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

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

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

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

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

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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.

PROJECT GASBUGGY - FARMINGTON, NEW MEXICO Once upon a time in the west, December 1967 to be exact, some men from the Lawrence Radiation Laboratory and some men from the EL Paso Natural Gas company buried a 29-kiloton nuclear bomb (Hiroshima was around 13-kilotons) in the ground just west of Farmington, New Mexico, in the Carson National Forest.  Then they set it off. Project Gasbuggy was the first of three industry-government experiments conducted in the Four Corners area under the Operation Plowshare program to turn swords into plowshares.  The grand idea was to find peaceful uses for nuclear weapons, in this case to stimulate energy production by fracking for natural gas on an epic scale. The bomb used at Gasbuggy was 13 feet long and 17.5 inches in diameter.  It took three days to lower the bomb 4,240 feet underground.  Once there, it was cemented into place in the dense, but natural gas rich Lewis shale formation. The resulting explosion — and 5.10 magnitude earthquake — left a crater on top and an underground glass lined chimney 335 feet high and 160 feet in diameter.  As predicted, the detonation shattered the shale and dramatically increased the amount of gas that was recoverable. It also made the gas so radioactive that it couldn’t be used. Somehow feeling that unleashing that much natural underground radiation with a nuclear explosion might turn out differently, the experiment was tried two more times: first with the 40-kiloton Project Rulison near Parachute, Colorado, and finally with Project Rio Blanco’s three simultaneous 33-kiloton detonations near Rifle, Colorado. While the public was initially supportive before Gasbuggy, by the time of Rulison in 1969 the tide had changed.  With a new national sense of environmentalism taking root, Operation Plowshare would come to an end after Rio Blanco in 1973. Then they just had to clean it all up. To visit the Project Gasbuggy site, look for mile marker 115 on Highway 64.  Turn onto the Jicarilla Apache reservation road J-10, and follow it for 7.25 miles.  At that point you will enter the Carson National Forest, and the road will turn into Forest Service 357.  Go one more mile and you are at ground zero. Guide Notes:  Plowshare, the Movie Plowshare background, including a list of planned but not executed tests in such places as Pennsylvania, Mississippi, Australia, Canadian tar sands and Buffalo, Wyoming, among others. Carson National Forest * * * At-Large Guide to the West James Orndorf was born in Minnesota, but knew at a very young age that the future lay out west. He is currently photographing and illustrating outside of Durango, Colorado. You can see what he’s up to at inlandwest.tumblr.com and roughshelter.com.
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PROJECT GASBUGGY - FARMINGTON, NEW MEXICO Once upon a time in the west, December 1967 to be exact, some men from the Lawrence Radiation Laboratory and some men from the EL Paso Natural Gas company buried a 29-kiloton nuclear bomb (Hiroshima was around 13-kilotons) in the ground just west of Farmington, New Mexico, in the Carson National Forest.  Then they set it off. Project Gasbuggy was the first of three industry-government experiments conducted in the Four Corners area under the Operation Plowshare program to turn swords into plowshares.  The grand idea was to find peaceful uses for nuclear weapons, in this case to stimulate energy production by fracking for natural gas on an epic scale. The bomb used at Gasbuggy was 13 feet long and 17.5 inches in diameter.  It took three days to lower the bomb 4,240 feet underground.  Once there, it was cemented into place in the dense, but natural gas rich Lewis shale formation. The resulting explosion — and 5.10 magnitude earthquake — left a crater on top and an underground glass lined chimney 335 feet high and 160 feet in diameter.  As predicted, the detonation shattered the shale and dramatically increased the amount of gas that was recoverable. It also made the gas so radioactive that it couldn’t be used. Somehow feeling that unleashing that much natural underground radiation with a nuclear explosion might turn out differently, the experiment was tried two more times: first with the 40-kiloton Project Rulison near Parachute, Colorado, and finally with Project Rio Blanco’s three simultaneous 33-kiloton detonations near Rifle, Colorado. While the public was initially supportive before Gasbuggy, by the time of Rulison in 1969 the tide had changed.  With a new national sense of environmentalism taking root, Operation Plowshare would come to an end after Rio Blanco in 1973. Then they just had to clean it all up. To visit the Project Gasbuggy site, look for mile marker 115 on Highway 64.  Turn onto the Jicarilla Apache reservation road J-10, and follow it for 7.25 miles.  At that point you will enter the Carson National Forest, and the road will turn into Forest Service 357.  Go one more mile and you are at ground zero. Guide Notes:  Plowshare, the Movie Plowshare background, including a list of planned but not executed tests in such places as Pennsylvania, Mississippi, Australia, Canadian tar sands and Buffalo, Wyoming, among others. Carson National Forest * * * At-Large Guide to the West James Orndorf was born in Minnesota, but knew at a very young age that the future lay out west. He is currently photographing and illustrating outside of Durango, Colorado. You can see what he’s up to at inlandwest.tumblr.com and roughshelter.com.
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PROJECT GASBUGGY - FARMINGTON, NEW MEXICO Once upon a time in the west, December 1967 to be exact, some men from the Lawrence Radiation Laboratory and some men from the EL Paso Natural Gas company buried a 29-kiloton nuclear bomb (Hiroshima was around 13-kilotons) in the ground just west of Farmington, New Mexico, in the Carson National Forest.  Then they set it off. Project Gasbuggy was the first of three industry-government experiments conducted in the Four Corners area under the Operation Plowshare program to turn swords into plowshares.  The grand idea was to find peaceful uses for nuclear weapons, in this case to stimulate energy production by fracking for natural gas on an epic scale. The bomb used at Gasbuggy was 13 feet long and 17.5 inches in diameter.  It took three days to lower the bomb 4,240 feet underground.  Once there, it was cemented into place in the dense, but natural gas rich Lewis shale formation. The resulting explosion — and 5.10 magnitude earthquake — left a crater on top and an underground glass lined chimney 335 feet high and 160 feet in diameter.  