portland, ME * * * Brittany Marcoux is a Guide to Rhode Island and an At-Large Guide to New England for The American Guide. She’s a photographer and a native New Englander. Follow her work on Tumblr or via her website. Jon Creamer is a teacher and photographer, currently on sabbatical from the Groton School in Groton, MA, based in Providence, RI between his travels. More of his work can be seen at his website and on tumblr at years-of-indiscretion.tumblr.com.
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THE SEARCH FOR FAMOUS GRAVES IN NEW ENGLAND (PART II)

Mt. Auburn Cemetery (free map at gate) has famous graves of nearly every one of note who has died in or near Boston for the past hundred years. … The reason for the choice of Mt. Auburn by the families of so many celebrities, before it became so historically noted, was that it was for many years the only garden cemetery in the environs of Boston. It is still one of the two most beautiful. Its grounds are thickly wooded with rare trees and shrubs, landscaped with occasional ponds, and they rise to a commanding hill, from which is a dreamy view of the winding Charles River, Cambridge, Boston, and distant hills. …

Sleepy Hollow Cemetery, lying in an oval basin surrounded by high ridges and tall trees, holds the graves of many of Concord’s notable dead…The tombstone of Ephraim Bull, who lacked the shrewdness to profit by his development of the Concord grape, bears the significant epitaph: ‘He sowed, others reaped.’

—Massachusetts, A Guide To Its Places and People (WPA, 1937)

Editor’s note: Part I of this dispatch appeared yesterday on The American Guide.

While Jon and I were working on this project, we noticed the amount of ‘offerings’ left at each gravestone. These famous resting places were covered with sentiments from admirers and followers.  Signs of people visiting and leaving behind coins, empty bottles of gin, cigars, flower pots, a single rose, poetry, and figurines were the most touching moments of the search. Discovering these items, tenderly placed and  left behind in homage, was uplifting. Although they may be deceased (some of them passed 150+ years ago) they are definitely not forgotten.

They are so much remembered that there are still many museums, festivals, and conventions dedicated to them.  Here is a list of some current and upcoming organized events happening across the country:

Jack Kerouac, Lowell Celebrates Kerouac Festival, Lowell MA

Lizzie Borden, Lizzie Borden Bed & Breakfast/Museum, Fall River, MA

B.F. Skinner,B.F. Skinner Foundation Conferences

Minor White, Madison Museum of Contemporary Art, Madison, WI

Buckminster Fuller, Toulouse International Art Festival, exhibition of The Fly’s Eye Dome; Buckminster Fuller Institute

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Maine Historical Society/Wadsworth-Longfellow House, Portland, ME

Henry David Thoreau, The Thoreau Society  - Annual Gathering, Concord, MA

H.P. Lovecraft, H.P. Lovecraft Festival - Radio Theater, NYC; NecronomiCon, Providence, RI

Nathaniel Hawthorne, Hawthorne Community Association - Events, Raymond, ME

Robert Creeley, Oral History Initiative: ON ROBERT CREELEY, Harvard University, Cambridge, MA

Winslow Homer, Winslow Homer Studio Tours, Portland, ME

* * *

Brittany Marcoux is a Guide to Rhode Island and an At-Large Guide to New England for The American Guide. She’s a photographer and a native New Englander. Follow her work on Tumblr or via her website.

Jon Creamer is a teacher and photographer, currently on sabbatical from the Groton School in Groton, MA, based in Providence, RI between his travels. More of his work can be seen at his website and on tumblr at years-of-indiscretion.tumblr.com.

THE SEARCH FOR FAMOUS GRAVES IN NEW ENGLAND (PART I) The art of carving found a particularly touching expression in gravestones, which apparently deserved special attention in the solemn judgment of Colonials. Such memorials…bear indications of an authentic talent for carving in decorative borders, sacred symbols, and ruminative epitaphs. It was an original and appropriate manner of commemoration, with far more vitality in design and feeling for the craft than was revealed in native plastic art of later date. —Massachusetts, A Guide To Its Places and People (WPA, 1937) —Jack Kerouac (Lowell, MA), Lizzie  Borden (Fall River, MA), B.F Skinner (Cambridge, MA), Minor White (Cambridge, MA), Buckminster Fuller (Cambridge, MA), Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (Cambridge, MA), Henry David Thoreau (Concord, MA), Ralph Waldo Emerson (Concord, MA), Louisa May Alcott (Concord, MA), H.P. Lovecraft (Providence, RI), Nathaniel Hawthorne (Concord, MA), Margaret Fuller (Cambridge, MA), Robert Creeley (Cambridge, MA), Winslow Homer (Cambridge, MA)— For the month of May, Jon Creamer and I set out to find, pay our respect, and photograph several famous graves throughout New England. The list above contains the ones that we sought after and found, all (mostly) in Massachusetts. Jack Kerouac was the first grave that I set out to find and is also what inspired me to go forward with this project.  Like many 18 year olds, I fell in love with Kerouac’s work when I first read On the Road. His words inspired me to travel, to leave my small town and see this great big country, to gas up and get out. Eight years later, I find myself still gassing-up and getting out…gathering inspiration from Jack along the way. This time from his death. When I discovered that Kerouac was buried only a mere two hours away from me in Lowell, Massachusetts, it became a must-plan weekend roadtrip.  This road trip happened and soon started the ‘Famous New England Graves Search’ of May 2013. Jon and I traveled separately throughout New England searching for these iconic, historic, and poetic tombstones. While I spent most of my time at the Mount Auburn Cemetery in Cambridge, MA, Jon was not far away in Concord, MA exploring Sleepy Hollow Cemetery. Within this 15 mile distance, we discovered some of history’s most influential, inspirational, and memorable people. To be continued….  * * * Brittany Marcoux is a Guide to Rhode Island and an At-Large Guide to New England for The American Guide. She’s a photographer and a native New Englander. Follow her work on Tumblr or via her website. Jon Creamer is a teacher and photographer, currently on sabbatical from the Groton School in Groton, MA, based in Providence, RI between his travels. More of his work can be seen at his website and on tumblr at years-of-indiscretion.tumblr.com.
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THE SEARCH FOR FAMOUS GRAVES IN NEW ENGLAND (PART I) The art of carving found a particularly touching expression in gravestones, which apparently deserved special attention in the solemn judgment of Colonials. Such memorials…bear indications of an authentic talent for carving in decorative borders, sacred symbols, and ruminative epitaphs. It was an original and appropriate manner of commemoration, with far more vitality in design and feeling for the craft than was revealed in native plastic art of later date. —Massachusetts, A Guide To Its Places and People (WPA, 1937) —Jack Kerouac (Lowell, MA), Lizzie  Borden (Fall River, MA), B.F Skinner (Cambridge, MA), Minor White (Cambridge, MA), Buckminster Fuller (Cambridge, MA), Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (Cambridge, MA), Henry David Thoreau (Concord, MA), Ralph Waldo Emerson (Concord, MA), Louisa May Alcott (Concord, MA), H.P. Lovecraft (Providence, RI), Nathaniel Hawthorne (Concord, MA), Margaret Fuller (Cambridge, MA), Robert Creeley (Cambridge, MA), Winslow Homer (Cambridge, MA)— For the month of May, Jon Creamer and I set out to find, pay our respect, and photograph several famous graves throughout New England. The list above contains the ones that we sought after and found, all (mostly) in Massachusetts. Jack Kerouac was the first grave that I set out to find and is also what inspired me to go forward with this project.  Like many 18 year olds, I fell in love with Kerouac’s work when I first read On the Road. His words inspired me to travel, to leave my small town and see this great big country, to gas up and get out. Eight years later, I find myself still gassing-up and getting out…gathering inspiration from Jack along the way. This time from his death. When I discovered that Kerouac was buried only a mere two hours away from me in Lowell, Massachusetts, it became a must-plan weekend roadtrip.  This road trip happened and soon started the ‘Famous New England Graves Search’ of May 2013. Jon and I traveled separately throughout New England searching for these iconic, historic, and poetic tombstones. While I spent most of my time at the Mount Auburn Cemetery in Cambridge, MA, Jon was not far away in Concord, MA exploring Sleepy Hollow Cemetery. Within this 15 mile distance, we discovered some of history’s most influential, inspirational, and memorable people. To be continued….  * * * Brittany Marcoux is a Guide to Rhode Island and an At-Large Guide to New England for The American Guide. She’s a photographer and a native New Englander. Follow her work on Tumblr or via her website. Jon Creamer is a teacher and photographer, currently on sabbatical from the Groton School in Groton, MA, based in Providence, RI between his travels. More of his work can be seen at his website and on tumblr at years-of-indiscretion.tumblr.com.
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THE SEARCH FOR FAMOUS GRAVES IN NEW ENGLAND (PART I) The art of carving found a particularly touching expression in gravestones, which apparently deserved special attention in the solemn judgment of Colonials. Such memorials…bear indications of an authentic talent for carving in decorative borders, sacred symbols, and ruminative epitaphs. It was an original and appropriate manner of commemoration, with far more vitality in design and feeling for the craft than was revealed in native plastic art of later date. —Massachusetts, A Guide To Its Places and People (WPA, 1937) —Jack Kerouac (Lowell, MA), Lizzie  Borden (Fall River, MA), B.F Skinner (Cambridge, MA), Minor White (Cambridge, MA), Buckminster Fuller (Cambridge, MA), Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (Cambridge, MA), Henry David Thoreau (Concord, MA), Ralph Waldo Emerson (Concord, MA), Louisa May Alcott (Concord, MA), H.P. Lovecraft (Providence, RI), Nathaniel Hawthorne (Concord, MA), Margaret Fuller (Cambridge, MA), Robert Creeley (Cambridge, MA), Winslow Homer (Cambridge, MA)— For the month of May, Jon Creamer and I set out to find, pay our respect, and photograph several famous graves throughout New England. The list above contains the ones that we sought after and found, all (mostly) in Massachusetts. Jack Kerouac was the first grave that I set out to find and is also what inspired me to go forward with this project.  Like many 18 year olds, I fell in love with Kerouac’s work when I first read On the Road. His words inspired me to travel, to leave my small town and see this great big country, to gas up and get out. Eight years later, I find myself still gassing-up and getting out…gathering inspiration from Jack along the way. This time from his death. When I discovered that Kerouac was buried only a mere two hours away from me in Lowell, Massachusetts, it became a must-plan weekend roadtrip.  This road trip happened and soon started the ‘Famous New England Graves Search’ of May 2013. Jon and I traveled separately throughout New England searching for these iconic, historic, and poetic tombstones. While I spent most of my time at the Mount Auburn Cemetery in Cambridge, MA, Jon was not far away in Concord, MA exploring Sleepy Hollow Cemetery. Within this 15 mile distance, we discovered some of history’s most influential, inspirational, and memorable people. To be continued….  * * * Brittany Marcoux is a Guide to Rhode Island and an At-Large Guide to New England for The American Guide. She’s a photographer and a native New Englander. Follow her work on Tumblr or via her website. Jon Creamer is a teacher and photographer, currently on sabbatical from the Groton School in Groton, MA, based in Providence, RI between his travels. More of his work can be seen at his website and on tumblr at years-of-indiscretion.tumblr.com.
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THE SEARCH FOR FAMOUS GRAVES IN NEW ENGLAND (PART I) The art of carving found a particularly touching expression in gravestones, which apparently deserved special attention in the solemn judgment of Colonials. Such memorials…bear indications of an authentic talent for carving in decorative borders, sacred symbols, and ruminative epitaphs. It was an original and appropriate manner of commemoration, with far more vitality in design and feeling for the craft than was revealed in native plastic art of later date. —Massachusetts, A Guide To Its Places and People (WPA, 1937) —Jack Kerouac (Lowell, MA), Lizzie  Borden (Fall River, MA), B.F Skinner (Cambridge, MA), Minor White (Cambridge, MA), Buckminster Fuller (Cambridge, MA), Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (Cambridge, MA), Henry David Thoreau (Concord, MA), Ralph Waldo Emerson (Concord, MA), Louisa May Alcott (Concord, MA), H.P. Lovecraft (Providence, RI), Nathaniel Hawthorne (Concord, MA), Margaret Fuller (Cambridge, MA), Robert Creeley (Cambridge, MA), Winslow Homer (Cambridge, MA)— For the month of May, Jon Creamer and I set out to find, pay our respect, and photograph several famous graves throughout New England. The list above contains the ones that we sought after and found, all (mostly) in Massachusetts. Jack Kerouac was the first grave that I set out to find and is also what inspired me to go forward with this project.  Like many 18 year olds, I fell in love with Kerouac’s work when I first read On the Road. His words inspired me to travel, to leave my small town and see this great big country, to gas up and get out. Eight years later, I find myself still gassing-up and getting out…gathering inspiration from Jack along the way. This time from his death. When I discovered that Kerouac was buried only a mere two hours away from me in Lowell, Massachusetts, it became a must-plan weekend roadtrip.  This road trip happened and soon started the ‘Famous New England Graves Search’ of May 2013. Jon and I traveled separately throughout New England searching for these iconic, historic, and poetic tombstones. While I spent most of my time at the Mount Auburn Cemetery in Cambridge, MA, Jon was not far away in Concord, MA exploring Sleepy Hollow Cemetery. Within this 15 mile distance, we discovered some of history’s most influential, inspirational, and memorable people. To be continued….  * * * Brittany Marcoux is a Guide to Rhode Island and an At-Large Guide to New England for The American Guide. She’s a photographer and a native New Englander. Follow her work on Tumblr or via her website. Jon Creamer is a teacher and photographer, currently on sabbatical from the Groton School in Groton, MA, based in Providence, RI between his travels. More of his work can be seen at his website and on tumblr at years-of-indiscretion.tumblr.com.
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THE SEARCH FOR FAMOUS GRAVES IN NEW ENGLAND (PART I) The art of carving found a particularly touching expression in gravestones, which apparently deserved special attention in the solemn judgment of Colonials. Such memorials…bear indications of an authentic talent for carving in decorative borders, sacred symbols, and ruminative epitaphs. It was an original and appropriate manner of commemoration, with far more vitality in design and feeling for the craft than was revealed in native plastic art of later date. —Massachusetts, A Guide To Its Places and People (WPA, 1937) —Jack Kerouac (Lowell, MA), Lizzie  Borden (Fall River, MA), B.F Skinner (Cambridge, MA), Minor White (Cambridge, MA), Buckminster Fuller (Cambridge, MA), Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (Cambridge, MA), Henry David Thoreau (Concord, MA), Ralph Waldo Emerson (Concord, MA), Louisa May Alcott (Concord, MA), H.P. Lovecraft (Providence, RI), Nathaniel Hawthorne (Concord, MA), Margaret Fuller (Cambridge, MA), Robert Creeley (Cambridge, MA), Winslow Homer (Cambridge, MA)— For the month of May, Jon Creamer and I set out to find, pay our respect, and photograph several famous graves throughout New England. The list above contains the ones that we sought after and found, all (mostly) in Massachusetts. Jack Kerouac was the first grave that I set out to find and is also what inspired me to go forward with this project.  Like many 18 year olds, I fell in love with Kerouac’s work when I first read On the Road. His words inspired me to travel, to leave my small town and see this great big country, to gas up and get out. Eight years later, I find myself still gassing-up and getting out…gathering inspiration from Jack along the way. This time from his death. When I discovered that Kerouac was buried only a mere two hours away from me in Lowell, Massachusetts, it became a must-plan weekend roadtrip.  This road trip happened and soon started the ‘Famous New England Graves Search’ of May 2013. Jon and I traveled separately throughout New England searching for these iconic, historic, and poetic tombstones. While I spent most of my time at the Mount Auburn Cemetery in Cambridge, MA, Jon was not far away in Concord, MA exploring Sleepy Hollow Cemetery. Within this 15 mile distance, we discovered some of history’s most influential, inspirational, and memorable people. To be continued….  * * * Brittany Marcoux is a Guide to Rhode Island and an At-Large Guide to New England for The American Guide. She’s a photographer and a native New Englander. Follow her work on Tumblr or via her website. Jon Creamer is a teacher and photographer, currently on sabbatical from the Groton School in Groton, MA, based in Providence, RI between his travels. More of his work can be seen at his website and on tumblr at years-of-indiscretion.tumblr.com.
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THE SEARCH FOR FAMOUS GRAVES IN NEW ENGLAND (PART I) The art of carving found a particularly touching expression in gravestones, which apparently deserved special attention in the solemn judgment of Colonials. Such memorials…bear indications of an authentic talent for carving in decorative borders, sacred symbols, and ruminative epitaphs. It was an original and appropriate manner of commemoration, with far more vitality in design and feeling for the craft than was revealed in native plastic art of later date. —Massachusetts, A Guide To Its Places and People (WPA, 1937) —Jack Kerouac (Lowell, MA), Lizzie  Borden (Fall River, MA), B.F Skinner (Cambridge, MA), Minor White (Cambridge, MA), Buckminster Fuller (Cambridge, MA), Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (Cambridge, MA), Henry David Thoreau (Concord, MA), Ralph Waldo Emerson (Concord, MA), Louisa May Alcott (Concord, MA), H.P. Lovecraft (Providence, RI), Nathaniel Hawthorne (Concord, MA), Margaret Fuller (Cambridge, MA), Robert Creeley (Cambridge, MA), Winslow Homer (Cambridge, MA)— For the month of May, Jon Creamer and I set out to find, pay our respect, and photograph several famous graves throughout New England. The list above contains the ones that we sought after and found, all (mostly) in Massachusetts. Jack Kerouac was the first grave that I set out to find and is also what inspired me to go forward with this project.  Like many 18 year olds, I fell in love with Kerouac’s work when I first read On the Road. His words inspired me to travel, to leave my small town and see this great big country, to gas up and get out. Eight years later, I find myself still gassing-up and getting out…gathering inspiration from Jack along the way. This time from his death. When I discovered that Kerouac was buried only a mere two hours away from me in Lowell, Massachusetts, it became a must-plan weekend roadtrip.  This road trip happened and soon started the ‘Famous New England Graves Search’ of May 2013. Jon and I traveled separately throughout New England searching for these iconic, historic, and poetic tombstones. While I spent most of my time at the Mount Auburn Cemetery in Cambridge, MA, Jon was not far away in Concord, MA exploring Sleepy Hollow Cemetery. Within this 15 mile distance, we discovered some of history’s most influential, inspirational, and memorable people. To be continued….  * * * Brittany Marcoux is a Guide to Rhode Island and an At-Large Guide to New England for The American Guide. She’s a photographer and a native New Englander. Follow her work on Tumblr or via her website. Jon Creamer is a teacher and photographer, currently on sabbatical from the Groton School in Groton, MA, based in Providence, RI between his travels. More of his work can be seen at his website and on tumblr at years-of-indiscretion.tumblr.com.
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THE SEARCH FOR FAMOUS GRAVES IN NEW ENGLAND (PART I)

The art of carving found a particularly touching expression in gravestones, which apparently deserved special attention in the solemn judgment of Colonials. Such memorials…bear indications of an authentic talent for carving in decorative borders, sacred symbols, and ruminative epitaphs. It was an original and appropriate manner of commemoration, with far more vitality in design and feeling for the craft than was revealed in native plastic art of later date.

—Massachusetts, A Guide To Its Places and People (WPA, 1937)

—Jack Kerouac (Lowell, MA), Lizzie  Borden (Fall River, MA), B.F Skinner (Cambridge, MA), Minor White (Cambridge, MA), Buckminster Fuller (Cambridge, MA), Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (Cambridge, MA), Henry David Thoreau (Concord, MA), Ralph Waldo Emerson (Concord, MA), Louisa May Alcott (Concord, MA), H.P. Lovecraft (Providence, RI), Nathaniel Hawthorne (Concord, MA), Margaret Fuller (Cambridge, MA), Robert Creeley (Cambridge, MA), Winslow Homer (Cambridge, MA)—

For the month of May, Jon Creamer and I set out to find, pay our respect, and photograph several famous graves throughout New England. The list above contains the ones that we sought after and found, all (mostly) in Massachusetts.

Jack Kerouac was the first grave that I set out to find and is also what inspired me to go forward with this project.  Like many 18 year olds, I fell in love with Kerouac’s work when I first read On the Road. His words inspired me to travel, to leave my small town and see this great big country, to gas up and get out. Eight years later, I find myself still gassing-up and getting out…gathering inspiration from Jack along the way. This time from his death. When I discovered that Kerouac was buried only a mere two hours away from me in Lowell, Massachusetts, it became a must-plan weekend roadtrip.  This road trip happened and soon started the ‘Famous New England Graves Search’ of May 2013.

Jon and I traveled separately throughout New England searching for these iconic, historic, and poetic tombstones. While I spent most of my time at the Mount Auburn Cemetery in Cambridge, MA, Jon was not far away in Concord, MA exploring Sleepy Hollow Cemetery. Within this 15 mile distance, we discovered some of history’s most influential, inspirational, and memorable people.

To be continued…. 

* * *

Brittany Marcoux is a Guide to Rhode Island and an At-Large Guide to New England for The American Guide. She’s a photographer and a native New Englander. Follow her work on Tumblr or via her website.

Jon Creamer is a teacher and photographer, currently on sabbatical from the Groton School in Groton, MA, based in Providence, RI between his travels. More of his work can be seen at his website and on tumblr at years-of-indiscretion.tumblr.com.

