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.
Zoom
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.
Zoom
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.
Zoom
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.
Zoom
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.
Zoom
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.
Zoom
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.
Zoom
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.
Zoom
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.
Zoom
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.
Zoom

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.

LAWLESS: LOVING IT AND NOT IN SOUTH FLORIDA For the traveler—and the local, too—there’s a sort of lawlessness—a coast-to-coast sensation—when you’re in South Florida, below the Lake Okeechobee shoreline. Our guide—Florida: A Guide to the Southernmost State, published by the WPA in 1939—says it in plain words: “Florida is at once a continuation of the Deep South and the beginning of a new realm.” And in that new realm, you do whatever the hell it is you want to do. You see it in the faces of those just passing through to the faces of the snowbird, the country cracker, the Miccosukee, the Cuban, the black American—anyone and everyone. But, it’s not that you’re up to no good if you’re in these parts. No, because down here you’ve either been left to yourself or abandoned outright—something you either fought for and won or fought against and lost. That’s the prettiness and the ugliness of the place. Just ask our guide: “Throughout more than four centuries, from Ponce de Leon in his caravels to the latest Pennsylvanian in his Buick”—You can throw in Walt Disney, HMO-barons, spring-break bros and hoes, and sub-prime mortgage lenders—”Florida has been invaded by seekers of gold or of sunshine. The result of all of this is a material and immaterial pattern of infinite variety, replete with contrasts, paradoxes, confusions, and inconsistencies.” “Seekers of gold or of sunshine”—that’s a damn fine line to walk: between the Freedom—with a capital F—that we all seek and the temptations and trappings of its pursuit. It’s all the “seekers of gold or of sunshine” where that lawless feeling comes from. * * * Tom McNamara is the co-editor of THE AMERICAN GUIDE. 
Zoom Info
LAWLESS: LOVING IT AND NOT IN SOUTH FLORIDA For the traveler—and the local, too—there’s a sort of lawlessness—a coast-to-coast sensation—when you’re in South Florida, below the Lake Okeechobee shoreline. Our guide—Florida: A Guide to the Southernmost State, published by the WPA in 1939—says it in plain words: “Florida is at once a continuation of the Deep South and the beginning of a new realm.” And in that new realm, you do whatever the hell it is you want to do. You see it in the faces of those just passing through to the faces of the snowbird, the country cracker, the Miccosukee, the Cuban, the black American—anyone and everyone. But, it’s not that you’re up to no good if you’re in these parts. No, because down here you’ve either been left to yourself or abandoned outright—something you either fought for and won or fought against and lost. That’s the prettiness and the ugliness of the place. Just ask our guide: “Throughout more than four centuries, from Ponce de Leon in his caravels to the latest Pennsylvanian in his Buick”—You can throw in Walt Disney, HMO-barons, spring-break bros and hoes, and sub-prime mortgage lenders—”Florida has been invaded by seekers of gold or of sunshine. The result of all of this is a material and immaterial pattern of infinite variety, replete with contrasts, paradoxes, confusions, and inconsistencies.” “Seekers of gold or of sunshine”—that’s a damn fine line to walk: between the Freedom—with a capital F—that we all seek and the temptations and trappings of its pursuit. It’s all the “seekers of gold or of sunshine” where that lawless feeling comes from. * * * Tom McNamara is the co-editor of THE AMERICAN GUIDE. 
Zoom Info
LAWLESS: LOVING IT AND NOT IN SOUTH FLORIDA For the traveler—and the local, too—there’s a sort of lawlessness—a coast-to-coast sensation—when you’re in South Florida, below the Lake Okeechobee shoreline. Our guide—Florida: A Guide to the Southernmost State, published by the WPA in 1939—says it in plain words: “Florida is at once a continuation of the Deep South and the beginning of a new realm.” And in that new realm, you do whatever the hell it is you want to do. You see it in the faces of those just passing through to the faces of the snowbird, the country cracker, the Miccosukee, the Cuban, the black American—anyone and everyone. But, it’s not that you’re up to no good if you’re in these parts. No, because down here you’ve either been left to yourself or abandoned outright—something you either fought for and won or fought against and lost. That’s the prettiness and the ugliness of the place. Just ask our guide: “Throughout more than four centuries, from Ponce de Leon in his caravels to the latest Pennsylvanian in his Buick”—You can throw in Walt Disney, HMO-barons, spring-break bros and hoes, and sub-prime mortgage lenders—”Florida has been invaded by seekers of gold or of sunshine. The result of all of this is a material and immaterial pattern of infinite variety, replete with contrasts, paradoxes, confusions, and inconsistencies.” “Seekers of gold or of sunshine”—that’s a damn fine line to walk: between the Freedom—with a capital F—that we all seek and the temptations and trappings of its pursuit. It’s all the “seekers of gold or of sunshine” where that lawless feeling comes from. * * * Tom McNamara is the co-editor of THE AMERICAN GUIDE. 
Zoom Info

LAWLESS: LOVING IT AND NOT IN SOUTH FLORIDA

For the traveler—and the local, too—there’s a sort of lawlessness—a coast-to-coast sensation—when you’re in South Florida, below the Lake Okeechobee shoreline.

Our guide—Florida: A Guide to the Southernmost State, published by the WPA in 1939—says it in plain words: “Florida is at once a continuation of the Deep South and the beginning of a new realm.”

And in that new realm, you do whatever the hell it is you want to do. You see it in the faces of those just passing through to the faces of the snowbird, the country cracker, the Miccosukee, the Cuban, the black American—anyone and everyone.

But, it’s not that you’re up to no good if you’re in these parts. No, because down here you’ve either been left to yourself or abandoned outright—something you either fought for and won or fought against and lost. That’s the prettiness and the ugliness of the place.

Just ask our guide: “Throughout more than four centuries, from Ponce de Leon in his caravels to the latest Pennsylvanian in his Buick”—You can throw in Walt Disney, HMO-barons, spring-break bros and hoes, and sub-prime mortgage lenders—”Florida has been invaded by seekers of gold or of sunshine. The result of all of this is a material and immaterial pattern of infinite variety, replete with contrasts, paradoxes, confusions, and inconsistencies.”

“Seekers of gold or of sunshine”—that’s a damn fine line to walk: between the Freedom—with a capital F—that we all seek and the temptations and trappings of its pursuit.

It’s all the “seekers of gold or of sunshine” where that lawless feeling comes from.

* * *

Tom McNamara is the co-editor of THE AMERICAN GUIDE. 

JORDAN LAKE, NORTH CAROLINA Spanning 21 square miles and nearly three counties, and smack-dab in the middle of North Carolina is the beautiful Jordan Lake. The reservoir and dam are two of the state’s most treasured and important resources; not only is the area a protected state park and popular recreation site, but it’s also tasked with flood and water quality control, and is responsible for supplying water to the capital metro area. Jordan Lake’s history is an interesting one. Various cultures have called the area home for over ten centuries; both Revolutionary and Civil War troops marched through. But in the second half of the 20th century, big changes came. Twenty years after a particularly damaging tropical storm in 1945, the Army Corps of Engineers was handed the “New Hope Lake Project” (eventually renamed B. Everett Jordan Lake after the former Senator, who—little known fact—was eventually unseated by comedian Zack Galifianakis’s uncle). The Engineers were tasked with studying flood control and water resource needs in the area and as a result in the decade between 1973 and ‘83, the New Hope and Haw Rivers were dammed and flooded. Farming families were relocated; roads were rerouted or wholly covered by water. To this day, when the water is low enough, old roads and forgotten bridge parts create pseudo-sandbars for birds to sun themselves on. Now a State Recreation Area, Jordan Lake’s shores are protected from development. At the south end is the impressive dam, where the surface can be calm or full of churning white caps, depending on the day. The past several years have seen a grassroots movement to clean up the scourge of litter plaguing Jordan Lake’s shores—a prime example of the place the area holds in the hearts of its residents. The bald eagle is the lake’s official animal, and the area is home to many other recognizable North American woodland animals. Visitors can fish, swim, sail, hike, hunt or camp. Boasting multiple boat ramps, canoe launches, two beaches, piers (including one that’s wheelchair-accessible), playgrounds, campgrounds, and a privately-owned marina, it’s one of the best places in the state to spend a day. This author, for one, is happy to call Jordan Lake home. * * * Brittany Kearns is a Guide to North Carolina. An honorary Southerner, she was born in New Jersey, but now calls rural Chatham County home. She’s got a degree in anthropology, a love for documentary photography and takes film over digital any day. Follow her on Tumblr at thebeekearns.tumblr.com and check out her portfolio at BrittanyKearns.com.  
Zoom Info
JORDAN LAKE, NORTH CAROLINA Spanning 21 square miles and nearly three counties, and smack-dab in the middle of North Carolina is the beautiful Jordan Lake. The reservoir and dam are two of the state’s most treasured and important resources; not only is the area a protected state park and popular recreation site, but it’s also tasked with flood and water quality control, and is responsible for supplying water to the capital metro area. Jordan Lake’s history is an interesting one. Various cultures have called the area home for over ten centuries; both Revolutionary and Civil War troops marched through. But in the second half of the 20th century, big changes came. Twenty years after a particularly damaging tropical storm in 1945, the Army Corps of Engineers was handed the “New Hope Lake Project” (eventually renamed B. Everett Jordan Lake after the former Senator, who—little known fact—was eventually unseated by comedian Zack Galifianakis’s uncle). The Engineers were tasked with studying flood control and water resource needs in the area and as a result in the decade between 1973 and ‘83, the New Hope and Haw Rivers were dammed and flooded. Farming families were relocated; roads were rerouted or wholly covered by water. To this day, when the water is low enough, old roads and forgotten bridge parts create pseudo-sandbars for birds to sun themselves on. Now a State Recreation Area, Jordan Lake’s shores are protected from development. At the south end is the impressive dam, where the surface can be calm or full of churning white caps, depending on the day. The past several years have seen a grassroots movement to clean up the scourge of litter plaguing Jordan Lake’s shores—a prime example of the place the area holds in the hearts of its residents. The bald eagle is the lake’s official animal, and the area is home to many other recognizable North American woodland animals. Visitors can fish, swim, sail, hike, hunt or camp. Boasting multiple boat ramps, canoe launches, two beaches, piers (including one that’s wheelchair-accessible), playgrounds, campgrounds, and a privately-owned marina, it’s one of the best places in the state to spend a day. This author, for one, is happy to call Jordan Lake home. * * * Brittany Kearns is a Guide to North Carolina. An honorary Southerner, she was born in New Jersey, but now calls rural Chatham County home. She’s got a degree in anthropology, a love for documentary photography and takes film over digital any day. Follow her on Tumblr at thebeekearns.tumblr.com and check out her portfolio at BrittanyKearns.com.  
Zoom Info
JORDAN LAKE, NORTH CAROLINA Spanning 21 square miles and nearly three counties, and smack-dab in the middle of North Carolina is the beautiful Jordan Lake. The reservoir and dam are two of the state’s most treasured and important resources; not only is the area a protected state park and popular recreation site, but it’s also tasked with flood and water quality control, and is responsible for supplying water to the capital metro area. Jordan Lake’s history is an interesting one. Various cultures have called the area home for over ten centuries; both Revolutionary and Civil War troops marched through. But in the second half of the 20th century, big changes came. Twenty years after a particularly damaging tropical storm in 1945, the Army Corps of Engineers was handed the “New Hope Lake Project” (eventually renamed B. Everett Jordan Lake after the former Senator, who—little known fact—was eventually unseated by comedian Zack Galifianakis’s uncle). The Engineers were tasked with studying flood control and water resource needs in the area and as a result in the decade between 1973 and ‘83, the New Hope and Haw Rivers were dammed and flooded. Farming families were relocated; roads were rerouted or wholly covered by water. To this day, when the water is low enough, old roads and forgotten bridge parts create pseudo-sandbars for birds to sun themselves on. Now a State Recreation Area, Jordan Lake’s shores are protected from development. At the south end is the impressive dam, where the surface can be calm or full of churning white caps, depending on the day. The past several years have seen a grassroots movement to clean up the scourge of litter plaguing Jordan Lake’s shores—a prime example of the place the area holds in the hearts of its residents. The bald eagle is the lake’s official animal, and the area is home to many other recognizable North American woodland animals. Visitors can fish, swim, sail, hike, hunt or camp. Boasting multiple boat ramps, canoe launches, two beaches, piers (including one that’s wheelchair-accessible), playgrounds, campgrounds, and a privately-owned marina, it’s one of the best places in the state to spend a day. This author, for one, is happy to call Jordan Lake home. * * * Brittany Kearns is a Guide to North Carolina. An honorary Southerner, she was born in New Jersey, but now calls rural Chatham County home. She’s got a degree in anthropology, a love for documentary photography and takes film over digital any day. Follow her on Tumblr at thebeekearns.tumblr.com and check out her portfolio at BrittanyKearns.com.  
Zoom Info
JORDAN LAKE, NORTH CAROLINA Spanning 21 square miles and nearly three counties, and smack-dab in the middle of North Carolina is the beautiful Jordan Lake. The reservoir and dam are two of the state’s most treasured and important resources; not only is the area a protected state park and popular recreation site, but it’s also tasked with flood and water quality control, and is responsible for supplying water to the capital metro area. Jordan Lake’s history is an interesting one. Various cultures have called the area home for over ten centuries; both Revolutionary and Civil War troops marched through. But in the second half of the 20th century, big changes came. Twenty years after a particularly damaging tropical storm in 1945, the Army Corps of Engineers was handed the “New Hope Lake Project” (eventually renamed B. Everett Jordan Lake after the former Senator, who—little known fact—was eventually unseated by comedian Zack Galifianakis’s uncle). The Engineers were tasked with studying flood control and water resource needs in the area and as a result in the decade between 1973 and ‘83, the New Hope and Haw Rivers were dammed and flooded. Farming families were relocated; roads were rerouted or wholly covered by water. To this day, when the water is low enough, old roads and forgotten bridge parts create pseudo-sandbars for birds to sun themselves on. Now a State Recreation Area, Jordan Lake’s shores are protected from development. At the south end is the impressive dam, where the surface can be calm or full of churning white caps, depending on the day. The past several years have seen a grassroots movement to clean up the scourge of litter plaguing Jordan Lake’s shores—a prime example of the place the area holds in the hearts of its residents. The bald eagle is the lake’s official animal, and the area is home to many other recognizable North American woodland animals. Visitors can fish, swim, sail, hike, hunt or camp. Boasting multiple boat ramps, canoe launches, two beaches, piers (including one that’s wheelchair-accessible), playgrounds, campgrounds, and a privately-owned marina, it’s one of the best places in the state to spend a day. This author, for one, is happy to call Jordan Lake home. * * * Brittany Kearns is a Guide to North Carolina. An honorary Southerner, she was born in New Jersey, but now calls rural Chatham County home. She’s got a degree in anthropology, a love for documentary photography and takes film over digital any day. Follow her on Tumblr at thebeekearns.tumblr.com and check out her portfolio at BrittanyKearns.com.  
Zoom Info
JORDAN LAKE, NORTH CAROLINA Spanning 21 square miles and nearly three counties, and smack-dab in the middle of North Carolina is the beautiful Jordan Lake. The reservoir and dam are two of the state’s most treasured and important resources; not only is the area a protected state park and popular recreation site, but it’s also tasked with flood and water quality control, and is responsible for supplying water to the capital metro area. Jordan Lake’s history is an interesting one. Various cultures have called the area home for over ten centuries; both Revolutionary and Civil War troops marched through. But in the second half of the 20th century, big changes came. Twenty years after a particularly damaging tropical storm in 1945, the Army Corps of Engineers was handed the “New Hope Lake Project” (eventually renamed B. Everett Jordan Lake after the former Senator, who—little known fact—was eventually unseated by comedian Zack Galifianakis’s uncle). The Engineers were tasked with studying flood control and water resource needs in the area and as a result in the decade between 1973 and ‘83, the New Hope and Haw Rivers were dammed and flooded. Farming families were relocated; roads were rerouted or wholly covered by water. To this day, when the water is low enough, old roads and forgotten bridge parts create pseudo-sandbars for birds to sun themselves on. Now a State Recreation Area, Jordan Lake’s shores are protected from development. At the south end is the impressive dam, where the surface can be calm or full of churning white caps, depending on the day. The past several years have seen a grassroots movement to clean up the scourge of litter plaguing Jordan Lake’s shores—a prime example of the place the area holds in the hearts of its residents. The bald eagle is the lake’s official animal, and the area is home to many other recognizable North American woodland animals. Visitors can fish, swim, sail, hike, hunt or camp. Boasting multiple boat ramps, canoe launches, two beaches, piers (including one that’s wheelchair-accessible), playgrounds, campgrounds, and a privately-owned marina, it’s one of the best places in the state to spend a day. This author, for one, is happy to call Jordan Lake home. * * * Brittany Kearns is a Guide to North Carolina. An honorary Southerner, she was born in New Jersey, but now calls rural Chatham County home. She’s got a degree in anthropology, a love for documentary photography and takes film over digital any day. Follow her on Tumblr at thebeekearns.tumblr.com and check out her portfolio at BrittanyKearns.com.  
Zoom Info
JORDAN LAKE, NORTH CAROLINA Spanning 21 square miles and nearly three counties, and smack-dab in the middle of North Carolina is the beautiful Jordan Lake. The reservoir and dam are two of the state’s most treasured and important resources; not only is the area a protected state park and popular recreation site, but it’s also tasked with flood and water quality control, and is responsible for supplying water to the capital metro area. Jordan Lake’s history is an interesting one. Various cultures have called the area home for over ten centuries; both Revolutionary and Civil War troops marched through. But in the second half of the 20th century, big changes came. Twenty years after a particularly damaging tropical storm in 1945, the Army Corps of Engineers was handed the “New Hope Lake Project” (eventually renamed B. Everett Jordan Lake after the former Senator, who—little known fact—was eventually unseated by comedian Zack Galifianakis’s uncle). The Engineers were tasked with studying flood control and water resource needs in the area and as a result in the decade between 1973 and ‘83, the New Hope and Haw Rivers were dammed and flooded. Farming families were relocated; roads were rerouted or wholly covered by water. To this day, when the water is low enough, old roads and forgotten bridge parts create pseudo-sandbars for birds to sun themselves on. Now a State Recreation Area, Jordan Lake’s shores are protected from development. At the south end is the impressive dam, where the surface can be calm or full of churning white caps, depending on the day. The past several years have seen a grassroots movement to clean up the scourge of litter plaguing Jordan Lake’s shores—a prime example of the place the area holds in the hearts of its residents. The bald eagle is the lake’s official animal, and the area is home to many other recognizable North American woodland animals. Visitors can fish, swim, sail, hike, hunt or camp. Boasting multiple boat ramps, canoe launches, two beaches, piers (including one that’s wheelchair-accessible), playgrounds, campgrounds, and a privately-owned marina, it’s one of the best places in the state to spend a day. This author, for one, is happy to call Jordan Lake home. * * * Brittany Kearns is a Guide to North Carolina. An honorary Southerner, she was born in New Jersey, but now calls rural Chatham County home. She’s got a degree in anthropology, a love for documentary photography and takes film over digital any day. Follow her on Tumblr at thebeekearns.tumblr.com and check out her portfolio at BrittanyKearns.com.  
Zoom Info
JORDAN LAKE, NORTH CAROLINA Spanning 21 square miles and nearly three counties, and smack-dab in the middle of North Carolina is the beautiful Jordan Lake. The reservoir and dam are two of the state’s most treasured and important resources; not only is the area a protected state park and popular recreation site, but it’s also tasked with flood and water quality control, and is responsible for supplying water to the capital metro area. Jordan Lake’s history is an interesting one. Various cultures have called the area home for over ten centuries; both Revolutionary and Civil War troops marched through. But in the second half of the 20th century, big changes came. Twenty years after a particularly damaging tropical storm in 1945, the Army Corps of Engineers was handed the “New Hope Lake Project” (eventually renamed B. Everett Jordan Lake after the former Senator, who—little known fact—was eventually unseated by comedian Zack Galifianakis’s uncle). The Engineers were tasked with studying flood control and water resource needs in the area and as a result in the decade between 1973 and ‘83, the New Hope and Haw Rivers were dammed and flooded. Farming families were relocated; roads were rerouted or wholly covered by water. To this day, when the water is low enough, old roads and forgotten bridge parts create pseudo-sandbars for birds to sun themselves on. Now a State Recreation Area, Jordan Lake’s shores are protected from development. At the south end is the impressive dam, where the surface can be calm or full of churning white caps, depending on the day. The past several years have seen a grassroots movement to clean up the scourge of litter plaguing Jordan Lake’s shores—a prime example of the place the area holds in the hearts of its residents. The bald eagle is the lake’s official animal, and the area is home to many other recognizable North American woodland animals. Visitors can fish, swim, sail, hike, hunt or camp. Boasting multiple boat ramps, canoe launches, two beaches, piers (including one that’s wheelchair-accessible), playgrounds, campgrounds, and a privately-owned marina, it’s one of the best places in the state to spend a day. This author, for one, is happy to call Jordan Lake home. * * * Brittany Kearns is a Guide to North Carolina. An honorary Southerner, she was born in New Jersey, but now calls rural Chatham County home. She’s got a degree in anthropology, a love for documentary photography and takes film over digital any day. Follow her on Tumblr at thebeekearns.tumblr.com and check out her portfolio at BrittanyKearns.com.  
Zoom Info
JORDAN LAKE, NORTH CAROLINA Spanning 21 square miles and nearly three counties, and smack-dab in the middle of North Carolina is the beautiful Jordan Lake. The reservoir and dam are two of the state’s most treasured and important resources; not only is the area a protected state park and popular recreation site, but it’s also tasked with flood and water quality control, and is responsible for supplying water to the capital metro area. Jordan Lake’s history is an interesting one. Various cultures have called the area home for over ten centuries; both Revolutionary and Civil War troops marched through. But in the second half of the 20th century, big changes came. Twenty years after a particularly damaging tropical storm in 1945, the Army Corps of Engineers was handed the “New Hope Lake Project” (eventually renamed B. Everett Jordan Lake after the former Senator, who—little known fact—was eventually unseated by comedian Zack Galifianakis’s uncle). The Engineers were tasked with studying flood control and water resource needs in the area and as a result in the decade between 1973 and ‘83, the New Hope and Haw Rivers were dammed and flooded. Farming families were relocated; roads were rerouted or wholly covered by water. To this day, when the water is low enough, old roads and forgotten bridge parts create pseudo-sandbars for birds to sun themselves on. Now a State Recreation Area, Jordan Lake’s shores are protected from development. At the south end is the impressive dam, where the surface can be calm or full of churning white caps, depending on the day. The past several years have seen a grassroots movement to clean up the scourge of litter plaguing Jordan Lake’s shores—a prime example of the place the area holds in the hearts of its residents. The bald eagle is the lake’s official animal, and the area is home to many other recognizable North American woodland animals. Visitors can fish, swim, sail, hike, hunt or camp. Boasting multiple boat ramps, canoe launches, two beaches, piers (including one that’s wheelchair-accessible), playgrounds, campgrounds, and a privately-owned marina, it’s one of the best places in the state to spend a day. This author, for one, is happy to call Jordan Lake home. * * * Brittany Kearns is a Guide to North Carolina. An honorary Southerner, she was born in New Jersey, but now calls rural Chatham County home. She’s got a degree in anthropology, a love for documentary photography and takes film over digital any day. Follow her on Tumblr at thebeekearns.tumblr.com and check out her portfolio at BrittanyKearns.com.  
Zoom Info