As predicted, the detonation shattered the shale and dramatically increased the amount of gas that was recoverable. It also made the gas so radioactive that it couldn’t be used. Somehow feeling that unleashing that much natural underground radiation with a nuclear explosion might turn out differently, the experiment was tried two more times: first with the 40-kiloton Project Rulison near Parachute, Colorado, and finally with Project Rio Blanco’s three simultaneous 33-kiloton detonations near Rifle, Colorado. While the public was initially supportive before Gasbuggy, by the time of Rulison in 1969 the tide had changed.  With a new national sense of environmentalism taking root, Operation Plowshare would come to an end after Rio Blanco in 1973. Then they just had to clean it all up. To visit the Project Gasbuggy site, look for mile marker 115 on Highway 64.  Turn onto the Jicarilla Apache reservation road J-10, and follow it for 7.25 miles.  At that point you will enter the Carson National Forest, and the road will turn into Forest Service 357.  Go one more mile and you are at ground zero. Guide Notes:  Plowshare, the Movie Plowshare background, including a list of planned but not executed tests in such places as Pennsylvania, Mississippi, Australia, Canadian tar sands and Buffalo, Wyoming, among others. Carson National Forest * * * At-Large Guide to the West James Orndorf was born in Minnesota, but knew at a very young age that the future lay out west. He is currently photographing and illustrating outside of Durango, Colorado. You can see what he’s up to at inlandwest.tumblr.com and roughshelter.com.
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PROJECT GASBUGGY - FARMINGTON, NEW MEXICO Once upon a time in the west, December 1967 to be exact, some men from the Lawrence Radiation Laboratory and some men from the EL Paso Natural Gas company buried a 29-kiloton nuclear bomb (Hiroshima was around 13-kilotons) in the ground just west of Farmington, New Mexico, in the Carson National Forest.  Then they set it off. Project Gasbuggy was the first of three industry-government experiments conducted in the Four Corners area under the Operation Plowshare program to turn swords into plowshares.  The grand idea was to find peaceful uses for nuclear weapons, in this case to stimulate energy production by fracking for natural gas on an epic scale. The bomb used at Gasbuggy was 13 feet long and 17.5 inches in diameter.  It took three days to lower the bomb 4,240 feet underground.  Once there, it was cemented into place in the dense, but natural gas rich Lewis shale formation. The resulting explosion — and 5.10 magnitude earthquake — left a crater on top and an underground glass lined chimney 335 feet high and 160 feet in diameter.  As predicted, the detonation shattered the shale and dramatically increased the amount of gas that was recoverable. It also made the gas so radioactive that it couldn’t be used. Somehow feeling that unleashing that much natural underground radiation with a nuclear explosion might turn out differently, the experiment was tried two more times: first with the 40-kiloton Project Rulison near Parachute, Colorado, and finally with Project Rio Blanco’s three simultaneous 33-kiloton detonations near Rifle, Colorado. While the public was initially supportive before Gasbuggy, by the time of Rulison in 1969 the tide had changed.  With a new national sense of environmentalism taking root, Operation Plowshare would come to an end after Rio Blanco in 1973. Then they just had to clean it all up. To visit the Project Gasbuggy site, look for mile marker 115 on Highway 64.  Turn onto the Jicarilla Apache reservation road J-10, and follow it for 7.25 miles.  At that point you will enter the Carson National Forest, and the road will turn into Forest Service 357.  Go one more mile and you are at ground zero. Guide Notes:  Plowshare, the Movie Plowshare background, including a list of planned but not executed tests in such places as Pennsylvania, Mississippi, Australia, Canadian tar sands and Buffalo, Wyoming, among others. Carson National Forest * * * At-Large Guide to the West James Orndorf was born in Minnesota, but knew at a very young age that the future lay out west. He is currently photographing and illustrating outside of Durango, Colorado. You can see what he’s up to at inlandwest.tumblr.com and roughshelter.com.
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PROJECT GASBUGGY - FARMINGTON, NEW MEXICO Once upon a time in the west, December 1967 to be exact, some men from the Lawrence Radiation Laboratory and some men from the EL Paso Natural Gas company buried a 29-kiloton nuclear bomb (Hiroshima was around 13-kilotons) in the ground just west of Farmington, New Mexico, in the Carson National Forest.  Then they set it off. Project Gasbuggy was the first of three industry-government experiments conducted in the Four Corners area under the Operation Plowshare program to turn swords into plowshares.  The grand idea was to find peaceful uses for nuclear weapons, in this case to stimulate energy production by fracking for natural gas on an epic scale. The bomb used at Gasbuggy was 13 feet long and 17.5 inches in diameter.  It took three days to lower the bomb 4,240 feet underground.  Once there, it was cemented into place in the dense, but natural gas rich Lewis shale formation. The resulting explosion — and 5.10 magnitude earthquake — left a crater on top and an underground glass lined chimney 335 feet high and 160 feet in diameter.  As predicted, the detonation shattered the shale and dramatically increased the amount of gas that was recoverable. It also made the gas so radioactive that it couldn’t be used. Somehow feeling that unleashing that much natural underground radiation with a nuclear explosion might turn out differently, the experiment was tried two more times: first with the 40-kiloton Project Rulison near Parachute, Colorado, and finally with Project Rio Blanco’s three simultaneous 33-kiloton detonations near Rifle, Colorado. While the public was initially supportive before Gasbuggy, by the time of Rulison in 1969 the tide had changed.  With a new national sense of environmentalism taking root, Operation Plowshare would come to an end after Rio Blanco in 1973. Then they just had to clean it all up. To visit the Project Gasbuggy site, look for mile marker 115 on Highway 64.  Turn onto the Jicarilla Apache reservation road J-10, and follow it for 7.25 miles.  At that point you will enter the Carson National Forest, and the road will turn into Forest Service 357.  Go one more mile and you are at ground zero. Guide Notes:  Plowshare, the Movie Plowshare background, including a list of planned but not executed tests in such places as Pennsylvania, Mississippi, Australia, Canadian tar sands and Buffalo, Wyoming, among others. Carson National Forest * * * At-Large Guide to the West James Orndorf was born in Minnesota, but knew at a very young age that the future lay out west. He is currently photographing and illustrating outside of Durango, Colorado. You can see what he’s up to at inlandwest.tumblr.com and roughshelter.com.