NAVAJO DAM - NEW MEXICO With the three goals of water storage, power and flood control, the Colorado River Storage Project was made into law by Congress in 1956 and ushered in one of the last great Western water projects of the “big dam” age. Four units were built as part of the project: the massive Glen Canyon and Lake Powell in northern Arizona, Flaming Gorge in northeastern Utah, Aspinall in Colorado and the lesser known Navajo Dam and Reservoir in northwestern New Mexico and southern Colorado. Built in a high desert area that receives just 10 inches of rain a year, Navajo Dam collects the valuable spring runoff from the mountains of Colorado as it flows down the Pine, Piedra and San Juan rivers. The water is stored for irrigation use—such as the Navajo Indian Irrigation Project—and hydroelectric power for the surrounding communities. The earthen dam, completed in 1962, is 40 stories high and 3,648 feet long. The reservoir covers a surface area of over 24 square miles with 159 miles of shoreline, making it the state’s second largest lake and a water recreation paradise for New Mexicans now enduring a third year of severe drought. The San Juan River continues through the dam and eventually travels west through the Navajo Nation and Utah’s canyon country to Lake Powell, where it joins up with the Colorado River for its journey through the Grand Canyon and, if there is any water left, draining into the Sea of Cortez. Guide Note:  See a panorama of Navajo Dam * * * At-Large Guide to the West James Orndorf was born in Minnesota, but knew at a very young age that the future lay out west. He is currently photographing and illustrating outside of Durango, Colorado. You can see what he’s up to at inlandwest.tumblr.com and roughshelter.com.
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NAVAJO DAM - NEW MEXICO With the three goals of water storage, power and flood control, the Colorado River Storage Project was made into law by Congress in 1956 and ushered in one of the last great Western water projects of the “big dam” age. Four units were built as part of the project: the massive Glen Canyon and Lake Powell in northern Arizona, Flaming Gorge in northeastern Utah, Aspinall in Colorado and the lesser known Navajo Dam and Reservoir in northwestern New Mexico and southern Colorado. Built in a high desert area that receives just 10 inches of rain a year, Navajo Dam collects the valuable spring runoff from the mountains of Colorado as it flows down the Pine, Piedra and San Juan rivers. The water is stored for irrigation use—such as the Navajo Indian Irrigation Project—and hydroelectric power for the surrounding communities. The earthen dam, completed in 1962, is 40 stories high and 3,648 feet long. The reservoir covers a surface area of over 24 square miles with 159 miles of shoreline, making it the state’s second largest lake and a water recreation paradise for New Mexicans now enduring a third year of severe drought. The San Juan River continues through the dam and eventually travels west through the Navajo Nation and Utah’s canyon country to Lake Powell, where it joins up with the Colorado River for its journey through the Grand Canyon and, if there is any water left, draining into the Sea of Cortez. Guide Note:  See a panorama of Navajo Dam * * * At-Large Guide to the West James Orndorf was born in Minnesota, but knew at a very young age that the future lay out west. He is currently photographing and illustrating outside of Durango, Colorado. You can see what he’s up to at inlandwest.tumblr.com and roughshelter.com.
Zoom Info
NAVAJO DAM - NEW MEXICO With the three goals of water storage, power and flood control, the Colorado River Storage Project was made into law by Congress in 1956 and ushered in one of the last great Western water projects of the “big dam” age. Four units were built as part of the project: the massive Glen Canyon and Lake Powell in northern Arizona, Flaming Gorge in northeastern Utah, Aspinall in Colorado and the lesser known Navajo Dam and Reservoir in northwestern New Mexico and southern Colorado. Built in a high desert area that receives just 10 inches of rain a year, Navajo Dam collects the valuable spring runoff from the mountains of Colorado as it flows down the Pine, Piedra and San Juan rivers. The water is stored for irrigation use—such as the Navajo Indian Irrigation Project—and hydroelectric power for the surrounding communities. The earthen dam, completed in 1962, is 40 stories high and 3,648 feet long. The reservoir covers a surface area of over 24 square miles with 159 miles of shoreline, making it the state’s second largest lake and a water recreation paradise for New Mexicans now enduring a third year of severe drought. The San Juan River continues through the dam and eventually travels west through the Navajo Nation and Utah’s canyon country to Lake Powell, where it joins up with the Colorado River for its journey through the Grand Canyon and, if there is any water left, draining into the Sea of Cortez. Guide Note:  See a panorama of Navajo Dam * * * At-Large Guide to the West James Orndorf was born in Minnesota, but knew at a very young age that the future lay out west. He is currently photographing and illustrating outside of Durango, Colorado. You can see what he’s up to at inlandwest.tumblr.com and roughshelter.com.
Zoom Info
NAVAJO DAM - NEW MEXICO With the three goals of water storage, power and flood control, the Colorado River Storage Project was made into law by Congress in 1956 and ushered in one of the last great Western water projects of the “big dam” age. Four units were built as part of the project: the massive Glen Canyon and Lake Powell in northern Arizona, Flaming Gorge in northeastern Utah, Aspinall in Colorado and the lesser known Navajo Dam and Reservoir in northwestern New Mexico and southern Colorado. Built in a high desert area that receives just 10 inches of rain a year, Navajo Dam collects the valuable spring runoff from the mountains of Colorado as it flows down the Pine, Piedra and San Juan rivers. The water is stored for irrigation use—such as the Navajo Indian Irrigation Project—and hydroelectric power for the surrounding communities. The earthen dam, completed in 1962, is 40 stories high and 3,648 feet long. The reservoir covers a surface area of over 24 square miles with 159 miles of shoreline, making it the state’s second largest lake and a water recreation paradise for New Mexicans now enduring a third year of severe drought. The San Juan River continues through the dam and eventually travels west through the Navajo Nation and Utah’s canyon country to Lake Powell, where it joins up with the Colorado River for its journey through the Grand Canyon and, if there is any water left, draining into the Sea of Cortez. Guide Note:  See a panorama of Navajo Dam * * * At-Large Guide to the West James Orndorf was born in Minnesota, but knew at a very young age that the future lay out west. He is currently photographing and illustrating outside of Durango, Colorado. You can see what he’s up to at inlandwest.tumblr.com and roughshelter.com.
Zoom Info
NAVAJO DAM - NEW MEXICO With the three goals of water storage, power and flood control, the Colorado River Storage Project was made into law by Congress in 1956 and ushered in one of the last great Western water projects of the “big dam” age. Four units were built as part of the project: the massive Glen Canyon and Lake Powell in northern Arizona, Flaming Gorge in northeastern Utah, Aspinall in Colorado and the lesser known Navajo Dam and Reservoir in northwestern New Mexico and southern Colorado. Built in a high desert area that receives just 10 inches of rain a year, Navajo Dam collects the valuable spring runoff from the mountains of Colorado as it flows down the Pine, Piedra and San Juan rivers. The water is stored for irrigation use—such as the Navajo Indian Irrigation Project—and hydroelectric power for the surrounding communities. The earthen dam, completed in 1962, is 40 stories high and 3,648 feet long. The reservoir covers a surface area of over 24 square miles with 159 miles of shoreline, making it the state’s second largest lake and a water recreation paradise for New Mexicans now enduring a third year of severe drought. The San Juan River continues through the dam and eventually travels west through the Navajo Nation and Utah’s canyon country to Lake Powell, where it joins up with the Colorado River for its journey through the Grand Canyon and, if there is any water left, draining into the Sea of Cortez. Guide Note:  See a panorama of Navajo Dam * * * At-Large Guide to the West James Orndorf was born in Minnesota, but knew at a very young age that the future lay out west. He is currently photographing and illustrating outside of Durango, Colorado. You can see what he’s up to at inlandwest.tumblr.com and roughshelter.com.
Zoom Info
NAVAJO DAM - NEW MEXICO With the three goals of water storage, power and flood control, the Colorado River Storage Project was made into law by Congress in 1956 and ushered in one of the last great Western water projects of the “big dam” age. Four units were built as part of the project: the massive Glen Canyon and Lake Powell in northern Arizona, Flaming Gorge in northeastern Utah, Aspinall in Colorado and the lesser known Navajo Dam and Reservoir in northwestern New Mexico and southern Colorado. Built in a high desert area that receives just 10 inches of rain a year, Navajo Dam collects the valuable spring runoff from the mountains of Colorado as it flows down the Pine, Piedra and San Juan rivers. The water is stored for irrigation use—such as the Navajo Indian Irrigation Project—and hydroelectric power for the surrounding communities. The earthen dam, completed in 1962, is 40 stories high and 3,648 feet long. The reservoir covers a surface area of over 24 square miles with 159 miles of shoreline, making it the state’s second largest lake and a water recreation paradise for New Mexicans now enduring a third year of severe drought. The San Juan River continues through the dam and eventually travels west through the Navajo Nation and Utah’s canyon country to Lake Powell, where it joins up with the Colorado River for its journey through the Grand Canyon and, if there is any water left, draining into the Sea of Cortez. Guide Note:  See a panorama of Navajo Dam * * * At-Large Guide to the West James Orndorf was born in Minnesota, but knew at a very young age that the future lay out west. He is currently photographing and illustrating outside of Durango, Colorado. You can see what he’s up to at inlandwest.tumblr.com and roughshelter.com.
Zoom Info
NAVAJO DAM - NEW MEXICO With the three goals of water storage, power and flood control, the Colorado River Storage Project was made into law by Congress in 1956 and ushered in one of the last great Western water projects of the “big dam” age. Four units were built as part of the project: the massive Glen Canyon and Lake Powell in northern Arizona, Flaming Gorge in northeastern Utah, Aspinall in Colorado and the lesser known Navajo Dam and Reservoir in northwestern New Mexico and southern Colorado. Built in a high desert area that receives just 10 inches of rain a year, Navajo Dam collects the valuable spring runoff from the mountains of Colorado as it flows down the Pine, Piedra and San Juan rivers. The water is stored for irrigation use—such as the Navajo Indian Irrigation Project—and hydroelectric power for the surrounding communities. The earthen dam, completed in 1962, is 40 stories high and 3,648 feet long. The reservoir covers a surface area of over 24 square miles with 159 miles of shoreline, making it the state’s second largest lake and a water recreation paradise for New Mexicans now enduring a third year of severe drought. The San Juan River continues through the dam and eventually travels west through the Navajo Nation and Utah’s canyon country to Lake Powell, where it joins up with the Colorado River for its journey through the Grand Canyon and, if there is any water left, draining into the Sea of Cortez. Guide Note:  See a panorama of Navajo Dam * * * At-Large Guide to the West James Orndorf was born in Minnesota, but knew at a very young age that the future lay out west. He is currently photographing and illustrating outside of Durango, Colorado. You can see what he’s up to at inlandwest.tumblr.com and roughshelter.com.
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NAVAJO DAM - NEW MEXICO With the three goals of water storage, power and flood control, the Colorado River Storage Project was made into law by Congress in 1956 and ushered in one of the last great Western water projects of the “big dam” age. Four units were built as part of the project: the massive Glen Canyon and Lake Powell in northern Arizona, Flaming Gorge in northeastern Utah, Aspinall in Colorado and the lesser known Navajo Dam and Reservoir in northwestern New Mexico and southern Colorado. Built in a high desert area that receives just 10 inches of rain a year, Navajo Dam collects the valuable spring runoff from the mountains of Colorado as it flows down the Pine, Piedra and San Juan rivers. The water is stored for irrigation use—such as the Navajo Indian Irrigation Project—and hydroelectric power for the surrounding communities. The earthen dam, completed in 1962, is 40 stories high and 3,648 feet long. The reservoir covers a surface area of over 24 square miles with 159 miles of shoreline, making it the state’s second largest lake and a water recreation paradise for New Mexicans now enduring a third year of severe drought. The San Juan River continues through the dam and eventually travels west through the Navajo Nation and Utah’s canyon country to Lake Powell, where it joins up with the Colorado River for its journey through the Grand Canyon and, if there is any water left, draining into the Sea of Cortez. Guide Note:  See a panorama of Navajo Dam * * * At-Large Guide to the West James Orndorf was born in Minnesota, but knew at a very young age that the future lay out west. He is currently photographing and illustrating outside of Durango, Colorado. You can see what he’s up to at inlandwest.tumblr.com and roughshelter.com.
Zoom
NAVAJO DAM - NEW MEXICO With the three goals of water storage, power and flood control, the Colorado River Storage Project was made into law by Congress in 1956 and ushered in one of the last great Western water projects of the “big dam” age. Four units were built as part of the project: the massive Glen Canyon and Lake Powell in northern Arizona, Flaming Gorge in northeastern Utah, Aspinall in Colorado and the lesser known Navajo Dam and Reservoir in northwestern New Mexico and southern Colorado. Built in a high desert area that receives just 10 inches of rain a year, Navajo Dam collects the valuable spring runoff from the mountains of Colorado as it flows down the Pine, Piedra and San Juan rivers. The water is stored for irrigation use—such as the Navajo Indian Irrigation Project—and hydroelectric power for the surrounding communities. The earthen dam, completed in 1962, is 40 stories high and 3,648 feet long. The reservoir covers a surface area of over 24 square miles with 159 miles of shoreline, making it the state’s second largest lake and a water recreation paradise for New Mexicans now enduring a third year of severe drought. The San Juan River continues through the dam and eventually travels west through the Navajo Nation and Utah’s canyon country to Lake Powell, where it joins up with the Colorado River for its journey through the Grand Canyon and, if there is any water left, draining into the Sea of Cortez. Guide Note:  See a panorama of Navajo Dam * * * At-Large Guide to the West James Orndorf was born in Minnesota, but knew at a very young age that the future lay out west. He is currently photographing and illustrating outside of Durango, Colorado. You can see what he’s up to at inlandwest.tumblr.com and roughshelter.com.
Zoom Info
NAVAJO DAM - NEW MEXICO With the three goals of water storage, power and flood control, the Colorado River Storage Project was made into law by Congress in 1956 and ushered in one of the last great Western water projects of the “big dam” age. Four units were built as part of the project: the massive Glen Canyon and Lake Powell in northern Arizona, Flaming Gorge in northeastern Utah, Aspinall in Colorado and the lesser known Navajo Dam and Reservoir in northwestern New Mexico and southern Colorado. Built in a high desert area that receives just 10 inches of rain a year, Navajo Dam collects the valuable spring runoff from the mountains of Colorado as it flows down the Pine, Piedra and San Juan rivers. The water is stored for irrigation use—such as the Navajo Indian Irrigation Project—and hydroelectric power for the surrounding communities. The earthen dam, completed in 1962, is 40 stories high and 3,648 feet long. The reservoir covers a surface area of over 24 square miles with 159 miles of shoreline, making it the state’s second largest lake and a water recreation paradise for New Mexicans now enduring a third year of severe drought. The San Juan River continues through the dam and eventually travels west through the Navajo Nation and Utah’s canyon country to Lake Powell, where it joins up with the Colorado River for its journey through the Grand Canyon and, if there is any water left, draining into the Sea of Cortez. Guide Note:  See a panorama of Navajo Dam * * * At-Large Guide to the West James Orndorf was born in Minnesota, but knew at a very young age that the future lay out west. He is currently photographing and illustrating outside of Durango, Colorado. You can see what he’s up to at inlandwest.tumblr.com and roughshelter.com.
Zoom

NAVAJO DAM - NEW MEXICO

With the three goals of water storage, power and flood control, the Colorado River Storage Project was made into law by Congress in 1956 and ushered in one of the last great Western water projects of the “big dam” age.

Four units were built as part of the project: the massive Glen Canyon and Lake Powell in northern Arizona, Flaming Gorge in northeastern Utah, Aspinall in Colorado and the lesser known Navajo Dam and Reservoir in northwestern New Mexico and southern Colorado.

Built in a high desert area that receives just 10 inches of rain a year, Navajo Dam collects the valuable spring runoff from the mountains of Colorado as it flows down the Pine, Piedra and San Juan rivers. The water is stored for irrigation use—such as the Navajo Indian Irrigation Project—and hydroelectric power for the surrounding communities.

The earthen dam, completed in 1962, is 40 stories high and 3,648 feet long. The reservoir covers a surface area of over 24 square miles with 159 miles of shoreline, making it the state’s second largest lake and a water recreation paradise for New Mexicans now enduring a third year of severe drought.

The San Juan River continues through the dam and eventually travels west through the Navajo Nation and Utah’s canyon country to Lake Powell, where it joins up with the Colorado River for its journey through the Grand Canyon and, if there is any water left, draining into the Sea of Cortez.

Guide Note: 

* * *

At-Large Guide to the West James Orndorf was born in Minnesota, but knew at a very young age that the future lay out west. He is currently photographing and illustrating outside of Durango, Colorado. You can see what he’s up to at inlandwest.tumblr.com and roughshelter.com.

WORLD’S LARGEST MACHINE GUN SHOOT - WEST POINT, KENTUCKY Twice a year the hills of West Point, Kentucky, light up with pyrotechnics and machine gun fire. The Knob Creek Gun Range is located about 30 minutes out of Louisville past strip clubs and taxidermy shops. I have been going to the shoot at least once a year since 2008. Often, the event is covered by the media, generally with the point of view that the grounds are filled with crazy gun-toting NRA members. I go for the amazing smoke and sounds, but what keeps me coming back is the community. The first year, I befriended a gun lane holder. There are two ranges—one giant one and one small one on lower ground—each with several gun dealers who run lanes. Visitors to the event can pay for ammunition and fire exotic guns. He said it was fine for me to photograph people in his lane, but first, I had to fire a gun myself—he would comp me a round. I had shot rifles growing up at my grandparents’ farm, but had never fired a high powered weapon. The lane holder explained how the M16 worked and helped me get situated. Then he had me aim at the old junk cars and barrels down range. I pulled the trigger and saw dirt fly up 30 yards down range. I was feeling pretty cocky until five minutes later: talking to an ex-military woman who had come to shoot, she explained to me that the M16s are considered lame (she used a more graphic word) and if I wanted to shoot a real gun I needed to find an M14. People are chatty and friendships are made. People sit and talk along the beautiful wooded path that connects the two ranges. People exchange tips and tricks. My favorite part is several times a day they clear the top range to check guns and swap out the targets. They let everyone go down field and look at the smoldering debris. Some people love to see the carnage and stand near the fiery cars and appliances, some collect spent ammo. The real show is the night shoot. (Look it up on YouTube.) It’s an impressive scene: tracers paint the sky and every 10 minutes the ground rumbles and your chest tightens as the Miniguns power up. Occasionally someone hits the jackpot and nails one of the targets filled with gasoline, and all the while there is an overwhelming noise and vision that puts you in the moment like nothing else. * * * Tammy Mercure is a State Guide to Tennessee. She was recently named one of the “100 under 100: The New Superstars of Southern Art” by Oxford American magazine. Follow on Tumblr at tammymercure or on her website, TammyMercure.com. Support her work at TCB Press.
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WORLD’S LARGEST MACHINE GUN SHOOT - WEST POINT, KENTUCKY Twice a year the hills of West Point, Kentucky, light up with pyrotechnics and machine gun fire. The Knob Creek Gun Range is located about 30 minutes out of Louisville past strip clubs and taxidermy shops. I have been going to the shoot at least once a year since 2008. Often, the event is covered by the media, generally with the point of view that the grounds are filled with crazy gun-toting NRA members. I go for the amazing smoke and sounds, but what keeps me coming back is the community. The first year, I befriended a gun lane holder. There are two ranges—one giant one and one small one on lower ground—each with several gun dealers who run lanes. Visitors to the event can pay for ammunition and fire exotic guns. He said it was fine for me to photograph people in his lane, but first, I had to fire a gun myself—he would comp me a round. I had shot rifles growing up at my grandparents’ farm, but had never fired a high powered weapon. The lane holder explained how the M16 worked and helped me get situated. Then he had me aim at the old junk cars and barrels down range. I pulled the trigger and saw dirt fly up 30 yards down range. I was feeling pretty cocky until five minutes later: talking to an ex-military woman who had come to shoot, she explained to me that the M16s are considered lame (she used a more graphic word) and if I wanted to shoot a real gun I needed to find an M14. People are chatty and friendships are made. People sit and talk along the beautiful wooded path that connects the two ranges. People exchange tips and tricks. My favorite part is several times a day they clear the top range to check guns and swap out the targets. They let everyone go down field and look at the smoldering debris. Some people love to see the carnage and stand near the fiery cars and appliances, some collect spent ammo. The real show is the night shoot. (Look it up on YouTube.) It’s an impressive scene: tracers paint the sky and every 10 minutes the ground rumbles and your chest tightens as the Miniguns power up. Occasionally someone hits the jackpot and nails one of the targets filled with gasoline, and all the while there is an overwhelming noise and vision that puts you in the moment like nothing else. * * * Tammy Mercure is a State Guide to Tennessee. She was recently named one of the “100 under 100: The New Superstars of Southern Art” by Oxford American magazine. Follow on Tumblr at tammymercure or on her website, TammyMercure.com. Support her work at TCB Press.
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WORLD’S LARGEST MACHINE GUN SHOOT - WEST POINT, KENTUCKY Twice a year the hills of West Point, Kentucky, light up with pyrotechnics and machine gun fire. The Knob Creek Gun Range is located about 30 minutes out of Louisville past strip clubs and taxidermy shops. I have been going to the shoot at least once a year since 2008. Often, the event is covered by the media, generally with the point of view that the grounds are filled with crazy gun-toting NRA members. I go for the amazing smoke and sounds, but what keeps me coming back is the community. The first year, I befriended a gun lane holder. There are two ranges—one giant one and one small one on lower ground—each with several gun dealers who run lanes. Visitors to the event can pay for ammunition and fire exotic guns. He said it was fine for me to photograph people in his lane, but first, I had to fire a gun myself—he would comp me a round. I had shot rifles growing up at my grandparents’ farm, but had never fired a high powered weapon. The lane holder explained how the M16 worked and helped me get situated. Then he had me aim at the old junk cars and barrels down range. I pulled the trigger and saw dirt fly up 30 yards down range. I was feeling pretty cocky until five minutes later: talking to an ex-military woman who had come to shoot, she explained to me that the M16s are considered lame (she used a more graphic word) and if I wanted to shoot a real gun I needed to find an M14. People are chatty and friendships are made. People sit and talk along the beautiful wooded path that connects the two ranges. People exchange tips and tricks. My favorite part is several times a day they clear the top range to check guns and swap out the targets. They let everyone go down field and look at the smoldering debris. Some people love to see the carnage and stand near the fiery cars and appliances, some collect spent ammo. The real show is the night shoot. (Look it up on YouTube.) It’s an impressive scene: tracers paint the sky and every 10 minutes the ground rumbles and your chest tightens as the Miniguns power up. Occasionally someone hits the jackpot and nails one of the targets filled with gasoline, and all the while there is an overwhelming noise and vision that puts you in the moment like nothing else. * * * Tammy Mercure is a State Guide to Tennessee. She was recently named one of the “100 under 100: The New Superstars of Southern Art” by Oxford American magazine. Follow on Tumblr at tammymercure or on her website, TammyMercure.com. Support her work at TCB Press.
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WORLD’S LARGEST MACHINE GUN SHOOT - WEST POINT, KENTUCKY Twice a year the hills of West Point, Kentucky, light up with pyrotechnics and machine gun fire. The Knob Creek Gun Range is located about 30 minutes out of Louisville past strip clubs and taxidermy shops. I have been going to the shoot at least once a year since 2008. Often, the event is covered by the media, generally with the point of view that the grounds are filled with crazy gun-toting NRA members. I go for the amazing smoke and sounds, but what keeps me coming back is the community. The first year, I befriended a gun lane holder. There are two ranges—one giant one and one small one on lower ground—each with several gun dealers who run lanes. Visitors to the event can pay for ammunition and fire exotic guns. He said it was fine for me to photograph people in his lane, but first, I had to fire a gun myself—he would comp me a round. I had shot rifles growing up at my grandparents’ farm, but had never fired a high powered weapon. The lane holder explained how the M16 worked and helped me get situated. Then he had me aim at the old junk cars and barrels down range. I pulled the trigger and saw dirt fly up 30 yards down range. I was feeling pretty cocky until five minutes later: talking to an ex-military woman who had come to shoot, she explained to me that the M16s are considered lame (she used a more graphic word) and if I wanted to shoot a real gun I needed to find an M14. People are chatty and friendships are made. People sit and talk along the beautiful wooded path that connects the two ranges. People exchange tips and tricks. My favorite part is several times a day they clear the top range to check guns and swap out the targets. They let everyone go down field and look at the smoldering debris. Some people love to see the carnage and stand near the fiery cars and appliances, some collect spent ammo. The real show is the night shoot. (Look it up on YouTube.) It’s an impressive scene: tracers paint the sky and every 10 minutes the ground rumbles and your chest tightens as the Miniguns power up. Occasionally someone hits the jackpot and nails one of the targets filled with gasoline, and all the while there is an overwhelming noise and vision that puts you in the moment like nothing else. * * * Tammy Mercure is a State Guide to Tennessee. She was recently named one of the “100 under 100: The New Superstars of Southern Art” by Oxford American magazine. Follow on Tumblr at tammymercure or on her website, TammyMercure.com. Support her work at TCB Press.
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WORLD’S LARGEST MACHINE GUN SHOOT - WEST POINT, KENTUCKY Twice a year the hills of West Point, Kentucky, light up with pyrotechnics and machine gun fire. The Knob Creek Gun Range is located about 30 minutes out of Louisville past strip clubs and taxidermy shops. I have been going to the shoot at least once a year since 2008. Often, the event is covered by the media, generally with the point of view that the grounds are filled with crazy gun-toting NRA members. I go for the amazing smoke and sounds, but what keeps me coming back is the community. The first year, I befriended a gun lane holder. There are two ranges—one giant one and one small one on lower ground—each with several gun dealers who run lanes. Visitors to the event can pay for ammunition and fire exotic guns. He said it was fine for me to photograph people in his lane, but first, I had to fire a gun myself—he would comp me a round. I had shot rifles growing up at my grandparents’ farm, but had never fired a high powered weapon. The lane holder explained how the M16 worked and helped me get situated. Then he had me aim at the old junk cars and barrels down range. I pulled the trigger and saw dirt fly up 30 yards down range. I was feeling pretty cocky until five minutes later: talking to an ex-military woman who had come to shoot, she explained to me that the M16s are considered lame (she used a more graphic word) and if I wanted to shoot a real gun I needed to find an M14. People are chatty and friendships are made. People sit and talk along the beautiful wooded path that connects the two ranges. People exchange tips and tricks. My favorite part is several times a day they clear the top range to check guns and swap out the targets. They let everyone go down field and look at the smoldering debris. Some people love to see the carnage and stand near the fiery cars and appliances, some collect spent ammo. The real show is the night shoot. (Look it up on YouTube.) It’s an impressive scene: tracers paint the sky and every 10 minutes the ground rumbles and your chest tightens as the Miniguns power up. Occasionally someone hits the jackpot and nails one of the targets filled with gasoline, and all the while there is an overwhelming noise and vision that puts you in the moment like nothing else. * * * Tammy Mercure is a State Guide to Tennessee. She was recently named one of the “100 under 100: The New Superstars of Southern Art” by Oxford American magazine. Follow on Tumblr at tammymercure or on her website, TammyMercure.com. Support her work at TCB Press.
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WORLD’S LARGEST MACHINE GUN SHOOT - WEST POINT, KENTUCKY Twice a year the hills of West Point, Kentucky, light up with pyrotechnics and machine gun fire. The Knob Creek Gun Range is located about 30 minutes out of Louisville past strip clubs and taxidermy shops. I have been going to the shoot at least once a year since 2008. Often, the event is covered by the media, generally with the point of view that the grounds are filled with crazy gun-toting NRA members. I go for the amazing smoke and sounds, but what keeps me coming back is the community. The first year, I befriended a gun lane holder. There are two ranges—one giant one and one small one on lower ground—each with several gun dealers who run lanes. Visitors to the event can pay for ammunition and fire exotic guns. He said it was fine for me to photograph people in his lane, but first, I had to fire a gun myself—he would comp me a round. I had shot rifles growing up at my grandparents’ farm, but had never fired a high powered weapon. The lane holder explained how the M16 worked and helped me get situated. Then he had me aim at the old junk cars and barrels down range. I pulled the trigger and saw dirt fly up 30 yards down range. I was feeling pretty cocky until five minutes later: talking to an ex-military woman who had come to shoot, she explained to me that the M16s are considered lame (she used a more graphic word) and if I wanted to shoot a real gun I needed to find an M14. People are chatty and friendships are made. People sit and talk along the beautiful wooded path that connects the two ranges. People exchange tips and tricks. My favorite part is several times a day they clear the top range to check guns and swap out the targets. They let everyone go down field and look at the smoldering debris. Some people love to see the carnage and stand near the fiery cars and appliances, some collect spent ammo. The real show is the night shoot. (Look it up on YouTube.) It’s an impressive scene: tracers paint the sky and every 10 minutes the ground rumbles and your chest tightens as the Miniguns power up. Occasionally someone hits the jackpot and nails one of the targets filled with gasoline, and all the while there is an overwhelming noise and vision that puts you in the moment like nothing else. * * * Tammy Mercure is a State Guide to Tennessee. She was recently named one of the “100 under 100: The New Superstars of Southern Art” by Oxford American magazine. Follow on Tumblr at tammymercure or on her website, TammyMercure.com. Support her work at TCB Press.
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WORLD’S LARGEST MACHINE GUN SHOOT - WEST POINT, KENTUCKY Twice a year the hills of West Point, Kentucky, light up with pyrotechnics and machine gun fire. The Knob Creek Gun Range is located about 30 minutes out of Louisville past strip clubs and taxidermy shops. I have been going to the shoot at least once a year since 2008. Often, the event is covered by the media, generally with the point of view that the grounds are filled with crazy gun-toting NRA members. I go for the amazing smoke and sounds, but what keeps me coming back is the community. The first year, I befriended a gun lane holder. There are two ranges—one giant one and one small one on lower ground—each with several gun dealers who run lanes. Visitors to the event can pay for ammunition and fire exotic guns. He said it was fine for me to photograph people in his lane, but first, I had to fire a gun myself—he would comp me a round. I had shot rifles growing up at my grandparents’ farm, but had never fired a high powered weapon. The lane holder explained how the M16 worked and helped me get situated. Then he had me aim at the old junk cars and barrels down range. I pulled the trigger and saw dirt fly up 30 yards down range. I was feeling pretty cocky until five minutes later: talking to an ex-military woman who had come to shoot, she explained to me that the M16s are considered lame (she used a more graphic word) and if I wanted to shoot a real gun I needed to find an M14. People are chatty and friendships are made. People sit and talk along the beautiful wooded path that connects the two ranges. People exchange tips and tricks. My favorite part is several times a day they clear the top range to check guns and swap out the targets. They let everyone go down field and look at the smoldering debris. Some people love to see the carnage and stand near the fiery cars and appliances, some collect spent ammo. The real show is the night shoot. (Look it up on YouTube.) It’s an impressive scene: tracers paint the sky and every 10 minutes the ground rumbles and your chest tightens as the Miniguns power up. Occasionally someone hits the jackpot and nails one of the targets filled with gasoline, and all the while there is an overwhelming noise and vision that puts you in the moment like nothing else. * * * Tammy Mercure is a State Guide to Tennessee. She was recently named one of the “100 under 100: The New Superstars of Southern Art” by Oxford American magazine. Follow on Tumblr at tammymercure or on her website, TammyMercure.com. Support her work at TCB Press.
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WORLD’S LARGEST MACHINE GUN SHOOT - WEST POINT, KENTUCKY Twice a year the hills of West Point, Kentucky, light up with pyrotechnics and machine gun fire. The Knob Creek Gun Range is located about 30 minutes out of Louisville past strip clubs and taxidermy shops. I have been going to the shoot at least once a year since 2008. Often, the event is covered by the media, generally with the point of view that the grounds are filled with crazy gun-toting NRA members. I go for the amazing smoke and sounds, but what keeps me coming back is the community. The first year, I befriended a gun lane holder. There are two ranges—one giant one and one small one on lower ground—each with several gun dealers who run lanes. Visitors to the event can pay for ammunition and fire exotic guns. He said it was fine for me to photograph people in his lane, but first, I had to fire a gun myself—he would comp me a round. I had shot rifles growing up at my grandparents’ farm, but had never fired a high powered weapon. The lane holder explained how the M16 worked and helped me get situated. Then he had me aim at the old junk cars and barrels down range. I pulled the trigger and saw dirt fly up 30 yards down range. I was feeling pretty cocky until five minutes later: talking to an ex-military woman who had come to shoot, she explained to me that the M16s are considered lame (she used a more graphic word) and if I wanted to shoot a real gun I needed to find an M14. People are chatty and friendships are made. People sit and talk along the beautiful wooded path that connects the two ranges. People exchange tips and tricks. My favorite part is several times a day they clear the top range to check guns and swap out the targets. They let everyone go down field and look at the smoldering debris. Some people love to see the carnage and stand near the fiery cars and appliances, some collect spent ammo. The real show is the night shoot. (Look it up on YouTube.) It’s an impressive scene: tracers paint the sky and every 10 minutes the ground rumbles and your chest tightens as the Miniguns power up. Occasionally someone hits the jackpot and nails one of the targets filled with gasoline, and all the while there is an overwhelming noise and vision that puts you in the moment like nothing else. * * * Tammy Mercure is a State Guide to Tennessee. She was recently named one of the “100 under 100: The New Superstars of Southern Art” by Oxford American magazine. Follow on Tumblr at tammymercure or on her website, TammyMercure.com. Support her work at TCB Press.
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WORLD’S LARGEST MACHINE GUN SHOOT - WEST POINT, KENTUCKY Twice a year the hills of West Point, Kentucky, light up with pyrotechnics and machine gun fire. The Knob Creek Gun Range is located about 30 minutes out of Louisville past strip clubs and taxidermy shops. I have been going to the shoot at least once a year since 2008. Often, the event is covered by the media, generally with the point of view that the grounds are filled with crazy gun-toting NRA members. I go for the amazing smoke and sounds, but what keeps me coming back is the community. The first year, I befriended a gun lane holder. There are two ranges—one giant one and one small one on lower ground—each with several gun dealers who run lanes. Visitors to the event can pay for ammunition and fire exotic guns. He said it was fine for me to photograph people in his lane, but first, I had to fire a gun myself—he would comp me a round. I had shot rifles growing up at my grandparents’ farm, but had never fired a high powered weapon. The lane holder explained how the M16 worked and helped me get situated. Then he had me aim at the old junk cars and barrels down range. I pulled the trigger and saw dirt fly up 30 yards down range. I was feeling pretty cocky until five minutes later: talking to an ex-military woman who had come to shoot, she explained to me that the M16s are considered lame (she used a more graphic word) and if I wanted to shoot a real gun I needed to find an M14. People are chatty and friendships are made. People sit and talk along the beautiful wooded path that connects the two ranges. People exchange tips and tricks. My favorite part is several times a day they clear the top range to check guns and swap out the targets. They let everyone go down field and look at the smoldering debris. Some people love to see the carnage and stand near the fiery cars and appliances, some collect spent ammo. The real show is the night shoot. (Look it up on YouTube.) It’s an impressive scene: tracers paint the sky and every 10 minutes the ground rumbles and your chest tightens as the Miniguns power up. Occasionally someone hits the jackpot and nails one of the targets filled with gasoline, and all the while there is an overwhelming noise and vision that puts you in the moment like nothing else. * * * Tammy Mercure is a State Guide to Tennessee. She was recently named one of the “100 under 100: The New Superstars of Southern Art” by Oxford American magazine. Follow on Tumblr at tammymercure or on her website, TammyMercure.com. Support her work at TCB Press.
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WORLD’S LARGEST MACHINE GUN SHOOT - WEST POINT, KENTUCKY

Twice a year the hills of West Point, Kentucky, light up with pyrotechnics and machine gun fire. The Knob Creek Gun Range is located about 30 minutes out of Louisville past strip clubs and taxidermy shops.