JORDAN LAKE, NORTH CAROLINA

Spanning 21 square miles and nearly three counties, and smack-dab in the middle of North Carolina is the beautiful Jordan Lake. The reservoir and dam are two of the state’s most treasured and important resources; not only is the area a protected state park and popular recreation site, but it’s also tasked with flood and water quality control, and is responsible for supplying water to the capital metro area.

Jordan Lake’s history is an interesting one. Various cultures have called the area home for over ten centuries; both Revolutionary and Civil War troops marched through. But in the second half of the 20th century, big changes came. Twenty years after a particularly damaging tropical storm in 1945, the Army Corps of Engineers was handed the “New Hope Lake Project” (eventually renamed B. Everett Jordan Lake after the former Senator, who—little known fact—was eventually unseated by comedian Zack Galifianakis’s uncle). The Engineers were tasked with studying flood control and water resource needs in the area and as a result in the decade between 1973 and ‘83, the New Hope and Haw Rivers were dammed and flooded. Farming families were relocated; roads were rerouted or wholly covered by water. To this day, when the water is low enough, old roads and forgotten bridge parts create pseudo-sandbars for birds to sun themselves on.

Now a State Recreation Area, Jordan Lake’s shores are protected from development. At the south end is the impressive dam, where the surface can be calm or full of churning white caps, depending on the day. The past several years have seen a grassroots movement to clean up the scourge of litter plaguing Jordan Lake’s shores—a prime example of the place the area holds in the hearts of its residents. The bald eagle is the lake’s official animal, and the area is home to many other recognizable North American woodland animals. Visitors can fish, swim, sail, hike, hunt or camp. Boasting multiple boat ramps, canoe launches, two beaches, piers (including one that’s wheelchair-accessible), playgrounds, campgrounds, and a privately-owned marina, it’s one of the best places in the state to spend a day. This author, for one, is happy to call Jordan Lake home.

* * *

Brittany Kearns is a Guide to North Carolina. An honorary Southerner, she was born in New Jersey, but now calls rural Chatham County home. She’s got a degree in anthropology, a love for documentary photography and takes film over digital any day. Follow her on Tumblr at thebeekearns.tumblr.com and check out her portfolio at BrittanyKearns.com.  