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PROJECT GASBUGGY - FARMINGTON, NEW MEXICO Once upon a time in the west, December 1967 to be exact, some men from the Lawrence Radiation Laboratory and some men from the EL Paso Natural Gas company buried a 29-kiloton nuclear bomb (Hiroshima was around 13-kilotons) in the ground just west of Farmington, New Mexico, in the Carson National Forest.  Then they set it off. Project Gasbuggy was the first of three industry-government experiments conducted in the Four Corners area under the Operation Plowshare program to turn swords into plowshares.  The grand idea was to find peaceful uses for nuclear weapons, in this case to stimulate energy production by fracking for natural gas on an epic scale. The bomb used at Gasbuggy was 13 feet long and 17.5 inches in diameter.  It took three days to lower the bomb 4,240 feet underground.  Once there, it was cemented into place in the dense, but natural gas rich Lewis shale formation. The resulting explosion — and 5.10 magnitude earthquake — left a crater on top and an underground glass lined chimney 335 feet high and 160 feet in diameter.  As predicted, the detonation shattered the shale and dramatically increased the amount of gas that was recoverable. It also made the gas so radioactive that it couldn’t be used. Somehow feeling that unleashing that much natural underground radiation with a nuclear explosion might turn out differently, the experiment was tried two more times: first with the 40-kiloton Project Rulison near Parachute, Colorado, and finally with Project Rio Blanco’s three simultaneous 33-kiloton detonations near Rifle, Colorado. While the public was initially supportive before Gasbuggy, by the time of Rulison in 1969 the tide had changed.  With a new national sense of environmentalism taking root, Operation Plowshare would come to an end after Rio Blanco in 1973. Then they just had to clean it all up. To visit the Project Gasbuggy site, look for mile marker 115 on Highway 64.  Turn onto the Jicarilla Apache reservation road J-10, and follow it for 7.25 miles.  At that point you will enter the Carson National Forest, and the road will turn into Forest Service 357.  Go one more mile and you are at ground zero. Guide Notes:  Plowshare, the Movie Plowshare background, including a list of planned but not executed tests in such places as Pennsylvania, Mississippi, Australia, Canadian tar sands and Buffalo, Wyoming, among others. Carson National Forest * * * At-Large Guide to the West James Orndorf was born in Minnesota, but knew at a very young age that the future lay out west. He is currently photographing and illustrating outside of Durango, Colorado. You can see what he’s up to at inlandwest.tumblr.com and roughshelter.com.
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PROJECT GASBUGGY - FARMINGTON, NEW MEXICO Once upon a time in the west, December 1967 to be exact, some men from the Lawrence Radiation Laboratory and some men from the EL Paso Natural Gas company buried a 29-kiloton nuclear bomb (Hiroshima was around 13-kilotons) in the ground just west of Farmington, New Mexico, in the Carson National Forest.  Then they set it off. Project Gasbuggy was the first of three industry-government experiments conducted in the Four Corners area under the Operation Plowshare program to turn swords into plowshares.  The grand idea was to find peaceful uses for nuclear weapons, in this case to stimulate energy production by fracking for natural gas on an epic scale. The bomb used at Gasbuggy was 13 feet long and 17.5 inches in diameter.  It took three days to lower the bomb 4,240 feet underground.  Once there, it was cemented into place in the dense, but natural gas rich Lewis shale formation. The resulting explosion — and 5.10 magnitude earthquake — left a crater on top and an underground glass lined chimney 335 feet high and 160 feet in diameter.  As predicted, the detonation shattered the shale and dramatically increased the amount of gas that was recoverable. It also made the gas so radioactive that it couldn’t be used. Somehow feeling that unleashing that much natural underground radiation with a nuclear explosion might turn out differently, the experiment was tried two more times: first with the 40-kiloton Project Rulison near Parachute, Colorado, and finally with Project Rio Blanco’s three simultaneous 33-kiloton detonations near Rifle, Colorado. While the public was initially supportive before Gasbuggy, by the time of Rulison in 1969 the tide had changed.  With a new national sense of environmentalism taking root, Operation Plowshare would come to an end after Rio Blanco in 1973. Then they just had to clean it all up. To visit the Project Gasbuggy site, look for mile marker 115 on Highway 64.  Turn onto the Jicarilla Apache reservation road J-10, and follow it for 7.25 miles.  At that point you will enter the Carson National Forest, and the road will turn into Forest Service 357.  Go one more mile and you are at ground zero. Guide Notes:  Plowshare, the Movie Plowshare background, including a list of planned but not executed tests in such places as Pennsylvania, Mississippi, Australia, Canadian tar sands and Buffalo, Wyoming, among others. Carson National Forest * * * At-Large Guide to the West James Orndorf was born in Minnesota, but knew at a very young age that the future lay out west. He is currently photographing and illustrating outside of Durango, Colorado. You can see what he’s up to at inlandwest.tumblr.com and roughshelter.com.
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PROJECT GASBUGGY - FARMINGTON, NEW MEXICO Once upon a time in the west, December 1967 to be exact, some men from the Lawrence Radiation Laboratory and some men from the EL Paso Natural Gas company buried a 29-kiloton nuclear bomb (Hiroshima was around 13-kilotons) in the ground just west of Farmington, New Mexico, in the Carson National Forest.  Then they set it off. Project Gasbuggy was the first of three industry-government experiments conducted in the Four Corners area under the Operation Plowshare program to turn swords into plowshares.  The grand idea was to find peaceful uses for nuclear weapons, in this case to stimulate energy production by fracking for natural gas on an epic scale. The bomb used at Gasbuggy was 13 feet long and 17.5 inches in diameter.  It took three days to lower the bomb 4,240 feet underground.  Once there, it was cemented into place in the dense, but natural gas rich Lewis shale formation. The resulting explosion — and 5.10 magnitude earthquake — left a crater on top and an underground glass lined chimney 335 feet high and 160 feet in diameter.  