I have been going to the shoot at least once a year since 2008. Often, the event is covered by the media, generally with the point of view that the grounds are filled with crazy gun-toting NRA members. I go for the amazing smoke and sounds, but what keeps me coming back is the community.

The first year, I befriended a gun lane holder. There are two ranges—one giant one and one small one on lower ground—each with several gun dealers who run lanes. Visitors to the event can pay for ammunition and fire exotic guns. He said it was fine for me to photograph people in his lane, but first, I had to fire a gun myself—he would comp me a round. I had shot rifles growing up at my grandparents’ farm, but had never fired a high powered weapon. The lane holder explained how the M16 worked and helped me get situated. Then he had me aim at the old junk cars and barrels down range. I pulled the trigger and saw dirt fly up 30 yards down range. I was feeling pretty cocky until five minutes later: talking to an ex-military woman who had come to shoot, she explained to me that the M16s are considered lame (she used a more graphic word) and if I wanted to shoot a real gun I needed to find an M14.

People are chatty and friendships are made. People sit and talk along the beautiful wooded path that connects the two ranges. People exchange tips and tricks. My favorite part is several times a day they clear the top range to check guns and swap out the targets. They let everyone go down field and look at the smoldering debris. Some people love to see the carnage and stand near the fiery cars and appliances, some collect spent ammo.

The real show is the night shoot. (Look it up on YouTube.) It’s an impressive scene: tracers paint the sky and every 10 minutes the ground rumbles and your chest tightens as the Miniguns power up. Occasionally someone hits the jackpot and nails one of the targets filled with gasoline, and all the while there is an overwhelming noise and vision that puts you in the moment like nothing else.

* * *

Tammy Mercure is a State Guide to Tennessee. She was recently named one of the “100 under 100: The New Superstars of Southern Art” by Oxford American magazine.

Follow on Tumblr at tammymercure or on her website, TammyMercure.com. Support her work at TCB Press.

WHERE ELVIS NEVER SLEEPS - HOLLY SPRINGS, MISSISSIPPI A milestone for a normal person might be getting married or having a kid. For me, it’s becoming a lifetime member at Graceland Too in Holly Springs, Mississippi. Approximately 50 miles from the real Graceland, in the heart of downtown Holly Springs, sits Paul MacLeod’s Graceland Too. He repeatedly touts that his goal is to resemble Graceland, not copy it; and for only $5 anyone, AT ANY TIME (24 hours a day even), can take a tour of Paul’s house. Paul says it’s been visited by over 500,000 people, including many famous actors with the most recent being Ashton Kutcher. (Although I’m fairly certain that’s the same sentence he told me when I last visited over 4 years ago). If you can believe it, Muhammad Ali has been three times as well as Steven Seagal. If Graceland were on acid it might resemble Graceland Too. Paul is the most extreme Elvis fanatic in the world. I could say this with the utmost of confidence even if I had no idea who Elvis was. Who else has a closet filled with thousands of Reader’s Digests with paper clips bound on each page where Elvis is mentioned? A notebook with hundreds of TV scripts—each only special because Elvis was spoken of? (I opened a Full House script where lovable Uncle Jesse was Elvis for Halloween.) Paul has over 32,000 notes about Elvis being mentioned on TV. That’s nothing if you’ve seen his backyard: it’s been completely transformed into “Jailhouse Rock”—how Paul sees “Jailhouse Rock”—a visitor favorite being the electric chair. Paul is an elusive guy. He’ll explain at the beginning of every tour how he found $750,000 in the trunk of his Cadillac (he seems to find lots of money) and decided to follow his dream of collecting Elvis memorabilia. He was married and had a son, Elvis Aaron Presley MacLeod. His wife gave him an ultimatum: Her or Elvis, so he gave the Misses “a million dollars” and told her to hit the road. Being my third visit, I got to take my photo with a pink guitar, belt and leather jacket in front of Paul’s Elvis shrine. I also recieved my own lifetime membership card to Graceland Too. Each visit is now free for me. (Paul said if I lose the card it will cost me $5, which sounds fair enough.) Every lifetime member’s photo goes up on Paul’s wall. I’m up there now, too “Dreams Come True At Graceland Too” — Paul MacLeod * * * Tennessee State Guide Lindsay Scott is an East Nashville based photographer, writer, drinker and ponderer. You can find her on any random night, porch sitting with a side of story telling and a camera in hand. Follow her on Tumblr at lindsayscottphotography.tumblr.com or on her website, lindsayscottphoto.com.
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WHERE ELVIS NEVER SLEEPS - HOLLY SPRINGS, MISSISSIPPI A milestone for a normal person might be getting married or having a kid. For me, it’s becoming a lifetime member at Graceland Too in Holly Springs, Mississippi. Approximately 50 miles from the real Graceland, in the heart of downtown Holly Springs, sits Paul MacLeod’s Graceland Too. He repeatedly touts that his goal is to resemble Graceland, not copy it; and for only $5 anyone, AT ANY TIME (24 hours a day even), can take a tour of Paul’s house. Paul says it’s been visited by over 500,000 people, including many famous actors with the most recent being Ashton Kutcher. (Although I’m fairly certain that’s the same sentence he told me when I last visited over 4 years ago). If you can believe it, Muhammad Ali has been three times as well as Steven Seagal. If Graceland were on acid it might resemble Graceland Too. Paul is the most extreme Elvis fanatic in the world. I could say this with the utmost of confidence even if I had no idea who Elvis was. Who else has a closet filled with thousands of Reader’s Digests with paper clips bound on each page where Elvis is mentioned? A notebook with hundreds of TV scripts—each only special because Elvis was spoken of? (I opened a Full House script where lovable Uncle Jesse was Elvis for Halloween.) Paul has over 32,000 notes about Elvis being mentioned on TV. That’s nothing if you’ve seen his backyard: it’s been completely transformed into “Jailhouse Rock”—how Paul sees “Jailhouse Rock”—a visitor favorite being the electric chair. Paul is an elusive guy. He’ll explain at the beginning of every tour how he found $750,000 in the trunk of his Cadillac (he seems to find lots of money) and decided to follow his dream of collecting Elvis memorabilia. He was married and had a son, Elvis Aaron Presley MacLeod. His wife gave him an ultimatum: Her or Elvis, so he gave the Misses “a million dollars” and told her to hit the road. Being my third visit, I got to take my photo with a pink guitar, belt and leather jacket in front of Paul’s Elvis shrine. I also recieved my own lifetime membership card to Graceland Too. Each visit is now free for me. (Paul said if I lose the card it will cost me $5, which sounds fair enough.) Every lifetime member’s photo goes up on Paul’s wall. I’m up there now, too “Dreams Come True At Graceland Too” — Paul MacLeod * * * Tennessee State Guide Lindsay Scott is an East Nashville based photographer, writer, drinker and ponderer. You can find her on any random night, porch sitting with a side of story telling and a camera in hand. Follow her on Tumblr at lindsayscottphotography.tumblr.com or on her website, lindsayscottphoto.com.
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WHERE ELVIS NEVER SLEEPS - HOLLY SPRINGS, MISSISSIPPI A milestone for a normal person might be getting married or having a kid. For me, it’s becoming a lifetime member at Graceland Too in Holly Springs, Mississippi. Approximately 50 miles from the real Graceland, in the heart of downtown Holly Springs, sits Paul MacLeod’s Graceland Too. He repeatedly touts that his goal is to resemble Graceland, not copy it; and for only $5 anyone, AT ANY TIME (24 hours a day even), can take a tour of Paul’s house. Paul says it’s been visited by over 500,000 people, including many famous actors with the most recent being Ashton Kutcher. (Although I’m fairly certain that’s the same sentence he told me when I last visited over 4 years ago). If you can believe it, Muhammad Ali has been three times as well as Steven Seagal. If Graceland were on acid it might resemble Graceland Too. Paul is the most extreme Elvis fanatic in the world. I could say this with the utmost of confidence even if I had no idea who Elvis was. Who else has a closet filled with thousands of Reader’s Digests with paper clips bound on each page where Elvis is mentioned? A notebook with hundreds of TV scripts—each only special because Elvis was spoken of? (I opened a Full House script where lovable Uncle Jesse was Elvis for Halloween.) Paul has over 32,000 notes about Elvis being mentioned on TV. That’s nothing if you’ve seen his backyard: it’s been completely transformed into “Jailhouse Rock”—how Paul sees “Jailhouse Rock”—a visitor favorite being the electric chair. Paul is an elusive guy. He’ll explain at the beginning of every tour how he found $750,000 in the trunk of his Cadillac (he seems to find lots of money) and decided to follow his dream of collecting Elvis memorabilia. He was married and had a son, Elvis Aaron Presley MacLeod. His wife gave him an ultimatum: Her or Elvis, so he gave the Misses “a million dollars” and told her to hit the road. Being my third visit, I got to take my photo with a pink guitar, belt and leather jacket in front of Paul’s Elvis shrine. I also recieved my own lifetime membership card to Graceland Too. Each visit is now free for me. (Paul said if I lose the card it will cost me $5, which sounds fair enough.) Every lifetime member’s photo goes up on Paul’s wall. I’m up there now, too “Dreams Come True At Graceland Too” — Paul MacLeod * * * Tennessee State Guide Lindsay Scott is an East Nashville based photographer, writer, drinker and ponderer. You can find her on any random night, porch sitting with a side of story telling and a camera in hand. Follow her on Tumblr at lindsayscottphotography.tumblr.com or on her website, lindsayscottphoto.com.
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WHERE ELVIS NEVER SLEEPS - HOLLY SPRINGS, MISSISSIPPI A milestone for a normal person might be getting married or having a kid. For me, it’s becoming a lifetime member at Graceland Too in Holly Springs, Mississippi. Approximately 50 miles from the real Graceland, in the heart of downtown Holly Springs, sits Paul MacLeod’s Graceland Too. He repeatedly touts that his goal is to resemble Graceland, not copy it; and for only $5 anyone, AT ANY TIME (24 hours a day even), can take a tour of Paul’s house. Paul says it’s been visited by over 500,000 people, including many famous actors with the most recent being Ashton Kutcher. (Although I’m fairly certain that’s the same sentence he told me when I last visited over 4 years ago). If you can believe it, Muhammad Ali has been three times as well as Steven Seagal. If Graceland were on acid it might resemble Graceland Too. Paul is the most extreme Elvis fanatic in the world. I could say this with the utmost of confidence even if I had no idea who Elvis was. Who else has a closet filled with thousands of Reader’s Digests with paper clips bound on each page where Elvis is mentioned? A notebook with hundreds of TV scripts—each only special because Elvis was spoken of? (I opened a Full House script where lovable Uncle Jesse was Elvis for Halloween.) Paul has over 32,000 notes about Elvis being mentioned on TV. That’s nothing if you’ve seen his backyard: it’s been completely transformed into “Jailhouse Rock”—how Paul sees “Jailhouse Rock”—a visitor favorite being the electric chair. Paul is an elusive guy. He’ll explain at the beginning of every tour how he found $750,000 in the trunk of his Cadillac (he seems to find lots of money) and decided to follow his dream of collecting Elvis memorabilia. He was married and had a son, Elvis Aaron Presley MacLeod. His wife gave him an ultimatum: Her or Elvis, so he gave the Misses “a million dollars” and told her to hit the road. Being my third visit, I got to take my photo with a pink guitar, belt and leather jacket in front of Paul’s Elvis shrine. I also recieved my own lifetime membership card to Graceland Too. Each visit is now free for me. (Paul said if I lose the card it will cost me $5, which sounds fair enough.) Every lifetime member’s photo goes up on Paul’s wall. I’m up there now, too “Dreams Come True At Graceland Too” — Paul MacLeod * * * Tennessee State Guide Lindsay Scott is an East Nashville based photographer, writer, drinker and ponderer. You can find her on any random night, porch sitting with a side of story telling and a camera in hand. Follow her on Tumblr at lindsayscottphotography.tumblr.com or on her website, lindsayscottphoto.com.
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WHERE ELVIS NEVER SLEEPS - HOLLY SPRINGS, MISSISSIPPI A milestone for a normal person might be getting married or having a kid. For me, it’s becoming a lifetime member at Graceland Too in Holly Springs, Mississippi. Approximately 50 miles from the real Graceland, in the heart of downtown Holly Springs, sits Paul MacLeod’s Graceland Too. He repeatedly touts that his goal is to resemble Graceland, not copy it; and for only $5 anyone, AT ANY TIME (24 hours a day even), can take a tour of Paul’s house. Paul says it’s been visited by over 500,000 people, including many famous actors with the most recent being Ashton Kutcher. (Although I’m fairly certain that’s the same sentence he told me when I last visited over 4 years ago). If you can believe it, Muhammad Ali has been three times as well as Steven Seagal. If Graceland were on acid it might resemble Graceland Too. Paul is the most extreme Elvis fanatic in the world. I could say this with the utmost of confidence even if I had no idea who Elvis was. Who else has a closet filled with thousands of Reader’s Digests with paper clips bound on each page where Elvis is mentioned? A notebook with hundreds of TV scripts—each only special because Elvis was spoken of? (I opened a Full House script where lovable Uncle Jesse was Elvis for Halloween.) Paul has over 32,000 notes about Elvis being mentioned on TV. That’s nothing if you’ve seen his backyard: it’s been completely transformed into “Jailhouse Rock”—how Paul sees “Jailhouse Rock”—a visitor favorite being the electric chair. Paul is an elusive guy. He’ll explain at the beginning of every tour how he found $750,000 in the trunk of his Cadillac (he seems to find lots of money) and decided to follow his dream of collecting Elvis memorabilia. He was married and had a son, Elvis Aaron Presley MacLeod. His wife gave him an ultimatum: Her or Elvis, so he gave the Misses “a million dollars” and told her to hit the road. Being my third visit, I got to take my photo with a pink guitar, belt and leather jacket in front of Paul’s Elvis shrine. I also recieved my own lifetime membership card to Graceland Too. Each visit is now free for me. (Paul said if I lose the card it will cost me $5, which sounds fair enough.) Every lifetime member’s photo goes up on Paul’s wall. I’m up there now, too “Dreams Come True At Graceland Too” — Paul MacLeod * * * Tennessee State Guide Lindsay Scott is an East Nashville based photographer, writer, drinker and ponderer. You can find her on any random night, porch sitting with a side of story telling and a camera in hand. Follow her on Tumblr at lindsayscottphotography.tumblr.com or on her website, lindsayscottphoto.com.
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WHERE ELVIS NEVER SLEEPS - HOLLY SPRINGS, MISSISSIPPI A milestone for a normal person might be getting married or having a kid. For me, it’s becoming a lifetime member at Graceland Too in Holly Springs, Mississippi. Approximately 50 miles from the real Graceland, in the heart of downtown Holly Springs, sits Paul MacLeod’s Graceland Too. He repeatedly touts that his goal is to resemble Graceland, not copy it; and for only $5 anyone, AT ANY TIME (24 hours a day even), can take a tour of Paul’s house. Paul says it’s been visited by over 500,000 people, including many famous actors with the most recent being Ashton Kutcher. (Although I’m fairly certain that’s the same sentence he told me when I last visited over 4 years ago). If you can believe it, Muhammad Ali has been three times as well as Steven Seagal. If Graceland were on acid it might resemble Graceland Too. Paul is the most extreme Elvis fanatic in the world. I could say this with the utmost of confidence even if I had no idea who Elvis was. Who else has a closet filled with thousands of Reader’s Digests with paper clips bound on each page where Elvis is mentioned? A notebook with hundreds of TV scripts—each only special because Elvis was spoken of? (I opened a Full House script where lovable Uncle Jesse was Elvis for Halloween.) Paul has over 32,000 notes about Elvis being mentioned on TV. That’s nothing if you’ve seen his backyard: it’s been completely transformed into “Jailhouse Rock”—how Paul sees “Jailhouse Rock”—a visitor favorite being the electric chair. Paul is an elusive guy. He’ll explain at the beginning of every tour how he found $750,000 in the trunk of his Cadillac (he seems to find lots of money) and decided to follow his dream of collecting Elvis memorabilia. He was married and had a son, Elvis Aaron Presley MacLeod. His wife gave him an ultimatum: Her or Elvis, so he gave the Misses “a million dollars” and told her to hit the road. Being my third visit, I got to take my photo with a pink guitar, belt and leather jacket in front of Paul’s Elvis shrine. I also recieved my own lifetime membership card to Graceland Too. Each visit is now free for me. (Paul said if I lose the card it will cost me $5, which sounds fair enough.) Every lifetime member’s photo goes up on Paul’s wall. I’m up there now, too “Dreams Come True At Graceland Too” — Paul MacLeod * * * Tennessee State Guide Lindsay Scott is an East Nashville based photographer, writer, drinker and ponderer. You can find her on any random night, porch sitting with a side of story telling and a camera in hand. Follow her on Tumblr at lindsayscottphotography.tumblr.com or on her website, lindsayscottphoto.com.
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WHERE ELVIS NEVER SLEEPS - HOLLY SPRINGS, MISSISSIPPI A milestone for a normal person might be getting married or having a kid. For me, it’s becoming a lifetime member at Graceland Too in Holly Springs, Mississippi. Approximately 50 miles from the real Graceland, in the heart of downtown Holly Springs, sits Paul MacLeod’s Graceland Too. He repeatedly touts that his goal is to resemble Graceland, not copy it; and for only $5 anyone, AT ANY TIME (24 hours a day even), can take a tour of Paul’s house. Paul says it’s been visited by over 500,000 people, including many famous actors with the most recent being Ashton Kutcher. (Although I’m fairly certain that’s the same sentence he told me when I last visited over 4 years ago). If you can believe it, Muhammad Ali has been three times as well as Steven Seagal. If Graceland were on acid it might resemble Graceland Too. Paul is the most extreme Elvis fanatic in the world. I could say this with the utmost of confidence even if I had no idea who Elvis was. Who else has a closet filled with thousands of Reader’s Digests with paper clips bound on each page where Elvis is mentioned? A notebook with hundreds of TV scripts—each only special because Elvis was spoken of? (I opened a Full House script where lovable Uncle Jesse was Elvis for Halloween.) Paul has over 32,000 notes about Elvis being mentioned on TV. That’s nothing if you’ve seen his backyard: it’s been completely transformed into “Jailhouse Rock”—how Paul sees “Jailhouse Rock”—a visitor favorite being the electric chair. Paul is an elusive guy. He’ll explain at the beginning of every tour how he found $750,000 in the trunk of his Cadillac (he seems to find lots of money) and decided to follow his dream of collecting Elvis memorabilia. He was married and had a son, Elvis Aaron Presley MacLeod. His wife gave him an ultimatum: Her or Elvis, so he gave the Misses “a million dollars” and told her to hit the road. Being my third visit, I got to take my photo with a pink guitar, belt and leather jacket in front of Paul’s Elvis shrine. I also recieved my own lifetime membership card to Graceland Too. Each visit is now free for me. (Paul said if I lose the card it will cost me $5, which sounds fair enough.) Every lifetime member’s photo goes up on Paul’s wall. I’m up there now, too “Dreams Come True At Graceland Too” — Paul MacLeod * * * Tennessee State Guide Lindsay Scott is an East Nashville based photographer, writer, drinker and ponderer. You can find her on any random night, porch sitting with a side of story telling and a camera in hand. Follow her on Tumblr at lindsayscottphotography.tumblr.com or on her website, lindsayscottphoto.com.
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WHERE ELVIS NEVER SLEEPS - HOLLY SPRINGS, MISSISSIPPI A milestone for a normal person might be getting married or having a kid. For me, it’s becoming a lifetime member at Graceland Too in Holly Springs, Mississippi. Approximately 50 miles from the real Graceland, in the heart of downtown Holly Springs, sits Paul MacLeod’s Graceland Too. He repeatedly touts that his goal is to resemble Graceland, not copy it; and for only $5 anyone, AT ANY TIME (24 hours a day even), can take a tour of Paul’s house. Paul says it’s been visited by over 500,000 people, including many famous actors with the most recent being Ashton Kutcher. (Although I’m fairly certain that’s the same sentence he told me when I last visited over 4 years ago). If you can believe it, Muhammad Ali has been three times as well as Steven Seagal. If Graceland were on acid it might resemble Graceland Too. Paul is the most extreme Elvis fanatic in the world. I could say this with the utmost of confidence even if I had no idea who Elvis was. Who else has a closet filled with thousands of Reader’s Digests with paper clips bound on each page where Elvis is mentioned? A notebook with hundreds of TV scripts—each only special because Elvis was spoken of? (I opened a Full House script where lovable Uncle Jesse was Elvis for Halloween.) Paul has over 32,000 notes about Elvis being mentioned on TV. That’s nothing if you’ve seen his backyard: it’s been completely transformed into “Jailhouse Rock”—how Paul sees “Jailhouse Rock”—a visitor favorite being the electric chair. Paul is an elusive guy. He’ll explain at the beginning of every tour how he found $750,000 in the trunk of his Cadillac (he seems to find lots of money) and decided to follow his dream of collecting Elvis memorabilia. He was married and had a son, Elvis Aaron Presley MacLeod. His wife gave him an ultimatum: Her or Elvis, so he gave the Misses “a million dollars” and told her to hit the road. Being my third visit, I got to take my photo with a pink guitar, belt and leather jacket in front of Paul’s Elvis shrine. I also recieved my own lifetime membership card to Graceland Too. Each visit is now free for me. (Paul said if I lose the card it will cost me $5, which sounds fair enough.) Every lifetime member’s photo goes up on Paul’s wall. I’m up there now, too “Dreams Come True At Graceland Too” — Paul MacLeod * * * Tennessee State Guide Lindsay Scott is an East Nashville based photographer, writer, drinker and ponderer. You can find her on any random night, porch sitting with a side of story telling and a camera in hand. Follow her on Tumblr at lindsayscottphotography.tumblr.com or on her website, lindsayscottphoto.com.
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WHERE ELVIS NEVER SLEEPS - HOLLY SPRINGS, MISSISSIPPI A milestone for a normal person might be getting married or having a kid. For me, it’s becoming a lifetime member at Graceland Too in Holly Springs, Mississippi. Approximately 50 miles from the real Graceland, in the heart of downtown Holly Springs, sits Paul MacLeod’s Graceland Too. He repeatedly touts that his goal is to resemble Graceland, not copy it; and for only $5 anyone, AT ANY TIME (24 hours a day even), can take a tour of Paul’s house. Paul says it’s been visited by over 500,000 people, including many famous actors with the most recent being Ashton Kutcher. (Although I’m fairly certain that’s the same sentence he told me when I last visited over 4 years ago). If you can believe it, Muhammad Ali has been three times as well as Steven Seagal. If Graceland were on acid it might resemble Graceland Too. Paul is the most extreme Elvis fanatic in the world. I could say this with the utmost of confidence even if I had no idea who Elvis was. Who else has a closet filled with thousands of Reader’s Digests with paper clips bound on each page where Elvis is mentioned? A notebook with hundreds of TV scripts—each only special because Elvis was spoken of? (I opened a Full House script where lovable Uncle Jesse was Elvis for Halloween.) Paul has over 32,000 notes about Elvis being mentioned on TV. That’s nothing if you’ve seen his backyard: it’s been completely transformed into “Jailhouse Rock”—how Paul sees “Jailhouse Rock”—a visitor favorite being the electric chair. Paul is an elusive guy. He’ll explain at the beginning of every tour how he found $750,000 in the trunk of his Cadillac (he seems to find lots of money) and decided to follow his dream of collecting Elvis memorabilia. He was married and had a son, Elvis Aaron Presley MacLeod. His wife gave him an ultimatum: Her or Elvis, so he gave the Misses “a million dollars” and told her to hit the road. Being my third visit, I got to take my photo with a pink guitar, belt and leather jacket in front of Paul’s Elvis shrine. I also recieved my own lifetime membership card to Graceland Too. Each visit is now free for me. (Paul said if I lose the card it will cost me $5, which sounds fair enough.) Every lifetime member’s photo goes up on Paul’s wall. I’m up there now, too “Dreams Come True At Graceland Too” — Paul MacLeod * * * Tennessee State Guide Lindsay Scott is an East Nashville based photographer, writer, drinker and ponderer. You can find her on any random night, porch sitting with a side of story telling and a camera in hand. Follow her on Tumblr at lindsayscottphotography.tumblr.com or on her website, lindsayscottphoto.com.
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WHERE ELVIS NEVER SLEEPS - HOLLY SPRINGS, MISSISSIPPI A milestone for a normal person might be getting married or having a kid. For me, it’s becoming a lifetime member at Graceland Too in Holly Springs, Mississippi. Approximately 50 miles from the real Graceland, in the heart of downtown Holly Springs, sits Paul MacLeod’s Graceland Too. He repeatedly touts that his goal is to resemble Graceland, not copy it; and for only $5 anyone, AT ANY TIME (24 hours a day even), can take a tour of Paul’s house. Paul says it’s been visited by over 500,000 people, including many famous actors with the most recent being Ashton Kutcher. (Although I’m fairly certain that’s the same sentence he told me when I last visited over 4 years ago). If you can believe it, Muhammad Ali has been three times as well as Steven Seagal. If Graceland were on acid it might resemble Graceland Too. Paul is the most extreme Elvis fanatic in the world. I could say this with the utmost of confidence even if I had no idea who Elvis was. Who else has a closet filled with thousands of Reader’s Digests with paper clips bound on each page where Elvis is mentioned? A notebook with hundreds of TV scripts—each only special because Elvis was spoken of? (I opened a Full House script where lovable Uncle Jesse was Elvis for Halloween.) Paul has over 32,000 notes about Elvis being mentioned on TV. That’s nothing if you’ve seen his backyard: it’s been completely transformed into “Jailhouse Rock”—how Paul sees “Jailhouse Rock”—a visitor favorite being the electric chair. Paul is an elusive guy. He’ll explain at the beginning of every tour how he found $750,000 in the trunk of his Cadillac (he seems to find lots of money) and decided to follow his dream of collecting Elvis memorabilia. He was married and had a son, Elvis Aaron Presley MacLeod. His wife gave him an ultimatum: Her or Elvis, so he gave the Misses “a million dollars” and told her to hit the road. Being my third visit, I got to take my photo with a pink guitar, belt and leather jacket in front of Paul’s Elvis shrine. I also recieved my own lifetime membership card to Graceland Too. Each visit is now free for me. (Paul said if I lose the card it will cost me $5, which sounds fair enough.) Every lifetime member’s photo goes up on Paul’s wall. I’m up there now, too “Dreams Come True At Graceland Too” — Paul MacLeod * * * Tennessee State Guide Lindsay Scott is an East Nashville based photographer, writer, drinker and ponderer. You can find her on any random night, porch sitting with a side of story telling and a camera in hand. Follow her on Tumblr at lindsayscottphotography.tumblr.com or on her website, lindsayscottphoto.com.
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WHERE ELVIS NEVER SLEEPS - HOLLY SPRINGS, MISSISSIPPI

A milestone for a normal person might be getting married or having a kid. For me, it’s becoming a lifetime member at Graceland Too in Holly Springs, Mississippi.