MARDI GRAS - LAKE ARTHUR, LOUISIANA LAKE ARTHUR, 58.6 m. (8 alt., 1,602 pop.), is on the northern edge of the lake of the same name, in reality a widening of Mermentau River. Lake Arthur, settled largely by people of French descent from the older sections of Louisiana, was of some importance as early as 1890, when its first newspaper, the Lake Arthur Herald, was published. A long municipal pier extends into the lake, and a park stretches along the lake shore. Large moss-draped live oaks lend beauty to the town. … Neighboring waters abound with fish, especially cat, which grow to enormous size. —Louisiana, A Guide To the State (WPA, 1941) I started going when my band mate, Byron Sonnier, asked me if I’d be interested in attending his home town’s Mardi Gras celebration. I never turn down a good party so naturally I obliged. I have been attending for five years now. His family are like family to me at this point. I love them all and love the town and plan on attending as long as I can. These photos are a select few from the five years of documentation.   * * * Wes Frazer is a photographer who, when not photographing things, may be found swimming in rivers, attempting to surf, riding his motorcycle, or playing with his dog Bob. Wes grew up in Birmingham, Alabama, where he still lives. You can also find him online at wesfrazer.org, wesfrazer.tumblr.com, Instagram, and Twitter. 
Zoom
MARDI GRAS - LAKE ARTHUR, LOUISIANA LAKE ARTHUR, 58.6 m. (8 alt., 1,602 pop.), is on the northern edge of the lake of the same name, in reality a widening of Mermentau River. Lake Arthur, settled largely by people of French descent from the older sections of Louisiana, was of some importance as early as 1890, when its first newspaper, the Lake Arthur Herald, was published. A long municipal pier extends into the lake, and a park stretches along the lake shore. Large moss-draped live oaks lend beauty to the town. … Neighboring waters abound with fish, especially cat, which grow to enormous size. —Louisiana, A Guide To the State (WPA, 1941) I started going when my band mate, Byron Sonnier, asked me if I’d be interested in attending his home town’s Mardi Gras celebration. I never turn down a good party so naturally I obliged. I have been attending for five years now. His family are like family to me at this point. I love them all and love the town and plan on attending as long as I can. These photos are a select few from the five years of documentation.   * * * Wes Frazer is a photographer who, when not photographing things, may be found swimming in rivers, attempting to surf, riding his motorcycle, or playing with his dog Bob. Wes grew up in Birmingham, Alabama, where he still lives. You can also find him online at wesfrazer.org, wesfrazer.tumblr.com, Instagram, and Twitter. 
Zoom
MARDI GRAS - LAKE ARTHUR, LOUISIANA LAKE ARTHUR, 58.6 m. (8 alt., 1,602 pop.), is on the northern edge of the lake of the same name, in reality a widening of Mermentau River. Lake Arthur, settled largely by people of French descent from the older sections of Louisiana, was of some importance as early as 1890, when its first newspaper, the Lake Arthur Herald, was published. A long municipal pier extends into the lake, and a park stretches along the lake shore. Large moss-draped live oaks lend beauty to the town. … Neighboring waters abound with fish, especially cat, which grow to enormous size. —Louisiana, A Guide To the State (WPA, 1941) I started going when my band mate, Byron Sonnier, asked me if I’d be interested in attending his home town’s Mardi Gras celebration. I never turn down a good party so naturally I obliged. I have been attending for five years now. His family are like family to me at this point. I love them all and love the town and plan on attending as long as I can. These photos are a select few from the five years of documentation.   * * * Wes Frazer is a photographer who, when not photographing things, may be found swimming in rivers, attempting to surf, riding his motorcycle, or playing with his dog Bob. Wes grew up in Birmingham, Alabama, where he still lives. You can also find him online at wesfrazer.org, wesfrazer.tumblr.com, Instagram, and Twitter. 
Zoom
MARDI GRAS - LAKE ARTHUR, LOUISIANA LAKE ARTHUR, 58.6 m. (8 alt., 1,602 pop.), is on the northern edge of the lake of the same name, in reality a widening of Mermentau River. Lake Arthur, settled largely by people of French descent from the older sections of Louisiana, was of some importance as early as 1890, when its first newspaper, the Lake Arthur Herald, was published. A long municipal pier extends into the lake, and a park stretches along the lake shore. Large moss-draped live oaks lend beauty to the town. … Neighboring waters abound with fish, especially cat, which grow to enormous size. —Louisiana, A Guide To the State (WPA, 1941) I started going when my band mate, Byron Sonnier, asked me if I’d be interested in attending his home town’s Mardi Gras celebration. I never turn down a good party so naturally I obliged. I have been attending for five years now. His family are like family to me at this point. I love them all and love the town and plan on attending as long as I can. These photos are a select few from the five years of documentation.   * * * Wes Frazer is a photographer who, when not photographing things, may be found swimming in rivers, attempting to surf, riding his motorcycle, or playing with his dog Bob. Wes grew up in Birmingham, Alabama, where he still lives. You can also find him online at wesfrazer.org, wesfrazer.tumblr.com, Instagram, and Twitter. 
Zoom
MARDI GRAS - LAKE ARTHUR, LOUISIANA LAKE ARTHUR, 58.6 m. (8 alt., 1,602 pop.), is on the northern edge of the lake of the same name, in reality a widening of Mermentau River. Lake Arthur, settled largely by people of French descent from the older sections of Louisiana, was of some importance as early as 1890, when its first newspaper, the Lake Arthur Herald, was published. A long municipal pier extends into the lake, and a park stretches along the lake shore. Large moss-draped live oaks lend beauty to the town. … Neighboring waters abound with fish, especially cat, which grow to enormous size. —Louisiana, A Guide To the State (WPA, 1941) I started going when my band mate, Byron Sonnier, asked me if I’d be interested in attending his home town’s Mardi Gras celebration. I never turn down a good party so naturally I obliged. I have been attending for five years now. His family are like family to me at this point. I love them all and love the town and plan on attending as long as I can. These photos are a select few from the five years of documentation.   * * * Wes Frazer is a photographer who, when not photographing things, may be found swimming in rivers, attempting to surf, riding his motorcycle, or playing with his dog Bob. Wes grew up in Birmingham, Alabama, where he still lives. You can also find him online at wesfrazer.org, wesfrazer.tumblr.com, Instagram, and Twitter. 
Zoom
MARDI GRAS - LAKE ARTHUR, LOUISIANA LAKE ARTHUR, 58.6 m. (8 alt., 1,602 pop.), is on the northern edge of the lake of the same name, in reality a widening of Mermentau River. Lake Arthur, settled largely by people of French descent from the older sections of Louisiana, was of some importance as early as 1890, when its first newspaper, the Lake Arthur Herald, was published. A long municipal pier extends into the lake, and a park stretches along the lake shore. Large moss-draped live oaks lend beauty to the town. … Neighboring waters abound with fish, especially cat, which grow to enormous size. —Louisiana, A Guide To the State (WPA, 1941) I started going when my band mate, Byron Sonnier, asked me if I’d be interested in attending his home town’s Mardi Gras celebration. I never turn down a good party so naturally I obliged. I have been attending for five years now. His family are like family to me at this point. I love them all and love the town and plan on attending as long as I can. These photos are a select few from the five years of documentation.   * * * Wes Frazer is a photographer who, when not photographing things, may be found swimming in rivers, attempting to surf, riding his motorcycle, or playing with his dog Bob. Wes grew up in Birmingham, Alabama, where he still lives. You can also find him online at wesfrazer.org, wesfrazer.tumblr.com, Instagram, and Twitter. 
Zoom
MARDI GRAS - LAKE ARTHUR, LOUISIANA LAKE ARTHUR, 58.6 m. (8 alt., 1,602 pop.), is on the northern edge of the lake of the same name, in reality a widening of Mermentau River. Lake Arthur, settled largely by people of French descent from the older sections of Louisiana, was of some importance as early as 1890, when its first newspaper, the Lake Arthur Herald, was published. A long municipal pier extends into the lake, and a park stretches along the lake shore. Large moss-draped live oaks lend beauty to the town. … Neighboring waters abound with fish, especially cat, which grow to enormous size. —Louisiana, A Guide To the State (WPA, 1941) I started going when my band mate, Byron Sonnier, asked me if I’d be interested in attending his home town’s Mardi Gras celebration. I never turn down a good party so naturally I obliged. I have been attending for five years now. His family are like family to me at this point. I love them all and love the town and plan on attending as long as I can. These photos are a select few from the five years of documentation.   * * * Wes Frazer is a photographer who, when not photographing things, may be found swimming in rivers, attempting to surf, riding his motorcycle, or playing with his dog Bob. Wes grew up in Birmingham, Alabama, where he still lives. You can also find him online at wesfrazer.org, wesfrazer.tumblr.com, Instagram, and Twitter. 
Zoom
MARDI GRAS - LAKE ARTHUR, LOUISIANA LAKE ARTHUR, 58.6 m. (8 alt., 1,602 pop.), is on the northern edge of the lake of the same name, in reality a widening of Mermentau River. Lake Arthur, settled largely by people of French descent from the older sections of Louisiana, was of some importance as early as 1890, when its first newspaper, the Lake Arthur Herald, was published. A long municipal pier extends into the lake, and a park stretches along the lake shore. Large moss-draped live oaks lend beauty to the town. … Neighboring waters abound with fish, especially cat, which grow to enormous size. —Louisiana, A Guide To the State (WPA, 1941) I started going when my band mate, Byron Sonnier, asked me if I’d be interested in attending his home town’s Mardi Gras celebration. I never turn down a good party so naturally I obliged. I have been attending for five years now. His family are like family to me at this point. I love them all and love the town and plan on attending as long as I can. These photos are a select few from the five years of documentation.   * * * Wes Frazer is a photographer who, when not photographing things, may be found swimming in rivers, attempting to surf, riding his motorcycle, or playing with his dog Bob. Wes grew up in Birmingham, Alabama, where he still lives. You can also find him online at wesfrazer.org, wesfrazer.tumblr.com, Instagram, and Twitter. 
Zoom
MARDI GRAS - LAKE ARTHUR, LOUISIANA LAKE ARTHUR, 58.6 m. (8 alt., 1,602 pop.), is on the northern edge of the lake of the same name, in reality a widening of Mermentau River. Lake Arthur, settled largely by people of French descent from the older sections of Louisiana, was of some importance as early as 1890, when its first newspaper, the Lake Arthur Herald, was published. A long municipal pier extends into the lake, and a park stretches along the lake shore. Large moss-draped live oaks lend beauty to the town. … Neighboring waters abound with fish, especially cat, which grow to enormous size. —Louisiana, A Guide To the State (WPA, 1941) I started going when my band mate, Byron Sonnier, asked me if I’d be interested in attending his home town’s Mardi Gras celebration. I never turn down a good party so naturally I obliged. I have been attending for five years now. His family are like family to me at this point. I love them all and love the town and plan on attending as long as I can. These photos are a select few from the five years of documentation.   * * * Wes Frazer is a photographer who, when not photographing things, may be found swimming in rivers, attempting to surf, riding his motorcycle, or playing with his dog Bob. Wes grew up in Birmingham, Alabama, where he still lives. You can also find him online at wesfrazer.org, wesfrazer.tumblr.com, Instagram, and Twitter. 
Zoom Info

MARDI GRAS - LAKE ARTHUR, LOUISIANA

LAKE ARTHUR, 58.6 m. (8 alt., 1,602 pop.), is on the northern edge of the lake of the same name, in reality a widening of Mermentau River. Lake Arthur, settled largely by people of French descent from the older sections of Louisiana, was of some importance as early as 1890, when its first newspaper, the Lake Arthur Herald, was published. A long municipal pier extends into the lake, and a park stretches along the lake shore. Large moss-draped live oaks lend beauty to the town. … Neighboring waters abound with fish, especially cat, which grow to enormous size.

—Louisiana, A Guide To the State (WPA, 1941)

I started going when my band mate, Byron Sonnier, asked me if I’d be interested in attending his home town’s Mardi Gras celebration. I never turn down a good party so naturally I obliged. I have been attending for five years now. His family are like family to me at this point. I love them all and love the town and plan on attending as long as I can. These photos are a select few from the five years of documentation.  

* * *

Wes Frazer is a photographer who, when not photographing things, may be found swimming in rivers, attempting to surf, riding his motorcycle, or playing with his dog Bob. Wes grew up in Birmingham, Alabama, where he still lives. You can also find him online at wesfrazer.org, wesfrazer.tumblr.com, Instagram, and Twitter. 

SUGARLAND A guide to Harlem, Florida, using Florida: A Guide to the Southernmost State (WPA, 1939) as your map.  You see the sign — Harlem — and turn off the Sugarland Highway just past Clewiston. Unless you lived in it, you wouldn’t know Harlem, Florida. You drive up and are introduced by a white church outlined in yellow abutting a graveyard. So many of the structures are white: from the blindingly-so church to the faded, off-white houses up and down the streets. In the cemetery, white cattle egrets strut among the headstones, skittering off when you get too close.  Your WPA Florida guidebook says Harlem was a settlement established by the transient blacks that worked in the U.S. Sugar Corporation fields. And, in the square-mile wide Harlem skyline, the U.S. Sugar plant is still there. It is the Harlem skyline. You get the feeling it always will be. Today, the town remains almost all black, half live below the poverty line, and half still work in agriculture. Florida-born Zora Neale Hurston, in her 1937 book, Their Eyes Were Watching God, is quoted by your guide; describing the scene of itinerant pickers in and around Lake Okeechobee, not far from Harlem: Day by day now, the hordes of workers poured in. Some came limping in with their shoes and sore feet from walking. It’s hard trying to follow your shoe instead of your shoe following you. They came in wagons from way up in Georgia and they came in truck loads from east, west, north and south. Permanent transients with no attachments and tired looking men with their families and dogs in flivvers. All night, all day, hurrying in to pick beans. Skillets, beds, patched up spare inner tubes all hanging and dangling from the ancient cars on the outside and hopeful humanity, herded and hovered on the inside, chugging on to the muck. People ugly from ignorance and broken from being poor. In Harlem, take out the black glossy SUVs and beat-up pick-ups, imagine half the number of headstones in the church graveyard: sometimes years gone by can still leave things in stasis, just more of the same and the same. * * * Tom McNamara is the co-editor of The American Guide.
Zoom
SUGARLAND A guide to Harlem, Florida, using Florida: A Guide to the Southernmost State (WPA, 1939) as your map.  You see the sign — Harlem — and turn off the Sugarland Highway just past Clewiston. Unless you lived in it, you wouldn’t know Harlem, Florida. You drive up and are introduced by a white church outlined in yellow abutting a graveyard. So many of the structures are white: from the blindingly-so church to the faded, off-white houses up and down the streets. In the cemetery, white cattle egrets strut among the headstones, skittering off when you get too close.  Your WPA Florida guidebook says Harlem was a settlement established by the transient blacks that worked in the U.S. Sugar Corporation fields. And, in the square-mile wide Harlem skyline, the U.S. Sugar plant is still there. It is the Harlem skyline. You get the feeling it always will be. Today, the town remains almost all black, half live below the poverty line, and half still work in agriculture. Florida-born Zora Neale Hurston, in her 1937 book, Their Eyes Were Watching God, is quoted by your guide; describing the scene of itinerant pickers in and around Lake Okeechobee, not far from Harlem: Day by day now, the hordes of workers poured in. Some came limping in with their shoes and sore feet from walking. It’s hard trying to follow your shoe instead of your shoe following you. They came in wagons from way up in Georgia and they came in truck loads from east, west, north and south. Permanent transients with no attachments and tired looking men with their families and dogs in flivvers. All night, all day, hurrying in to pick beans. Skillets, beds, patched up spare inner tubes all hanging and dangling from the ancient cars on the outside and hopeful humanity, herded and hovered on the inside, chugging on to the muck. People ugly from ignorance and broken from being poor. In Harlem, take out the black glossy SUVs and beat-up pick-ups, imagine half the number of headstones in the church graveyard: sometimes years gone by can still leave things in stasis, just more of the same and the same. * * * Tom McNamara is the co-editor of The American Guide.
Zoom
SUGARLAND A guide to Harlem, Florida, using Florida: A Guide to the Southernmost State (WPA, 1939) as your map.  You see the sign — Harlem — and turn off the Sugarland Highway just past Clewiston. Unless you lived in it, you wouldn’t know Harlem, Florida. You drive up and are introduced by a white church outlined in yellow abutting a graveyard. So many of the structures are white: from the blindingly-so church to the faded, off-white houses up and down the streets. In the cemetery, white cattle egrets strut among the headstones, skittering off when you get too close.  Your WPA Florida guidebook says Harlem was a settlement established by the transient blacks that worked in the U.S. Sugar Corporation fields. And, in the square-mile wide Harlem skyline, the U.S. Sugar plant is still there. It is the Harlem skyline. You get the feeling it always will be. Today, the town remains almost all black, half live below the poverty line, and half still work in agriculture. Florida-born Zora Neale Hurston, in her 1937 book, Their Eyes Were Watching God, is quoted by your guide; describing the scene of itinerant pickers in and around Lake Okeechobee, not far from Harlem: Day by day now, the hordes of workers poured in. Some came limping in with their shoes and sore feet from walking. It’s hard trying to follow your shoe instead of your shoe following you. They came in wagons from way up in Georgia and they came in truck loads from east, west, north and south. Permanent transients with no attachments and tired looking men with their families and dogs in flivvers. All night, all day, hurrying in to pick beans. Skillets, beds, patched up spare inner tubes all hanging and dangling from the ancient cars on the outside and hopeful humanity, herded and hovered on the inside, chugging on to the muck. People ugly from ignorance and broken from being poor. In Harlem, take out the black glossy SUVs and beat-up pick-ups, imagine half the number of headstones in the church graveyard: sometimes years gone by can still leave things in stasis, just more of the same and the same. * * * Tom McNamara is the co-editor of The American Guide.
Zoom
SUGARLAND A guide to Harlem, Florida, using Florida: A Guide to the Southernmost State (WPA, 1939) as your map.  You see the sign — Harlem — and turn off the Sugarland Highway just past Clewiston. Unless you lived in it, you wouldn’t know Harlem, Florida. You drive up and are introduced by a white church outlined in yellow abutting a graveyard. So many of the structures are white: from the blindingly-so church to the faded, off-white houses up and down the streets. In the cemetery, white cattle egrets strut among the headstones, skittering off when you get too close.  Your WPA Florida guidebook says Harlem was a settlement established by the transient blacks that worked in the U.S. Sugar Corporation fields. And, in the square-mile wide Harlem skyline, the U.S. Sugar plant is still there. It is the Harlem skyline. You get the feeling it always will be. Today, the town remains almost all black, half live below the poverty line, and half still work in agriculture. Florida-born Zora Neale Hurston, in her 1937 book, Their Eyes Were Watching God, is quoted by your guide; describing the scene of itinerant pickers in and around Lake Okeechobee, not far from Harlem: Day by day now, the hordes of workers poured in. Some came limping in with their shoes and sore feet from walking. It’s hard trying to follow your shoe instead of your shoe following you. They came in wagons from way up in Georgia and they came in truck loads from east, west, north and south. Permanent transients with no attachments and tired looking men with their families and dogs in flivvers. All night, all day, hurrying in to pick beans. Skillets, beds, patched up spare inner tubes all hanging and dangling from the ancient cars on the outside and hopeful humanity, herded and hovered on the inside, chugging on to the muck. People ugly from ignorance and broken from being poor. In Harlem, take out the black glossy SUVs and beat-up pick-ups, imagine half the number of headstones in the church graveyard: sometimes years gone by can still leave things in stasis, just more of the same and the same. * * * Tom McNamara is the co-editor of The American Guide.
Zoom
SUGARLAND A guide to Harlem, Florida, using Florida: A Guide to the Southernmost State (WPA, 1939) as your map.  You see the sign — Harlem — and turn off the Sugarland Highway just past Clewiston. Unless you lived in it, you wouldn’t know Harlem, Florida. You drive up and are introduced by a white church outlined in yellow abutting a graveyard. So many of the structures are white: from the blindingly-so church to the faded, off-white houses up and down the streets. In the cemetery, white cattle egrets strut among the headstones, skittering off when you get too close.  Your WPA Florida guidebook says Harlem was a settlement established by the transient blacks that worked in the U.S. Sugar Corporation fields. And, in the square-mile wide Harlem skyline, the U.S. Sugar plant is still there. It is the Harlem skyline. You get the feeling it always will be. Today, the town remains almost all black, half live below the poverty line, and half still work in agriculture. Florida-born Zora Neale Hurston, in her 1937 book, Their Eyes Were Watching God, is quoted by your guide; describing the scene of itinerant pickers in and around Lake Okeechobee, not far from Harlem: Day by day now, the hordes of workers poured in. Some came limping in with their shoes and sore feet from walking. It’s hard trying to follow your shoe instead of your shoe following you. They came in wagons from way up in Georgia and they came in truck loads from east, west, north and south. Permanent transients with no attachments and tired looking men with their families and dogs in flivvers. All night, all day, hurrying in to pick beans. Skillets, beds, patched up spare inner tubes all hanging and dangling from the ancient cars on the outside and hopeful humanity, herded and hovered on the inside, chugging on to the muck. People ugly from ignorance and broken from being poor. In Harlem, take out the black glossy SUVs and beat-up pick-ups, imagine half the number of headstones in the church graveyard: sometimes years gone by can still leave things in stasis, just more of the same and the same. * * * Tom McNamara is the co-editor of The American Guide.
Zoom

SUGARLAND

A guide to Harlem, Florida, using Florida: A Guide to the Southernmost State (WPA, 1939) as your map. 