As predicted, the detonation shattered the shale and dramatically increased the amount of gas that was recoverable. It also made the gas so radioactive that it couldn’t be used. Somehow feeling that unleashing that much natural underground radiation with a nuclear explosion might turn out differently, the experiment was tried two more times: first with the 40-kiloton Project Rulison near Parachute, Colorado, and finally with Project Rio Blanco’s three simultaneous 33-kiloton detonations near Rifle, Colorado. While the public was initially supportive before Gasbuggy, by the time of Rulison in 1969 the tide had changed.  With a new national sense of environmentalism taking root, Operation Plowshare would come to an end after Rio Blanco in 1973. Then they just had to clean it all up. To visit the Project Gasbuggy site, look for mile marker 115 on Highway 64.  Turn onto the Jicarilla Apache reservation road J-10, and follow it for 7.25 miles.  At that point you will enter the Carson National Forest, and the road will turn into Forest Service 357.  Go one more mile and you are at ground zero. Guide Notes:  Plowshare, the Movie Plowshare background, including a list of planned but not executed tests in such places as Pennsylvania, Mississippi, Australia, Canadian tar sands and Buffalo, Wyoming, among others. Carson National Forest * * * At-Large Guide to the West James Orndorf was born in Minnesota, but knew at a very young age that the future lay out west. He is currently photographing and illustrating outside of Durango, Colorado. You can see what he’s up to at inlandwest.tumblr.com and roughshelter.com.
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PROJECT GASBUGGY - FARMINGTON, NEW MEXICO Once upon a time in the west, December 1967 to be exact, some men from the Lawrence Radiation Laboratory and some men from the EL Paso Natural Gas company buried a 29-kiloton nuclear bomb (Hiroshima was around 13-kilotons) in the ground just west of Farmington, New Mexico, in the Carson National Forest.  Then they set it off. Project Gasbuggy was the first of three industry-government experiments conducted in the Four Corners area under the Operation Plowshare program to turn swords into plowshares.  The grand idea was to find peaceful uses for nuclear weapons, in this case to stimulate energy production by fracking for natural gas on an epic scale. The bomb used at Gasbuggy was 13 feet long and 17.5 inches in diameter.  It took three days to lower the bomb 4,240 feet underground.  Once there, it was cemented into place in the dense, but natural gas rich Lewis shale formation. The resulting explosion — and 5.10 magnitude earthquake — left a crater on top and an underground glass lined chimney 335 feet high and 160 feet in diameter.  As predicted, the detonation shattered the shale and dramatically increased the amount of gas that was recoverable. It also made the gas so radioactive that it couldn’t be used. Somehow feeling that unleashing that much natural underground radiation with a nuclear explosion might turn out differently, the experiment was tried two more times: first with the 40-kiloton Project Rulison near Parachute, Colorado, and finally with Project Rio Blanco’s three simultaneous 33-kiloton detonations near Rifle, Colorado. While the public was initially supportive before Gasbuggy, by the time of Rulison in 1969 the tide had changed.  With a new national sense of environmentalism taking root, Operation Plowshare would come to an end after Rio Blanco in 1973. Then they just had to clean it all up. To visit the Project Gasbuggy site, look for mile marker 115 on Highway 64.  Turn onto the Jicarilla Apache reservation road J-10, and follow it for 7.25 miles.  At that point you will enter the Carson National Forest, and the road will turn into Forest Service 357.  Go one more mile and you are at ground zero. Guide Notes:  Plowshare, the Movie Plowshare background, including a list of planned but not executed tests in such places as Pennsylvania, Mississippi, Australia, Canadian tar sands and Buffalo, Wyoming, among others. Carson National Forest * * * At-Large Guide to the West James Orndorf was born in Minnesota, but knew at a very young age that the future lay out west. He is currently photographing and illustrating outside of Durango, Colorado. You can see what he’s up to at inlandwest.tumblr.com and roughshelter.com.
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PROJECT GASBUGGY - FARMINGTON, NEW MEXICO Once upon a time in the west, December 1967 to be exact, some men from the Lawrence Radiation Laboratory and some men from the EL Paso Natural Gas company buried a 29-kiloton nuclear bomb (Hiroshima was around 13-kilotons) in the ground just west of Farmington, New Mexico, in the Carson National Forest.  Then they set it off. Project Gasbuggy was the first of three industry-government experiments conducted in the Four Corners area under the Operation Plowshare program to turn swords into plowshares.  The grand idea was to find peaceful uses for nuclear weapons, in this case to stimulate energy production by fracking for natural gas on an epic scale. The bomb used at Gasbuggy was 13 feet long and 17.5 inches in diameter.  It took three days to lower the bomb 4,240 feet underground.  Once there, it was cemented into place in the dense, but natural gas rich Lewis shale formation. The resulting explosion — and 5.10 magnitude earthquake — left a crater on top and an underground glass lined chimney 335 feet high and 160 feet in diameter.  As predicted, the detonation shattered the shale and dramatically increased the amount of gas that was recoverable. It also made the gas so radioactive that it couldn’t be used. Somehow feeling that unleashing that much natural underground radiation with a nuclear explosion might turn out differently, the experiment was tried two more times: first with the 40-kiloton Project Rulison near Parachute, Colorado, and finally with Project Rio Blanco’s three simultaneous 33-kiloton detonations near Rifle, Colorado. While the public was initially supportive before Gasbuggy, by the time of Rulison in 1969 the tide had changed.  With a new national sense of environmentalism taking root, Operation Plowshare would come to an end after Rio Blanco in 1973. Then they just had to clean it all up. To visit the Project Gasbuggy site, look for mile marker 115 on Highway 64.  Turn onto the Jicarilla Apache reservation road J-10, and follow it for 7.25 miles.  At that point you will enter the Carson National Forest, and the road will turn into Forest Service 357.  Go one more mile and you are at ground zero. Guide Notes:  Plowshare, the Movie Plowshare background, including a list of planned but not executed tests in such places as Pennsylvania, Mississippi, Australia, Canadian tar sands and Buffalo, Wyoming, among others. Carson National Forest * * * At-Large Guide to the West James Orndorf was born in Minnesota, but knew at a very young age that the future lay out west. He is currently photographing and illustrating outside of Durango, Colorado. You can see what he’s up to at inlandwest.tumblr.com and roughshelter.com.
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PROJECT GASBUGGY - FARMINGTON, NEW MEXICO