Approximately 50 miles from the real Graceland, in the heart of downtown Holly Springs, sits Paul MacLeod’s Graceland Too. He repeatedly touts that his goal is to resemble Graceland, not copy it; and for only $5 anyone, AT ANY TIME (24 hours a day even), can take a tour of Paul’s house. Paul says it’s been visited by over 500,000 people, including many famous actors with the most recent being Ashton Kutcher. (Although I’m fairly certain that’s the same sentence he told me when I last visited over 4 years ago). If you can believe it, Muhammad Ali has been three times as well as Steven Seagal.

If Graceland were on acid it might resemble Graceland Too. Paul is the most extreme Elvis fanatic in the world. I could say this with the utmost of confidence even if I had no idea who Elvis was.

Who else has a closet filled with thousands of Reader’s Digests with paper clips bound on each page where Elvis is mentioned? A notebook with hundreds of TV scripts—each only special because Elvis was spoken of? (I opened a Full House script where lovable Uncle Jesse was Elvis for Halloween.)

Paul has over 32,000 notes about Elvis being mentioned on TV. That’s nothing if you’ve seen his backyard: it’s been completely transformed into “Jailhouse Rock”—how Paul sees “Jailhouse Rock”—a visitor favorite being the electric chair.

Paul is an elusive guy. He’ll explain at the beginning of every tour how he found $750,000 in the trunk of his Cadillac (he seems to find lots of money) and decided to follow his dream of collecting Elvis memorabilia. He was married and had a son, Elvis Aaron Presley MacLeod. His wife gave him an ultimatum: Her or Elvis, so he gave the Misses “a million dollars” and told her to hit the road.

Being my third visit, I got to take my photo with a pink guitar, belt and leather jacket in front of Paul’s Elvis shrine. I also recieved my own lifetime membership card to Graceland Too. Each visit is now free for me. (Paul said if I lose the card it will cost me $5, which sounds fair enough.)

Every lifetime member’s photo goes up on Paul’s wall. I’m up there now, too

“Dreams Come True At Graceland Too” — Paul MacLeod

* * *

Tennessee State Guide Lindsay Scott is an East Nashville based photographer, writer, drinker and ponderer. You can find her on any random night, porch sitting with a side of story telling and a camera in hand. Follow her on Tumblr at lindsayscottphotography.tumblr.com or on her website, lindsayscottphoto.com.

THE GROUNDHOG and EGG SHOOT - LAWNDALE, NORTH CAROLINA The Groundhog and Egg Shoot has been taking place annually in Lawndale, North Carolina for over 30 years. Situated on the edges of Cleveland County in the Carolina foothills, Lawndale is a remote part of the county that sees an influx of several hundred people on the first Saturday come each April. I’d never been to anything like this and I wanted to see what a tactical shooting contest looked like. I started out the morning running a fever and I forgot earplugs. It reminded me of going to the Hickory Motor Speedway a few years ago. Very loud places somehow make it a great opportunity for me to step outside my comfort zone. Here, my natural shyness was drowned out by gunshots.   I found a woman named Maggie who, at 90, still comes out to the Shoot, selling baked goods and lunch items to the competitors. You see children helping their parents gather paper targets. You test equipment. You watch the leader boards updated after every round: 100 yards… 300 yards… until the final 500-yard-target challenge. As the distances got longer, it was hard to know how competitors fared until the targets were taken up on a four wheeler and counted and added on the whiteboard outside the shooting area. By then, you could see results by the looks on the shooters’ faces.  * * * Aaron Canipe is a State Guide to North Carolina. He was born and raised in Hickory, North Carolina and received his BFA in photography from the Corcoran College of Art + Design in Washington, D.C. Aaron also helps operate Empty Stretch, a DIY-publisher and blog. He’s exhibited work throughout the South and has been published in the Washington Post and the Oxford American’s “Eye on the South” blog. Follow him on Tumblr at mysteriesmanners and see more work on his website, aaroncanipe.com.
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THE GROUNDHOG and EGG SHOOT - LAWNDALE, NORTH CAROLINA The Groundhog and Egg Shoot has been taking place annually in Lawndale, North Carolina for over 30 years. Situated on the edges of Cleveland County in the Carolina foothills, Lawndale is a remote part of the county that sees an influx of several hundred people on the first Saturday come each April. I’d never been to anything like this and I wanted to see what a tactical shooting contest looked like. I started out the morning running a fever and I forgot earplugs. It reminded me of going to the Hickory Motor Speedway a few years ago. Very loud places somehow make it a great opportunity for me to step outside my comfort zone. Here, my natural shyness was drowned out by gunshots.   I found a woman named Maggie who, at 90, still comes out to the Shoot, selling baked goods and lunch items to the competitors. You see children helping their parents gather paper targets. You test equipment. You watch the leader boards updated after every round: 100 yards… 300 yards… until the final 500-yard-target challenge. As the distances got longer, it was hard to know how competitors fared until the targets were taken up on a four wheeler and counted and added on the whiteboard outside the shooting area. By then, you could see results by the looks on the shooters’ faces.  * * * Aaron Canipe is a State Guide to North Carolina. He was born and raised in Hickory, North Carolina and received his BFA in photography from the Corcoran College of Art + Design in Washington, D.C. Aaron also helps operate Empty Stretch, a DIY-publisher and blog. He’s exhibited work throughout the South and has been published in the Washington Post and the Oxford American’s “Eye on the South” blog. Follow him on Tumblr at mysteriesmanners and see more work on his website, aaroncanipe.com.
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THE GROUNDHOG and EGG SHOOT - LAWNDALE, NORTH CAROLINA The Groundhog and Egg Shoot has been taking place annually in Lawndale, North Carolina for over 30 years. Situated on the edges of Cleveland County in the Carolina foothills, Lawndale is a remote part of the county that sees an influx of several hundred people on the first Saturday come each April. I’d never been to anything like this and I wanted to see what a tactical shooting contest looked like. I started out the morning running a fever and I forgot earplugs. It reminded me of going to the Hickory Motor Speedway a few years ago. Very loud places somehow make it a great opportunity for me to step outside my comfort zone. Here, my natural shyness was drowned out by gunshots.   I found a woman named Maggie who, at 90, still comes out to the Shoot, selling baked goods and lunch items to the competitors. You see children helping their parents gather paper targets. You test equipment. You watch the leader boards updated after every round: 100 yards… 300 yards… until the final 500-yard-target challenge. As the distances got longer, it was hard to know how competitors fared until the targets were taken up on a four wheeler and counted and added on the whiteboard outside the shooting area. By then, you could see results by the looks on the shooters’ faces.  * * * Aaron Canipe is a State Guide to North Carolina. He was born and raised in Hickory, North Carolina and received his BFA in photography from the Corcoran College of Art + Design in Washington, D.C. Aaron also helps operate Empty Stretch, a DIY-publisher and blog. He’s exhibited work throughout the South and has been published in the Washington Post and the Oxford American’s “Eye on the South” blog. Follow him on Tumblr at mysteriesmanners and see more work on his website, aaroncanipe.com.
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THE GROUNDHOG and EGG SHOOT - LAWNDALE, NORTH CAROLINA The Groundhog and Egg Shoot has been taking place annually in Lawndale, North Carolina for over 30 years. Situated on the edges of Cleveland County in the Carolina foothills, Lawndale is a remote part of the county that sees an influx of several hundred people on the first Saturday come each April. I’d never been to anything like this and I wanted to see what a tactical shooting contest looked like. I started out the morning running a fever and I forgot earplugs. It reminded me of going to the Hickory Motor Speedway a few years ago. Very loud places somehow make it a great opportunity for me to step outside my comfort zone. Here, my natural shyness was drowned out by gunshots.   I found a woman named Maggie who, at 90, still comes out to the Shoot, selling baked goods and lunch items to the competitors. You see children helping their parents gather paper targets. You test equipment. You watch the leader boards updated after every round: 100 yards… 300 yards… until the final 500-yard-target challenge. As the distances got longer, it was hard to know how competitors fared until the targets were taken up on a four wheeler and counted and added on the whiteboard outside the shooting area. By then, you could see results by the looks on the shooters’ faces.  * * * Aaron Canipe is a State Guide to North Carolina. He was born and raised in Hickory, North Carolina and received his BFA in photography from the Corcoran College of Art + Design in Washington, D.C. Aaron also helps operate Empty Stretch, a DIY-publisher and blog. He’s exhibited work throughout the South and has been published in the Washington Post and the Oxford American’s “Eye on the South” blog. Follow him on Tumblr at mysteriesmanners and see more work on his website, aaroncanipe.com.
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THE GROUNDHOG and EGG SHOOT - LAWNDALE, NORTH CAROLINA The Groundhog and Egg Shoot has been taking place annually in Lawndale, North Carolina for over 30 years. Situated on the edges of Cleveland County in the Carolina foothills, Lawndale is a remote part of the county that sees an influx of several hundred people on the first Saturday come each April. I’d never been to anything like this and I wanted to see what a tactical shooting contest looked like. I started out the morning running a fever and I forgot earplugs. It reminded me of going to the Hickory Motor Speedway a few years ago. Very loud places somehow make it a great opportunity for me to step outside my comfort zone. Here, my natural shyness was drowned out by gunshots.   I found a woman named Maggie who, at 90, still comes out to the Shoot, selling baked goods and lunch items to the competitors. You see children helping their parents gather paper targets. You test equipment. You watch the leader boards updated after every round: 100 yards… 300 yards… until the final 500-yard-target challenge. As the distances got longer, it was hard to know how competitors fared until the targets were taken up on a four wheeler and counted and added on the whiteboard outside the shooting area. By then, you could see results by the looks on the shooters’ faces.  * * * Aaron Canipe is a State Guide to North Carolina. He was born and raised in Hickory, North Carolina and received his BFA in photography from the Corcoran College of Art + Design in Washington, D.C. Aaron also helps operate Empty Stretch, a DIY-publisher and blog. He’s exhibited work throughout the South and has been published in the Washington Post and the Oxford American’s “Eye on the South” blog. Follow him on Tumblr at mysteriesmanners and see more work on his website, aaroncanipe.com.
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THE GROUNDHOG and EGG SHOOT - LAWNDALE, NORTH CAROLINA The Groundhog and Egg Shoot has been taking place annually in Lawndale, North Carolina for over 30 years. Situated on the edges of Cleveland County in the Carolina foothills, Lawndale is a remote part of the county that sees an influx of several hundred people on the first Saturday come each April. I’d never been to anything like this and I wanted to see what a tactical shooting contest looked like. I started out the morning running a fever and I forgot earplugs. It reminded me of going to the Hickory Motor Speedway a few years ago. Very loud places somehow make it a great opportunity for me to step outside my comfort zone. Here, my natural shyness was drowned out by gunshots.   I found a woman named Maggie who, at 90, still comes out to the Shoot, selling baked goods and lunch items to the competitors. You see children helping their parents gather paper targets. You test equipment. You watch the leader boards updated after every round: 100 yards… 300 yards… until the final 500-yard-target challenge. As the distances got longer, it was hard to know how competitors fared until the targets were taken up on a four wheeler and counted and added on the whiteboard outside the shooting area. By then, you could see results by the looks on the shooters’ faces.  * * * Aaron Canipe is a State Guide to North Carolina. He was born and raised in Hickory, North Carolina and received his BFA in photography from the Corcoran College of Art + Design in Washington, D.C. Aaron also helps operate Empty Stretch, a DIY-publisher and blog. He’s exhibited work throughout the South and has been published in the Washington Post and the Oxford American’s “Eye on the South” blog. Follow him on Tumblr at mysteriesmanners and see more work on his website, aaroncanipe.com.
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THE GROUNDHOG and EGG SHOOT - LAWNDALE, NORTH CAROLINA The Groundhog and Egg Shoot has been taking place annually in Lawndale, North Carolina for over 30 years. Situated on the edges of Cleveland County in the Carolina foothills, Lawndale is a remote part of the county that sees an influx of several hundred people on the first Saturday come each April. I’d never been to anything like this and I wanted to see what a tactical shooting contest looked like. I started out the morning running a fever and I forgot earplugs. It reminded me of going to the Hickory Motor Speedway a few years ago. Very loud places somehow make it a great opportunity for me to step outside my comfort zone. Here, my natural shyness was drowned out by gunshots.   I found a woman named Maggie who, at 90, still comes out to the Shoot, selling baked goods and lunch items to the competitors. You see children helping their parents gather paper targets. You test equipment. You watch the leader boards updated after every round: 100 yards… 300 yards… until the final 500-yard-target challenge. As the distances got longer, it was hard to know how competitors fared until the targets were taken up on a four wheeler and counted and added on the whiteboard outside the shooting area. By then, you could see results by the looks on the shooters’ faces.  * * * Aaron Canipe is a State Guide to North Carolina. He was born and raised in Hickory, North Carolina and received his BFA in photography from the Corcoran College of Art + Design in Washington, D.C. Aaron also helps operate Empty Stretch, a DIY-publisher and blog. He’s exhibited work throughout the South and has been published in the Washington Post and the Oxford American’s “Eye on the South” blog. Follow him on Tumblr at mysteriesmanners and see more work on his website, aaroncanipe.com.
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THE GROUNDHOG and EGG SHOOT - LAWNDALE, NORTH CAROLINA The Groundhog and Egg Shoot has been taking place annually in Lawndale, North Carolina for over 30 years. Situated on the edges of Cleveland County in the Carolina foothills, Lawndale is a remote part of the county that sees an influx of several hundred people on the first Saturday come each April. I’d never been to anything like this and I wanted to see what a tactical shooting contest looked like. I started out the morning running a fever and I forgot earplugs. It reminded me of going to the Hickory Motor Speedway a few years ago. Very loud places somehow make it a great opportunity for me to step outside my comfort zone. Here, my natural shyness was drowned out by gunshots.   I found a woman named Maggie who, at 90, still comes out to the Shoot, selling baked goods and lunch items to the competitors. You see children helping their parents gather paper targets. You test equipment. You watch the leader boards updated after every round: 100 yards… 300 yards… until the final 500-yard-target challenge. As the distances got longer, it was hard to know how competitors fared until the targets were taken up on a four wheeler and counted and added on the whiteboard outside the shooting area. By then, you could see results by the looks on the shooters’ faces.  * * * Aaron Canipe is a State Guide to North Carolina. He was born and raised in Hickory, North Carolina and received his BFA in photography from the Corcoran College of Art + Design in Washington, D.C. Aaron also helps operate Empty Stretch, a DIY-publisher and blog. He’s exhibited work throughout the South and has been published in the Washington Post and the Oxford American’s “Eye on the South” blog. Follow him on Tumblr at mysteriesmanners and see more work on his website, aaroncanipe.com.
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THE GROUNDHOG and EGG SHOOT - LAWNDALE, NORTH CAROLINA The Groundhog and Egg Shoot has been taking place annually in Lawndale, North Carolina for over 30 years. Situated on the edges of Cleveland County in the Carolina foothills, Lawndale is a remote part of the county that sees an influx of several hundred people on the first Saturday come each April. I’d never been to anything like this and I wanted to see what a tactical shooting contest looked like. I started out the morning running a fever and I forgot earplugs. It reminded me of going to the Hickory Motor Speedway a few years ago. Very loud places somehow make it a great opportunity for me to step outside my comfort zone. Here, my natural shyness was drowned out by gunshots.   I found a woman named Maggie who, at 90, still comes out to the Shoot, selling baked goods and lunch items to the competitors. You see children helping their parents gather paper targets. You test equipment. You watch the leader boards updated after every round: 100 yards… 300 yards… until the final 500-yard-target challenge. As the distances got longer, it was hard to know how competitors fared until the targets were taken up on a four wheeler and counted and added on the whiteboard outside the shooting area. By then, you could see results by the looks on the shooters’ faces.  * * * Aaron Canipe is a State Guide to North Carolina. He was born and raised in Hickory, North Carolina and received his BFA in photography from the Corcoran College of Art + Design in Washington, D.C. Aaron also helps operate Empty Stretch, a DIY-publisher and blog. He’s exhibited work throughout the South and has been published in the Washington Post and the Oxford American’s “Eye on the South” blog. Follow him on Tumblr at mysteriesmanners and see more work on his website, aaroncanipe.com.
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THE GROUNDHOG and EGG SHOOT - LAWNDALE, NORTH CAROLINA The Groundhog and Egg Shoot has been taking place annually in Lawndale, North Carolina for over 30 years. Situated on the edges of Cleveland County in the Carolina foothills, Lawndale is a remote part of the county that sees an influx of several hundred people on the first Saturday come each April. I’d never been to anything like this and I wanted to see what a tactical shooting contest looked like. I started out the morning running a fever and I forgot earplugs. It reminded me of going to the Hickory Motor Speedway a few years ago. Very loud places somehow make it a great opportunity for me to step outside my comfort zone. Here, my natural shyness was drowned out by gunshots.   I found a woman named Maggie who, at 90, still comes out to the Shoot, selling baked goods and lunch items to the competitors. You see children helping their parents gather paper targets. You test equipment. You watch the leader boards updated after every round: 100 yards… 300 yards… until the final 500-yard-target challenge. As the distances got longer, it was hard to know how competitors fared until the targets were taken up on a four wheeler and counted and added on the whiteboard outside the shooting area. By then, you could see results by the looks on the shooters’ faces.  * * * Aaron Canipe is a State Guide to North Carolina. He was born and raised in Hickory, North Carolina and received his BFA in photography from the Corcoran College of Art + Design in Washington, D.C. Aaron also helps operate Empty Stretch, a DIY-publisher and blog. He’s exhibited work throughout the South and has been published in the Washington Post and the Oxford American’s “Eye on the South” blog. Follow him on Tumblr at mysteriesmanners and see more work on his website, aaroncanipe.com.
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THE GROUNDHOG and EGG SHOOT - LAWNDALE, NORTH CAROLINA

The Groundhog and Egg Shoot has been taking place annually in Lawndale, North Carolina for over 30 years. Situated on the edges of Cleveland County in the Carolina foothills, Lawndale is a remote part of the county that sees an influx of several hundred people on the first Saturday come each April.

I’d never been to anything like this and I wanted to see what a tactical shooting contest looked like. I started out the morning running a fever and I forgot earplugs. It reminded me of going to the Hickory Motor Speedway a few years ago. Very loud places somehow make it a great opportunity for me to step outside my comfort zone. Here, my natural shyness was drowned out by gunshots.  

I found a woman named Maggie who, at 90, still comes out to the Shoot, selling baked goods and lunch items to the competitors. You see children helping their parents gather paper targets. You test equipment. You watch the leader boards updated after every round: 100 yards… 300 yards… until the final 500-yard-target challenge.

As the distances got longer, it was hard to know how competitors fared until the targets were taken up on a four wheeler and counted and added on the whiteboard outside the shooting area. By then, you could see results by the looks on the shooters’ faces. 

* * *

Aaron Canipe is a State Guide to North Carolina. He was born and raised in Hickory, North Carolina and received his BFA in photography from the Corcoran College of Art + Design in Washington, D.C. Aaron also helps operate Empty Stretch, a DIY-publisher and blog. He’s exhibited work throughout the South and has been published in the Washington Post and the Oxford American’s “Eye on the South” blog. Follow him on Tumblr at mysteriesmanners and see more work on his website, aaroncanipe.com.

FURNACE CREEK INN - DEATH VALLEY, CALIFORNIA Near Furnace Creek Jc., 43.3. m., the meeting place with oiled East Highway, is FURNACE CREEK INN (sea level), 43.4 m., with its garage, service station, and small store. This is a luxury resort. … (Nov. 1 to May 1), American plan, $9.75 a day and up. … Physician at Furnace Creek Inn two days weekly. … Swimming pool and tennis courts —California, A Guide To the Golden State (WPA, 1939) Built in 1927, nestled against the Funeral Mountains, this Spanish mission inspired inn is an oasis of luxury in the desert. Called “a masterpiece in harmony with history and scenery,” the four diamond, 66-room inn sits at 214 ft below sea level, overlooking Death Valley and the Panamint Range. * * * KC O’Connor is a Guide to Wyoming for The American Guide. He’s a writer and photographer based in Lander, Wyoming. Follow him on Tumblr at kcowyo.tumblr.com and on Twitter.
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FURNACE CREEK INN - DEATH VALLEY, CALIFORNIA

Near Furnace Creek Jc., 43.3. m., the meeting place with oiled East Highway, is FURNACE CREEK INN (sea level), 43.4 m., with its garage, service station, and small store. This is a luxury resort. … (Nov. 1 to May 1), American plan, $9.75 a day and up. … Physician at Furnace Creek Inn two days weekly. … Swimming pool and tennis courts

—California, A Guide To the Golden State (WPA, 1939)

Built in 1927, nestled against the Funeral Mountains, this Spanish mission inspired inn is an oasis of luxury in the desert. Called “a masterpiece in harmony with history and scenery,” the four diamond, 66-room inn sits at 214 ft below sea level, overlooking Death Valley and the Panamint Range.

* * *

KC O’Connor is a Guide to Wyoming for The American Guide. He’s a writer and photographer based in Lander, Wyoming. Follow him on Tumblr at kcowyo.tumblr.com and on Twitter.