You see the sign — Harlem — and turn off the Sugarland Highway just past Clewiston. Unless you lived in it, you wouldn’t know Harlem, Florida. You drive up and are introduced by a white church outlined in yellow abutting a graveyard. So many of the structures are white: from the blindingly-so church to the faded, off-white houses up and down the streets. In the cemetery, white cattle egrets strut among the headstones, skittering off when you get too close. 

Your WPA Florida guidebook says Harlem was a settlement established by the transient blacks that worked in the U.S. Sugar Corporation fields. And, in the square-mile wide Harlem skyline, the U.S. Sugar plant is still there. It is the Harlem skyline. You get the feeling it always will be.

Today, the town remains almost all black, half live below the poverty line, and half still work in agriculture.

Florida-born Zora Neale Hurston, in her 1937 book, Their Eyes Were Watching God, is quoted by your guide; describing the scene of itinerant pickers in and around Lake Okeechobee, not far from Harlem:

Day by day now, the hordes of workers poured in. Some came limping in with their shoes and sore feet from walking. It’s hard trying to follow your shoe instead of your shoe following you. They came in wagons from way up in Georgia and they came in truck loads from east, west, north and south. Permanent transients with no attachments and tired looking men with their families and dogs in flivvers. All night, all day, hurrying in to pick beans. Skillets, beds, patched up spare inner tubes all hanging and dangling from the ancient cars on the outside and hopeful humanity, herded and hovered on the inside, chugging on to the muck. People ugly from ignorance and broken from being poor.

In Harlem, take out the black glossy SUVs and beat-up pick-ups, imagine half the number of headstones in the church graveyard: sometimes years gone by can still leave things in stasis, just more of the same and the same.

* * *

Tom McNamara is the co-editor of The American Guide.