Once upon a time in the west, December 1967 to be exact, some men from the Lawrence Radiation Laboratory and some men from the EL Paso Natural Gas company buried a 29-kiloton nuclear bomb (Hiroshima was around 13-kilotons) in the ground just west of Farmington, New Mexico, in the Carson National Forest.  Then they set it off.

Project Gasbuggy was the first of three industry-government experiments conducted in the Four Corners area under the Operation Plowshare program to turn swords into plowshares.  The grand idea was to find peaceful uses for nuclear weapons, in this case to stimulate energy production by fracking for natural gas on an epic scale.

The bomb used at Gasbuggy was 13 feet long and 17.5 inches in diameter.  It took three days to lower the bomb 4,240 feet underground.  Once there, it was cemented into place in the dense, but natural gas rich Lewis shale formation.

The resulting explosion — and 5.10 magnitude earthquake — left a crater on top and an underground glass lined chimney 335 feet high and 160 feet in diameter.  As predicted, the detonation shattered the shale and dramatically increased the amount of gas that was recoverable.

It also made the gas so radioactive that it couldn’t be used.

Somehow feeling that unleashing that much natural underground radiation with a nuclear explosion might turn out differently, the experiment was tried two more times: first with the 40-kiloton Project Rulison near Parachute, Colorado, and finally with Project Rio Blanco’s three simultaneous 33-kiloton detonations near Rifle, Colorado.

While the public was initially supportive before Gasbuggy, by the time of Rulison in 1969 the tide had changed.  With a new national sense of environmentalism taking root, Operation Plowshare would come to an end after Rio Blanco in 1973.

Then they just had to clean it all up.

To visit the Project Gasbuggy site, look for mile marker 115 on Highway 64.  Turn onto the Jicarilla Apache reservation road J-10, and follow it for 7.25 miles.  At that point you will enter the Carson National Forest, and the road will turn into Forest Service 357.  Go one more mile and you are at ground zero.

Guide Notes: 

* * *

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

A BRIEF INTRODUCTION TO THE NEAR EAST SIDE OF DETROIT Because of swift, undirected growth, Detroit may have forlorn aspects, but this does not indicate a lack of civic pride. — Michigan, A Guide To the Wolverine State (WPA, 1941) * * * Jonathan Miller is our Guide to Detroit, the city where he lives and works as a hotel maintenance manager. You know that thing you broke at that hotel, he fixed it. His photography is on tumblr at detroitmaintenanceman and everything else is at his website, detroitmaintenance.
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A BRIEF INTRODUCTION TO THE NEAR EAST SIDE OF DETROIT Because of swift, undirected growth, Detroit may have forlorn aspects, but this does not indicate a lack of civic pride. — Michigan, A Guide To the Wolverine State (WPA, 1941) * * * Jonathan Miller is our Guide to Detroit, the city where he lives and works as a hotel maintenance manager. You know that thing you broke at that hotel, he fixed it. His photography is on tumblr at detroitmaintenanceman and everything else is at his website, detroitmaintenance.
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A BRIEF INTRODUCTION TO THE NEAR EAST SIDE OF DETROIT Because of swift, undirected growth, Detroit may have forlorn aspects, but this does not indicate a lack of civic pride. — Michigan, A Guide To the Wolverine State (WPA, 1941) * * * Jonathan Miller is our Guide to Detroit, the city where he lives and works as a hotel maintenance manager. You know that thing you broke at that hotel, he fixed it. His photography is on tumblr at detroitmaintenanceman and everything else is at his website, detroitmaintenance.
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A BRIEF INTRODUCTION TO THE NEAR EAST SIDE OF DETROIT Because of swift, undirected growth, Detroit may have forlorn aspects, but this does not indicate a lack of civic pride. — Michigan, A Guide To the Wolverine State (WPA, 1941) * * * Jonathan Miller is our Guide to Detroit, the city where he lives and works as a hotel maintenance manager. You know that thing you broke at that hotel, he fixed it. His photography is on tumblr at detroitmaintenanceman and everything else is at his website, detroitmaintenance.
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A BRIEF INTRODUCTION TO THE NEAR EAST SIDE OF DETROIT Because of swift, undirected growth, Detroit may have forlorn aspects, but this does not indicate a lack of civic pride. — Michigan, A Guide To the Wolverine State (WPA, 1941) * * * Jonathan Miller is our Guide to Detroit, the city where he lives and works as a hotel maintenance manager. You know that thing you broke at that hotel, he fixed it. His photography is on tumblr at detroitmaintenanceman and everything else is at his website, detroitmaintenance.
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A BRIEF INTRODUCTION TO THE NEAR EAST SIDE OF DETROIT

Because of swift, undirected growth, Detroit may have forlorn aspects, but this does not indicate a lack of civic pride.

— Michigan, A Guide To the Wolverine State (WPA, 1941)

* * *

Jonathan Miller is our Guide to Detroit, the city where he lives and works as a hotel maintenance manager. You know that thing you broke at that hotel, he fixed it. His photography is on tumblr at detroitmaintenanceman and everything else is at his website, detroitmaintenance.