WELCOME TO JAZZLAND - NEW ORLEANS, LOUISIANA In August of 2009, Ray Nagin, then mayor of New Orleans, announced that kids’ entertainment channel Nickelodeon signed a deal to redevelop Six Flags of New Orleans into the TV channel’s first stand-alone theme park.   “This is huge,” he said. “I don’t know what we could have done better… I don’t know if we could have found a better partner. Anyone who owns land in New Orleans east is probably sitting pretty good right now.” In the mid-’90s, the city of New Orleans took out loans totaling $25.3 million dollar from the Department of Housing and Urban Development to construct the park. Jazzland, its original moniker, opened with much fanfare in 2000. It only operated for two seasons before filing for bankruptcy. A few years later, desperate to find a company to take over operations, the city added on some $15 million in additional loans to help finance Six Flags’ takeover. In 2005, Hurricane Katrina left the park stewing in 12 feet of floodwaters for two weeks. Abandoned and decaying, the park sits in the marshes of New Orleans East, the tops of its roller coasters visible for miles. The Nickelodeon deal required an initial investment of $165 million dollars. Financing hinged on capturing Gulf Opportunity Zone Bonds (GO Zone Bonds), a federal program that offered low interest rates to businesses investing in storm damaged areas of New Orleans. Despite the endorsement of the city’s Industrial Development Board, the bonds never came through, and the developers did not secure other financing options. Nickelodeon dropped the project within a few months. Other discarded plans include everything from a baseball complex to a water park. The most recent redevelopment scheme was an upscale outlet mall, complete with a boardwalk where patrons could ride on the remaining roller coasters. Approved by the city in March of 2012, the $40 million dollar mall would be largely paid for with tax increment financing (TIF). TIF is a form of public-private financing where the up-front development costs are subsidized by public entities, creating long term municipal debt. This debt is then paid for by the anticipated tax revenues generated by the redevelopment once it reenters commercial activity. The majority of the sales taxes and increased property taxes would go towards debt repayment rather than city or state coffers. At a public meeting debuting plans for the mall, some residents pushed back on using TIF dollars. According to the Times Picayune, David Garcia, a lead developer of the project, responded that anyone claiming to be able to redevelop Jazzland without TIF was “lacking in either expertise or honesty.” The site is too damaged and risky for developers to be willing to wholly finance any project themselves, he added. Ultimately, the debate was moot. The plans were dead a year later. The city would instead support building an outlet mall on the Mississippi River, less than half a mile from the French Quarter and 17 miles from Jazzland. Before the storm, Jazzland was an economic loss for the city. Now it’s an economic drain, siphoning funds without even providing jobs. Currently, New Orleans pays $1 million dollars annually on the original construction loan. Meanwhile, city funding for children’s athletics, the library, and substance abuse counselors gets slashed due to a protracted budget crisis. The arguments for redevelopment mirror the arguments for building such a monument in the first place—we need jobs, we need development in the East. But if it’s true what David Garcia said—that rebuilding Jazzland necessarily means leveraging TIF dollars, mushrooming municipal debt and earmarking taxes away from public ledgers—then it seems like a poor bet for anyone to make, especially for the city. Redevelopment could mean New Orleans over-extends itself financially again. Another natural disaster or bankruptcy would leave the city with a bigger annual debt payment, and kick off another round of redevelopment roulette, with firms trotting out new proposals. No matter what glittering designs the plans depict, though, the promises will be the same: jobs, tourist dollars, and higher property taxes for everyone in the East. The question is whether or not low wage jobs, which dominate the labor economy of shopping malls and theme parks, are worth the price of admission. * * * Breonne DeDecker was born near the headwaters of the Mississippi River and now resides at the end of it. She has degrees in photography and sustainable development. Currently, she is working with partner Darin Acosta on The Airline is a Very Long Road—an experimental biography of Louisiana, which you can find at airlinehighway.tumblr.com.
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WELCOME TO JAZZLAND - NEW ORLEANS, LOUISIANA In August of 2009, Ray Nagin, then mayor of New Orleans, announced that kids’ entertainment channel Nickelodeon signed a deal to redevelop Six Flags of New Orleans into the TV channel’s first stand-alone theme park.   “This is huge,” he said. “I don’t know what we could have done better… I don’t know if we could have found a better partner. Anyone who owns land in New Orleans east is probably sitting pretty good right now.” In the mid-’90s, the city of New Orleans took out loans totaling $25.3 million dollar from the Department of Housing and Urban Development to construct the park. Jazzland, its original moniker, opened with much fanfare in 2000. It only operated for two seasons before filing for bankruptcy. A few years later, desperate to find a company to take over operations, the city added on some $15 million in additional loans to help finance Six Flags’ takeover. In 2005, Hurricane Katrina left the park stewing in 12 feet of floodwaters for two weeks. Abandoned and decaying, the park sits in the marshes of New Orleans East, the tops of its roller coasters visible for miles. The Nickelodeon deal required an initial investment of $165 million dollars. Financing hinged on capturing Gulf Opportunity Zone Bonds (GO Zone Bonds), a federal program that offered low interest rates to businesses investing in storm damaged areas of New Orleans. Despite the endorsement of the city’s Industrial Development Board, the bonds never came through, and the developers did not secure other financing options. Nickelodeon dropped the project within a few months. Other discarded plans include everything from a baseball complex to a water park. The most recent redevelopment scheme was an upscale outlet mall, complete with a boardwalk where patrons could ride on the remaining roller coasters. Approved by the city in March of 2012, the $40 million dollar mall would be largely paid for with tax increment financing (TIF). TIF is a form of public-private financing where the up-front development costs are subsidized by public entities, creating long term municipal debt. This debt is then paid for by the anticipated tax revenues generated by the redevelopment once it reenters commercial activity. The majority of the sales taxes and increased property taxes would go towards debt repayment rather than city or state coffers. At a public meeting debuting plans for the mall, some residents pushed back on using TIF dollars. According to the Times Picayune, David Garcia, a lead developer of the project, responded that anyone claiming to be able to redevelop Jazzland without TIF was “lacking in either expertise or honesty.” The site is too damaged and risky for developers to be willing to wholly finance any project themselves, he added. Ultimately, the debate was moot. The plans were dead a year later. The city would instead support building an outlet mall on the Mississippi River, less than half a mile from the French Quarter and 17 miles from Jazzland. Before the storm, Jazzland was an economic loss for the city. Now it’s an economic drain, siphoning funds without even providing jobs. Currently, New Orleans pays $1 million dollars annually on the original construction loan. Meanwhile, city funding for children’s athletics, the library, and substance abuse counselors gets slashed due to a protracted budget crisis. The arguments for redevelopment mirror the arguments for building such a monument in the first place—we need jobs, we need development in the East. But if it’s true what David Garcia said—that rebuilding Jazzland necessarily means leveraging TIF dollars, mushrooming municipal debt and earmarking taxes away from public ledgers—then it seems like a poor bet for anyone to make, especially for the city. Redevelopment could mean New Orleans over-extends itself financially again. Another natural disaster or bankruptcy would leave the city with a bigger annual debt payment, and kick off another round of redevelopment roulette, with firms trotting out new proposals. No matter what glittering designs the plans depict, though, the promises will be the same: jobs, tourist dollars, and higher property taxes for everyone in the East. The question is whether or not low wage jobs, which dominate the labor economy of shopping malls and theme parks, are worth the price of admission. * * * Breonne DeDecker was born near the headwaters of the Mississippi River and now resides at the end of it. She has degrees in photography and sustainable development. Currently, she is working with partner Darin Acosta on The Airline is a Very Long Road—an experimental biography of Louisiana, which you can find at airlinehighway.tumblr.com.
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WELCOME TO JAZZLAND - NEW ORLEANS, LOUISIANA In August of 2009, Ray Nagin, then mayor of New Orleans, announced that kids’ entertainment channel Nickelodeon signed a deal to redevelop Six Flags of New Orleans into the TV channel’s first stand-alone theme park.   “This is huge,” he said. “I don’t know what we could have done better… I don’t know if we could have found a better partner. Anyone who owns land in New Orleans east is probably sitting pretty good right now.” In the mid-’90s, the city of New Orleans took out loans totaling $25.3 million dollar from the Department of Housing and Urban Development to construct the park. Jazzland, its original moniker, opened with much fanfare in 2000. It only operated for two seasons before filing for bankruptcy. A few years later, desperate to find a company to take over operations, the city added on some $15 million in additional loans to help finance Six Flags’ takeover. In 2005, Hurricane Katrina left the park stewing in 12 feet of floodwaters for two weeks. Abandoned and decaying, the park sits in the marshes of New Orleans East, the tops of its roller coasters visible for miles. The Nickelodeon deal required an initial investment of $165 million dollars. Financing hinged on capturing Gulf Opportunity Zone Bonds (GO Zone Bonds), a federal program that offered low interest rates to businesses investing in storm damaged areas of New Orleans. Despite the endorsement of the city’s Industrial Development Board, the bonds never came through, and the developers did not secure other financing options. Nickelodeon dropped the project within a few months. Other discarded plans include everything from a baseball complex to a water park. The most recent redevelopment scheme was an upscale outlet mall, complete with a boardwalk where patrons could ride on the remaining roller coasters. Approved by the city in March of 2012, the $40 million dollar mall would be largely paid for with tax increment financing (TIF). TIF is a form of public-private financing where the up-front development costs are subsidized by public entities, creating long term municipal debt. This debt is then paid for by the anticipated tax revenues generated by the redevelopment once it reenters commercial activity. The majority of the sales taxes and increased property taxes would go towards debt repayment rather than city or state coffers. At a public meeting debuting plans for the mall, some residents pushed back on using TIF dollars. According to the Times Picayune, David Garcia, a lead developer of the project, responded that anyone claiming to be able to redevelop Jazzland without TIF was “lacking in either expertise or honesty.” The site is too damaged and risky for developers to be willing to wholly finance any project themselves, he added. Ultimately, the debate was moot. The plans were dead a year later. The city would instead support building an outlet mall on the Mississippi River, less than half a mile from the French Quarter and 17 miles from Jazzland. Before the storm, Jazzland was an economic loss for the city. Now it’s an economic drain, siphoning funds without even providing jobs. Currently, New Orleans pays $1 million dollars annually on the original construction loan. Meanwhile, city funding for children’s athletics, the library, and substance abuse counselors gets slashed due to a protracted budget crisis. The arguments for redevelopment mirror the arguments for building such a monument in the first place—we need jobs, we need development in the East. But if it’s true what David Garcia said—that rebuilding Jazzland necessarily means leveraging TIF dollars, mushrooming municipal debt and earmarking taxes away from public ledgers—then it seems like a poor bet for anyone to make, especially for the city. Redevelopment could mean New Orleans over-extends itself financially again. Another natural disaster or bankruptcy would leave the city with a bigger annual debt payment, and kick off another round of redevelopment roulette, with firms trotting out new proposals. No matter what glittering designs the plans depict, though, the promises will be the same: jobs, tourist dollars, and higher property taxes for everyone in the East. The question is whether or not low wage jobs, which dominate the labor economy of shopping malls and theme parks, are worth the price of admission. * * * Breonne DeDecker was born near the headwaters of the Mississippi River and now resides at the end of it. She has degrees in photography and sustainable development. Currently, she is working with partner Darin Acosta on The Airline is a Very Long Road—an experimental biography of Louisiana, which you can find at airlinehighway.tumblr.com.
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WELCOME TO JAZZLAND - NEW ORLEANS, LOUISIANA In August of 2009, Ray Nagin, then mayor of New Orleans, announced that kids’ entertainment channel Nickelodeon signed a deal to redevelop Six Flags of New Orleans into the TV channel’s first stand-alone theme park.   “This is huge,” he said. “I don’t know what we could have done better… I don’t know if we could have found a better partner. Anyone who owns land in New Orleans east is probably sitting pretty good right now.” In the mid-’90s, the city of New Orleans took out loans totaling $25.3 million dollar from the Department of Housing and Urban Development to construct the park. Jazzland, its original moniker, opened with much fanfare in 2000. It only operated for two seasons before filing for bankruptcy. A few years later, desperate to find a company to take over operations, the city added on some $15 million in additional loans to help finance Six Flags’ takeover. In 2005, Hurricane Katrina left the park stewing in 12 feet of floodwaters for two weeks. Abandoned and decaying, the park sits in the marshes of New Orleans East, the tops of its roller coasters visible for miles. The Nickelodeon deal required an initial investment of $165 million dollars. Financing hinged on capturing Gulf Opportunity Zone Bonds (GO Zone Bonds), a federal program that offered low interest rates to businesses investing in storm damaged areas of New Orleans. Despite the endorsement of the city’s Industrial Development Board, the bonds never came through, and the developers did not secure other financing options. Nickelodeon dropped the project within a few months. Other discarded plans include everything from a baseball complex to a water park. The most recent redevelopment scheme was an upscale outlet mall, complete with a boardwalk where patrons could ride on the remaining roller coasters. Approved by the city in March of 2012, the $40 million dollar mall would be largely paid for with tax increment financing (TIF). TIF is a form of public-private financing where the up-front development costs are subsidized by public entities, creating long term municipal debt. This debt is then paid for by the anticipated tax revenues generated by the redevelopment once it reenters commercial activity. The majority of the sales taxes and increased property taxes would go towards debt repayment rather than city or state coffers. At a public meeting debuting plans for the mall, some residents pushed back on using TIF dollars. According to the Times Picayune, David Garcia, a lead developer of the project, responded that anyone claiming to be able to redevelop Jazzland without TIF was “lacking in either expertise or honesty.” The site is too damaged and risky for developers to be willing to wholly finance any project themselves, he added. Ultimately, the debate was moot. The plans were dead a year later. The city would instead support building an outlet mall on the Mississippi River, less than half a mile from the French Quarter and 17 miles from Jazzland. Before the storm, Jazzland was an economic loss for the city. Now it’s an economic drain, siphoning funds without even providing jobs. Currently, New Orleans pays $1 million dollars annually on the original construction loan. Meanwhile, city funding for children’s athletics, the library, and substance abuse counselors gets slashed due to a protracted budget crisis. The arguments for redevelopment mirror the arguments for building such a monument in the first place—we need jobs, we need development in the East. But if it’s true what David Garcia said—that rebuilding Jazzland necessarily means leveraging TIF dollars, mushrooming municipal debt and earmarking taxes away from public ledgers—then it seems like a poor bet for anyone to make, especially for the city. Redevelopment could mean New Orleans over-extends itself financially again. Another natural disaster or bankruptcy would leave the city with a bigger annual debt payment, and kick off another round of redevelopment roulette, with firms trotting out new proposals. No matter what glittering designs the plans depict, though, the promises will be the same: jobs, tourist dollars, and higher property taxes for everyone in the East. The question is whether or not low wage jobs, which dominate the labor economy of shopping malls and theme parks, are worth the price of admission. * * * Breonne DeDecker was born near the headwaters of the Mississippi River and now resides at the end of it. She has degrees in photography and sustainable development. Currently, she is working with partner Darin Acosta on The Airline is a Very Long Road—an experimental biography of Louisiana, which you can find at airlinehighway.tumblr.com.
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WELCOME TO JAZZLAND - NEW ORLEANS, LOUISIANA In August of 2009, Ray Nagin, then mayor of New Orleans, announced that kids’ entertainment channel Nickelodeon signed a deal to redevelop Six Flags of New Orleans into the TV channel’s first stand-alone theme park.   “This is huge,” he said. “I don’t know what we could have done better… I don’t know if we could have found a better partner. Anyone who owns land in New Orleans east is probably sitting pretty good right now.” In the mid-’90s, the city of New Orleans took out loans totaling $25.3 million dollar from the Department of Housing and Urban Development to construct the park. Jazzland, its original moniker, opened with much fanfare in 2000. It only operated for two seasons before filing for bankruptcy. A few years later, desperate to find a company to take over operations, the city added on some $15 million in additional loans to help finance Six Flags’ takeover. In 2005, Hurricane Katrina left the park stewing in 12 feet of floodwaters for two weeks. Abandoned and decaying, the park sits in the marshes of New Orleans East, the tops of its roller coasters visible for miles. The Nickelodeon deal required an initial investment of $165 million dollars. Financing hinged on capturing Gulf Opportunity Zone Bonds (GO Zone Bonds), a federal program that offered low interest rates to businesses investing in storm damaged areas of New Orleans. Despite the endorsement of the city’s Industrial Development Board, the bonds never came through, and the developers did not secure other financing options. Nickelodeon dropped the project within a few months. Other discarded plans include everything from a baseball complex to a water park. The most recent redevelopment scheme was an upscale outlet mall, complete with a boardwalk where patrons could ride on the remaining roller coasters. Approved by the city in March of 2012, the $40 million dollar mall would be largely paid for with tax increment financing (TIF). TIF is a form of public-private financing where the up-front development costs are subsidized by public entities, creating long term municipal debt. This debt is then paid for by the anticipated tax revenues generated by the redevelopment once it reenters commercial activity. The majority of the sales taxes and increased property taxes would go towards debt repayment rather than city or state coffers. At a public meeting debuting plans for the mall, some residents pushed back on using TIF dollars. According to the Times Picayune, David Garcia, a lead developer of the project, responded that anyone claiming to be able to redevelop Jazzland without TIF was “lacking in either expertise or honesty.” The site is too damaged and risky for developers to be willing to wholly finance any project themselves, he added. Ultimately, the debate was moot. The plans were dead a year later. The city would instead support building an outlet mall on the Mississippi River, less than half a mile from the French Quarter and 17 miles from Jazzland. Before the storm, Jazzland was an economic loss for the city. Now it’s an economic drain, siphoning funds without even providing jobs. Currently, New Orleans pays $1 million dollars annually on the original construction loan. Meanwhile, city funding for children’s athletics, the library, and substance abuse counselors gets slashed due to a protracted budget crisis. The arguments for redevelopment mirror the arguments for building such a monument in the first place—we need jobs, we need development in the East. But if it’s true what David Garcia said—that rebuilding Jazzland necessarily means leveraging TIF dollars, mushrooming municipal debt and earmarking taxes away from public ledgers—then it seems like a poor bet for anyone to make, especially for the city. Redevelopment could mean New Orleans over-extends itself financially again. Another natural disaster or bankruptcy would leave the city with a bigger annual debt payment, and kick off another round of redevelopment roulette, with firms trotting out new proposals. No matter what glittering designs the plans depict, though, the promises will be the same: jobs, tourist dollars, and higher property taxes for everyone in the East. The question is whether or not low wage jobs, which dominate the labor economy of shopping malls and theme parks, are worth the price of admission. * * * Breonne DeDecker was born near the headwaters of the Mississippi River and now resides at the end of it. She has degrees in photography and sustainable development. Currently, she is working with partner Darin Acosta on The Airline is a Very Long Road—an experimental biography of Louisiana, which you can find at airlinehighway.tumblr.com.
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WELCOME TO JAZZLAND - NEW ORLEANS, LOUISIANA

In August of 2009, Ray Nagin, then mayor of New Orleans, announced that kids’ entertainment channel Nickelodeon signed a deal to redevelop Six Flags of New Orleans into the TV channel’s first stand-alone theme park.  

“This is huge,” he said. “I don’t know what we could have done better… I don’t know if we could have found a better partner. Anyone who owns land in New Orleans east is probably sitting pretty good right now.”

In the mid-’90s, the city of New Orleans took out loans totaling $25.3 million dollar from the Department of Housing and Urban Development to construct the park. Jazzland, its original moniker, opened with much fanfare in 2000. It only operated for two seasons before filing for bankruptcy. A few years later, desperate to find a company to take over operations, the city added on some $15 million in additional loans to help finance Six Flags’ takeover. In 2005, Hurricane Katrina left the park stewing in 12 feet of floodwaters for two weeks. Abandoned and decaying, the park sits in the marshes of New Orleans East, the tops of its roller coasters visible for miles.

The Nickelodeon deal required an initial investment of $165 million dollars. Financing hinged on capturing Gulf Opportunity Zone Bonds (GO Zone Bonds), a federal program that offered low interest rates to businesses investing in storm damaged areas of New Orleans. Despite the endorsement of the city’s Industrial Development Board, the bonds never came through, and the developers did not secure other financing options. Nickelodeon dropped the project within a few months.

Other discarded plans include everything from a baseball complex to a water park. The most recent redevelopment scheme was an upscale outlet mall, complete with a boardwalk where patrons could ride on the remaining roller coasters. Approved by the city in March of 2012, the $40 million dollar mall would be largely paid for with tax increment financing (TIF). TIF is a form of public-private financing where the up-front development costs are subsidized by public entities, creating long term municipal debt. This debt is then paid for by the anticipated tax revenues generated by the redevelopment once it reenters commercial activity. The majority of the sales taxes and increased property taxes would go towards debt repayment rather than city or state coffers.

At a public meeting debuting plans for the mall, some residents pushed back on using TIF dollars. According to the Times Picayune, David Garcia, a lead developer of the project, responded that anyone claiming to be able to redevelop Jazzland without TIF was “lacking in either expertise or honesty.” The site is too damaged and risky for developers to be willing to wholly finance any project themselves, he added. Ultimately, the debate was moot. The plans were dead a year later. The city would instead support building an outlet mall on the Mississippi River, less than half a mile from the French Quarter and 17 miles from Jazzland.

Before the storm, Jazzland was an economic loss for the city. Now it’s an economic drain, siphoning funds without even providing jobs. Currently, New Orleans pays $1 million dollars annually on the original construction loan. Meanwhile, city funding for children’s athletics, the library, and substance abuse counselors gets slashed due to a protracted budget crisis.

The arguments for redevelopment mirror the arguments for building such a monument in the first place—we need jobs, we need development in the East. But if it’s true what David Garcia said—that rebuilding Jazzland necessarily means leveraging TIF dollars, mushrooming municipal debt and earmarking taxes away from public ledgers—then it seems like a poor bet for anyone to make, especially for the city. Redevelopment could mean New Orleans over-extends itself financially again. Another natural disaster or bankruptcy would leave the city with a bigger annual debt payment, and kick off another round of redevelopment roulette, with firms trotting out new proposals. No matter what glittering designs the plans depict, though, the promises will be the same: jobs, tourist dollars, and higher property taxes for everyone in the East. The question is whether or not low wage jobs, which dominate the labor economy of shopping malls and theme parks, are worth the price of admission.

* * *

Breonne DeDecker was born near the headwaters of the Mississippi River and now resides at the end of it. She has degrees in photography and sustainable development. Currently, she is working with partner Darin Acosta on The Airline is a Very Long Road—an experimental biography of Louisiana, which you can find at airlinehighway.tumblr.com.