BRISTOL MOTOR SPEEDWAY The August night race at Bristol Motor Speedway is consistently listed as one of the top ten live sporting events in the world alongside Wimbledon, the Olympics, and Le Mans. I have been photographing the races in Bristol, Tennessee, my current home, for the last five years. Why does this race warrant such high regard? It isn’t the 160,000-seat coliseum, which is impressive, or the fact that it’s a NASCAR race, as there are plenty. A race in Bristol is a unique culture unlike any other. About a week before the race, the sleepy town of Bristol starts to transform. Port-a-potties start dotting the rolling hills and campers start coasting in; vendor village, corporate sponsors, and hospitality all make a nest around the giant track. Most people coming in early are groups that have been camping in the same area for upwards of thirty years. Small villages have formed and are recognized by the speedway at a special ceremony. The loudest is Jelloville, which grows every year with people from all over the country. The Mayor of Jelloville, who wears a white bathrobe and cowboy hat and little else, greets everyone warmly and coordinates the handing out of Jell-O shots the night before the big race. The most elaborate grounds are kept by the Pennsyl-tuckians, who bring a swimming pool, cots, a makeshift bar, and games. Their defacto leader, simply called Jesus, is a quiet man who only gets loud while speeding down the side of a hill on a small trike one night of the year. The Saturday night race excitement starts building Thursday with the Food City Family Race Night in downtown Bristol. Fans line up for driver autographs, free samples of all sorts of food, and to catch glimpses of the Dale Earnhardt look-a-like. Dogs dive in swimming pools and kids tour the famous Weinermobile. Later that night, after being meticulously washed by their drivers in the mall parking lot, the haulers containing the well-tuned cars make their way to the track for the Transporter Parade. People line up all along the eight-mile trek to cheer the big rigs on. Gas stations and grocery stores take advantage of the traffic and have little events like mechanical bull riding. People are psyched down by the track and watching the lights streak by is magical. As the last truck turns into the track to do the intricate dance of parking in the small pit, fireworks go off in the background. Everyone is already a big family, easily talking to everyone else. (Once, a young man claiming to be Burt Reynolds’ son chatted me up.) Friday and into Saturday morning, the die-hard fans watch the qualifying races and a few odds and ends races. Meanwhile, people spend their time in the campground cooking, drinking, partying, listening to the races, and walking the grounds. There is a great camaraderie as fathers play cornhole with their sons and friends spend time together. Vendors set up activities and giveaways and often your favorite driver zips right by you in a golf cart and waves. Then it’s the countdown to the race. The more outgoing of the masses don their special garb. I’ve seen a man with a 30 days till marriage bucket list written across his naked chest (I briefly considered flashing him so he could check it off), a man dressed as a leprechaun, couples with matching homemade t-shirts with jokes that race fans would get, and even a waterskiing squirrel. Most simply wear the shirt with their favorite driver and meander to their seats. About an hour before the race, pre-race ceremonies begin. Music is sung by the likes of Billy Ray Cyrus, big checks are given, flags are unrolled, and the sky jumpers fly in with precision. Driver introductions are a new and welcome addition. In NASCAR, like pro wrestling, there are good guys and bad guys. As each driver comes out in reverse starting order, the collective crowd either erupts into cheers or growls of disapproval. Drivers with a family history or connection to the South, tend to get the applause, while mouthy younger drivers tend to get the boos. I always get choked up at this unique noise as it spirals up to the sky. “Cry baby” Kyle currently gets the most nays, while Jr. always gets the most ayes. Former villains, like Jeff Gordon, have stuck around long enough that they now get at least half claps. There’s a growing hum emanating from the center of the world’s fastest half mile. Engines start to rev until the roar becomes overwhelming. The famous words “Drivers, Start Your Engines” echo out into the mountains. In the front rows, people like Beetle (famously wearing his beer bong hat and consuming more alcohol than I thought possible) and American flag man (dressed head to toe in flag clothes) roll up their giant flag brought out for the pledge of allegiance in order to protect it from rubber now flying off the track. Quickly, the third lap of 500 begins which means the crowd holds up three fingers and looks down reflecting on their favorite fallen driver. Then the laps start to add up. Battles are fought until a single driver wins the war. After hours of racing, champagne is sprayed and the winning driver inexplicably shoves a piece of gum in his mouth or drinks a warm soda awkwardly filling sponsor obligations. Small family units are formed during the race and everyone is safely deposited back at their campsite unharmed to sleep it off. After days of shooting and miles and miles of walking (somehow uphill both ways) I am exhausted. The next morning, I consume the last of my race morning cocktails: an iced mocha from Starbucks and two ibuprofen and I am already counting down to the next race. * * * 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. 
Zoom
BRISTOL MOTOR SPEEDWAY The August night race at Bristol Motor Speedway is consistently listed as one of the top ten live sporting events in the world alongside Wimbledon, the Olympics, and Le Mans. I have been photographing the races in Bristol, Tennessee, my current home, for the last five years. Why does this race warrant such high regard? It isn’t the 160,000-seat coliseum, which is impressive, or the fact that it’s a NASCAR race, as there are plenty. A race in Bristol is a unique culture unlike any other. About a week before the race, the sleepy town of Bristol starts to transform. Port-a-potties start dotting the rolling hills and campers start coasting in; vendor village, corporate sponsors, and hospitality all make a nest around the giant track. Most people coming in early are groups that have been camping in the same area for upwards of thirty years. Small villages have formed and are recognized by the speedway at a special ceremony. The loudest is Jelloville, which grows every year with people from all over the country. The Mayor of Jelloville, who wears a white bathrobe and cowboy hat and little else, greets everyone warmly and coordinates the handing out of Jell-O shots the night before the big race. The most elaborate grounds are kept by the Pennsyl-tuckians, who bring a swimming pool, cots, a makeshift bar, and games. Their defacto leader, simply called Jesus, is a quiet man who only gets loud while speeding down the side of a hill on a small trike one night of the year. The Saturday night race excitement starts building Thursday with the Food City Family Race Night in downtown Bristol. Fans line up for driver autographs, free samples of all sorts of food, and to catch glimpses of the Dale Earnhardt look-a-like. Dogs dive in swimming pools and kids tour the famous Weinermobile. Later that night, after being meticulously washed by their drivers in the mall parking lot, the haulers containing the well-tuned cars make their way to the track for the Transporter Parade. People line up all along the eight-mile trek to cheer the big rigs on. Gas stations and grocery stores take advantage of the traffic and have little events like mechanical bull riding. People are psyched down by the track and watching the lights streak by is magical. As the last truck turns into the track to do the intricate dance of parking in the small pit, fireworks go off in the background. Everyone is already a big family, easily talking to everyone else. (Once, a young man claiming to be Burt Reynolds’ son chatted me up.) Friday and into Saturday morning, the die-hard fans watch the qualifying races and a few odds and ends races. Meanwhile, people spend their time in the campground cooking, drinking, partying, listening to the races, and walking the grounds. There is a great camaraderie as fathers play cornhole with their sons and friends spend time together. Vendors set up activities and giveaways and often your favorite driver zips right by you in a golf cart and waves. Then it’s the countdown to the race. The more outgoing of the masses don their special garb. I’ve seen a man with a 30 days till marriage bucket list written across his naked chest (I briefly considered flashing him so he could check it off), a man dressed as a leprechaun, couples with matching homemade t-shirts with jokes that race fans would get, and even a waterskiing squirrel. Most simply wear the shirt with their favorite driver and meander to their seats. About an hour before the race, pre-race ceremonies begin. Music is sung by the likes of Billy Ray Cyrus, big checks are given, flags are unrolled, and the sky jumpers fly in with precision. Driver introductions are a new and welcome addition. In NASCAR, like pro wrestling, there are good guys and bad guys. As each driver comes out in reverse starting order, the collective crowd either erupts into cheers or growls of disapproval. Drivers with a family history or connection to the South, tend to get the applause, while mouthy younger drivers tend to get the boos. I always get choked up at this unique noise as it spirals up to the sky. “Cry baby” Kyle currently gets the most nays, while Jr. always gets the most ayes. Former villains, like Jeff Gordon, have stuck around long enough that they now get at least half claps. There’s a growing hum emanating from the center of the world’s fastest half mile. Engines start to rev until the roar becomes overwhelming. The famous words “Drivers, Start Your Engines” echo out into the mountains. In the front rows, people like Beetle (famously wearing his beer bong hat and consuming more alcohol than I thought possible) and American flag man (dressed head to toe in flag clothes) roll up their giant flag brought out for the pledge of allegiance in order to protect it from rubber now flying off the track. Quickly, the third lap of 500 begins which means the crowd holds up three fingers and looks down reflecting on their favorite fallen driver. Then the laps start to add up. Battles are fought until a single driver wins the war. After hours of racing, champagne is sprayed and the winning driver inexplicably shoves a piece of gum in his mouth or drinks a warm soda awkwardly filling sponsor obligations. Small family units are formed during the race and everyone is safely deposited back at their campsite unharmed to sleep it off. After days of shooting and miles and miles of walking (somehow uphill both ways) I am exhausted. The next morning, I consume the last of my race morning cocktails: an iced mocha from Starbucks and two ibuprofen and I am already counting down to the next race. * * * 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. 
Zoom Info
BRISTOL MOTOR SPEEDWAY The August night race at Bristol Motor Speedway is consistently listed as one of the top ten live sporting events in the world alongside Wimbledon, the Olympics, and Le Mans. I have been photographing the races in Bristol, Tennessee, my current home, for the last five years. Why does this race warrant such high regard? It isn’t the 160,000-seat coliseum, which is impressive, or the fact that it’s a NASCAR race, as there are plenty. A race in Bristol is a unique culture unlike any other. About a week before the race, the sleepy town of Bristol starts to transform. Port-a-potties start dotting the rolling hills and campers start coasting in; vendor village, corporate sponsors, and hospitality all make a nest around the giant track. Most people coming in early are groups that have been camping in the same area for upwards of thirty years. Small villages have formed and are recognized by the speedway at a special ceremony. The loudest is Jelloville, which grows every year with people from all over the country. The Mayor of Jelloville, who wears a white bathrobe and cowboy hat and little else, greets everyone warmly and coordinates the handing out of Jell-O shots the night before the big race. The most elaborate grounds are kept by the Pennsyl-tuckians, who bring a swimming pool, cots, a makeshift bar, and games. Their defacto leader, simply called Jesus, is a quiet man who only gets loud while speeding down the side of a hill on a small trike one night of the year. The Saturday night race excitement starts building Thursday with the Food City Family Race Night in downtown Bristol. Fans line up for driver autographs, free samples of all sorts of food, and to catch glimpses of the Dale Earnhardt look-a-like. Dogs dive in swimming pools and kids tour the famous Weinermobile. Later that night, after being meticulously washed by their drivers in the mall parking lot, the haulers containing the well-tuned cars make their way to the track for the Transporter Parade. People line up all along the eight-mile trek to cheer the big rigs on. Gas stations and grocery stores take advantage of the traffic and have little events like mechanical bull riding. People are psyched down by the track and watching the lights streak by is magical. As the last truck turns into the track to do the intricate dance of parking in the small pit, fireworks go off in the background. Everyone is already a big family, easily talking to everyone else. (Once, a young man claiming to be Burt Reynolds’ son chatted me up.) Friday and into Saturday morning, the die-hard fans watch the qualifying races and a few odds and ends races. Meanwhile, people spend their time in the campground cooking, drinking, partying, listening to the races, and walking the grounds. There is a great camaraderie as fathers play cornhole with their sons and friends spend time together. Vendors set up activities and giveaways and often your favorite driver zips right by you in a golf cart and waves. Then it’s the countdown to the race. The more outgoing of the masses don their special garb. I’ve seen a man with a 30 days till marriage bucket list written across his naked chest (I briefly considered flashing him so he could check it off), a man dressed as a leprechaun, couples with matching homemade t-shirts with jokes that race fans would get, and even a waterskiing squirrel. Most simply wear the shirt with their favorite driver and meander to their seats. About an hour before the race, pre-race ceremonies begin. Music is sung by the likes of Billy Ray Cyrus, big checks are given, flags are unrolled, and the sky jumpers fly in with precision. Driver introductions are a new and welcome addition. In NASCAR, like pro wrestling, there are good guys and bad guys. As each driver comes out in reverse starting order, the collective crowd either erupts into cheers or growls of disapproval. Drivers with a family history or connection to the South, tend to get the applause, while mouthy younger drivers tend to get the boos. I always get choked up at this unique noise as it spirals up to the sky. “Cry baby” Kyle currently gets the most nays, while Jr. always gets the most ayes. Former villains, like Jeff Gordon, have stuck around long enough that they now get at least half claps. There’s a growing hum emanating from the center of the world’s fastest half mile. Engines start to rev until the roar becomes overwhelming. The famous words “Drivers, Start Your Engines” echo out into the mountains. In the front rows, people like Beetle (famously wearing his beer bong hat and consuming more alcohol than I thought possible) and American flag man (dressed head to toe in flag clothes) roll up their giant flag brought out for the pledge of allegiance in order to protect it from rubber now flying off the track. Quickly, the third lap of 500 begins which means the crowd holds up three fingers and looks down reflecting on their favorite fallen driver. Then the laps start to add up. Battles are fought until a single driver wins the war. After hours of racing, champagne is sprayed and the winning driver inexplicably shoves a piece of gum in his mouth or drinks a warm soda awkwardly filling sponsor obligations. Small family units are formed during the race and everyone is safely deposited back at their campsite unharmed to sleep it off. After days of shooting and miles and miles of walking (somehow uphill both ways) I am exhausted. The next morning, I consume the last of my race morning cocktails: an iced mocha from Starbucks and two ibuprofen and I am already counting down to the next race. * * * 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. 
Zoom Info
BRISTOL MOTOR SPEEDWAY The August night race at Bristol Motor Speedway is consistently listed as one of the top ten live sporting events in the world alongside Wimbledon, the Olympics, and Le Mans. I have been photographing the races in Bristol, Tennessee, my current home, for the last five years. Why does this race warrant such high regard? It isn’t the 160,000-seat coliseum, which is impressive, or the fact that it’s a NASCAR race, as there are plenty. A race in Bristol is a unique culture unlike any other. About a week before the race, the sleepy town of Bristol starts to transform. Port-a-potties start dotting the rolling hills and campers start coasting in; vendor village, corporate sponsors, and hospitality all make a nest around the giant track. Most people coming in early are groups that have been camping in the same area for upwards of thirty years. Small villages have formed and are recognized by the speedway at a special ceremony. The loudest is Jelloville, which grows every year with people from all over the country. The Mayor of Jelloville, who wears a white bathrobe and cowboy hat and little else, greets everyone warmly and coordinates the handing out of Jell-O shots the night before the big race. The most elaborate grounds are kept by the Pennsyl-tuckians, who bring a swimming pool, cots, a makeshift bar, and games. Their defacto leader, simply called Jesus, is a quiet man who only gets loud while speeding down the side of a hill on a small trike one night of the year. The Saturday night race excitement starts building Thursday with the Food City Family Race Night in downtown Bristol. Fans line up for driver autographs, free samples of all sorts of food, and to catch glimpses of the Dale Earnhardt look-a-like. Dogs dive in swimming pools and kids tour the famous Weinermobile. Later that night, after being meticulously washed by their drivers in the mall parking lot, the haulers containing the well-tuned cars make their way to the track for the Transporter Parade. People line up all along the eight-mile trek to cheer the big rigs on. Gas stations and grocery stores take advantage of the traffic and have little events like mechanical bull riding. People are psyched down by the track and watching the lights streak by is magical. As the last truck turns into the track to do the intricate dance of parking in the small pit, fireworks go off in the background. Everyone is already a big family, easily talking to everyone else. (Once, a young man claiming to be Burt Reynolds’ son chatted me up.) Friday and into Saturday morning, the die-hard fans watch the qualifying races and a few odds and ends races. Meanwhile, people spend their time in the campground cooking, drinking, partying, listening to the races, and walking the grounds. There is a great camaraderie as fathers play cornhole with their sons and friends spend time together. Vendors set up activities and giveaways and often your favorite driver zips right by you in a golf cart and waves. Then it’s the countdown to the race. The more outgoing of the masses don their special garb. I’ve seen a man with a 30 days till marriage bucket list written across his naked chest (I briefly considered flashing him so he could check it off), a man dressed as a leprechaun, couples with matching homemade t-shirts with jokes that race fans would get, and even a waterskiing squirrel. Most simply wear the shirt with their favorite driver and meander to their seats. About an hour before the race, pre-race ceremonies begin. Music is sung by the likes of Billy Ray Cyrus, big checks are given, flags are unrolled, and the sky jumpers fly in with precision. Driver introductions are a new and welcome addition. In NASCAR, like pro wrestling, there are good guys and bad guys. As each driver comes out in reverse starting order, the collective crowd either erupts into cheers or growls of disapproval. Drivers with a family history or connection to the South, tend to get the applause, while mouthy younger drivers tend to get the boos. I always get choked up at this unique noise as it spirals up to the sky. “Cry baby” Kyle currently gets the most nays, while Jr. always gets the most ayes. Former villains, like Jeff Gordon, have stuck around long enough that they now get at least half claps. There’s a growing hum emanating from the center of the world’s fastest half mile. Engines start to rev until the roar becomes overwhelming. The famous words “Drivers, Start Your Engines” echo out into the mountains. In the front rows, people like Beetle (famously wearing his beer bong hat and consuming more alcohol than I thought possible) and American flag man (dressed head to toe in flag clothes) roll up their giant flag brought out for the pledge of allegiance in order to protect it from rubber now flying off the track. Quickly, the third lap of 500 begins which means the crowd holds up three fingers and looks down reflecting on their favorite fallen driver. Then the laps start to add up. Battles are fought until a single driver wins the war. After hours of racing, champagne is sprayed and the winning driver inexplicably shoves a piece of gum in his mouth or drinks a warm soda awkwardly filling sponsor obligations. Small family units are formed during the race and everyone is safely deposited back at their campsite unharmed to sleep it off. After days of shooting and miles and miles of walking (somehow uphill both ways) I am exhausted. The next morning, I consume the last of my race morning cocktails: an iced mocha from Starbucks and two ibuprofen and I am already counting down to the next race. * * * 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. 
Zoom Info
BRISTOL MOTOR SPEEDWAY The August night race at Bristol Motor Speedway is consistently listed as one of the top ten live sporting events in the world alongside Wimbledon, the Olympics, and Le Mans. I have been photographing the races in Bristol, Tennessee, my current home, for the last five years. Why does this race warrant such high regard? It isn’t the 160,000-seat coliseum, which is impressive, or the fact that it’s a NASCAR race, as there are plenty. A race in Bristol is a unique culture unlike any other. About a week before the race, the sleepy town of Bristol starts to transform. Port-a-potties start dotting the rolling hills and campers start coasting in; vendor village, corporate sponsors, and hospitality all make a nest around the giant track. Most people coming in early are groups that have been camping in the same area for upwards of thirty years. Small villages have formed and are recognized by the speedway at a special ceremony. The loudest is Jelloville, which grows every year with people from all over the country. The Mayor of Jelloville, who wears a white bathrobe and cowboy hat and little else, greets everyone warmly and coordinates the handing out of Jell-O shots the night before the big race. The most elaborate grounds are kept by the Pennsyl-tuckians, who bring a swimming pool, cots, a makeshift bar, and games. Their defacto leader, simply called Jesus, is a quiet man who only gets loud while speeding down the side of a hill on a small trike one night of the year. The Saturday night race excitement starts building Thursday with the Food City Family Race Night in downtown Bristol. Fans line up for driver autographs, free samples of all sorts of food, and to catch glimpses of the Dale Earnhardt look-a-like. Dogs dive in swimming pools and kids tour the famous Weinermobile. Later that night, after being meticulously washed by their drivers in the mall parking lot, the haulers containing the well-tuned cars make their way to the track for the Transporter Parade. People line up all along the eight-mile trek to cheer the big rigs on. Gas stations and grocery stores take advantage of the traffic and have little events like mechanical bull riding. People are psyched down by the track and watching the lights streak by is magical. As the last truck turns into the track to do the intricate dance of parking in the small pit, fireworks go off in the background. Everyone is already a big family, easily talking to everyone else. (Once, a young man claiming to be Burt Reynolds’ son chatted me up.) Friday and into Saturday morning, the die-hard fans watch the qualifying races and a few odds and ends races. Meanwhile, people spend their time in the campground cooking, drinking, partying, listening to the races, and walking the grounds. There is a great camaraderie as fathers play cornhole with their sons and friends spend time together. Vendors set up activities and giveaways and often your favorite driver zips right by you in a golf cart and waves. Then it’s the countdown to the race. The more outgoing of the masses don their special garb. I’ve seen a man with a 30 days till marriage bucket list written across his naked chest (I briefly considered flashing him so he could check it off), a man dressed as a leprechaun, couples with matching homemade t-shirts with jokes that race fans would get, and even a waterskiing squirrel. Most simply wear the shirt with their favorite driver and meander to their seats. About an hour before the race, pre-race ceremonies begin. Music is sung by the likes of Billy Ray Cyrus, big checks are given, flags are unrolled, and the sky jumpers fly in with precision. Driver introductions are a new and welcome addition. In NASCAR, like pro wrestling, there are good guys and bad guys. As each driver comes out in reverse starting order, the collective crowd either erupts into cheers or growls of disapproval. Drivers with a family history or connection to the South, tend to get the applause, while mouthy younger drivers tend to get the boos. I always get choked up at this unique noise as it spirals up to the sky. “Cry baby” Kyle currently gets the most nays, while Jr. always gets the most ayes. Former villains, like Jeff Gordon, have stuck around long enough that they now get at least half claps. There’s a growing hum emanating from the center of the world’s fastest half mile. Engines start to rev until the roar becomes overwhelming. The famous words “Drivers, Start Your Engines” echo out into the mountains. In the front rows, people like Beetle (famously wearing his beer bong hat and consuming more alcohol than I thought possible) and American flag man (dressed head to toe in flag clothes) roll up their giant flag brought out for the pledge of allegiance in order to protect it from rubber now flying off the track. Quickly, the third lap of 500 begins which means the crowd holds up three fingers and looks down reflecting on their favorite fallen driver. Then the laps start to add up. Battles are fought until a single driver wins the war. After hours of racing, champagne is sprayed and the winning driver inexplicably shoves a piece of gum in his mouth or drinks a warm soda awkwardly filling sponsor obligations. Small family units are formed during the race and everyone is safely deposited back at their campsite unharmed to sleep it off. After days of shooting and miles and miles of walking (somehow uphill both ways) I am exhausted. The next morning, I consume the last of my race morning cocktails: an iced mocha from Starbucks and two ibuprofen and I am already counting down to the next race. * * * 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. 
Zoom