GULF SHORES, ALABAMA The sandy soil becomes dazzlingly white near Fort Morgan; trees give way to grass and scrub palmettoes, and bay and gulf can be seen from the highway. — Alabama, A Guide to the Deep South (WPA, 1941) On April, 20th 2010, the Deepwater Horizon drilling rig exploded, dumping some 4.9 million barrels of oil into the Gulf of Mexico over the span of a few months. Four hundred and ninety-one miles of coastline in Louisiana, Mississippi, Alabama and Florida were contaminated by oil. Clean up efforts used were not the most effective, nor the least toxic. Parts of the coast will never be the same. Part of my childhood. It’s been two years since they capped the well. The beaches have opened, the resorts too. Regardless of what the BP-sponsored commercials are saying, it’s not the same. The scar still runs deep. You walk down the beach and parts are closed from a fisherman finding tar balls washed up from the Gulf. A reminder of how things still need time and hope to change.  I spent all of my childhood in the Gulf and the surrounding bays. I was landlocked when the spill happened, but it still feels personal. * * * Michael McCraw is a State Guide to Georgia and Alabama. He’s a photographer who’s spent his whole life in the South and when he’s not photographing or writing you can find him with his family or stocking shelves at his work. Follow his work on Tumblr or at his website.  
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GULF SHORES, ALABAMA The sandy soil becomes dazzlingly white near Fort Morgan; trees give way to grass and scrub palmettoes, and bay and gulf can be seen from the highway. — Alabama, A Guide to the Deep South (WPA, 1941) On April, 20th 2010, the Deepwater Horizon drilling rig exploded, dumping some 4.9 million barrels of oil into the Gulf of Mexico over the span of a few months. Four hundred and ninety-one miles of coastline in Louisiana, Mississippi, Alabama and Florida were contaminated by oil. Clean up efforts used were not the most effective, nor the least toxic. Parts of the coast will never be the same. Part of my childhood. It’s been two years since they capped the well. The beaches have opened, the resorts too. Regardless of what the BP-sponsored commercials are saying, it’s not the same. The scar still runs deep. You walk down the beach and parts are closed from a fisherman finding tar balls washed up from the Gulf. A reminder of how things still need time and hope to change.  I spent all of my childhood in the Gulf and the surrounding bays. I was landlocked when the spill happened, but it still feels personal. * * * Michael McCraw is a State Guide to Georgia and Alabama. He’s a photographer who’s spent his whole life in the South and when he’s not photographing or writing you can find him with his family or stocking shelves at his work. Follow his work on Tumblr or at his website.  
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GULF SHORES, ALABAMA The sandy soil becomes dazzlingly white near Fort Morgan; trees give way to grass and scrub palmettoes, and bay and gulf can be seen from the highway. — Alabama, A Guide to the Deep South (WPA, 1941) On April, 20th 2010, the Deepwater Horizon drilling rig exploded, dumping some 4.9 million barrels of oil into the Gulf of Mexico over the span of a few months. Four hundred and ninety-one miles of coastline in Louisiana, Mississippi, Alabama and Florida were contaminated by oil. Clean up efforts used were not the most effective, nor the least toxic. Parts of the coast will never be the same. Part of my childhood. It’s been two years since they capped the well. The beaches have opened, the resorts too. Regardless of what the BP-sponsored commercials are saying, it’s not the same. The scar still runs deep. You walk down the beach and parts are closed from a fisherman finding tar balls washed up from the Gulf. A reminder of how things still need time and hope to change.  I spent all of my childhood in the Gulf and the surrounding bays. I was landlocked when the spill happened, but it still feels personal. * * * Michael McCraw is a State Guide to Georgia and Alabama. He’s a photographer who’s spent his whole life in the South and when he’s not photographing or writing you can find him with his family or stocking shelves at his work. Follow his work on Tumblr or at his website.  
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GULF SHORES, ALABAMA The sandy soil becomes dazzlingly white near Fort Morgan; trees give way to grass and scrub palmettoes, and bay and gulf can be seen from the highway. — Alabama, A Guide to the Deep South (WPA, 1941) On April, 20th 2010, the Deepwater Horizon drilling rig exploded, dumping some 4.9 million barrels of oil into the Gulf of Mexico over the span of a few months. Four hundred and ninety-one miles of coastline in Louisiana, Mississippi, Alabama and Florida were contaminated by oil. Clean up efforts used were not the most effective, nor the least toxic. Parts of the coast will never be the same. Part of my childhood. It’s been two years since they capped the well. The beaches have opened, the resorts too. Regardless of what the BP-sponsored commercials are saying, it’s not the same. The scar still runs deep. You walk down the beach and parts are closed from a fisherman finding tar balls washed up from the Gulf. A reminder of how things still need time and hope to change.  I spent all of my childhood in the Gulf and the surrounding bays. I was landlocked when the spill happened, but it still feels personal. * * * Michael McCraw is a State Guide to Georgia and Alabama. He’s a photographer who’s spent his whole life in the South and when he’s not photographing or writing you can find him with his family or stocking shelves at his work. Follow his work on Tumblr or at his website.  
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GULF SHORES, ALABAMA

The sandy soil becomes dazzlingly white near Fort Morgan; trees give way to grass and scrub palmettoes, and bay and gulf can be seen from the highway.

— Alabama, A Guide to the Deep South (WPA, 1941)

On April, 20th 2010, the Deepwater Horizon drilling rig exploded, dumping some 4.9 million barrels of oil into the Gulf of Mexico over the span of a few months. Four hundred and ninety-one miles of coastline in Louisiana, Mississippi, Alabama and Florida were contaminated by oil. Clean up efforts used were not the most effective, nor the least toxic. Parts of the coast will never be the same. Part of my childhood. It’s been two years since they capped the well. The beaches have opened, the resorts too. Regardless of what the BP-sponsored commercials are saying, it’s not the same. The scar still runs deep. You walk down the beach and parts are closed from a fisherman finding tar balls washed up from the Gulf. A reminder of how things still need time and hope to change. 

I spent all of my childhood in the Gulf and the surrounding bays. I was landlocked when the spill happened, but it still feels personal.

* * *

Michael McCraw is a State Guide to Georgia and Alabama. He’s a photographer who’s spent his whole life in the South and when he’s not photographing or writing you can find him with his family or stocking shelves at his work. Follow his work on Tumblr or at his website.  