NOTHING TO SEE HERE - CENTRALIA, PENNSYLVANIA CENTRALIA, 31.2 m. (1,484 alt., 2,446 pop.), was founded in 1826 and named for its then strategic commercial situation. Wooden buildings occupy the bottom of a hollow that has been invaded by stripping operations; some miners’ shacks are almost surrounded by pits. Many houses have settled because of mining operations under the town itself.  —Pennsylvania, A Guide To the Keystone State (WPA, 1940) Imagine a town as you see it here in this first picture, with more than 1000 residents and over 500 homes and businesses. Now imagine it gone—literally wiped off the map. Families relocated. Structures razed and removed. Street signs dismantled and discarded. Zip code revoked. That’s the story of Centralia, Pennsylvania, a former coal town that literally burned itself out. In 1962, as it had in years past, the town hired volunteer firefighters to clean up the town dump, located in a former strip mine. This entailed setting the landfill on fire and allowing it to burn. Unfortunately, the fire wasn’t fully extinguished and it ultimately found its way into the abandoned coal mines beneath the town. It wasn’t until 1979 that the town became aware of the enormity of the fire burning beneath them. Eventually sinkholes were opening up, noxious levels of carbon monoxide were escaping and Pennsylvania officials were warning people to leave. In 1984 Congress allocated $42 million in relocation funds and in 1992, Pennsylvania took all properties in the town by eminent domain. A few folks have stood their ground; the population now stands at 10 with six houses remaining. There is literally not much to see here as almost everything has been removed. Overgrown empty streets allow your imagination to run wild like the landscape itself. The only signs of the fire are the metal gas monitoring pipes installed by the DEP and the occasional wisps of smoke escaping from some cracks in the earth. Route 61 leading into town was closed off in 1992 because of the severe damage the fire caused. That portion is now referred to as Graffiti Highway and the new 61 jogs right onto what used to be an old logging road—now made modern with asphalt. The only evidence that life still exists in Centralia are the few remaining homes with their tidy lawns and the cemeteries that are still well maintained. If you knew nothing of Centralia, you could almost drive through it without realizing the town had ever existed—it would be just a couple odd bends in the road. But if you know the story of Centralia it’s hard not to stop and take notice of what isn’t there anymore and imagine what it used to be. * * * Guide to the Northeast Brett Klein lives in Connecticut and works in New York, but prefers small town life and his homestate of Maine. Any chance to get rural is a mental vacation. Follow Klein on Tumblr at The Coast is Clear. His curatorial collection of Americana, rural life, other artists and ephemera can be seen on Tumblr at Tons of Land.
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NOTHING TO SEE HERE - CENTRALIA, PENNSYLVANIA CENTRALIA, 31.2 m. (1,484 alt., 2,446 pop.), was founded in 1826 and named for its then strategic commercial situation. Wooden buildings occupy the bottom of a hollow that has been invaded by stripping operations; some miners’ shacks are almost surrounded by pits. Many houses have settled because of mining operations under the town itself.  —Pennsylvania, A Guide To the Keystone State (WPA, 1940) Imagine a town as you see it here in this first picture, with more than 1000 residents and over 500 homes and businesses. Now imagine it gone—literally wiped off the map. Families relocated. Structures razed and removed. Street signs dismantled and discarded. Zip code revoked. That’s the story of Centralia, Pennsylvania, a former coal town that literally burned itself out. In 1962, as it had in years past, the town hired volunteer firefighters to clean up the town dump, located in a former strip mine. This entailed setting the landfill on fire and allowing it to burn. Unfortunately, the fire wasn’t fully extinguished and it ultimately found its way into the abandoned coal mines beneath the town. It wasn’t until 1979 that the town became aware of the enormity of the fire burning beneath them. Eventually sinkholes were opening up, noxious levels of carbon monoxide were escaping and Pennsylvania officials were warning people to leave. In 1984 Congress allocated $42 million in relocation funds and in 1992, Pennsylvania took all properties in the town by eminent domain. A few folks have stood their ground; the population now stands at 10 with six houses remaining. There is literally not much to see here as almost everything has been removed. Overgrown empty streets allow your imagination to run wild like the landscape itself. The only signs of the fire are the metal gas monitoring pipes installed by the DEP and the occasional wisps of smoke escaping from some cracks in the earth. Route 61 leading into town was closed off in 1992 because of the severe damage the fire caused. That portion is now referred to as Graffiti Highway and the new 61 jogs right onto what used to be an old logging road—now made modern with asphalt. The only evidence that life still exists in Centralia are the few remaining homes with their tidy lawns and the cemeteries that are still well maintained. If you knew nothing of Centralia, you could almost drive through it without realizing the town had ever existed—it would be just a couple odd bends in the road. But if you know the story of Centralia it’s hard not to stop and take notice of what isn’t there anymore and imagine what it used to be. * * * Guide to the Northeast Brett Klein lives in Connecticut and works in New York, but prefers small town life and his homestate of Maine. Any chance to get rural is a mental vacation. Follow Klein on Tumblr at The Coast is Clear. His curatorial collection of Americana, rural life, other artists and ephemera can be seen on Tumblr at Tons of Land.
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NOTHING TO SEE HERE - CENTRALIA, PENNSYLVANIA CENTRALIA, 31.2 m. (1,484 alt., 2,446 pop.), was founded in 1826 and named for its then strategic commercial situation. Wooden buildings occupy the bottom of a hollow that has been invaded by stripping operations; some miners’ shacks are almost surrounded by pits. Many houses have settled because of mining operations under the town itself.  —Pennsylvania, A Guide To the Keystone State (WPA, 1940) Imagine a town as you see it here in this first picture, with more than 1000 residents and over 500 homes and businesses. Now imagine it gone—literally wiped off the map. Families relocated. Structures razed and removed. Street signs dismantled and discarded. Zip code revoked. That’s the story of Centralia, Pennsylvania, a former coal town that literally burned itself out. In 1962, as it had in years past, the town hired volunteer firefighters to clean up the town dump, located in a former strip mine. This entailed setting the landfill on fire and allowing it to burn. Unfortunately, the fire wasn’t fully extinguished and it ultimately found its way into the abandoned coal mines beneath the town. It wasn’t until 1979 that the town became aware of the enormity of the fire burning beneath them. Eventually sinkholes were opening up, noxious levels of carbon monoxide were escaping and Pennsylvania officials were warning people to leave. In 1984 Congress allocated $42 million in relocation funds and in 1992, Pennsylvania took all properties in the town by eminent domain. A few folks have stood their ground; the population now stands at 10 with six houses remaining. There is literally not much to see here as almost everything has been removed. Overgrown empty streets allow your imagination to run wild like the landscape itself. The only signs of the fire are the metal gas monitoring pipes installed by the DEP and the occasional wisps of smoke escaping from some cracks in the earth. Route 61 leading into town was closed off in 1992 because of the severe damage the fire caused. That portion is now referred to as Graffiti Highway and the new 61 jogs right onto what used to be an old logging road—now made modern with asphalt. The only evidence that life still exists in Centralia are the few remaining homes with their tidy lawns and the cemeteries that are still well maintained. If you knew nothing of Centralia, you could almost drive through it without realizing the town had ever existed—it would be just a couple odd bends in the road. But if you know the story of Centralia it’s hard not to stop and take notice of what isn’t there anymore and imagine what it used to be. * * * Guide to the Northeast Brett Klein lives in Connecticut and works in New York, but prefers small town life and his homestate of Maine. Any chance to get rural is a mental vacation. Follow Klein on Tumblr at The Coast is Clear. His curatorial collection of Americana, rural life, other artists and ephemera can be seen on Tumblr at Tons of Land.
Zoom
NOTHING TO SEE HERE - CENTRALIA, PENNSYLVANIA CENTRALIA, 31.2 m. (1,484 alt., 2,446 pop.), was founded in 1826 and named for its then strategic commercial situation. Wooden buildings occupy the bottom of a hollow that has been invaded by stripping operations; some miners’ shacks are almost surrounded by pits. Many houses have settled because of mining operations under the town itself.  —Pennsylvania, A Guide To the Keystone State (WPA, 1940) Imagine a town as you see it here in this first picture, with more than 1000 residents and over 500 homes and businesses. Now imagine it gone—literally wiped off the map. Families relocated. Structures razed and removed. Street signs dismantled and discarded. Zip code revoked. That’s the story of Centralia, Pennsylvania, a former coal town that literally burned itself out. In 1962, as it had in years past, the town hired volunteer firefighters to clean up the town dump, located in a former strip mine. This entailed setting the landfill on fire and allowing it to burn. Unfortunately, the fire wasn’t fully extinguished and it ultimately found its way into the abandoned coal mines beneath the town. It wasn’t until 1979 that the town became aware of the enormity of the fire burning beneath them. Eventually sinkholes were opening up, noxious levels of carbon monoxide were escaping and Pennsylvania officials were warning people to leave. In 1984 Congress allocated $42 million in relocation funds and in 1992, Pennsylvania took all properties in the town by eminent domain. A few folks have stood their ground; the population now stands at 10 with six houses remaining. There is literally not much to see here as almost everything has been removed. Overgrown empty streets allow your imagination to run wild like the landscape itself. The only signs of the fire are the metal gas monitoring pipes installed by the DEP and the occasional wisps of smoke escaping from some cracks in the earth. Route 61 leading into town was closed off in 1992 because of the severe damage the fire caused. That portion is now referred to as Graffiti Highway and the new 61 jogs right onto what used to be an old logging road—now made modern with asphalt. The only evidence that life still exists in Centralia are the few remaining homes with their tidy lawns and the cemeteries that are still well maintained. If you knew nothing of Centralia, you could almost drive through it without realizing the town had ever existed—it would be just a couple odd bends in the road. But if you know the story of Centralia it’s hard not to stop and take notice of what isn’t there anymore and imagine what it used to be. * * * Guide to the Northeast Brett Klein lives in Connecticut and works in New York, but prefers small town life and his homestate of Maine. Any chance to get rural is a mental vacation. Follow Klein on Tumblr at The Coast is Clear. His curatorial collection of Americana, rural life, other artists and ephemera can be seen on Tumblr at Tons of Land.
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NOTHING TO SEE HERE - CENTRALIA, PENNSYLVANIA CENTRALIA, 31.2 m. (1,484 alt., 2,446 pop.), was founded in 1826 and named for its then strategic commercial situation. Wooden buildings occupy the bottom of a hollow that has been invaded by stripping operations; some miners’ shacks are almost surrounded by pits. Many houses have settled because of mining operations under the town itself.  —Pennsylvania, A Guide To the Keystone State (WPA, 1940) Imagine a town as you see it here in this first picture, with more than 1000 residents and over 500 homes and businesses. Now imagine it gone—literally wiped off the map. Families relocated. Structures razed and removed. Street signs dismantled and discarded. Zip code revoked. That’s the story of Centralia, Pennsylvania, a former coal town that literally burned itself out. In 1962, as it had in years past, the town hired volunteer firefighters to clean up the town dump, located in a former strip mine. This entailed setting the landfill on fire and allowing it to burn. Unfortunately, the fire wasn’t fully extinguished and it ultimately found its way into the abandoned coal mines beneath the town. It wasn’t until 1979 that the town became aware of the enormity of the fire burning beneath them. Eventually sinkholes were opening up, noxious levels of carbon monoxide were escaping and Pennsylvania officials were warning people to leave. In 1984 Congress allocated $42 million in relocation funds and in 1992, Pennsylvania took all properties in the town by eminent domain. A few folks have stood their ground; the population now stands at 10 with six houses remaining. There is literally not much to see here as almost everything has been removed. Overgrown empty streets allow your imagination to run wild like the landscape itself. The only signs of the fire are the metal gas monitoring pipes installed by the DEP and the occasional wisps of smoke escaping from some cracks in the earth. Route 61 leading into town was closed off in 1992 because of the severe damage the fire caused. That portion is now referred to as Graffiti Highway and the new 61 jogs right onto what used to be an old logging road—now made modern with asphalt. The only evidence that life still exists in Centralia are the few remaining homes with their tidy lawns and the cemeteries that are still well maintained. If you knew nothing of Centralia, you could almost drive through it without realizing the town had ever existed—it would be just a couple odd bends in the road. But if you know the story of Centralia it’s hard not to stop and take notice of what isn’t there anymore and imagine what it used to be. * * * Guide to the Northeast Brett Klein lives in Connecticut and works in New York, but prefers small town life and his homestate of Maine. Any chance to get rural is a mental vacation. Follow Klein on Tumblr at The Coast is Clear. His curatorial collection of Americana, rural life, other artists and ephemera can be seen on Tumblr at Tons of Land.
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NOTHING TO SEE HERE - CENTRALIA, PENNSYLVANIA CENTRALIA, 31.2 m. (1,484 alt., 2,446 pop.), was founded in 1826 and named for its then strategic commercial situation. Wooden buildings occupy the bottom of a hollow that has been invaded by stripping operations; some miners’ shacks are almost surrounded by pits. Many houses have settled because of mining operations under the town itself.  —Pennsylvania, A Guide To the Keystone State (WPA, 1940) Imagine a town as you see it here in this first picture, with more than 1000 residents and over 500 homes and businesses. Now imagine it gone—literally wiped off the map. Families relocated. Structures razed and removed. Street signs dismantled and discarded. Zip code revoked. That’s the story of Centralia, Pennsylvania, a former coal town that literally burned itself out. In 1962, as it had in years past, the town hired volunteer firefighters to clean up the town dump, located in a former strip mine. This entailed setting the landfill on fire and allowing it to burn. Unfortunately, the fire wasn’t fully extinguished and it ultimately found its way into the abandoned coal mines beneath the town. It wasn’t until 1979 that the town became aware of the enormity of the fire burning beneath them. Eventually sinkholes were opening up, noxious levels of carbon monoxide were escaping and Pennsylvania officials were warning people to leave. In 1984 Congress allocated $42 million in relocation funds and in 1992, Pennsylvania took all properties in the town by eminent domain. A few folks have stood their ground; the population now stands at 10 with six houses remaining. There is literally not much to see here as almost everything has been removed. Overgrown empty streets allow your imagination to run wild like the landscape itself. The only signs of the fire are the metal gas monitoring pipes installed by the DEP and the occasional wisps of smoke escaping from some cracks in the earth. Route 61 leading into town was closed off in 1992 because of the severe damage the fire caused. That portion is now referred to as Graffiti Highway and the new 61 jogs right onto what used to be an old logging road—now made modern with asphalt. The only evidence that life still exists in Centralia are the few remaining homes with their tidy lawns and the cemeteries that are still well maintained. If you knew nothing of Centralia, you could almost drive through it without realizing the town had ever existed—it would be just a couple odd bends in the road. But if you know the story of Centralia it’s hard not to stop and take notice of what isn’t there anymore and imagine what it used to be. * * * Guide to the Northeast Brett Klein lives in Connecticut and works in New York, but prefers small town life and his homestate of Maine. Any chance to get rural is a mental vacation. Follow Klein on Tumblr at The Coast is Clear. His curatorial collection of Americana, rural life, other artists and ephemera can be seen on Tumblr at Tons of Land.
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NOTHING TO SEE HERE - CENTRALIA, PENNSYLVANIA CENTRALIA, 31.2 m. (1,484 alt., 2,446 pop.), was founded in 1826 and named for its then strategic commercial situation. Wooden buildings occupy the bottom of a hollow that has been invaded by stripping operations; some miners’ shacks are almost surrounded by pits. Many houses have settled because of mining operations under the town itself.  —Pennsylvania, A Guide To the Keystone State (WPA, 1940) Imagine a town as you see it here in this first picture, with more than 1000 residents and over 500 homes and businesses. Now imagine it gone—literally wiped off the map. Families relocated. Structures razed and removed. Street signs dismantled and discarded. Zip code revoked. That’s the story of Centralia, Pennsylvania, a former coal town that literally burned itself out. In 1962, as it had in years past, the town hired volunteer firefighters to clean up the town dump, located in a former strip mine. This entailed setting the landfill on fire and allowing it to burn. Unfortunately, the fire wasn’t fully extinguished and it ultimately found its way into the abandoned coal mines beneath the town. It wasn’t until 1979 that the town became aware of the enormity of the fire burning beneath them. Eventually sinkholes were opening up, noxious levels of carbon monoxide were escaping and Pennsylvania officials were warning people to leave. In 1984 Congress allocated $42 million in relocation funds and in 1992, Pennsylvania took all properties in the town by eminent domain. A few folks have stood their ground; the population now stands at 10 with six houses remaining. There is literally not much to see here as almost everything has been removed. Overgrown empty streets allow your imagination to run wild like the landscape itself. The only signs of the fire are the metal gas monitoring pipes installed by the DEP and the occasional wisps of smoke escaping from some cracks in the earth. Route 61 leading into town was closed off in 1992 because of the severe damage the fire caused. That portion is now referred to as Graffiti Highway and the new 61 jogs right onto what used to be an old logging road—now made modern with asphalt. The only evidence that life still exists in Centralia are the few remaining homes with their tidy lawns and the cemeteries that are still well maintained. If you knew nothing of Centralia, you could almost drive through it without realizing the town had ever existed—it would be just a couple odd bends in the road. But if you know the story of Centralia it’s hard not to stop and take notice of what isn’t there anymore and imagine what it used to be. * * * Guide to the Northeast Brett Klein lives in Connecticut and works in New York, but prefers small town life and his homestate of Maine. Any chance to get rural is a mental vacation. Follow Klein on Tumblr at The Coast is Clear. His curatorial collection of Americana, rural life, other artists and ephemera can be seen on Tumblr at Tons of Land.
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NOTHING TO SEE HERE - CENTRALIA, PENNSYLVANIA CENTRALIA, 31.2 m. (1,484 alt., 2,446 pop.), was founded in 1826 and named for its then strategic commercial situation. Wooden buildings occupy the bottom of a hollow that has been invaded by stripping operations; some miners’ shacks are almost surrounded by pits. Many houses have settled because of mining operations under the town itself.  —Pennsylvania, A Guide To the Keystone State (WPA, 1940) Imagine a town as you see it here in this first picture, with more than 1000 residents and over 500 homes and businesses. Now imagine it gone—literally wiped off the map. Families relocated. Structures razed and removed. Street signs dismantled and discarded. Zip code revoked. That’s the story of Centralia, Pennsylvania, a former coal town that literally burned itself out. In 1962, as it had in years past, the town hired volunteer firefighters to clean up the town dump, located in a former strip mine. This entailed setting the landfill on fire and allowing it to burn. Unfortunately, the fire wasn’t fully extinguished and it ultimately found its way into the abandoned coal mines beneath the town. It wasn’t until 1979 that the town became aware of the enormity of the fire burning beneath them. Eventually sinkholes were opening up, noxious levels of carbon monoxide were escaping and Pennsylvania officials were warning people to leave. In 1984 Congress allocated $42 million in relocation funds and in 1992, Pennsylvania took all properties in the town by eminent domain. A few folks have stood their ground; the population now stands at 10 with six houses remaining. There is literally not much to see here as almost everything has been removed. Overgrown empty streets allow your imagination to run wild like the landscape itself. The only signs of the fire are the metal gas monitoring pipes installed by the DEP and the occasional wisps of smoke escaping from some cracks in the earth. Route 61 leading into town was closed off in 1992 because of the severe damage the fire caused. That portion is now referred to as Graffiti Highway and the new 61 jogs right onto what used to be an old logging road—now made modern with asphalt. The only evidence that life still exists in Centralia are the few remaining homes with their tidy lawns and the cemeteries that are still well maintained. If you knew nothing of Centralia, you could almost drive through it without realizing the town had ever existed—it would be just a couple odd bends in the road. But if you know the story of Centralia it’s hard not to stop and take notice of what isn’t there anymore and imagine what it used to be. * * * Guide to the Northeast Brett Klein lives in Connecticut and works in New York, but prefers small town life and his homestate of Maine. Any chance to get rural is a mental vacation. Follow Klein on Tumblr at The Coast is Clear. His curatorial collection of Americana, rural life, other artists and ephemera can be seen on Tumblr at Tons of Land.
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NOTHING TO SEE HERE - CENTRALIA, PENNSYLVANIA CENTRALIA, 31.2 m. (1,484 alt., 2,446 pop.), was founded in 1826 and named for its then strategic commercial situation. Wooden buildings occupy the bottom of a hollow that has been invaded by stripping operations; some miners’ shacks are almost surrounded by pits. Many houses have settled because of mining operations under the town itself.  —Pennsylvania, A Guide To the Keystone State (WPA, 1940) Imagine a town as you see it here in this first picture, with more than 1000 residents and over 500 homes and businesses. Now imagine it gone—literally wiped off the map. Families relocated. Structures razed and removed. Street signs dismantled and discarded. Zip code revoked. That’s the story of Centralia, Pennsylvania, a former coal town that literally burned itself out. In 1962, as it had in years past, the town hired volunteer firefighters to clean up the town dump, located in a former strip mine. This entailed setting the landfill on fire and allowing it to burn. Unfortunately, the fire wasn’t fully extinguished and it ultimately found its way into the abandoned coal mines beneath the town. It wasn’t until 1979 that the town became aware of the enormity of the fire burning beneath them. Eventually sinkholes were opening up, noxious levels of carbon monoxide were escaping and Pennsylvania officials were warning people to leave. In 1984 Congress allocated $42 million in relocation funds and in 1992, Pennsylvania took all properties in the town by eminent domain. A few folks have stood their ground; the population now stands at 10 with six houses remaining. There is literally not much to see here as almost everything has been removed. Overgrown empty streets allow your imagination to run wild like the landscape itself. The only signs of the fire are the metal gas monitoring pipes installed by the DEP and the occasional wisps of smoke escaping from some cracks in the earth. Route 61 leading into town was closed off in 1992 because of the severe damage the fire caused. That portion is now referred to as Graffiti Highway and the new 61 jogs right onto what used to be an old logging road—now made modern with asphalt. The only evidence that life still exists in Centralia are the few remaining homes with their tidy lawns and the cemeteries that are still well maintained. If you knew nothing of Centralia, you could almost drive through it without realizing the town had ever existed—it would be just a couple odd bends in the road. But if you know the story of Centralia it’s hard not to stop and take notice of what isn’t there anymore and imagine what it used to be. * * * Guide to the Northeast Brett Klein lives in Connecticut and works in New York, but prefers small town life and his homestate of Maine. Any chance to get rural is a mental vacation. Follow Klein on Tumblr at The Coast is Clear. His curatorial collection of Americana, rural life, other artists and ephemera can be seen on Tumblr at Tons of Land.
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NOTHING TO SEE HERE - CENTRALIA, PENNSYLVANIA CENTRALIA, 31.2 m. (1,484 alt., 2,446 pop.), was founded in 1826 and named for its then strategic commercial situation. Wooden buildings occupy the bottom of a hollow that has been invaded by stripping operations; some miners’ shacks are almost surrounded by pits. Many houses have settled because of mining operations under the town itself.  —Pennsylvania, A Guide To the Keystone State (WPA, 1940) Imagine a town as you see it here in this first picture, with more than 1000 residents and over 500 homes and businesses. Now imagine it gone—literally wiped off the map. Families relocated. Structures razed and removed. Street signs dismantled and discarded. Zip code revoked. That’s the story of Centralia, Pennsylvania, a former coal town that literally burned itself out. In 1962, as it had in years past, the town hired volunteer firefighters to clean up the town dump, located in a former strip mine. This entailed setting the landfill on fire and allowing it to burn. Unfortunately, the fire wasn’t fully extinguished and it ultimately found its way into the abandoned coal mines beneath the town. It wasn’t until 1979 that the town became aware of the enormity of the fire burning beneath them. Eventually sinkholes were opening up, noxious levels of carbon monoxide were escaping and Pennsylvania officials were warning people to leave. In 1984 Congress allocated $42 million in relocation funds and in 1992, Pennsylvania took all properties in the town by eminent domain. A few folks have stood their ground; the population now stands at 10 with six houses remaining. There is literally not much to see here as almost everything has been removed. Overgrown empty streets allow your imagination to run wild like the landscape itself. The only signs of the fire are the metal gas monitoring pipes installed by the DEP and the occasional wisps of smoke escaping from some cracks in the earth. Route 61 leading into town was closed off in 1992 because of the severe damage the fire caused. That portion is now referred to as Graffiti Highway and the new 61 jogs right onto what used to be an old logging road—now made modern with asphalt. The only evidence that life still exists in Centralia are the few remaining homes with their tidy lawns and the cemeteries that are still well maintained. If you knew nothing of Centralia, you could almost drive through it without realizing the town had ever existed—it would be just a couple odd bends in the road. But if you know the story of Centralia it’s hard not to stop and take notice of what isn’t there anymore and imagine what it used to be. * * * Guide to the Northeast Brett Klein lives in Connecticut and works in New York, but prefers small town life and his homestate of Maine. Any chance to get rural is a mental vacation. Follow Klein on Tumblr at The Coast is Clear. His curatorial collection of Americana, rural life, other artists and ephemera can be seen on Tumblr at Tons of Land.
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NOTHING TO SEE HERE - CENTRALIA, PENNSYLVANIA

CENTRALIA, 31.2 m. (1,484 alt., 2,446 pop.), was founded in 1826 and named for its then strategic commercial situation. Wooden buildings occupy the bottom of a hollow that has been invaded by stripping operations; some miners’ shacks are almost surrounded by pits. Many houses have settled because of mining operations under the town itself. 

—Pennsylvania, A Guide To the Keystone State (WPA, 1940)

Imagine a town as you see it here in this first picture, with more than 1000 residents and over 500 homes and businesses. Now imagine it gone—literally wiped off the map. Families relocated. Structures razed and removed. Street signs dismantled and discarded. Zip code revoked. That’s the story of Centralia, Pennsylvania, a former coal town that literally burned itself out.

In 1962, as it had in years past, the town hired volunteer firefighters to clean up the town dump, located in a former strip mine. This entailed setting the landfill on fire and allowing it to burn. Unfortunately, the fire wasn’t fully extinguished and it ultimately found its way into the abandoned coal mines beneath the town.

It wasn’t until 1979 that the town became aware of the enormity of the fire burning beneath them. Eventually sinkholes were opening up, noxious levels of carbon monoxide were escaping and Pennsylvania officials were warning people to leave. In 1984 Congress allocated $42 million in relocation funds and in 1992, Pennsylvania took all properties in the town by eminent domain. A few folks have stood their ground; the population now stands at 10 with six houses remaining.

There is literally not much to see here as almost everything has been removed. Overgrown empty streets allow your imagination to run wild like the landscape itself. The only signs of the fire are the metal gas monitoring pipes installed by the DEP and the occasional wisps of smoke escaping from some cracks in the earth. Route 61 leading into town was closed off in 1992 because of the severe damage the fire caused. That portion is now referred to as Graffiti Highway and the new 61 jogs right onto what used to be an old logging road—now made modern with asphalt.

The only evidence that life still exists in Centralia are the few remaining homes with their tidy lawns and the cemeteries that are still well maintained. If you knew nothing of Centralia, you could almost drive through it without realizing the town had ever existed—it would be just a couple odd bends in the road. But if you know the story of Centralia it’s hard not to stop and take notice of what isn’t there anymore and imagine what it used to be.

* * *

Guide to the Northeast Brett Klein lives in Connecticut and works in New York, but prefers small town life and his homestate of Maine. Any chance to get rural is a mental vacation. Follow Klein on Tumblr at The Coast is Clear. His curatorial collection of Americana, rural life, other artists and ephemera can be seen on Tumblr at Tons of Land.

CODINGTON COUNTY, SOUTH DAKOTA …abandoned shacks stand in dejected silence to give testimony of over-optimism and the unwise use of land. Here the legendary “wide open spaces” roll away as far as the eye can see. There is something about the vast expanse that appeals to strangers and holds the scattered inhabitants. —A South Dakota Guide (WPA, 1938) In June 2011, a friend and I drove out to take pictures of some abandoned buildings in far Western Minnesota and South Dakota.  Shown here is an abandoned farmstead in a grass field in Codington County South Dakota, about 10 miles north of Watertown.  It was incredible to walk around in such a vast, open space, even if we had to trudge through knee high grass (and ticks, we later discovered).  After walking around and photographing the various buildings on site we went inside the main house.  Judging from how decayed and weathered these structures were we guess that they must have been abandoned for at least several decades, maybe longer. The photos taken at this site worked perfectly for the painting idea I had at the time.  The final result of that work can be seen in the last image of this set: American Decadence (Codington Co., South Dakota), Oil on Canvas, 24 x 64 inches, 2011 * * * Nate Burbeck is a State Guide to Minnesota and an At-Large Guide to the Midwest. he curates a few regionally-themed art tumblrs —beyond 9th avenue (Northeastern artists), fly over art (Midwestern artists) and in the new frontier (Western artists) and has himself been named one of “Ten Artists to Watch in 2013” on the Walker Art Center’s mnartists blog. Follow Nate’s work on Tumblr atnburbeck.tumblr.com or on his website.
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CODINGTON COUNTY, SOUTH DAKOTA …abandoned shacks stand in dejected silence to give testimony of over-optimism and the unwise use of land. Here the legendary “wide open spaces” roll away as far as the eye can see. There is something about the vast expanse that appeals to strangers and holds the scattered inhabitants. —A South Dakota Guide (WPA, 1938) In June 2011, a friend and I drove out to take pictures of some abandoned buildings in far Western Minnesota and South Dakota.  Shown here is an abandoned farmstead in a grass field in Codington County South Dakota, about 10 miles north of Watertown.  It was incredible to walk around in such a vast, open space, even if we had to trudge through knee high grass (and ticks, we later discovered).  After walking around and photographing the various buildings on site we went inside the main house.  Judging from how decayed and weathered these structures were we guess that they must have been abandoned for at least several decades, maybe longer. The photos taken at this site worked perfectly for the painting idea I had at the time.  The final result of that work can be seen in the last image of this set: American Decadence (Codington Co., South Dakota), Oil on Canvas, 24 x 64 inches, 2011 * * * Nate Burbeck is a State Guide to Minnesota and an At-Large Guide to the Midwest. he curates a few regionally-themed art tumblrs —beyond 9th avenue (Northeastern artists), fly over art (Midwestern artists) and in the new frontier (Western artists) and has himself been named one of “Ten Artists to Watch in 2013” on the Walker Art Center’s mnartists blog. Follow Nate’s work on Tumblr atnburbeck.tumblr.com or on his website.
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CODINGTON COUNTY, SOUTH DAKOTA …abandoned shacks stand in dejected silence to give testimony of over-optimism and the unwise use of land. Here the legendary “wide open spaces” roll away as far as the eye can see. There is something about the vast expanse that appeals to strangers and holds the scattered inhabitants. —A South Dakota Guide (WPA, 1938) In June 2011, a friend and I drove out to take pictures of some abandoned buildings in far Western Minnesota and South Dakota.  Shown here is an abandoned farmstead in a grass field in Codington County South Dakota, about 10 miles north of Watertown.  It was incredible to walk around in such a vast, open space, even if we had to trudge through knee high grass (and ticks, we later discovered).  After walking around and photographing the various buildings on site we went inside the main house.  Judging from how decayed and weathered these structures were we guess that they must have been abandoned for at least several decades, maybe longer. The photos taken at this site worked perfectly for the painting idea I had at the time.  The final result of that work can be seen in the last image of this set: American Decadence (Codington Co., South Dakota), Oil on Canvas, 24 x 64 inches, 2011 * * * Nate Burbeck is a State Guide to Minnesota and an At-Large Guide to the Midwest. he curates a few regionally-themed art tumblrs —beyond 9th avenue (Northeastern artists), fly over art (Midwestern artists) and in the new frontier (Western artists) and has himself been named one of “Ten Artists to Watch in 2013” on the Walker Art Center’s mnartists blog. Follow Nate’s work on Tumblr atnburbeck.tumblr.com or on his website.
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CODINGTON COUNTY, SOUTH DAKOTA …abandoned shacks stand in dejected silence to give testimony of over-optimism and the unwise use of land. Here the legendary “wide open spaces” roll away as far as the eye can see. There is something about the vast expanse that appeals to strangers and holds the scattered inhabitants. —A South Dakota Guide (WPA, 1938) In June 2011, a friend and I drove out to take pictures of some abandoned buildings in far Western Minnesota and South Dakota.  Shown here is an abandoned farmstead in a grass field in Codington County South Dakota, about 10 miles north of Watertown.  It was incredible to walk around in such a vast, open space, even if we had to trudge through knee high grass (and ticks, we later discovered).  After walking around and photographing the various buildings on site we went inside the main house.  Judging from how decayed and weathered these structures were we guess that they must have been abandoned for at least several decades, maybe longer. The photos taken at this site worked perfectly for the painting idea I had at the time.  The final result of that work can be seen in the last image of this set: American Decadence (Codington Co., South Dakota), Oil on Canvas, 24 x 64 inches, 2011 * * * Nate Burbeck is a State Guide to Minnesota and an At-Large Guide to the Midwest. he curates a few regionally-themed art tumblrs —beyond 9th avenue (Northeastern artists), fly over art (Midwestern artists) and in the new frontier (Western artists) and has himself been named one of “Ten Artists to Watch in 2013” on the Walker Art Center’s mnartists blog. Follow Nate’s work on Tumblr atnburbeck.tumblr.com or on his website.
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CODINGTON COUNTY, SOUTH DAKOTA …abandoned shacks stand in dejected silence to give testimony of over-optimism and the unwise use of land. Here the legendary “wide open spaces” roll away as far as the eye can see. There is something about the vast expanse that appeals to strangers and holds the scattered inhabitants. —A South Dakota Guide (WPA, 1938) In June 2011, a friend and I drove out to take pictures of some abandoned buildings in far Western Minnesota and South Dakota.  Shown here is an abandoned farmstead in a grass field in Codington County South Dakota, about 10 miles north of Watertown.  It was incredible to walk around in such a vast, open space, even if we had to trudge through knee high grass (and ticks, we later discovered).  After walking around and photographing the various buildings on site we went inside the main house.  Judging from how decayed and weathered these structures were we guess that they must have been abandoned for at least several decades, maybe longer. The photos taken at this site worked perfectly for the painting idea I had at the time.  The final result of that work can be seen in the last image of this set: American Decadence (Codington Co., South Dakota), Oil on Canvas, 24 x 64 inches, 2011 * * * Nate Burbeck is a State Guide to Minnesota and an At-Large Guide to the Midwest. he curates a few regionally-themed art tumblrs —beyond 9th avenue (Northeastern artists), fly over art (Midwestern artists) and in the new frontier (Western artists) and has himself been named one of “Ten Artists to Watch in 2013” on the Walker Art Center’s mnartists blog. Follow Nate’s work on Tumblr atnburbeck.tumblr.com or on his website.
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CODINGTON COUNTY, SOUTH DAKOTA …abandoned shacks stand in dejected silence to give testimony of over-optimism and the unwise use of land. Here the legendary “wide open spaces” roll away as far as the eye can see. There is something about the vast expanse that appeals to strangers and holds the scattered inhabitants. —A South Dakota Guide (WPA, 1938) In June 2011, a friend and I drove out to take pictures of some abandoned buildings in far Western Minnesota and South Dakota.  Shown here is an abandoned farmstead in a grass field in Codington County South Dakota, about 10 miles north of Watertown.  It was incredible to walk around in such a vast, open space, even if we had to trudge through knee high grass (and ticks, we later discovered).  After walking around and photographing the various buildings on site we went inside the main house.  Judging from how decayed and weathered these structures were we guess that they must have been abandoned for at least several decades, maybe longer. The photos taken at this site worked perfectly for the painting idea I had at the time.  The final result of that work can be seen in the last image of this set: American Decadence (Codington Co., South Dakota), Oil on Canvas, 24 x 64 inches, 2011 * * * Nate Burbeck is a State Guide to Minnesota and an At-Large Guide to the Midwest. he curates a few regionally-themed art tumblrs —beyond 9th avenue (Northeastern artists), fly over art (Midwestern artists) and in the new frontier (Western artists) and has himself been named one of “Ten Artists to Watch in 2013” on the Walker Art Center’s mnartists blog. Follow Nate’s work on Tumblr atnburbeck.tumblr.com or on his website.
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CODINGTON COUNTY, SOUTH DAKOTA …abandoned shacks stand in dejected silence to give testimony of over-optimism and the unwise use of land. Here the legendary “wide open spaces” roll away as far as the eye can see. There is something about the vast expanse that appeals to strangers and holds the scattered inhabitants. —A South Dakota Guide (WPA, 1938) In June 2011, a friend and I drove out to take pictures of some abandoned buildings in far Western Minnesota and South Dakota.  Shown here is an abandoned farmstead in a grass field in Codington County South Dakota, about 10 miles north of Watertown.  It was incredible to walk around in such a vast, open space, even if we had to trudge through knee high grass (and ticks, we later discovered).  After walking around and photographing the various buildings on site we went inside the main house.  Judging from how decayed and weathered these structures were we guess that they must have been abandoned for at least several decades, maybe longer. The photos taken at this site worked perfectly for the painting idea I had at the time.  The final result of that work can be seen in the last image of this set: American Decadence (Codington Co., South Dakota), Oil on Canvas, 24 x 64 inches, 2011 * * * Nate Burbeck is a State Guide to Minnesota and an At-Large Guide to the Midwest. he curates a few regionally-themed art tumblrs —beyond 9th avenue (Northeastern artists), fly over art (Midwestern artists) and in the new frontier (Western artists) and has himself been named one of “Ten Artists to Watch in 2013” on the Walker Art Center’s mnartists blog. Follow Nate’s work on Tumblr atnburbeck.tumblr.com or on his website.
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CODINGTON COUNTY, SOUTH DAKOTA

…abandoned shacks stand in dejected silence to give testimony of over-optimism and the unwise use of land. Here the legendary “wide open spaces” roll away as far as the eye can see. There is something about the vast expanse that appeals to strangers and holds the scattered inhabitants.