BRISTOL MOTOR SPEEDWAY The August night race at Bristol Motor Speedway is consistently listed as one of the top ten live sporting events in the world alongside Wimbledon, the Olympics, and Le Mans. I have been photographing the races in Bristol, Tennessee, my current home, for the last five years. Why does this race warrant such high regard? It isn’t the 160,000-seat coliseum, which is impressive, or the fact that it’s a NASCAR race, as there are plenty. A race in Bristol is a unique culture unlike any other. About a week before the race, the sleepy town of Bristol starts to transform. Port-a-potties start dotting the rolling hills and campers start coasting in; vendor village, corporate sponsors, and hospitality all make a nest around the giant track. Most people coming in early are groups that have been camping in the same area for upwards of thirty years. Small villages have formed and are recognized by the speedway at a special ceremony. The loudest is Jelloville, which grows every year with people from all over the country. The Mayor of Jelloville, who wears a white bathrobe and cowboy hat and little else, greets everyone warmly and coordinates the handing out of Jell-O shots the night before the big race. The most elaborate grounds are kept by the Pennsyl-tuckians, who bring a swimming pool, cots, a makeshift bar, and games. Their defacto leader, simply called Jesus, is a quiet man who only gets loud while speeding down the side of a hill on a small trike one night of the year. The Saturday night race excitement starts building Thursday with the Food City Family Race Night in downtown Bristol. Fans line up for driver autographs, free samples of all sorts of food, and to catch glimpses of the Dale Earnhardt look-a-like. Dogs dive in swimming pools and kids tour the famous Weinermobile. Later that night, after being meticulously washed by their drivers in the mall parking lot, the haulers containing the well-tuned cars make their way to the track for the Transporter Parade. People line up all along the eight-mile trek to cheer the big rigs on. Gas stations and grocery stores take advantage of the traffic and have little events like mechanical bull riding. People are psyched down by the track and watching the lights streak by is magical. As the last truck turns into the track to do the intricate dance of parking in the small pit, fireworks go off in the background. Everyone is already a big family, easily talking to everyone else. (Once, a young man claiming to be Burt Reynolds’ son chatted me up.) Friday and into Saturday morning, the die-hard fans watch the qualifying races and a few odds and ends races. Meanwhile, people spend their time in the campground cooking, drinking, partying, listening to the races, and walking the grounds. There is a great camaraderie as fathers play cornhole with their sons and friends spend time together. Vendors set up activities and giveaways and often your favorite driver zips right by you in a golf cart and waves. Then it’s the countdown to the race. The more outgoing of the masses don their special garb. I’ve seen a man with a 30 days till marriage bucket list written across his naked chest (I briefly considered flashing him so he could check it off), a man dressed as a leprechaun, couples with matching homemade t-shirts with jokes that race fans would get, and even a waterskiing squirrel. Most simply wear the shirt with their favorite driver and meander to their seats. About an hour before the race, pre-race ceremonies begin. Music is sung by the likes of Billy Ray Cyrus, big checks are given, flags are unrolled, and the sky jumpers fly in with precision. Driver introductions are a new and welcome addition. In NASCAR, like pro wrestling, there are good guys and bad guys. As each driver comes out in reverse starting order, the collective crowd either erupts into cheers or growls of disapproval. Drivers with a family history or connection to the South, tend to get the applause, while mouthy younger drivers tend to get the boos. I always get choked up at this unique noise as it spirals up to the sky. “Cry baby” Kyle currently gets the most nays, while Jr. always gets the most ayes. Former villains, like Jeff Gordon, have stuck around long enough that they now get at least half claps. There’s a growing hum emanating from the center of the world’s fastest half mile. Engines start to rev until the roar becomes overwhelming. The famous words “Drivers, Start Your Engines” echo out into the mountains. In the front rows, people like Beetle (famously wearing his beer bong hat and consuming more alcohol than I thought possible) and American flag man (dressed head to toe in flag clothes) roll up their giant flag brought out for the pledge of allegiance in order to protect it from rubber now flying off the track. Quickly, the third lap of 500 begins which means the crowd holds up three fingers and looks down reflecting on their favorite fallen driver. Then the laps start to add up. Battles are fought until a single driver wins the war. After hours of racing, champagne is sprayed and the winning driver inexplicably shoves a piece of gum in his mouth or drinks a warm soda awkwardly filling sponsor obligations. Small family units are formed during the race and everyone is safely deposited back at their campsite unharmed to sleep it off. After days of shooting and miles and miles of walking (somehow uphill both ways) I am exhausted. The next morning, I consume the last of my race morning cocktails: an iced mocha from Starbucks and two ibuprofen and I am already counting down to the next race. * * * 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. 
Zoom Info
BRISTOL MOTOR SPEEDWAY The August night race at Bristol Motor Speedway is consistently listed as one of the top ten live sporting events in the world alongside Wimbledon, the Olympics, and Le Mans. I have been photographing the races in Bristol, Tennessee, my current home, for the last five years. Why does this race warrant such high regard? It isn’t the 160,000-seat coliseum, which is impressive, or the fact that it’s a NASCAR race, as there are plenty. A race in Bristol is a unique culture unlike any other. About a week before the race, the sleepy town of Bristol starts to transform. Port-a-potties start dotting the rolling hills and campers start coasting in; vendor village, corporate sponsors, and hospitality all make a nest around the giant track. Most people coming in early are groups that have been camping in the same area for upwards of thirty years. Small villages have formed and are recognized by the speedway at a special ceremony. The loudest is Jelloville, which grows every year with people from all over the country. The Mayor of Jelloville, who wears a white bathrobe and cowboy hat and little else, greets everyone warmly and coordinates the handing out of Jell-O shots the night before the big race. The most elaborate grounds are kept by the Pennsyl-tuckians, who bring a swimming pool, cots, a makeshift bar, and games. Their defacto leader, simply called Jesus, is a quiet man who only gets loud while speeding down the side of a hill on a small trike one night of the year. The Saturday night race excitement starts building Thursday with the Food City Family Race Night in downtown Bristol. Fans line up for driver autographs, free samples of all sorts of food, and to catch glimpses of the Dale Earnhardt look-a-like. Dogs dive in swimming pools and kids tour the famous Weinermobile. Later that night, after being meticulously washed by their drivers in the mall parking lot, the haulers containing the well-tuned cars make their way to the track for the Transporter Parade. People line up all along the eight-mile trek to cheer the big rigs on. Gas stations and grocery stores take advantage of the traffic and have little events like mechanical bull riding. People are psyched down by the track and watching the lights streak by is magical. As the last truck turns into the track to do the intricate dance of parking in the small pit, fireworks go off in the background. Everyone is already a big family, easily talking to everyone else. (Once, a young man claiming to be Burt Reynolds’ son chatted me up.) Friday and into Saturday morning, the die-hard fans watch the qualifying races and a few odds and ends races. Meanwhile, people spend their time in the campground cooking, drinking, partying, listening to the races, and walking the grounds. There is a great camaraderie as fathers play cornhole with their sons and friends spend time together. Vendors set up activities and giveaways and often your favorite driver zips right by you in a golf cart and waves. Then it’s the countdown to the race. The more outgoing of the masses don their special garb. I’ve seen a man with a 30 days till marriage bucket list written across his naked chest (I briefly considered flashing him so he could check it off), a man dressed as a leprechaun, couples with matching homemade t-shirts with jokes that race fans would get, and even a waterskiing squirrel. Most simply wear the shirt with their favorite driver and meander to their seats. About an hour before the race, pre-race ceremonies begin. Music is sung by the likes of Billy Ray Cyrus, big checks are given, flags are unrolled, and the sky jumpers fly in with precision. Driver introductions are a new and welcome addition. In NASCAR, like pro wrestling, there are good guys and bad guys. As each driver comes out in reverse starting order, the collective crowd either erupts into cheers or growls of disapproval. Drivers with a family history or connection to the South, tend to get the applause, while mouthy younger drivers tend to get the boos. I always get choked up at this unique noise as it spirals up to the sky. “Cry baby” Kyle currently gets the most nays, while Jr. always gets the most ayes. Former villains, like Jeff Gordon, have stuck around long enough that they now get at least half claps. There’s a growing hum emanating from the center of the world’s fastest half mile. Engines start to rev until the roar becomes overwhelming. The famous words “Drivers, Start Your Engines” echo out into the mountains. In the front rows, people like Beetle (famously wearing his beer bong hat and consuming more alcohol than I thought possible) and American flag man (dressed head to toe in flag clothes) roll up their giant flag brought out for the pledge of allegiance in order to protect it from rubber now flying off the track. Quickly, the third lap of 500 begins which means the crowd holds up three fingers and looks down reflecting on their favorite fallen driver. Then the laps start to add up. Battles are fought until a single driver wins the war. After hours of racing, champagne is sprayed and the winning driver inexplicably shoves a piece of gum in his mouth or drinks a warm soda awkwardly filling sponsor obligations. Small family units are formed during the race and everyone is safely deposited back at their campsite unharmed to sleep it off. After days of shooting and miles and miles of walking (somehow uphill both ways) I am exhausted. The next morning, I consume the last of my race morning cocktails: an iced mocha from Starbucks and two ibuprofen and I am already counting down to the next race. * * * 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. 
Zoom Info
BRISTOL MOTOR SPEEDWAY The August night race at Bristol Motor Speedway is consistently listed as one of the top ten live sporting events in the world alongside Wimbledon, the Olympics, and Le Mans. I have been photographing the races in Bristol, Tennessee, my current home, for the last five years. Why does this race warrant such high regard? It isn’t the 160,000-seat coliseum, which is impressive, or the fact that it’s a NASCAR race, as there are plenty. A race in Bristol is a unique culture unlike any other. About a week before the race, the sleepy town of Bristol starts to transform. Port-a-potties start dotting the rolling hills and campers start coasting in; vendor village, corporate sponsors, and hospitality all make a nest around the giant track. Most people coming in early are groups that have been camping in the same area for upwards of thirty years. Small villages have formed and are recognized by the speedway at a special ceremony. The loudest is Jelloville, which grows every year with people from all over the country. The Mayor of Jelloville, who wears a white bathrobe and cowboy hat and little else, greets everyone warmly and coordinates the handing out of Jell-O shots the night before the big race. The most elaborate grounds are kept by the Pennsyl-tuckians, who bring a swimming pool, cots, a makeshift bar, and games. Their defacto leader, simply called Jesus, is a quiet man who only gets loud while speeding down the side of a hill on a small trike one night of the year. The Saturday night race excitement starts building Thursday with the Food City Family Race Night in downtown Bristol. Fans line up for driver autographs, free samples of all sorts of food, and to catch glimpses of the Dale Earnhardt look-a-like. Dogs dive in swimming pools and kids tour the famous Weinermobile. Later that night, after being meticulously washed by their drivers in the mall parking lot, the haulers containing the well-tuned cars make their way to the track for the Transporter Parade. People line up all along the eight-mile trek to cheer the big rigs on. Gas stations and grocery stores take advantage of the traffic and have little events like mechanical bull riding. People are psyched down by the track and watching the lights streak by is magical. As the last truck turns into the track to do the intricate dance of parking in the small pit, fireworks go off in the background. Everyone is already a big family, easily talking to everyone else. (Once, a young man claiming to be Burt Reynolds’ son chatted me up.) Friday and into Saturday morning, the die-hard fans watch the qualifying races and a few odds and ends races. Meanwhile, people spend their time in the campground cooking, drinking, partying, listening to the races, and walking the grounds. There is a great camaraderie as fathers play cornhole with their sons and friends spend time together. Vendors set up activities and giveaways and often your favorite driver zips right by you in a golf cart and waves. Then it’s the countdown to the race. The more outgoing of the masses don their special garb. I’ve seen a man with a 30 days till marriage bucket list written across his naked chest (I briefly considered flashing him so he could check it off), a man dressed as a leprechaun, couples with matching homemade t-shirts with jokes that race fans would get, and even a waterskiing squirrel. Most simply wear the shirt with their favorite driver and meander to their seats. About an hour before the race, pre-race ceremonies begin. Music is sung by the likes of Billy Ray Cyrus, big checks are given, flags are unrolled, and the sky jumpers fly in with precision. Driver introductions are a new and welcome addition. In NASCAR, like pro wrestling, there are good guys and bad guys. As each driver comes out in reverse starting order, the collective crowd either erupts into cheers or growls of disapproval. Drivers with a family history or connection to the South, tend to get the applause, while mouthy younger drivers tend to get the boos. I always get choked up at this unique noise as it spirals up to the sky. “Cry baby” Kyle currently gets the most nays, while Jr. always gets the most ayes. Former villains, like Jeff Gordon, have stuck around long enough that they now get at least half claps. There’s a growing hum emanating from the center of the world’s fastest half mile. Engines start to rev until the roar becomes overwhelming. The famous words “Drivers, Start Your Engines” echo out into the mountains. In the front rows, people like Beetle (famously wearing his beer bong hat and consuming more alcohol than I thought possible) and American flag man (dressed head to toe in flag clothes) roll up their giant flag brought out for the pledge of allegiance in order to protect it from rubber now flying off the track. Quickly, the third lap of 500 begins which means the crowd holds up three fingers and looks down reflecting on their favorite fallen driver. Then the laps start to add up. Battles are fought until a single driver wins the war. After hours of racing, champagne is sprayed and the winning driver inexplicably shoves a piece of gum in his mouth or drinks a warm soda awkwardly filling sponsor obligations. Small family units are formed during the race and everyone is safely deposited back at their campsite unharmed to sleep it off. After days of shooting and miles and miles of walking (somehow uphill both ways) I am exhausted. The next morning, I consume the last of my race morning cocktails: an iced mocha from Starbucks and two ibuprofen and I am already counting down to the next race. * * * 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. 
Zoom Info
BRISTOL MOTOR SPEEDWAY The August night race at Bristol Motor Speedway is consistently listed as one of the top ten live sporting events in the world alongside Wimbledon, the Olympics, and Le Mans. I have been photographing the races in Bristol, Tennessee, my current home, for the last five years. Why does this race warrant such high regard? It isn’t the 160,000-seat coliseum, which is impressive, or the fact that it’s a NASCAR race, as there are plenty. A race in Bristol is a unique culture unlike any other. About a week before the race, the sleepy town of Bristol starts to transform. Port-a-potties start dotting the rolling hills and campers start coasting in; vendor village, corporate sponsors, and hospitality all make a nest around the giant track. Most people coming in early are groups that have been camping in the same area for upwards of thirty years. Small villages have formed and are recognized by the speedway at a special ceremony. The loudest is Jelloville, which grows every year with people from all over the country. The Mayor of Jelloville, who wears a white bathrobe and cowboy hat and little else, greets everyone warmly and coordinates the handing out of Jell-O shots the night before the big race. The most elaborate grounds are kept by the Pennsyl-tuckians, who bring a swimming pool, cots, a makeshift bar, and games. Their defacto leader, simply called Jesus, is a quiet man who only gets loud while speeding down the side of a hill on a small trike one night of the year. The Saturday night race excitement starts building Thursday with the Food City Family Race Night in downtown Bristol. Fans line up for driver autographs, free samples of all sorts of food, and to catch glimpses of the Dale Earnhardt look-a-like. Dogs dive in swimming pools and kids tour the famous Weinermobile. Later that night, after being meticulously washed by their drivers in the mall parking lot, the haulers containing the well-tuned cars make their way to the track for the Transporter Parade. People line up all along the eight-mile trek to cheer the big rigs on. Gas stations and grocery stores take advantage of the traffic and have little events like mechanical bull riding. People are psyched down by the track and watching the lights streak by is magical. As the last truck turns into the track to do the intricate dance of parking in the small pit, fireworks go off in the background. Everyone is already a big family, easily talking to everyone else. (Once, a young man claiming to be Burt Reynolds’ son chatted me up.) Friday and into Saturday morning, the die-hard fans watch the qualifying races and a few odds and ends races. Meanwhile, people spend their time in the campground cooking, drinking, partying, listening to the races, and walking the grounds. There is a great camaraderie as fathers play cornhole with their sons and friends spend time together. Vendors set up activities and giveaways and often your favorite driver zips right by you in a golf cart and waves. Then it’s the countdown to the race. The more outgoing of the masses don their special garb. I’ve seen a man with a 30 days till marriage bucket list written across his naked chest (I briefly considered flashing him so he could check it off), a man dressed as a leprechaun, couples with matching homemade t-shirts with jokes that race fans would get, and even a waterskiing squirrel. Most simply wear the shirt with their favorite driver and meander to their seats. About an hour before the race, pre-race ceremonies begin. Music is sung by the likes of Billy Ray Cyrus, big checks are given, flags are unrolled, and the sky jumpers fly in with precision. Driver introductions are a new and welcome addition. In NASCAR, like pro wrestling, there are good guys and bad guys. As each driver comes out in reverse starting order, the collective crowd either erupts into cheers or growls of disapproval. Drivers with a family history or connection to the South, tend to get the applause, while mouthy younger drivers tend to get the boos. I always get choked up at this unique noise as it spirals up to the sky. “Cry baby” Kyle currently gets the most nays, while Jr. always gets the most ayes. Former villains, like Jeff Gordon, have stuck around long enough that they now get at least half claps. There’s a growing hum emanating from the center of the world’s fastest half mile. Engines start to rev until the roar becomes overwhelming. The famous words “Drivers, Start Your Engines” echo out into the mountains. In the front rows, people like Beetle (famously wearing his beer bong hat and consuming more alcohol than I thought possible) and American flag man (dressed head to toe in flag clothes) roll up their giant flag brought out for the pledge of allegiance in order to protect it from rubber now flying off the track. Quickly, the third lap of 500 begins which means the crowd holds up three fingers and looks down reflecting on their favorite fallen driver. Then the laps start to add up. Battles are fought until a single driver wins the war. After hours of racing, champagne is sprayed and the winning driver inexplicably shoves a piece of gum in his mouth or drinks a warm soda awkwardly filling sponsor obligations. Small family units are formed during the race and everyone is safely deposited back at their campsite unharmed to sleep it off. After days of shooting and miles and miles of walking (somehow uphill both ways) I am exhausted. The next morning, I consume the last of my race morning cocktails: an iced mocha from Starbucks and two ibuprofen and I am already counting down to the next race. * * * 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. 
Zoom Info
BRISTOL MOTOR SPEEDWAY The August night race at Bristol Motor Speedway is consistently listed as one of the top ten live sporting events in the world alongside Wimbledon, the Olympics, and Le Mans. I have been photographing the races in Bristol, Tennessee, my current home, for the last five years. Why does this race warrant such high regard? It isn’t the 160,000-seat coliseum, which is impressive, or the fact that it’s a NASCAR race, as there are plenty. A race in Bristol is a unique culture unlike any other. About a week before the race, the sleepy town of Bristol starts to transform. Port-a-potties start dotting the rolling hills and campers start coasting in; vendor village, corporate sponsors, and hospitality all make a nest around the giant track. Most people coming in early are groups that have been camping in the same area for upwards of thirty years. Small villages have formed and are recognized by the speedway at a special ceremony. The loudest is Jelloville, which grows every year with people from all over the country. The Mayor of Jelloville, who wears a white bathrobe and cowboy hat and little else, greets everyone warmly and coordinates the handing out of Jell-O shots the night before the big race. The most elaborate grounds are kept by the Pennsyl-tuckians, who bring a swimming pool, cots, a makeshift bar, and games. Their defacto leader, simply called Jesus, is a quiet man who only gets loud while speeding down the side of a hill on a small trike one night of the year. The Saturday night race excitement starts building Thursday with the Food City Family Race Night in downtown Bristol. Fans line up for driver autographs, free samples of all sorts of food, and to catch glimpses of the Dale Earnhardt look-a-like. Dogs dive in swimming pools and kids tour the famous Weinermobile. Later that night, after being meticulously washed by their drivers in the mall parking lot, the haulers containing the well-tuned cars make their way to the track for the Transporter Parade. People line up all along the eight-mile trek to cheer the big rigs on. Gas stations and grocery stores take advantage of the traffic and have little events like mechanical bull riding. People are psyched down by the track and watching the lights streak by is magical. As the last truck turns into the track to do the intricate dance of parking in the small pit, fireworks go off in the background. Everyone is already a big family, easily talking to everyone else. (Once, a young man claiming to be Burt Reynolds’ son chatted me up.) Friday and into Saturday morning, the die-hard fans watch the qualifying races and a few odds and ends races. Meanwhile, people spend their time in the campground cooking, drinking, partying, listening to the races, and walking the grounds. There is a great camaraderie as fathers play cornhole with their sons and friends spend time together. Vendors set up activities and giveaways and often your favorite driver zips right by you in a golf cart and waves. Then it’s the countdown to the race. The more outgoing of the masses don their special garb. I’ve seen a man with a 30 days till marriage bucket list written across his naked chest (I briefly considered flashing him so he could check it off), a man dressed as a leprechaun, couples with matching homemade t-shirts with jokes that race fans would get, and even a waterskiing squirrel. Most simply wear the shirt with their favorite driver and meander to their seats. About an hour before the race, pre-race ceremonies begin. Music is sung by the likes of Billy Ray Cyrus, big checks are given, flags are unrolled, and the sky jumpers fly in with precision. Driver introductions are a new and welcome addition. In NASCAR, like pro wrestling, there are good guys and bad guys. As each driver comes out in reverse starting order, the collective crowd either erupts into cheers or growls of disapproval. Drivers with a family history or connection to the South, tend to get the applause, while mouthy younger drivers tend to get the boos. I always get choked up at this unique noise as it spirals up to the sky. “Cry baby” Kyle currently gets the most nays, while Jr. always gets the most ayes. Former villains, like Jeff Gordon, have stuck around long enough that they now get at least half claps. There’s a growing hum emanating from the center of the world’s fastest half mile. Engines start to rev until the roar becomes overwhelming. The famous words “Drivers, Start Your Engines” echo out into the mountains. In the front rows, people like Beetle (famously wearing his beer bong hat and consuming more alcohol than I thought possible) and American flag man (dressed head to toe in flag clothes) roll up their giant flag brought out for the pledge of allegiance in order to protect it from rubber now flying off the track. Quickly, the third lap of 500 begins which means the crowd holds up three fingers and looks down reflecting on their favorite fallen driver. Then the laps start to add up. Battles are fought until a single driver wins the war. After hours of racing, champagne is sprayed and the winning driver inexplicably shoves a piece of gum in his mouth or drinks a warm soda awkwardly filling sponsor obligations. Small family units are formed during the race and everyone is safely deposited back at their campsite unharmed to sleep it off. After days of shooting and miles and miles of walking (somehow uphill both ways) I am exhausted. The next morning, I consume the last of my race morning cocktails: an iced mocha from Starbucks and two ibuprofen and I am already counting down to the next race. * * * 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. 
Zoom Info