CLIMATE RALLY - WASHINGTON, DC In February, Guide to Nebraska Alex Matzke traveled to Washington, DC, with a group of Nebraskans protesting against the Keystone XL pipeline.  Here are Alex’s words: I was completely overwhelmed by the number of people. Does that sound like a terribly midwestern thing to say? But it’s true. I’ve been in Times Square during high traffic, but never in a mob moving together. At times dancing with total strangers because Reverend Yearwood asked you to jump away the cold between speakers.  Most of the Nebraska delegation bussed out arriving the night before the rally. We met in the basement of a local pub for stretching of legs and instructions from organizers at Bold Nebraska. That night we also had an opportunity to hear from speakers who would only be a blip on giant screen at the rally. Congregating in the morning our numbers were quickly diluted as the crowd moved around the White House.  * * * Alex Matzke is a State Guide to Nebraska. Growing up in Omaha, her friends showed livestock at State Fair; she showed photographs. Follow her on Tumblr at alexmatzke and alzke or on her website, AlexMatzke.com.
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CLIMATE RALLY - WASHINGTON, DC In February, Guide to Nebraska Alex Matzke traveled to Washington, DC, with a group of Nebraskans protesting against the Keystone XL pipeline.  Here are Alex’s words: I was completely overwhelmed by the number of people. Does that sound like a terribly midwestern thing to say? But it’s true. I’ve been in Times Square during high traffic, but never in a mob moving together. At times dancing with total strangers because Reverend Yearwood asked you to jump away the cold between speakers.  Most of the Nebraska delegation bussed out arriving the night before the rally. We met in the basement of a local pub for stretching of legs and instructions from organizers at Bold Nebraska. That night we also had an opportunity to hear from speakers who would only be a blip on giant screen at the rally. Congregating in the morning our numbers were quickly diluted as the crowd moved around the White House.  * * * Alex Matzke is a State Guide to Nebraska. Growing up in Omaha, her friends showed livestock at State Fair; she showed photographs. Follow her on Tumblr at alexmatzke and alzke or on her website, AlexMatzke.com.
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CLIMATE RALLY - WASHINGTON, DC In February, Guide to Nebraska Alex Matzke traveled to Washington, DC, with a group of Nebraskans protesting against the Keystone XL pipeline.  Here are Alex’s words: I was completely overwhelmed by the number of people. Does that sound like a terribly midwestern thing to say? But it’s true. I’ve been in Times Square during high traffic, but never in a mob moving together. At times dancing with total strangers because Reverend Yearwood asked you to jump away the cold between speakers.  Most of the Nebraska delegation bussed out arriving the night before the rally. We met in the basement of a local pub for stretching of legs and instructions from organizers at Bold Nebraska. That night we also had an opportunity to hear from speakers who would only be a blip on giant screen at the rally. Congregating in the morning our numbers were quickly diluted as the crowd moved around the White House.  * * * Alex Matzke is a State Guide to Nebraska. Growing up in Omaha, her friends showed livestock at State Fair; she showed photographs. Follow her on Tumblr at alexmatzke and alzke or on her website, AlexMatzke.com.
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CLIMATE RALLY - WASHINGTON, DC In February, Guide to Nebraska Alex Matzke traveled to Washington, DC, with a group of Nebraskans protesting against the Keystone XL pipeline.  Here are Alex’s words: I was completely overwhelmed by the number of people. Does that sound like a terribly midwestern thing to say? But it’s true. I’ve been in Times Square during high traffic, but never in a mob moving together. At times dancing with total strangers because Reverend Yearwood asked you to jump away the cold between speakers.  Most of the Nebraska delegation bussed out arriving the night before the rally. We met in the basement of a local pub for stretching of legs and instructions from organizers at Bold Nebraska. That night we also had an opportunity to hear from speakers who would only be a blip on giant screen at the rally. Congregating in the morning our numbers were quickly diluted as the crowd moved around the White House.  * * * Alex Matzke is a State Guide to Nebraska. Growing up in Omaha, her friends showed livestock at State Fair; she showed photographs. Follow her on Tumblr at alexmatzke and alzke or on her website, AlexMatzke.com.
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CLIMATE RALLY - WASHINGTON, DC

In February, Guide to Nebraska Alex Matzke traveled to Washington, DC, with a group of Nebraskans protesting against the Keystone XL pipeline.  Here are Alex’s words:

I was completely overwhelmed by the number of people. Does that sound like a terribly midwestern thing to say? But it’s true. I’ve been in Times Square during high traffic, but never in a mob moving together. At times dancing with total strangers because Reverend Yearwood asked you to jump away the cold between speakers. 

Most of the Nebraska delegation bussed out arriving the night before the rally. We met in the basement of a local pub for stretching of legs and instructions from organizers at Bold Nebraska. That night we also had an opportunity to hear from speakers who would only be a blip on giant screen at the rally. Congregating in the morning our numbers were quickly diluted as the crowd moved around the White House. 