—A South Dakota Guide (WPA, 1938)

In June 2011, a friend and I drove out to take pictures of some abandoned buildings in far Western Minnesota and South Dakota.  Shown here is an abandoned farmstead in a grass field in Codington County South Dakota, about 10 miles north of Watertown.  It was incredible to walk around in such a vast, open space, even if we had to trudge through knee high grass (and ticks, we later discovered).  After walking around and photographing the various buildings on site we went inside the main house.  Judging from how decayed and weathered these structures were we guess that they must have been abandoned for at least several decades, maybe longer.

The photos taken at this site worked perfectly for the painting idea I had at the time.  The final result of that work can be seen in the last image of this set:

American Decadence (Codington Co., South Dakota), Oil on Canvas, 24 x 64 inches, 2011

* * *

Nate Burbeck is a State Guide to Minnesota and an At-Large Guide to the Midwest. he curates a few regionally-themed art tumblrs —beyond 9th avenue (Northeastern artists), fly over art (Midwestern artists) and in the new frontier (Western artists) and has himself been named one of “Ten Artists to Watch in 2013” on the Walker Art Center’s mnartists blog. Follow Nate’s work on Tumblr atnburbeck.tumblr.com or on his website.

SOUTHERN EXTREME BULL RIDING - ABINGDON, VIRGINIA Every Tuesday night for several months in the winter, the Washington County Fairgrounds’ largest building is warmed by giant space heaters so that a crowd of hundreds can root for their favorite bull rider. In the front of the building, the crowd sits in the bleachers laughing at the clown who is doing a goofy dance while they wait for the gate to burst open. He chats easily with regulars while throwing down the donated hat in the front that will be “signed” (stomped on) by the upcoming bulls. In the back of the building, the well-oiled machine comprised of cowboys and locals begins. Bulls are walked through intricate chutes to keep them calm and secure. Eventually, they make their way to the small compartment at the end, just big enough for them to stand. The next man up has been stretching, preparing his personal rope and glove with heated-up rosin. He’s getting in the zone. The usually cocky guys with colorful chaps, wild boots and bull-legged swagger are quiet. They seem to be playing out over and over in their head the perfect eight seconds. Several cowboys stand near for safety reasons. Then, the cowboy slowly lowers down on top of the bull and tightens his rope around the giant beast’s belly. Time slows down and the man nods at the gatekeepers. One man hits the latch. Another man pulls on the lead that has been clipped to the gate so that it flies open. The bull is out, bouncing from his front legs to his back legs, desperately trying to knock the rider off of his back. The rider tries to counter balance and stay upright. If it happens like his vision, he will soon hear a bullhorn and have lasted to the magical eight second mark. And when the horn blows, the rider dismounts and tries to jump free of the spiraling, jumping animal. Then, the bullfighters jump into action and motion in front of the bull — sometimes even tapping their horns — so that the bull will move away from the recently freed rider. Most bulls find the open gate attractive and trot gently back. Sometimes the bulls will not head right in, which is affectionately called “taking a victory lap” — looking for someone or something to bump or chase. The well trained fighters do an intricate dance, the crowd is directed to yell, “go home,” in unison and the cattle dog is called out to nip at his heels. Other entertainment includes games of skill for the audience and “fan of the night” for the fan who danced and cheered the most. “Mutton Busting” is when young children, who idolize the riders, get their chance to try something similar. They are placed atop a sheep and hang on for dear life while the small animal runs. Some kids fall and immediately burst into tears. A few will jump up and mosey over to the gate to climb over like the big guys. The kid with the highest score will get a crisp ten dollar bill and an itch for adrenaline. The activities and riding continues for a couple hours. There are triumphs and disappointments and injuries. The night usually ends on a high note with loud music and lots of prizes handed out to the crowd. The cowboys move up and down in ranking from their evenings scores. It all happens again the next Tuesday night. * * * Tammy Mercure is a State Guide to Tennessee. She was recently named one of the “100 under 100: The New Superstars of Southern Art” by Oxford American magazine. Follow on Tumblr at tammymercure or on her website, TammyMercure.com. Support her work at TCB Press.
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SOUTHERN EXTREME BULL RIDING - ABINGDON, VIRGINIA Every Tuesday night for several months in the winter, the Washington County Fairgrounds’ largest building is warmed by giant space heaters so that a crowd of hundreds can root for their favorite bull rider. In the front of the building, the crowd sits in the bleachers laughing at the clown who is doing a goofy dance while they wait for the gate to burst open. He chats easily with regulars while throwing down the donated hat in the front that will be “signed” (stomped on) by the upcoming bulls. In the back of the building, the well-oiled machine comprised of cowboys and locals begins. Bulls are walked through intricate chutes to keep them calm and secure. Eventually, they make their way to the small compartment at the end, just big enough for them to stand. The next man up has been stretching, preparing his personal rope and glove with heated-up rosin. He’s getting in the zone. The usually cocky guys with colorful chaps, wild boots and bull-legged swagger are quiet. They seem to be playing out over and over in their head the perfect eight seconds. Several cowboys stand near for safety reasons. Then, the cowboy slowly lowers down on top of the bull and tightens his rope around the giant beast’s belly. Time slows down and the man nods at the gatekeepers. One man hits the latch. Another man pulls on the lead that has been clipped to the gate so that it flies open. The bull is out, bouncing from his front legs to his back legs, desperately trying to knock the rider off of his back. The rider tries to counter balance and stay upright. If it happens like his vision, he will soon hear a bullhorn and have lasted to the magical eight second mark. And when the horn blows, the rider dismounts and tries to jump free of the spiraling, jumping animal. Then, the bullfighters jump into action and motion in front of the bull — sometimes even tapping their horns — so that the bull will move away from the recently freed rider. Most bulls find the open gate attractive and trot gently back. Sometimes the bulls will not head right in, which is affectionately called “taking a victory lap” — looking for someone or something to bump or chase. The well trained fighters do an intricate dance, the crowd is directed to yell, “go home,” in unison and the cattle dog is called out to nip at his heels. Other entertainment includes games of skill for the audience and “fan of the night” for the fan who danced and cheered the most. “Mutton Busting” is when young children, who idolize the riders, get their chance to try something similar. They are placed atop a sheep and hang on for dear life while the small animal runs. Some kids fall and immediately burst into tears. A few will jump up and mosey over to the gate to climb over like the big guys. The kid with the highest score will get a crisp ten dollar bill and an itch for adrenaline. The activities and riding continues for a couple hours. There are triumphs and disappointments and injuries. The night usually ends on a high note with loud music and lots of prizes handed out to the crowd. The cowboys move up and down in ranking from their evenings scores. It all happens again the next Tuesday night. * * * Tammy Mercure is a State Guide to Tennessee. She was recently named one of the “100 under 100: The New Superstars of Southern Art” by Oxford American magazine. Follow on Tumblr at tammymercure or on her website, TammyMercure.com. Support her work at TCB Press.
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SOUTHERN EXTREME BULL RIDING - ABINGDON, VIRGINIA Every Tuesday night for several months in the winter, the Washington County Fairgrounds’ largest building is warmed by giant space heaters so that a crowd of hundreds can root for their favorite bull rider. In the front of the building, the crowd sits in the bleachers laughing at the clown who is doing a goofy dance while they wait for the gate to burst open. He chats easily with regulars while throwing down the donated hat in the front that will be “signed” (stomped on) by the upcoming bulls. In the back of the building, the well-oiled machine comprised of cowboys and locals begins. Bulls are walked through intricate chutes to keep them calm and secure. Eventually, they make their way to the small compartment at the end, just big enough for them to stand. The next man up has been stretching, preparing his personal rope and glove with heated-up rosin. He’s getting in the zone. The usually cocky guys with colorful chaps, wild boots and bull-legged swagger are quiet. They seem to be playing out over and over in their head the perfect eight seconds. Several cowboys stand near for safety reasons. Then, the cowboy slowly lowers down on top of the bull and tightens his rope around the giant beast’s belly. Time slows down and the man nods at the gatekeepers. One man hits the latch. Another man pulls on the lead that has been clipped to the gate so that it flies open. The bull is out, bouncing from his front legs to his back legs, desperately trying to knock the rider off of his back. The rider tries to counter balance and stay upright. If it happens like his vision, he will soon hear a bullhorn and have lasted to the magical eight second mark. And when the horn blows, the rider dismounts and tries to jump free of the spiraling, jumping animal. Then, the bullfighters jump into action and motion in front of the bull — sometimes even tapping their horns — so that the bull will move away from the recently freed rider. Most bulls find the open gate attractive and trot gently back. Sometimes the bulls will not head right in, which is affectionately called “taking a victory lap” — looking for someone or something to bump or chase. The well trained fighters do an intricate dance, the crowd is directed to yell, “go home,” in unison and the cattle dog is called out to nip at his heels. Other entertainment includes games of skill for the audience and “fan of the night” for the fan who danced and cheered the most. “Mutton Busting” is when young children, who idolize the riders, get their chance to try something similar. They are placed atop a sheep and hang on for dear life while the small animal runs. Some kids fall and immediately burst into tears. A few will jump up and mosey over to the gate to climb over like the big guys. The kid with the highest score will get a crisp ten dollar bill and an itch for adrenaline. The activities and riding continues for a couple hours. There are triumphs and disappointments and injuries. The night usually ends on a high note with loud music and lots of prizes handed out to the crowd. The cowboys move up and down in ranking from their evenings scores. It all happens again the next Tuesday night. * * * Tammy Mercure is a State Guide to Tennessee. She was recently named one of the “100 under 100: The New Superstars of Southern Art” by Oxford American magazine. Follow on Tumblr at tammymercure or on her website, TammyMercure.com. Support her work at TCB Press.
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SOUTHERN EXTREME BULL RIDING - ABINGDON, VIRGINIA Every Tuesday night for several months in the winter, the Washington County Fairgrounds’ largest building is warmed by giant space heaters so that a crowd of hundreds can root for their favorite bull rider. In the front of the building, the crowd sits in the bleachers laughing at the clown who is doing a goofy dance while they wait for the gate to burst open. He chats easily with regulars while throwing down the donated hat in the front that will be “signed” (stomped on) by the upcoming bulls. In the back of the building, the well-oiled machine comprised of cowboys and locals begins. Bulls are walked through intricate chutes to keep them calm and secure. Eventually, they make their way to the small compartment at the end, just big enough for them to stand. The next man up has been stretching, preparing his personal rope and glove with heated-up rosin. He’s getting in the zone. The usually cocky guys with colorful chaps, wild boots and bull-legged swagger are quiet. They seem to be playing out over and over in their head the perfect eight seconds. Several cowboys stand near for safety reasons. Then, the cowboy slowly lowers down on top of the bull and tightens his rope around the giant beast’s belly. Time slows down and the man nods at the gatekeepers. One man hits the latch. Another man pulls on the lead that has been clipped to the gate so that it flies open. The bull is out, bouncing from his front legs to his back legs, desperately trying to knock the rider off of his back. The rider tries to counter balance and stay upright. If it happens like his vision, he will soon hear a bullhorn and have lasted to the magical eight second mark. And when the horn blows, the rider dismounts and tries to jump free of the spiraling, jumping animal. Then, the bullfighters jump into action and motion in front of the bull — sometimes even tapping their horns — so that the bull will move away from the recently freed rider. Most bulls find the open gate attractive and trot gently back. Sometimes the bulls will not head right in, which is affectionately called “taking a victory lap” — looking for someone or something to bump or chase. The well trained fighters do an intricate dance, the crowd is directed to yell, “go home,” in unison and the cattle dog is called out to nip at his heels. Other entertainment includes games of skill for the audience and “fan of the night” for the fan who danced and cheered the most. “Mutton Busting” is when young children, who idolize the riders, get their chance to try something similar. They are placed atop a sheep and hang on for dear life while the small animal runs. Some kids fall and immediately burst into tears. A few will jump up and mosey over to the gate to climb over like the big guys. The kid with the highest score will get a crisp ten dollar bill and an itch for adrenaline. The activities and riding continues for a couple hours. There are triumphs and disappointments and injuries. The night usually ends on a high note with loud music and lots of prizes handed out to the crowd. The cowboys move up and down in ranking from their evenings scores. It all happens again the next Tuesday night. * * * Tammy Mercure is a State Guide to Tennessee. She was recently named one of the “100 under 100: The New Superstars of Southern Art” by Oxford American magazine. Follow on Tumblr at tammymercure or on her website, TammyMercure.com. Support her work at TCB Press.
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SOUTHERN EXTREME BULL RIDING - ABINGDON, VIRGINIA Every Tuesday night for several months in the winter, the Washington County Fairgrounds’ largest building is warmed by giant space heaters so that a crowd of hundreds can root for their favorite bull rider. In the front of the building, the crowd sits in the bleachers laughing at the clown who is doing a goofy dance while they wait for the gate to burst open. He chats easily with regulars while throwing down the donated hat in the front that will be “signed” (stomped on) by the upcoming bulls. In the back of the building, the well-oiled machine comprised of cowboys and locals begins. Bulls are walked through intricate chutes to keep them calm and secure. Eventually, they make their way to the small compartment at the end, just big enough for them to stand. The next man up has been stretching, preparing his personal rope and glove with heated-up rosin. He’s getting in the zone. The usually cocky guys with colorful chaps, wild boots and bull-legged swagger are quiet. They seem to be playing out over and over in their head the perfect eight seconds. Several cowboys stand near for safety reasons. Then, the cowboy slowly lowers down on top of the bull and tightens his rope around the giant beast’s belly. Time slows down and the man nods at the gatekeepers. One man hits the latch. Another man pulls on the lead that has been clipped to the gate so that it flies open. The bull is out, bouncing from his front legs to his back legs, desperately trying to knock the rider off of his back. The rider tries to counter balance and stay upright. If it happens like his vision, he will soon hear a bullhorn and have lasted to the magical eight second mark. And when the horn blows, the rider dismounts and tries to jump free of the spiraling, jumping animal. Then, the bullfighters jump into action and motion in front of the bull — sometimes even tapping their horns — so that the bull will move away from the recently freed rider. Most bulls find the open gate attractive and trot gently back. Sometimes the bulls will not head right in, which is affectionately called “taking a victory lap” — looking for someone or something to bump or chase. The well trained fighters do an intricate dance, the crowd is directed to yell, “go home,” in unison and the cattle dog is called out to nip at his heels. Other entertainment includes games of skill for the audience and “fan of the night” for the fan who danced and cheered the most. “Mutton Busting” is when young children, who idolize the riders, get their chance to try something similar. They are placed atop a sheep and hang on for dear life while the small animal runs. Some kids fall and immediately burst into tears. A few will jump up and mosey over to the gate to climb over like the big guys. The kid with the highest score will get a crisp ten dollar bill and an itch for adrenaline. The activities and riding continues for a couple hours. There are triumphs and disappointments and injuries. The night usually ends on a high note with loud music and lots of prizes handed out to the crowd. The cowboys move up and down in ranking from their evenings scores. It all happens again the next Tuesday night. * * * Tammy Mercure is a State Guide to Tennessee. She was recently named one of the “100 under 100: The New Superstars of Southern Art” by Oxford American magazine. Follow on Tumblr at tammymercure or on her website, TammyMercure.com. Support her work at TCB Press.
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SOUTHERN EXTREME BULL RIDING - ABINGDON, VIRGINIA Every Tuesday night for several months in the winter, the Washington County Fairgrounds’ largest building is warmed by giant space heaters so that a crowd of hundreds can root for their favorite bull rider. In the front of the building, the crowd sits in the bleachers laughing at the clown who is doing a goofy dance while they wait for the gate to burst open. He chats easily with regulars while throwing down the donated hat in the front that will be “signed” (stomped on) by the upcoming bulls. In the back of the building, the well-oiled machine comprised of cowboys and locals begins. Bulls are walked through intricate chutes to keep them calm and secure. Eventually, they make their way to the small compartment at the end, just big enough for them to stand. The next man up has been stretching, preparing his personal rope and glove with heated-up rosin. He’s getting in the zone. The usually cocky guys with colorful chaps, wild boots and bull-legged swagger are quiet. They seem to be playing out over and over in their head the perfect eight seconds. Several cowboys stand near for safety reasons. Then, the cowboy slowly lowers down on top of the bull and tightens his rope around the giant beast’s belly. Time slows down and the man nods at the gatekeepers. One man hits the latch. Another man pulls on the lead that has been clipped to the gate so that it flies open. The bull is out, bouncing from his front legs to his back legs, desperately trying to knock the rider off of his back. The rider tries to counter balance and stay upright. If it happens like his vision, he will soon hear a bullhorn and have lasted to the magical eight second mark. And when the horn blows, the rider dismounts and tries to jump free of the spiraling, jumping animal. Then, the bullfighters jump into action and motion in front of the bull — sometimes even tapping their horns — so that the bull will move away from the recently freed rider. Most bulls find the open gate attractive and trot gently back. Sometimes the bulls will not head right in, which is affectionately called “taking a victory lap” — looking for someone or something to bump or chase. The well trained fighters do an intricate dance, the crowd is directed to yell, “go home,” in unison and the cattle dog is called out to nip at his heels. Other entertainment includes games of skill for the audience and “fan of the night” for the fan who danced and cheered the most. “Mutton Busting” is when young children, who idolize the riders, get their chance to try something similar. They are placed atop a sheep and hang on for dear life while the small animal runs. Some kids fall and immediately burst into tears. A few will jump up and mosey over to the gate to climb over like the big guys. The kid with the highest score will get a crisp ten dollar bill and an itch for adrenaline. The activities and riding continues for a couple hours. There are triumphs and disappointments and injuries. The night usually ends on a high note with loud music and lots of prizes handed out to the crowd. The cowboys move up and down in ranking from their evenings scores. It all happens again the next Tuesday night. * * * Tammy Mercure is a State Guide to Tennessee. She was recently named one of the “100 under 100: The New Superstars of Southern Art” by Oxford American magazine. Follow on Tumblr at tammymercure or on her website, TammyMercure.com. Support her work at TCB Press.
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SOUTHERN EXTREME BULL RIDING - ABINGDON, VIRGINIA Every Tuesday night for several months in the winter, the Washington County Fairgrounds’ largest building is warmed by giant space heaters so that a crowd of hundreds can root for their favorite bull rider. In the front of the building, the crowd sits in the bleachers laughing at the clown who is doing a goofy dance while they wait for the gate to burst open. He chats easily with regulars while throwing down the donated hat in the front that will be “signed” (stomped on) by the upcoming bulls. In the back of the building, the well-oiled machine comprised of cowboys and locals begins. Bulls are walked through intricate chutes to keep them calm and secure. Eventually, they make their way to the small compartment at the end, just big enough for them to stand. The next man up has been stretching, preparing his personal rope and glove with heated-up rosin. He’s getting in the zone. The usually cocky guys with colorful chaps, wild boots and bull-legged swagger are quiet. They seem to be playing out over and over in their head the perfect eight seconds. Several cowboys stand near for safety reasons. Then, the cowboy slowly lowers down on top of the bull and tightens his rope around the giant beast’s belly. Time slows down and the man nods at the gatekeepers. One man hits the latch. Another man pulls on the lead that has been clipped to the gate so that it flies open. The bull is out, bouncing from his front legs to his back legs, desperately trying to knock the rider off of his back. The rider tries to counter balance and stay upright. If it happens like his vision, he will soon hear a bullhorn and have lasted to the magical eight second mark. And when the horn blows, the rider dismounts and tries to jump free of the spiraling, jumping animal. Then, the bullfighters jump into action and motion in front of the bull — sometimes even tapping their horns — so that the bull will move away from the recently freed rider. Most bulls find the open gate attractive and trot gently back. Sometimes the bulls will not head right in, which is affectionately called “taking a victory lap” — looking for someone or something to bump or chase. The well trained fighters do an intricate dance, the crowd is directed to yell, “go home,” in unison and the cattle dog is called out to nip at his heels. Other entertainment includes games of skill for the audience and “fan of the night” for the fan who danced and cheered the most. “Mutton Busting” is when young children, who idolize the riders, get their chance to try something similar. They are placed atop a sheep and hang on for dear life while the small animal runs. Some kids fall and immediately burst into tears. A few will jump up and mosey over to the gate to climb over like the big guys. The kid with the highest score will get a crisp ten dollar bill and an itch for adrenaline. The activities and riding continues for a couple hours. There are triumphs and disappointments and injuries. The night usually ends on a high note with loud music and lots of prizes handed out to the crowd. The cowboys move up and down in ranking from their evenings scores. It all happens again the next Tuesday night. * * * Tammy Mercure is a State Guide to Tennessee. She was recently named one of the “100 under 100: The New Superstars of Southern Art” by Oxford American magazine. Follow on Tumblr at tammymercure or on her website, TammyMercure.com. Support her work at TCB Press.
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SOUTHERN EXTREME BULL RIDING - ABINGDON, VIRGINIA Every Tuesday night for several months in the winter, the Washington County Fairgrounds’ largest building is warmed by giant space heaters so that a crowd of hundreds can root for their favorite bull rider. In the front of the building, the crowd sits in the bleachers laughing at the clown who is doing a goofy dance while they wait for the gate to burst open. He chats easily with regulars while throwing down the donated hat in the front that will be “signed” (stomped on) by the upcoming bulls. In the back of the building, the well-oiled machine comprised of cowboys and locals begins. Bulls are walked through intricate chutes to keep them calm and secure. Eventually, they make their way to the small compartment at the end, just big enough for them to stand. The next man up has been stretching, preparing his personal rope and glove with heated-up rosin. He’s getting in the zone. The usually cocky guys with colorful chaps, wild boots and bull-legged swagger are quiet. They seem to be playing out over and over in their head the perfect eight seconds. Several cowboys stand near for safety reasons. Then, the cowboy slowly lowers down on top of the bull and tightens his rope around the giant beast’s belly. Time slows down and the man nods at the gatekeepers. One man hits the latch. Another man pulls on the lead that has been clipped to the gate so that it flies open. The bull is out, bouncing from his front legs to his back legs, desperately trying to knock the rider off of his back. The rider tries to counter balance and stay upright. If it happens like his vision, he will soon hear a bullhorn and have lasted to the magical eight second mark. And when the horn blows, the rider dismounts and tries to jump free of the spiraling, jumping animal. Then, the bullfighters jump into action and motion in front of the bull — sometimes even tapping their horns — so that the bull will move away from the recently freed rider. Most bulls find the open gate attractive and trot gently back. Sometimes the bulls will not head right in, which is affectionately called “taking a victory lap” — looking for someone or something to bump or chase. The well trained fighters do an intricate dance, the crowd is directed to yell, “go home,” in unison and the cattle dog is called out to nip at his heels. Other entertainment includes games of skill for the audience and “fan of the night” for the fan who danced and cheered the most. “Mutton Busting” is when young children, who idolize the riders, get their chance to try something similar. They are placed atop a sheep and hang on for dear life while the small animal runs. Some kids fall and immediately burst into tears. A few will jump up and mosey over to the gate to climb over like the big guys. The kid with the highest score will get a crisp ten dollar bill and an itch for adrenaline. The activities and riding continues for a couple hours. There are triumphs and disappointments and injuries. The night usually ends on a high note with loud music and lots of prizes handed out to the crowd. The cowboys move up and down in ranking from their evenings scores. It all happens again the next Tuesday night. * * * Tammy Mercure is a State Guide to Tennessee. She was recently named one of the “100 under 100: The New Superstars of Southern Art” by Oxford American magazine. Follow on Tumblr at tammymercure or on her website, TammyMercure.com. Support her work at TCB Press.
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SOUTHERN EXTREME BULL RIDING - ABINGDON, VIRGINIA Every Tuesday night for several months in the winter, the Washington County Fairgrounds’ largest building is warmed by giant space heaters so that a crowd of hundreds can root for their favorite bull rider. In the front of the building, the crowd sits in the bleachers laughing at the clown who is doing a goofy dance while they wait for the gate to burst open. He chats easily with regulars while throwing down the donated hat in the front that will be “signed” (stomped on) by the upcoming bulls. In the back of the building, the well-oiled machine comprised of cowboys and locals begins. Bulls are walked through intricate chutes to keep them calm and secure. Eventually, they make their way to the small compartment at the end, just big enough for them to stand. The next man up has been stretching, preparing his personal rope and glove with heated-up rosin. He’s getting in the zone. The usually cocky guys with colorful chaps, wild boots and bull-legged swagger are quiet. They seem to be playing out over and over in their head the perfect eight seconds. Several cowboys stand near for safety reasons. Then, the cowboy slowly lowers down on top of the bull and tightens his rope around the giant beast’s belly. Time slows down and the man nods at the gatekeepers. One man hits the latch. Another man pulls on the lead that has been clipped to the gate so that it flies open. The bull is out, bouncing from his front legs to his back legs, desperately trying to knock the rider off of his back. The rider tries to counter balance and stay upright. If it happens like his vision, he will soon hear a bullhorn and have lasted to the magical eight second mark. And when the horn blows, the rider dismounts and tries to jump free of the spiraling, jumping animal. Then, the bullfighters jump into action and motion in front of the bull — sometimes even tapping their horns — so that the bull will move away from the recently freed rider. Most bulls find the open gate attractive and trot gently back. Sometimes the bulls will not head right in, which is affectionately called “taking a victory lap” — looking for someone or something to bump or chase. The well trained fighters do an intricate dance, the crowd is directed to yell, “go home,” in unison and the cattle dog is called out to nip at his heels. Other entertainment includes games of skill for the audience and “fan of the night” for the fan who danced and cheered the most. “Mutton Busting” is when young children, who idolize the riders, get their chance to try something similar. They are placed atop a sheep and hang on for dear life while the small animal runs. Some kids fall and immediately burst into tears. A few will jump up and mosey over to the gate to climb over like the big guys. The kid with the highest score will get a crisp ten dollar bill and an itch for adrenaline. The activities and riding continues for a couple hours. There are triumphs and disappointments and injuries. The night usually ends on a high note with loud music and lots of prizes handed out to the crowd. The cowboys move up and down in ranking from their evenings scores. It all happens again the next Tuesday night. * * * Tammy Mercure is a State Guide to Tennessee. She was recently named one of the “100 under 100: The New Superstars of Southern Art” by Oxford American magazine. Follow on Tumblr at tammymercure or on her website, TammyMercure.com. Support her work at TCB Press.
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SOUTHERN EXTREME BULL RIDING - ABINGDON, VIRGINIA Every Tuesday night for several months in the winter, the Washington County Fairgrounds’ largest building is warmed by giant space heaters so that a crowd of hundreds can root for their favorite bull rider. In the front of the building, the crowd sits in the bleachers laughing at the clown who is doing a goofy dance while they wait for the gate to burst open. He chats easily with regulars while throwing down the donated hat in the front that will be “signed” (stomped on) by the upcoming bulls. In the back of the building, the well-oiled machine comprised of cowboys and locals begins. Bulls are walked through intricate chutes to keep them calm and secure. Eventually, they make their way to the small compartment at the end, just big enough for them to stand. The next man up has been stretching, preparing his personal rope and glove with heated-up rosin. He’s getting in the zone. The usually cocky guys with colorful chaps, wild boots and bull-legged swagger are quiet. They seem to be playing out over and over in their head the perfect eight seconds. Several cowboys stand near for safety reasons. Then, the cowboy slowly lowers down on top of the bull and tightens his rope around the giant beast’s belly. Time slows down and the man nods at the gatekeepers. One man hits the latch. Another man pulls on the lead that has been clipped to the gate so that it flies open. The bull is out, bouncing from his front legs to his back legs, desperately trying to knock the rider off of his back. The rider tries to counter balance and stay upright. If it happens like his vision, he will soon hear a bullhorn and have lasted to the magical eight second mark. And when the horn blows, the rider dismounts and tries to jump free of the spiraling, jumping animal. Then, the bullfighters jump into action and motion in front of the bull — sometimes even tapping their horns — so that the bull will move away from the recently freed rider. Most bulls find the open gate attractive and trot gently back. Sometimes the bulls will not head right in, which is affectionately called “taking a victory lap” — looking for someone or something to bump or chase. The well trained fighters do an intricate dance, the crowd is directed to yell, “go home,” in unison and the cattle dog is called out to nip at his heels. Other entertainment includes games of skill for the audience and “fan of the night” for the fan who danced and cheered the most. “Mutton Busting” is when young children, who idolize the riders, get their chance to try something similar. They are placed atop a sheep and hang on for dear life while the small animal runs. Some kids fall and immediately burst into tears. A few will jump up and mosey over to the gate to climb over like the big guys. The kid with the highest score will get a crisp ten dollar bill and an itch for adrenaline. The activities and riding continues for a couple hours. There are triumphs and disappointments and injuries. The night usually ends on a high note with loud music and lots of prizes handed out to the crowd. The cowboys move up and down in ranking from their evenings scores. It all happens again the next Tuesday night. * * * Tammy Mercure is a State Guide to Tennessee. She was recently named one of the “100 under 100: The New Superstars of Southern Art” by Oxford American magazine. Follow on Tumblr at tammymercure or on her website, TammyMercure.com. Support her work at TCB Press.
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SOUTHERN EXTREME BULL RIDING - ABINGDON, VIRGINIA

Every Tuesday night for several months in the winter, the Washington County Fairgrounds’ largest building is warmed by giant space heaters so that a crowd of hundreds can root for their favorite bull rider. In the front of the building, the crowd sits in the bleachers laughing at the clown who is doing a goofy dance while they wait for the gate to burst open. He chats easily with regulars while throwing down the donated hat in the front that will be “signed” (stomped on) by the upcoming bulls.