BRISTOL MOTOR SPEEDWAY

The August night race at Bristol Motor Speedway is consistently listed as one of the top ten live sporting events in the world alongside Wimbledon, the Olympics, and Le Mans. I have been photographing the races in Bristol, Tennessee, my current home, for the last five years. Why does this race warrant such high regard? It isn’t the 160,000-seat coliseum, which is impressive, or the fact that it’s a NASCAR race, as there are plenty. A race in Bristol is a unique culture unlike any other.

About a week before the race, the sleepy town of Bristol starts to transform. Port-a-potties start dotting the rolling hills and campers start coasting in; vendor village, corporate sponsors, and hospitality all make a nest around the giant track.

Most people coming in early are groups that have been camping in the same area for upwards of thirty years. Small villages have formed and are recognized by the speedway at a special ceremony. The loudest is Jelloville, which grows every year with people from all over the country. The Mayor of Jelloville, who wears a white bathrobe and cowboy hat and little else, greets everyone warmly and coordinates the handing out of Jell-O shots the night before the big race. The most elaborate grounds are kept by the Pennsyl-tuckians, who bring a swimming pool, cots, a makeshift bar, and games. Their defacto leader, simply called Jesus, is a quiet man who only gets loud while speeding down the side of a hill on a small trike one night of the year.

The Saturday night race excitement starts building Thursday with the Food City Family Race Night in downtown Bristol. Fans line up for driver autographs, free samples of all sorts of food, and to catch glimpses of the Dale Earnhardt look-a-like. Dogs dive in swimming pools and kids tour the famous Weinermobile.

Later that night, after being meticulously washed by their drivers in the mall parking lot, the haulers containing the well-tuned cars make their way to the track for the Transporter Parade. People line up all along the eight-mile trek to cheer the big rigs on. Gas stations and grocery stores take advantage of the traffic and have little events like mechanical bull riding. People are psyched down by the track and watching the lights streak by is magical. As the last truck turns into the track to do the intricate dance of parking in the small pit, fireworks go off in the background. Everyone is already a big family, easily talking to everyone else. (Once, a young man claiming to be Burt Reynolds’ son chatted me up.)

Friday and into Saturday morning, the die-hard fans watch the qualifying races and a few odds and ends races. Meanwhile, people spend their time in the campground cooking, drinking, partying, listening to the races, and walking the grounds. There is a great camaraderie as fathers play cornhole with their sons and friends spend time together. Vendors set up activities and giveaways and often your favorite driver zips right by you in a golf cart and waves.

Then it’s the countdown to the race. The more outgoing of the masses don their special garb. I’ve seen a man with a 30 days till marriage bucket list written across his naked chest (I briefly considered flashing him so he could check it off), a man dressed as a leprechaun, couples with matching homemade t-shirts with jokes that race fans would get, and even a waterskiing squirrel. Most simply wear the shirt with their favorite driver and meander to their seats.

About an hour before the race, pre-race ceremonies begin. Music is sung by the likes of Billy Ray Cyrus, big checks are given, flags are unrolled, and the sky jumpers fly in with precision.

Driver introductions are a new and welcome addition. In NASCAR, like pro wrestling, there are good guys and bad guys. As each driver comes out in reverse starting order, the collective crowd either erupts into cheers or growls of disapproval. Drivers with a family history or connection to the South, tend to get the applause, while mouthy younger drivers tend to get the boos. I always get choked up at this unique noise as it spirals up to the sky. “Cry baby” Kyle currently gets the most nays, while Jr. always gets the most ayes. Former villains, like Jeff Gordon, have stuck around long enough that they now get at least half claps.

There’s a growing hum emanating from the center of the world’s fastest half mile. Engines start to rev until the roar becomes overwhelming. The famous words “Drivers, Start Your Engines” echo out into the mountains. In the front rows, people like Beetle (famously wearing his beer bong hat and consuming more alcohol than I thought possible) and American flag man (dressed head to toe in flag clothes) roll up their giant flag brought out for the pledge of allegiance in order to protect it from rubber now flying off the track. Quickly, the third lap of 500 begins which means the crowd holds up three fingers and looks down reflecting on their favorite fallen driver. Then the laps start to add up.

Battles are fought until a single driver wins the war. After hours of racing, champagne is sprayed and the winning driver inexplicably shoves a piece of gum in his mouth or drinks a warm soda awkwardly filling sponsor obligations. Small family units are formed during the race and everyone is safely deposited back at their campsite unharmed to sleep it off.

After days of shooting and miles and miles of walking (somehow uphill both ways) I am exhausted. The next morning, I consume the last of my race morning cocktails: an iced mocha from Starbucks and two ibuprofen and I am already counting down to the next race.

* * *

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. 

The Roper

#AmericanGuideWeek dispatch from our friends at Lucid Inc.: The story of Kendrick, a young calf roper in Lafayette, Louisiana, who dreams of one day making it to the Las Vegas rodeo finals.

* * * 

Let Lucid Inc. be your guide. Follow on their website, Twitter (@todayislucid), and Facebook. 

HARLEM, FLORIDA A guide to Harlem, Florida, using Florida: A Guide to the Southernmost State (WPA, 1939) as your map.  You see the sign — Harlem — and turn off the Sugarland Highway just past Clewiston. Unless you lived in it, you wouldn’t know Harlem, Florida. You drive up and are introduced by a white church outlined in yellow abutting a graveyard. So many of the structures are white: from the blindingly-so church to the faded, off-white houses up and down the streets. In the cemetery, white cattle egrets strut among the headstones, skittering off when you get too close.  Your WPA Florida guidebook says Harlem was a settlement established by the transient blacks that worked in the U.S. Sugar Corporation fields. And, in the square-mile wide Harlem skyline, the U.S. Sugar plant is still there. It is the Harlem skyline. You get the feeling it always will be. Today, the town remains almost all black, half live below the poverty line, and half still work in agriculture. Florida-born Zora Neale Hurston, in her 1937 book, Their Eyes Were Watching God, is quoted by your guide; describing the scene of itinerant pickers in and around Lake Okeechobee, not far from Harlem: “Day by day now, the hordes of workers poured in. Some came limping in with their shoes and sore feet from walking. It’s hard trying to follow your shoe instead of your shoe following you. They came in wagons from way up in Georgia and they came in truck loads from east, west, north and south. Permanent transients with no attachments and tired looking men with their families and dogs in flivvers. All night, all day, hurrying in to pick beans. Skillets, beds, patched up spare inner tubes all hanging and dangling from the ancient cars on the outside and hopeful humanity, herded and hovered on the inside, chugging on to the muck. People ugly from ignorance and broken from being poor.” In Harlem, take out the black glossy SUVs and beat-up pick-ups, imagine half the number of headstones in the church graveyard: sometimes years gone by can still leave things in stasis, just more of the same and the same. * * * Tom McNamara is the co-founder/editor of The American Guide.
Zoom
HARLEM, FLORIDA A guide to Harlem, Florida, using Florida: A Guide to the Southernmost State (WPA, 1939) as your map.  You see the sign — Harlem — and turn off the Sugarland Highway just past Clewiston. Unless you lived in it, you wouldn’t know Harlem, Florida. You drive up and are introduced by a white church outlined in yellow abutting a graveyard. So many of the structures are white: from the blindingly-so church to the faded, off-white houses up and down the streets. In the cemetery, white cattle egrets strut among the headstones, skittering off when you get too close.  Your WPA Florida guidebook says Harlem was a settlement established by the transient blacks that worked in the U.S. Sugar Corporation fields. And, in the square-mile wide Harlem skyline, the U.S. Sugar plant is still there. It is the Harlem skyline. You get the feeling it always will be. Today, the town remains almost all black, half live below the poverty line, and half still work in agriculture. Florida-born Zora Neale Hurston, in her 1937 book, Their Eyes Were Watching God, is quoted by your guide; describing the scene of itinerant pickers in and around Lake Okeechobee, not far from Harlem: “Day by day now, the hordes of workers poured in. Some came limping in with their shoes and sore feet from walking. It’s hard trying to follow your shoe instead of your shoe following you. They came in wagons from way up in Georgia and they came in truck loads from east, west, north and south. Permanent transients with no attachments and tired looking men with their families and dogs in flivvers. All night, all day, hurrying in to pick beans. Skillets, beds, patched up spare inner tubes all hanging and dangling from the ancient cars on the outside and hopeful humanity, herded and hovered on the inside, chugging on to the muck. People ugly from ignorance and broken from being poor.” In Harlem, take out the black glossy SUVs and beat-up pick-ups, imagine half the number of headstones in the church graveyard: sometimes years gone by can still leave things in stasis, just more of the same and the same. * * * Tom McNamara is the co-founder/editor of The American Guide.
Zoom
HARLEM, FLORIDA A guide to Harlem, Florida, using Florida: A Guide to the Southernmost State (WPA, 1939) as your map.  You see the sign — Harlem — and turn off the Sugarland Highway just past Clewiston. Unless you lived in it, you wouldn’t know Harlem, Florida. You drive up and are introduced by a white church outlined in yellow abutting a graveyard. So many of the structures are white: from the blindingly-so church to the faded, off-white houses up and down the streets. In the cemetery, white cattle egrets strut among the headstones, skittering off when you get too close.  Your WPA Florida guidebook says Harlem was a settlement established by the transient blacks that worked in the U.S. Sugar Corporation fields. And, in the square-mile wide Harlem skyline, the U.S. Sugar plant is still there. It is the Harlem skyline. You get the feeling it always will be. Today, the town remains almost all black, half live below the poverty line, and half still work in agriculture. Florida-born Zora Neale Hurston, in her 1937 book, Their Eyes Were Watching God, is quoted by your guide; describing the scene of itinerant pickers in and around Lake Okeechobee, not far from Harlem: “Day by day now, the hordes of workers poured in. Some came limping in with their shoes and sore feet from walking. It’s hard trying to follow your shoe instead of your shoe following you. They came in wagons from way up in Georgia and they came in truck loads from east, west, north and south. Permanent transients with no attachments and tired looking men with their families and dogs in flivvers. All night, all day, hurrying in to pick beans. Skillets, beds, patched up spare inner tubes all hanging and dangling from the ancient cars on the outside and hopeful humanity, herded and hovered on the inside, chugging on to the muck. People ugly from ignorance and broken from being poor.” In Harlem, take out the black glossy SUVs and beat-up pick-ups, imagine half the number of headstones in the church graveyard: sometimes years gone by can still leave things in stasis, just more of the same and the same. * * * Tom McNamara is the co-founder/editor of The American Guide.
Zoom
HARLEM, FLORIDA A guide to Harlem, Florida, using Florida: A Guide to the Southernmost State (WPA, 1939) as your map.  You see the sign — Harlem — and turn off the Sugarland Highway just past Clewiston. Unless you lived in it, you wouldn’t know Harlem, Florida. You drive up and are introduced by a white church outlined in yellow abutting a graveyard. So many of the structures are white: from the blindingly-so church to the faded, off-white houses up and down the streets. In the cemetery, white cattle egrets strut among the headstones, skittering off when you get too close.  Your WPA Florida guidebook says Harlem was a settlement established by the transient blacks that worked in the U.S. Sugar Corporation fields. And, in the square-mile wide Harlem skyline, the U.S. Sugar plant is still there. It is the Harlem skyline. You get the feeling it always will be. Today, the town remains almost all black, half live below the poverty line, and half still work in agriculture. Florida-born Zora Neale Hurston, in her 1937 book, Their Eyes Were Watching God, is quoted by your guide; describing the scene of itinerant pickers in and around Lake Okeechobee, not far from Harlem: “Day by day now, the hordes of workers poured in. Some came limping in with their shoes and sore feet from walking. It’s hard trying to follow your shoe instead of your shoe following you. They came in wagons from way up in Georgia and they came in truck loads from east, west, north and south. Permanent transients with no attachments and tired looking men with their families and dogs in flivvers. All night, all day, hurrying in to pick beans. Skillets, beds, patched up spare inner tubes all hanging and dangling from the ancient cars on the outside and hopeful humanity, herded and hovered on the inside, chugging on to the muck. People ugly from ignorance and broken from being poor.” In Harlem, take out the black glossy SUVs and beat-up pick-ups, imagine half the number of headstones in the church graveyard: sometimes years gone by can still leave things in stasis, just more of the same and the same. * * * Tom McNamara is the co-founder/editor of The American Guide.
Zoom
HARLEM, FLORIDA A guide to Harlem, Florida, using Florida: A Guide to the Southernmost State (WPA, 1939) as your map.  You see the sign — Harlem — and turn off the Sugarland Highway just past Clewiston. Unless you lived in it, you wouldn’t know Harlem, Florida. You drive up and are introduced by a white church outlined in yellow abutting a graveyard. So many of the structures are white: from the blindingly-so church to the faded, off-white houses up and down the streets. In the cemetery, white cattle egrets strut among the headstones, skittering off when you get too close.  Your WPA Florida guidebook says Harlem was a settlement established by the transient blacks that worked in the U.S. Sugar Corporation fields. And, in the square-mile wide Harlem skyline, the U.S. Sugar plant is still there. It is the Harlem skyline. You get the feeling it always will be. Today, the town remains almost all black, half live below the poverty line, and half still work in agriculture. Florida-born Zora Neale Hurston, in her 1937 book, Their Eyes Were Watching God, is quoted by your guide; describing the scene of itinerant pickers in and around Lake Okeechobee, not far from Harlem: “Day by day now, the hordes of workers poured in. Some came limping in with their shoes and sore feet from walking. It’s hard trying to follow your shoe instead of your shoe following you. They came in wagons from way up in Georgia and they came in truck loads from east, west, north and south. Permanent transients with no attachments and tired looking men with their families and dogs in flivvers. All night, all day, hurrying in to pick beans. Skillets, beds, patched up spare inner tubes all hanging and dangling from the ancient cars on the outside and hopeful humanity, herded and hovered on the inside, chugging on to the muck. People ugly from ignorance and broken from being poor.” In Harlem, take out the black glossy SUVs and beat-up pick-ups, imagine half the number of headstones in the church graveyard: sometimes years gone by can still leave things in stasis, just more of the same and the same. * * * Tom McNamara is the co-founder/editor of The American Guide.
Zoom

HARLEM, FLORIDA

A guide to Harlem, Florida, using Florida: A Guide to the Southernmost State (WPA, 1939) as your map. 

You see the sign — Harlem — and turn off the Sugarland Highway just past Clewiston. Unless you lived in it, you wouldn’t know Harlem, Florida. You drive up and are introduced by a white church outlined in yellow abutting a graveyard. So many of the structures are white: from the blindingly-so church to the faded, off-white houses up and down the streets. In the cemetery, white cattle egrets strut among the headstones, skittering off when you get too close. 

Your WPA Florida guidebook says Harlem was a settlement established by the transient blacks that worked in the U.S. Sugar Corporation fields. And, in the square-mile wide Harlem skyline, the U.S. Sugar plant is still there. It is the Harlem skyline. You get the feeling it always will be.

Today, the town remains almost all black, half live below the poverty line, and half still work in agriculture.

Florida-born Zora Neale Hurston, in her 1937 book, Their Eyes Were Watching God, is quoted by your guide; describing the scene of itinerant pickers in and around Lake Okeechobee, not far from Harlem:

“Day by day now, the hordes of workers poured in. Some came limping in with their shoes and sore feet from walking. It’s hard trying to follow your shoe instead of your shoe following you. They came in wagons from way up in Georgia and they came in truck loads from east, west, north and south. Permanent transients with no attachments and tired looking men with their families and dogs in flivvers. All night, all day, hurrying in to pick beans. Skillets, beds, patched up spare inner tubes all hanging and dangling from the ancient cars on the outside and hopeful humanity, herded and hovered on the inside, chugging on to the muck. People ugly from ignorance and broken from being poor.”

In Harlem, take out the black glossy SUVs and beat-up pick-ups, imagine half the number of headstones in the church graveyard: sometimes years gone by can still leave things in stasis, just more of the same and the same.

* * *

Tom McNamara is the co-founder/editor of The American Guide.

Gombo Zhebes  (Gumbo of Herbs) There is a legend that this gumbo should be cooked on Holy Thursday for good luck. Upon passing the French Market on this day, you will hear the vendors crying, ‘Buy your seven greens for good luck!’ 2 tablespoons lard 2 tablespoons flour 1 bunch spinach, mustard greens, beet tops, turnip tops, outside leaves of Creole lettuce, green cabbage, green celery leaves, green onion tops or almost any combination of greens. Bacon strips, salt meat or a hambone. The hambone is preferable as it gives the best flavor. Chopped onion, parsley, thyme, bay leaf, green pepper, salt, pepper, red pepper pod.Wash the greens thoroughly and boil all together with sufficient water to cover. When tender take from fire, drain off water and save it. Make a roux by browning the flour in a deep pot with the lard. Add the onion and let brown. Fry the meat. While this is cooking chop the greens and other seasonings thoroughly. Add the greens, and fry for a few minutes, stirring constantly to prevent burning. Add the water in which the greens  were boiled. Simmer in a covered pot about two hours. If it should get too thick add a little boiling water. Serve with boiled rice. — New Orleans City Guide (WPA, 1938)
Zoom
Gombo Zhebes  (Gumbo of Herbs) There is a legend that this gumbo should be cooked on Holy Thursday for good luck. Upon passing the French Market on this day, you will hear the vendors crying, ‘Buy your seven greens for good luck!’ 2 tablespoons lard 2 tablespoons flour 1 bunch spinach, mustard greens, beet tops, turnip tops, outside leaves of Creole lettuce, green cabbage, green celery leaves, green onion tops or almost any combination of greens. Bacon strips, salt meat or a hambone. The hambone is preferable as it gives the best flavor. Chopped onion, parsley, thyme, bay leaf, green pepper, salt, pepper, red pepper pod.Wash the greens thoroughly and boil all together with sufficient water to cover. When tender take from fire, drain off water and save it. Make a roux by browning the flour in a deep pot with the lard. Add the onion and let brown. Fry the meat. While this is cooking chop the greens and other seasonings thoroughly. Add the greens, and fry for a few minutes, stirring constantly to prevent burning. Add the water in which the greens  were boiled. Simmer in a covered pot about two hours. If it should get too thick add a little boiling water. Serve with boiled rice. — New Orleans City Guide (WPA, 1938)
Zoom
Gombo Zhebes  (Gumbo of Herbs) There is a legend that this gumbo should be cooked on Holy Thursday for good luck. Upon passing the French Market on this day, you will hear the vendors crying, ‘Buy your seven greens for good luck!’ 2 tablespoons lard 2 tablespoons flour 1 bunch spinach, mustard greens, beet tops, turnip tops, outside leaves of Creole lettuce, green cabbage, green celery leaves, green onion tops or almost any combination of greens. Bacon strips, salt meat or a hambone. The hambone is preferable as it gives the best flavor. Chopped onion, parsley, thyme, bay leaf, green pepper, salt, pepper, red pepper pod.Wash the greens thoroughly and boil all together with sufficient water to cover. When tender take from fire, drain off water and save it. Make a roux by browning the flour in a deep pot with the lard. Add the onion and let brown. Fry the meat. While this is cooking chop the greens and other seasonings thoroughly. Add the greens, and fry for a few minutes, stirring constantly to prevent burning. Add the water in which the greens  were boiled. Simmer in a covered pot about two hours. If it should get too thick add a little boiling water. Serve with boiled rice. — New Orleans City Guide (WPA, 1938)
Zoom
Gombo Zhebes  (Gumbo of Herbs) There is a legend that this gumbo should be cooked on Holy Thursday for good luck. Upon passing the French Market on this day, you will hear the vendors crying, ‘Buy your seven greens for good luck!’ 2 tablespoons lard 2 tablespoons flour 1 bunch spinach, mustard greens, beet tops, turnip tops, outside leaves of Creole lettuce, green cabbage, green celery leaves, green onion tops or almost any combination of greens. Bacon strips, salt meat or a hambone. The hambone is preferable as it gives the best flavor. Chopped onion, parsley, thyme, bay leaf, green pepper, salt, pepper, red pepper pod.Wash the greens thoroughly and boil all together with sufficient water to cover. When tender take from fire, drain off water and save it. Make a roux by browning the flour in a deep pot with the lard. Add the onion and let brown. Fry the meat. While this is cooking chop the greens and other seasonings thoroughly. Add the greens, and fry for a few minutes, stirring constantly to prevent burning. Add the water in which the greens  were boiled. Simmer in a covered pot about two hours. If it should get too thick add a little boiling water. Serve with boiled rice. — New Orleans City Guide (WPA, 1938)
Zoom
Gombo Zhebes  (Gumbo of Herbs) There is a legend that this gumbo should be cooked on Holy Thursday for good luck. Upon passing the French Market on this day, you will hear the vendors crying, ‘Buy your seven greens for good luck!’ 2 tablespoons lard 2 tablespoons flour 1 bunch spinach, mustard greens, beet tops, turnip tops, outside leaves of Creole lettuce, green cabbage, green celery leaves, green onion tops or almost any combination of greens. Bacon strips, salt meat or a hambone. The hambone is preferable as it gives the best flavor. Chopped onion, parsley, thyme, bay leaf, green pepper, salt, pepper, red pepper pod.Wash the greens thoroughly and boil all together with sufficient water to cover. When tender take from fire, drain off water and save it. Make a roux by browning the flour in a deep pot with the lard. Add the onion and let brown. Fry the meat. While this is cooking chop the greens and other seasonings thoroughly. Add the greens, and fry for a few minutes, stirring constantly to prevent burning. Add the water in which the greens  were boiled. Simmer in a covered pot about two hours. If it should get too thick add a little boiling water. Serve with boiled rice. — New Orleans City Guide (WPA, 1938)
Zoom
Gombo Zhebes  (Gumbo of Herbs) There is a legend that this gumbo should be cooked on Holy Thursday for good luck. Upon passing the French Market on this day, you will hear the vendors crying, ‘Buy your seven greens for good luck!’ 2 tablespoons lard 2 tablespoons flour 1 bunch spinach, mustard greens, beet tops, turnip tops, outside leaves of Creole lettuce, green cabbage, green celery leaves, green onion tops or almost any combination of greens. Bacon strips, salt meat or a hambone. The hambone is preferable as it gives the best flavor. Chopped onion, parsley, thyme, bay leaf, green pepper, salt, pepper, red pepper pod.Wash the greens thoroughly and boil all together with sufficient water to cover. When tender take from fire, drain off water and save it. Make a roux by browning the flour in a deep pot with the lard. Add the onion and let brown. Fry the meat. While this is cooking chop the greens and other seasonings thoroughly. Add the greens, and fry for a few minutes, stirring constantly to prevent burning. Add the water in which the greens  were boiled. Simmer in a covered pot about two hours. If it should get too thick add a little boiling water. Serve with boiled rice. — New Orleans City Guide (WPA, 1938)
Zoom
Gombo Zhebes  (Gumbo of Herbs) There is a legend that this gumbo should be cooked on Holy Thursday for good luck. Upon passing the French Market on this day, you will hear the vendors crying, ‘Buy your seven greens for good luck!’ 2 tablespoons lard 2 tablespoons flour 1 bunch spinach, mustard greens, beet tops, turnip tops, outside leaves of Creole lettuce, green cabbage, green celery leaves, green onion tops or almost any combination of greens. Bacon strips, salt meat or a hambone. The hambone is preferable as it gives the best flavor. Chopped onion, parsley, thyme, bay leaf, green pepper, salt, pepper, red pepper pod.Wash the greens thoroughly and boil all together with sufficient water to cover. When tender take from fire, drain off water and save it. Make a roux by browning the flour in a deep pot with the lard. Add the onion and let brown. Fry the meat. While this is cooking chop the greens and other seasonings thoroughly. Add the greens, and fry for a few minutes, stirring constantly to prevent burning. Add the water in which the greens  were boiled. Simmer in a covered pot about two hours. If it should get too thick add a little boiling water. Serve with boiled rice. — New Orleans City Guide (WPA, 1938)
Zoom
Gombo Zhebes  (Gumbo of Herbs) There is a legend that this gumbo should be cooked on Holy Thursday for good luck. Upon passing the French Market on this day, you will hear the vendors crying, ‘Buy your seven greens for good luck!’ 2 tablespoons lard 2 tablespoons flour 1 bunch spinach, mustard greens, beet tops, turnip tops, outside leaves of Creole lettuce, green cabbage, green celery leaves, green onion tops or almost any combination of greens. Bacon strips, salt meat or a hambone. The hambone is preferable as it gives the best flavor. Chopped onion, parsley, thyme, bay leaf, green pepper, salt, pepper, red pepper pod.Wash the greens thoroughly and boil all together with sufficient water to cover. When tender take from fire, drain off water and save it. Make a roux by browning the flour in a deep pot with the lard. Add the onion and let brown. Fry the meat. While this is cooking chop the greens and other seasonings thoroughly. Add the greens, and fry for a few minutes, stirring constantly to prevent burning. Add the water in which the greens  were boiled. Simmer in a covered pot about two hours. If it should get too thick add a little boiling water. Serve with boiled rice. — New Orleans City Guide (WPA, 1938)
Zoom
Gombo Zhebes  (Gumbo of Herbs) There is a legend that this gumbo should be cooked on Holy Thursday for good luck. Upon passing the French Market on this day, you will hear the vendors crying, ‘Buy your seven greens for good luck!’ 2 tablespoons lard 2 tablespoons flour 1 bunch spinach, mustard greens, beet tops, turnip tops, outside leaves of Creole lettuce, green cabbage, green celery leaves, green onion tops or almost any combination of greens. Bacon strips, salt meat or a hambone. The hambone is preferable as it gives the best flavor. Chopped onion, parsley, thyme, bay leaf, green pepper, salt, pepper, red pepper pod.Wash the greens thoroughly and boil all together with sufficient water to cover. When tender take from fire, drain off water and save it. Make a roux by browning the flour in a deep pot with the lard. Add the onion and let brown. Fry the meat. While this is cooking chop the greens and other seasonings thoroughly. Add the greens, and fry for a few minutes, stirring constantly to prevent burning. Add the water in which the greens  were boiled. Simmer in a covered pot about two hours. If it should get too thick add a little boiling water. Serve with boiled rice. — New Orleans City Guide (WPA, 1938)
Zoom
Gombo Zhebes  (Gumbo of Herbs) There is a legend that this gumbo should be cooked on Holy Thursday for good luck. Upon passing the French Market on this day, you will hear the vendors crying, ‘Buy your seven greens for good luck!’ 2 tablespoons lard 2 tablespoons flour 1 bunch spinach, mustard greens, beet tops, turnip tops, outside leaves of Creole lettuce, green cabbage, green celery leaves, green onion tops or almost any combination of greens. Bacon strips, salt meat or a hambone. The hambone is preferable as it gives the best flavor. Chopped onion, parsley, thyme, bay leaf, green pepper, salt, pepper, red pepper pod.Wash the greens thoroughly and boil all together with sufficient water to cover. When tender take from fire, drain off water and save it. Make a roux by browning the flour in a deep pot with the lard. Add the onion and let brown. Fry the meat. While this is cooking chop the greens and other seasonings thoroughly. Add the greens, and fry for a few minutes, stirring constantly to prevent burning. Add the water in which the greens  were boiled. Simmer in a covered pot about two hours. If it should get too thick add a little boiling water. Serve with boiled rice. — New Orleans City Guide (WPA, 1938)
Zoom

Gombo Zhebes  
(Gumbo of Herbs)

There is a legend that this gumbo should be cooked on Holy Thursday for good luck. Upon passing the French Market on this day, you will hear the vendors crying, ‘Buy your seven greens for good luck!’

2 tablespoons lard
2 tablespoons flour
1 bunch spinach, mustard greens, beet tops, turnip tops, outside leaves of Creole lettuce, green cabbage, green celery leaves, green onion tops or almost any combination of greens.

Bacon strips, salt meat or a hambone. The hambone is preferable as it gives the best flavor.

Chopped onion, parsley, thyme, bay leaf, green pepper, salt, pepper, red pepper pod.

Wash the greens thoroughly and boil all together with sufficient water to cover. When tender take from fire, drain off water and save it. Make a roux by browning the flour in a deep pot with the lard. Add the onion and let brown. Fry the meat. While this is cooking chop the greens and other seasonings thoroughly. Add the greens, and fry for a few minutes, stirring constantly to prevent burning. Add the water in which the greens  were boiled. Simmer in a covered pot about two hours. If it should get too thick add a little boiling water. Serve with boiled rice.

— New Orleans City Guide (WPA, 1938)