In the back of the building, the well-oiled machine comprised of cowboys and locals begins. Bulls are walked through intricate chutes to keep them calm and secure. Eventually, they make their way to the small compartment at the end, just big enough for them to stand. The next man up has been stretching, preparing his personal rope and glove with heated-up rosin. He’s getting in the zone. The usually cocky guys with colorful chaps, wild boots and bull-legged swagger are quiet. They seem to be playing out over and over in their head the perfect eight seconds. Several cowboys stand near for safety reasons. Then, the cowboy slowly lowers down on top of the bull and tightens his rope around the giant beast’s belly. Time slows down and the man nods at the gatekeepers. One man hits the latch. Another man pulls on the lead that has been clipped to the gate so that it flies open. The bull is out, bouncing from his front legs to his back legs, desperately trying to knock the rider off of his back. The rider tries to counter balance and stay upright. If it happens like his vision, he will soon hear a bullhorn and have lasted to the magical eight second mark. And when the horn blows, the rider dismounts and tries to jump free of the spiraling, jumping animal. Then, the bullfighters jump into action and motion in front of the bull — sometimes even tapping their horns — so that the bull will move away from the recently freed rider. Most bulls find the open gate attractive and trot gently back. Sometimes the bulls will not head right in, which is affectionately called “taking a victory lap” — looking for someone or something to bump or chase. The well trained fighters do an intricate dance, the crowd is directed to yell, “go home,” in unison and the cattle dog is called out to nip at his heels.

Other entertainment includes games of skill for the audience and “fan of the night” for the fan who danced and cheered the most. “Mutton Busting” is when young children, who idolize the riders, get their chance to try something similar. They are placed atop a sheep and hang on for dear life while the small animal runs. Some kids fall and immediately burst into tears. A few will jump up and mosey over to the gate to climb over like the big guys. The kid with the highest score will get a crisp ten dollar bill and an itch for adrenaline.

The activities and riding continues for a couple hours. There are triumphs and disappointments and injuries. The night usually ends on a high note with loud music and lots of prizes handed out to the crowd. The cowboys move up and down in ranking from their evenings scores. It all happens again the next Tuesday night.

* * *

Tammy Mercure is a State Guide to Tennessee. She was recently named one of the “100 under 100: The New Superstars of Southern Art” by Oxford American magazine.

Follow on Tumblr at tammymercure or on her website, TammyMercure.com. Support her work at TCB Press.

FORT TOTTEN, BAYSIDE - QUEENS, NEW YORK FORT TOTTEN, the northeastern tip of Bayside, with a garrison of nine hundred enlisted men and officers, is headquarters of the Sixty-second Coast Artillery and of New York’s harbor eastern defense system. (Visitors admitted 9 a.m. to 9 p.m.) Its mobile anti-aircraft batteries are among the most modern of their kind. Built in 1862 as a military post known as Willett’s Point, it was converted into a coast artillery fort in 1901 and given its present name. The fort is situated at the confluence of the east River, Long Island Sound, and Little Neck Bay, and commands an excellent view of the Bronx and the site of old Fort Schuyler’s at Throg’s Neck. In seasonable weather the troops parade on Friday afternoons. —New York City Guide (WPA, 1939) Fort Totten in Bayside, Queens was at one time a fort meant to protect the New York Harbor, built to withstand battle or attack. Today it is a strange combination of a maintained city park and a rare glimpse of urban decay in a city that usually has no space to allow for such emptiness. Parts of it are well kept, groomed and meant for families to picnic on lawns, fly kites or kick soccer balls. Beautifully maintained buildings built in the mid to late 1800s now house several NYPD offices and headquarters, while one falling-down chain-link fence over is a whole other world of abandonment.  The structures in these areas are incredibly overrun with mosses, plants and in some cases whole trees growing out of the cement roof of a sprawling, dripping, once-solid military fort. The only attack this fort fights now is the natural growth taking it over, covering deep wells that once held cannons and walls that once housed ammunition. Views from the top of one structure towards another are filled with trees where once they were clear and functional. It is an amazing juxtaposition, seeing something meant for war now so silent and still and it’s truly a rare find in New York City. * * *  EE Berger is a photographer Detroit bred and Brooklyn based. She seeks out emptiness, solitude and peaceful moments and was recently selected as one of Photoboite’s “30 Women Photographers Under 30” for 2013. You can find her on Tumblr at eeberger.tumblr.com, and find her website at eebergerphoto.com.
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FORT TOTTEN, BAYSIDE - QUEENS, NEW YORK FORT TOTTEN, the northeastern tip of Bayside, with a garrison of nine hundred enlisted men and officers, is headquarters of the Sixty-second Coast Artillery and of New York’s harbor eastern defense system. (Visitors admitted 9 a.m. to 9 p.m.) Its mobile anti-aircraft batteries are among the most modern of their kind. Built in 1862 as a military post known as Willett’s Point, it was converted into a coast artillery fort in 1901 and given its present name. The fort is situated at the confluence of the east River, Long Island Sound, and Little Neck Bay, and commands an excellent view of the Bronx and the site of old Fort Schuyler’s at Throg’s Neck. In seasonable weather the troops parade on Friday afternoons. —New York City Guide (WPA, 1939) Fort Totten in Bayside, Queens was at one time a fort meant to protect the New York Harbor, built to withstand battle or attack. Today it is a strange combination of a maintained city park and a rare glimpse of urban decay in a city that usually has no space to allow for such emptiness. Parts of it are well kept, groomed and meant for families to picnic on lawns, fly kites or kick soccer balls. Beautifully maintained buildings built in the mid to late 1800s now house several NYPD offices and headquarters, while one falling-down chain-link fence over is a whole other world of abandonment.  The structures in these areas are incredibly overrun with mosses, plants and in some cases whole trees growing out of the cement roof of a sprawling, dripping, once-solid military fort. The only attack this fort fights now is the natural growth taking it over, covering deep wells that once held cannons and walls that once housed ammunition. Views from the top of one structure towards another are filled with trees where once they were clear and functional. It is an amazing juxtaposition, seeing something meant for war now so silent and still and it’s truly a rare find in New York City. * * *  EE Berger is a photographer Detroit bred and Brooklyn based. She seeks out emptiness, solitude and peaceful moments and was recently selected as one of Photoboite’s “30 Women Photographers Under 30” for 2013. You can find her on Tumblr at eeberger.tumblr.com, and find her website at eebergerphoto.com.
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FORT TOTTEN, BAYSIDE - QUEENS, NEW YORK FORT TOTTEN, the northeastern tip of Bayside, with a garrison of nine hundred enlisted men and officers, is headquarters of the Sixty-second Coast Artillery and of New York’s harbor eastern defense system. (Visitors admitted 9 a.m. to 9 p.m.) Its mobile anti-aircraft batteries are among the most modern of their kind. Built in 1862 as a military post known as Willett’s Point, it was converted into a coast artillery fort in 1901 and given its present name. The fort is situated at the confluence of the east River, Long Island Sound, and Little Neck Bay, and commands an excellent view of the Bronx and the site of old Fort Schuyler’s at Throg’s Neck. In seasonable weather the troops parade on Friday afternoons. —New York City Guide (WPA, 1939) Fort Totten in Bayside, Queens was at one time a fort meant to protect the New York Harbor, built to withstand battle or attack. Today it is a strange combination of a maintained city park and a rare glimpse of urban decay in a city that usually has no space to allow for such emptiness. Parts of it are well kept, groomed and meant for families to picnic on lawns, fly kites or kick soccer balls. Beautifully maintained buildings built in the mid to late 1800s now house several NYPD offices and headquarters, while one falling-down chain-link fence over is a whole other world of abandonment.  The structures in these areas are incredibly overrun with mosses, plants and in some cases whole trees growing out of the cement roof of a sprawling, dripping, once-solid military fort. The only attack this fort fights now is the natural growth taking it over, covering deep wells that once held cannons and walls that once housed ammunition. Views from the top of one structure towards another are filled with trees where once they were clear and functional. It is an amazing juxtaposition, seeing something meant for war now so silent and still and it’s truly a rare find in New York City. * * *  EE Berger is a photographer Detroit bred and Brooklyn based. She seeks out emptiness, solitude and peaceful moments and was recently selected as one of Photoboite’s “30 Women Photographers Under 30” for 2013. You can find her on Tumblr at eeberger.tumblr.com, and find her website at eebergerphoto.com.
Zoom Info
FORT TOTTEN, BAYSIDE - QUEENS, NEW YORK FORT TOTTEN, the northeastern tip of Bayside, with a garrison of nine hundred enlisted men and officers, is headquarters of the Sixty-second Coast Artillery and of New York’s harbor eastern defense system. (Visitors admitted 9 a.m. to 9 p.m.) Its mobile anti-aircraft batteries are among the most modern of their kind. Built in 1862 as a military post known as Willett’s Point, it was converted into a coast artillery fort in 1901 and given its present name. The fort is situated at the confluence of the east River, Long Island Sound, and Little Neck Bay, and commands an excellent view of the Bronx and the site of old Fort Schuyler’s at Throg’s Neck. In seasonable weather the troops parade on Friday afternoons. —New York City Guide (WPA, 1939) Fort Totten in Bayside, Queens was at one time a fort meant to protect the New York Harbor, built to withstand battle or attack. Today it is a strange combination of a maintained city park and a rare glimpse of urban decay in a city that usually has no space to allow for such emptiness. Parts of it are well kept, groomed and meant for families to picnic on lawns, fly kites or kick soccer balls. Beautifully maintained buildings built in the mid to late 1800s now house several NYPD offices and headquarters, while one falling-down chain-link fence over is a whole other world of abandonment.  The structures in these areas are incredibly overrun with mosses, plants and in some cases whole trees growing out of the cement roof of a sprawling, dripping, once-solid military fort. The only attack this fort fights now is the natural growth taking it over, covering deep wells that once held cannons and walls that once housed ammunition. Views from the top of one structure towards another are filled with trees where once they were clear and functional. It is an amazing juxtaposition, seeing something meant for war now so silent and still and it’s truly a rare find in New York City. * * *  EE Berger is a photographer Detroit bred and Brooklyn based. She seeks out emptiness, solitude and peaceful moments and was recently selected as one of Photoboite’s “30 Women Photographers Under 30” for 2013. You can find her on Tumblr at eeberger.tumblr.com, and find her website at eebergerphoto.com.
Zoom Info
FORT TOTTEN, BAYSIDE - QUEENS, NEW YORK FORT TOTTEN, the northeastern tip of Bayside, with a garrison of nine hundred enlisted men and officers, is headquarters of the Sixty-second Coast Artillery and of New York’s harbor eastern defense system. (Visitors admitted 9 a.m. to 9 p.m.) Its mobile anti-aircraft batteries are among the most modern of their kind. Built in 1862 as a military post known as Willett’s Point, it was converted into a coast artillery fort in 1901 and given its present name. The fort is situated at the confluence of the east River, Long Island Sound, and Little Neck Bay, and commands an excellent view of the Bronx and the site of old Fort Schuyler’s at Throg’s Neck. In seasonable weather the troops parade on Friday afternoons. —New York City Guide (WPA, 1939) Fort Totten in Bayside, Queens was at one time a fort meant to protect the New York Harbor, built to withstand battle or attack. Today it is a strange combination of a maintained city park and a rare glimpse of urban decay in a city that usually has no space to allow for such emptiness. Parts of it are well kept, groomed and meant for families to picnic on lawns, fly kites or kick soccer balls. Beautifully maintained buildings built in the mid to late 1800s now house several NYPD offices and headquarters, while one falling-down chain-link fence over is a whole other world of abandonment.  The structures in these areas are incredibly overrun with mosses, plants and in some cases whole trees growing out of the cement roof of a sprawling, dripping, once-solid military fort. The only attack this fort fights now is the natural growth taking it over, covering deep wells that once held cannons and walls that once housed ammunition. Views from the top of one structure towards another are filled with trees where once they were clear and functional. It is an amazing juxtaposition, seeing something meant for war now so silent and still and it’s truly a rare find in New York City. * * *  EE Berger is a photographer Detroit bred and Brooklyn based. She seeks out emptiness, solitude and peaceful moments and was recently selected as one of Photoboite’s “30 Women Photographers Under 30” for 2013. You can find her on Tumblr at eeberger.tumblr.com, and find her website at eebergerphoto.com.
Zoom Info
FORT TOTTEN, BAYSIDE - QUEENS, NEW YORK FORT TOTTEN, the northeastern tip of Bayside, with a garrison of nine hundred enlisted men and officers, is headquarters of the Sixty-second Coast Artillery and of New York’s harbor eastern defense system. (Visitors admitted 9 a.m. to 9 p.m.) Its mobile anti-aircraft batteries are among the most modern of their kind. Built in 1862 as a military post known as Willett’s Point, it was converted into a coast artillery fort in 1901 and given its present name. The fort is situated at the confluence of the east River, Long Island Sound, and Little Neck Bay, and commands an excellent view of the Bronx and the site of old Fort Schuyler’s at Throg’s Neck. In seasonable weather the troops parade on Friday afternoons. —New York City Guide (WPA, 1939) Fort Totten in Bayside, Queens was at one time a fort meant to protect the New York Harbor, built to withstand battle or attack. Today it is a strange combination of a maintained city park and a rare glimpse of urban decay in a city that usually has no space to allow for such emptiness. Parts of it are well kept, groomed and meant for families to picnic on lawns, fly kites or kick soccer balls. Beautifully maintained buildings built in the mid to late 1800s now house several NYPD offices and headquarters, while one falling-down chain-link fence over is a whole other world of abandonment.  The structures in these areas are incredibly overrun with mosses, plants and in some cases whole trees growing out of the cement roof of a sprawling, dripping, once-solid military fort. The only attack this fort fights now is the natural growth taking it over, covering deep wells that once held cannons and walls that once housed ammunition. Views from the top of one structure towards another are filled with trees where once they were clear and functional. It is an amazing juxtaposition, seeing something meant for war now so silent and still and it’s truly a rare find in New York City. * * *  EE Berger is a photographer Detroit bred and Brooklyn based. She seeks out emptiness, solitude and peaceful moments and was recently selected as one of Photoboite’s “30 Women Photographers Under 30” for 2013. You can find her on Tumblr at eeberger.tumblr.com, and find her website at eebergerphoto.com.
Zoom Info
FORT TOTTEN, BAYSIDE - QUEENS, NEW YORK FORT TOTTEN, the northeastern tip of Bayside, with a garrison of nine hundred enlisted men and officers, is headquarters of the Sixty-second Coast Artillery and of New York’s harbor eastern defense system. (Visitors admitted 9 a.m. to 9 p.m.) Its mobile anti-aircraft batteries are among the most modern of their kind. Built in 1862 as a military post known as Willett’s Point, it was converted into a coast artillery fort in 1901 and given its present name. The fort is situated at the confluence of the east River, Long Island Sound, and Little Neck Bay, and commands an excellent view of the Bronx and the site of old Fort Schuyler’s at Throg’s Neck. In seasonable weather the troops parade on Friday afternoons. —New York City Guide (WPA, 1939) Fort Totten in Bayside, Queens was at one time a fort meant to protect the New York Harbor, built to withstand battle or attack. Today it is a strange combination of a maintained city park and a rare glimpse of urban decay in a city that usually has no space to allow for such emptiness. Parts of it are well kept, groomed and meant for families to picnic on lawns, fly kites or kick soccer balls. Beautifully maintained buildings built in the mid to late 1800s now house several NYPD offices and headquarters, while one falling-down chain-link fence over is a whole other world of abandonment.  The structures in these areas are incredibly overrun with mosses, plants and in some cases whole trees growing out of the cement roof of a sprawling, dripping, once-solid military fort. The only attack this fort fights now is the natural growth taking it over, covering deep wells that once held cannons and walls that once housed ammunition. Views from the top of one structure towards another are filled with trees where once they were clear and functional. It is an amazing juxtaposition, seeing something meant for war now so silent and still and it’s truly a rare find in New York City. * * *  EE Berger is a photographer Detroit bred and Brooklyn based. She seeks out emptiness, solitude and peaceful moments and was recently selected as one of Photoboite’s “30 Women Photographers Under 30” for 2013. You can find her on Tumblr at eeberger.tumblr.com, and find her website at eebergerphoto.com.
Zoom Info
FORT TOTTEN, BAYSIDE - QUEENS, NEW YORK FORT TOTTEN, the northeastern tip of Bayside, with a garrison of nine hundred enlisted men and officers, is headquarters of the Sixty-second Coast Artillery and of New York’s harbor eastern defense system. (Visitors admitted 9 a.m. to 9 p.m.) Its mobile anti-aircraft batteries are among the most modern of their kind. Built in 1862 as a military post known as Willett’s Point, it was converted into a coast artillery fort in 1901 and given its present name. The fort is situated at the confluence of the east River, Long Island Sound, and Little Neck Bay, and commands an excellent view of the Bronx and the site of old Fort Schuyler’s at Throg’s Neck. In seasonable weather the troops parade on Friday afternoons. —New York City Guide (WPA, 1939) Fort Totten in Bayside, Queens was at one time a fort meant to protect the New York Harbor, built to withstand battle or attack. Today it is a strange combination of a maintained city park and a rare glimpse of urban decay in a city that usually has no space to allow for such emptiness. Parts of it are well kept, groomed and meant for families to picnic on lawns, fly kites or kick soccer balls. Beautifully maintained buildings built in the mid to late 1800s now house several NYPD offices and headquarters, while one falling-down chain-link fence over is a whole other world of abandonment.  The structures in these areas are incredibly overrun with mosses, plants and in some cases whole trees growing out of the cement roof of a sprawling, dripping, once-solid military fort. The only attack this fort fights now is the natural growth taking it over, covering deep wells that once held cannons and walls that once housed ammunition. Views from the top of one structure towards another are filled with trees where once they were clear and functional. It is an amazing juxtaposition, seeing something meant for war now so silent and still and it’s truly a rare find in New York City. * * *  EE Berger is a photographer Detroit bred and Brooklyn based. She seeks out emptiness, solitude and peaceful moments and was recently selected as one of Photoboite’s “30 Women Photographers Under 30” for 2013. You can find her on Tumblr at eeberger.tumblr.com, and find her website at eebergerphoto.com.
Zoom Info
FORT TOTTEN, BAYSIDE - QUEENS, NEW YORK FORT TOTTEN, the northeastern tip of Bayside, with a garrison of nine hundred enlisted men and officers, is headquarters of the Sixty-second Coast Artillery and of New York’s harbor eastern defense system. (Visitors admitted 9 a.m. to 9 p.m.) Its mobile anti-aircraft batteries are among the most modern of their kind. Built in 1862 as a military post known as Willett’s Point, it was converted into a coast artillery fort in 1901 and given its present name. The fort is situated at the confluence of the east River, Long Island Sound, and Little Neck Bay, and commands an excellent view of the Bronx and the site of old Fort Schuyler’s at Throg’s Neck. In seasonable weather the troops parade on Friday afternoons. —New York City Guide (WPA, 1939) Fort Totten in Bayside, Queens was at one time a fort meant to protect the New York Harbor, built to withstand battle or attack. Today it is a strange combination of a maintained city park and a rare glimpse of urban decay in a city that usually has no space to allow for such emptiness. Parts of it are well kept, groomed and meant for families to picnic on lawns, fly kites or kick soccer balls. Beautifully maintained buildings built in the mid to late 1800s now house several NYPD offices and headquarters, while one falling-down chain-link fence over is a whole other world of abandonment.  The structures in these areas are incredibly overrun with mosses, plants and in some cases whole trees growing out of the cement roof of a sprawling, dripping, once-solid military fort. The only attack this fort fights now is the natural growth taking it over, covering deep wells that once held cannons and walls that once housed ammunition. Views from the top of one structure towards another are filled with trees where once they were clear and functional. It is an amazing juxtaposition, seeing something meant for war now so silent and still and it’s truly a rare find in New York City. * * *  EE Berger is a photographer Detroit bred and Brooklyn based. She seeks out emptiness, solitude and peaceful moments and was recently selected as one of Photoboite’s “30 Women Photographers Under 30” for 2013. You can find her on Tumblr at eeberger.tumblr.com, and find her website at eebergerphoto.com.
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FORT TOTTEN, BAYSIDE - QUEENS, NEW YORK FORT TOTTEN, the northeastern tip of Bayside, with a garrison of nine hundred enlisted men and officers, is headquarters of the Sixty-second Coast Artillery and of New York’s harbor eastern defense system. (Visitors admitted 9 a.m. to 9 p.m.) Its mobile anti-aircraft batteries are among the most modern of their kind. Built in 1862 as a military post known as Willett’s Point, it was converted into a coast artillery fort in 1901 and given its present name. The fort is situated at the confluence of the east River, Long Island Sound, and Little Neck Bay, and commands an excellent view of the Bronx and the site of old Fort Schuyler’s at Throg’s Neck. In seasonable weather the troops parade on Friday afternoons. —New York City Guide (WPA, 1939) Fort Totten in Bayside, Queens was at one time a fort meant to protect the New York Harbor, built to withstand battle or attack. Today it is a strange combination of a maintained city park and a rare glimpse of urban decay in a city that usually has no space to allow for such emptiness. Parts of it are well kept, groomed and meant for families to picnic on lawns, fly kites or kick soccer balls. Beautifully maintained buildings built in the mid to late 1800s now house several NYPD offices and headquarters, while one falling-down chain-link fence over is a whole other world of abandonment.  The structures in these areas are incredibly overrun with mosses, plants and in some cases whole trees growing out of the cement roof of a sprawling, dripping, once-solid military fort. The only attack this fort fights now is the natural growth taking it over, covering deep wells that once held cannons and walls that once housed ammunition. Views from the top of one structure towards another are filled with trees where once they were clear and functional. It is an amazing juxtaposition, seeing something meant for war now so silent and still and it’s truly a rare find in New York City. * * *  EE Berger is a photographer Detroit bred and Brooklyn based. She seeks out emptiness, solitude and peaceful moments and was recently selected as one of Photoboite’s “30 Women Photographers Under 30” for 2013. You can find her on Tumblr at eeberger.tumblr.com, and find her website at eebergerphoto.com.
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FORT TOTTEN, BAYSIDE - QUEENS, NEW YORK

FORT TOTTEN, the northeastern tip of Bayside, with a garrison of nine hundred enlisted men and officers, is headquarters of the Sixty-second Coast Artillery and of New York’s harbor eastern defense system. (Visitors admitted 9 a.m. to 9 p.m.) Its mobile anti-aircraft batteries are among the most modern of their kind. Built in 1862 as a military post known as Willett’s Point, it was converted into a coast artillery fort in 1901 and given its present name.

The fort is situated at the confluence of the east River, Long Island Sound, and Little Neck Bay, and commands an excellent view of the Bronx and the site of old Fort Schuyler’s at Throg’s Neck. In seasonable weather the troops parade on Friday afternoons.

—New York City Guide (WPA, 1939)

Fort Totten in Bayside, Queens was at one time a fort meant to protect the New York Harbor, built to withstand battle or attack. Today it is a strange combination of a maintained city park and a rare glimpse of urban decay in a city that usually has no space to allow for such emptiness. Parts of it are well kept, groomed and meant for families to picnic on lawns, fly kites or kick soccer balls. Beautifully maintained buildings built in the mid to late 1800s now house several NYPD offices and headquarters, while one falling-down chain-link fence over is a whole other world of abandonment. 

The structures in these areas are incredibly overrun with mosses, plants and in some cases whole trees growing out of the cement roof of a sprawling, dripping, once-solid military fort. The only attack this fort fights now is the natural growth taking it over, covering deep wells that once held cannons and walls that once housed ammunition. Views from the top of one structure towards another are filled with trees where once they were clear and functional. It is an amazing juxtaposition, seeing something meant for war now so silent and still and it’s truly a rare find in New York City.

* * * 

EE Berger is a photographer Detroit bred and Brooklyn based. She seeks out emptiness, solitude and peaceful moments and was recently selected as one of Photoboite’s “30 Women Photographers Under 30” for 2013. You can find her on Tumblr at eeberger.tumblr.com, and find her website at eebergerphoto.com.