* * *

Alex Matzke is a State Guide to Nebraska. Growing up in Omaha, her friends showed livestock at State Fair; she showed photographs. Follow her on Tumblr at alexmatzke and alzke or on her website, AlexMatzke.com.
DRAGONCON - ATLANTA, GEORGIA Bagpipes fill the early morning air in Atlanta, Georgia. Rather than playing a traditional Scottish tune, the players are dressed as Imperial Stormtroopers and playing the Star Wars theme. The band leads thousands of elaborately dressed sci-fi and fantasy fans and cosplayers (short for “costume players”) down Peachtree Street to a rapt crowd about five people deep on the sidewalk. There are the ever present Star Wars fans, but Dragoncon runs the gamut of literature, games and pop culture. I have seen a gaggle of Lady Gagas, retired Spartans (men with beer bellies and dangling cigarettes wearing 300 gear), various “Dudes” from The Big Lebowski and Bert and Ernie with hyperrealistic features. There are always “Doctors” from Doctor Who, superheroes, wookies and the one guy who looks like Ferris Bueller. It is always interesting to see what phases out (the Mad Max crew were woefully absent from the 2012 parade) and what gets huge (2012 finally saw a group of The Venture Bros. characters). The four day festival spreads out between five downtown Atlanta hotels every Labor Day weekend. Guests follow tracks to optimize their panel viewing and choose the right fit from the thousands of hours of programming. Options include YA Lit, Robotics, Alternate History and Horror, among others. Some stand in line for photos of their favorite actors and entertainers ranging from FX master Tom Savini to Luke Perry (who couldn’t have been cooler). There are many special events during the weekend, too, like dressing up and going to the Georgia Aquarium and indie wrestling at night. My favorite thing to do is walk around downtown after the parade on Saturday, after people have filed away to eat at the food court or find a panel. The city bustles along—you can even see a stray Macho Man Randy Savage strutting around or find Waldo in his signature red stripes running across the street. Dragoncon 2013 is August 30 to September 2. Start planning your costume now! * * * Tammy Mercure is a State Guide to Tennessee. She was recently named one of the “100 under 100: The New Superstars of Southern Art” by Oxford American magazine. Follow on Tumblr at tammymercure or on her website, TammyMercure.com. Support her work at TCB Press.
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DRAGONCON - ATLANTA, GEORGIA Bagpipes fill the early morning air in Atlanta, Georgia. Rather than playing a traditional Scottish tune, the players are dressed as Imperial Stormtroopers and playing the Star Wars theme. The band leads thousands of elaborately dressed sci-fi and fantasy fans and cosplayers (short for “costume players”) down Peachtree Street to a rapt crowd about five people deep on the sidewalk. There are the ever present Star Wars fans, but Dragoncon runs the gamut of literature, games and pop culture. I have seen a gaggle of Lady Gagas, retired Spartans (men with beer bellies and dangling cigarettes wearing 300 gear), various “Dudes” from The Big Lebowski and Bert and Ernie with hyperrealistic features. There are always “Doctors” from Doctor Who, superheroes, wookies and the one guy who looks like Ferris Bueller. It is always interesting to see what phases out (the Mad Max crew were woefully absent from the 2012 parade) and what gets huge (2012 finally saw a group of The Venture Bros. characters). The four day festival spreads out between five downtown Atlanta hotels every Labor Day weekend. Guests follow tracks to optimize their panel viewing and choose the right fit from the thousands of hours of programming. Options include YA Lit, Robotics, Alternate History and Horror, among others. Some stand in line for photos of their favorite actors and entertainers ranging from FX master Tom Savini to Luke Perry (who couldn’t have been cooler). There are many special events during the weekend, too, like dressing up and going to the Georgia Aquarium and indie wrestling at night. My favorite thing to do is walk around downtown after the parade on Saturday, after people have filed away to eat at the food court or find a panel. The city bustles along—you can even see a stray Macho Man Randy Savage strutting around or find Waldo in his signature red stripes running across the street. Dragoncon 2013 is August 30 to September 2. Start planning your costume now! * * * Tammy Mercure is a State Guide to Tennessee. She was recently named one of the “100 under 100: The New Superstars of Southern Art” by Oxford American magazine. Follow on Tumblr at tammymercure or on her website, TammyMercure.com. Support her work at TCB Press.
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DRAGONCON - ATLANTA, GEORGIA Bagpipes fill the early morning air in Atlanta, Georgia. Rather than playing a traditional Scottish tune, the players are dressed as Imperial Stormtroopers and playing the Star Wars theme. The band leads thousands of elaborately dressed sci-fi and fantasy fans and cosplayers (short for “costume players”) down Peachtree Street to a rapt crowd about five people deep on the sidewalk. There are the ever present Star Wars fans, but Dragoncon runs the gamut of literature, games and pop culture. I have seen a gaggle of Lady Gagas, retired Spartans (men with beer bellies and dangling cigarettes wearing 300 gear), various “Dudes” from The Big Lebowski and Bert and Ernie with hyperrealistic features. There are always “Doctors” from Doctor Who, superheroes, wookies and the one guy who looks like Ferris Bueller. It is always interesting to see what phases out (the Mad Max crew were woefully absent from the 2012 parade) and what gets huge (2012 finally saw a group of The Venture Bros. characters). The four day festival spreads out between five downtown Atlanta hotels every Labor Day weekend. Guests follow tracks to optimize their panel viewing and choose the right fit from the thousands of hours of programming. Options include YA Lit, Robotics, Alternate History and Horror, among others. Some stand in line for photos of their favorite actors and entertainers ranging from FX master Tom Savini to Luke Perry (who couldn’t have been cooler). There are many special events during the weekend, too, like dressing up and going to the Georgia Aquarium and indie wrestling at night. My favorite thing to do is walk around downtown after the parade on Saturday, after people have filed away to eat at the food court or find a panel. The city bustles along—you can even see a stray Macho Man Randy Savage strutting around or find Waldo in his signature red stripes running across the street. Dragoncon 2013 is August 30 to September 2. Start planning your costume now! * * * Tammy Mercure is a State Guide to Tennessee. She was recently named one of the “100 under 100: The New Superstars of Southern Art” by Oxford American magazine. Follow on Tumblr at tammymercure or on her website, TammyMercure.com. Support her work at TCB Press.
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DRAGONCON - ATLANTA, GEORGIA Bagpipes fill the early morning air in Atlanta, Georgia. Rather than playing a traditional Scottish tune, the players are dressed as Imperial Stormtroopers and playing the Star Wars theme. The band leads thousands of elaborately dressed sci-fi and fantasy fans and cosplayers (short for “costume players”) down Peachtree Street to a rapt crowd about five people deep on the sidewalk. There are the ever present Star Wars fans, but Dragoncon runs the gamut of literature, games and pop culture. I have seen a gaggle of Lady Gagas, retired Spartans (men with beer bellies and dangling cigarettes wearing 300 gear), various “Dudes” from The Big Lebowski and Bert and Ernie with hyperrealistic features. There are always “Doctors” from Doctor Who, superheroes, wookies and the one guy who looks like Ferris Bueller. It is always interesting to see what phases out (the Mad Max crew were woefully absent from the 2012 parade) and what gets huge (2012 finally saw a group of The Venture Bros. characters). The four day festival spreads out between five downtown Atlanta hotels every Labor Day weekend. Guests follow tracks to optimize their panel viewing and choose the right fit from the thousands of hours of programming. Options include YA Lit, Robotics, Alternate History and Horror, among others. Some stand in line for photos of their favorite actors and entertainers ranging from FX master Tom Savini to Luke Perry (who couldn’t have been cooler). There are many special events during the weekend, too, like dressing up and going to the Georgia Aquarium and indie wrestling at night. My favorite thing to do is walk around downtown after the parade on Saturday, after people have filed away to eat at the food court or find a panel. The city bustles along—you can even see a stray Macho Man Randy Savage strutting around or find Waldo in his signature red stripes running across the street. Dragoncon 2013 is August 30 to September 2. Start planning your costume now! * * * Tammy Mercure is a State Guide to Tennessee. She was recently named one of the “100 under 100: The New Superstars of Southern Art” by Oxford American magazine. Follow on Tumblr at tammymercure or on her website, TammyMercure.com. Support her work at TCB Press.
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DRAGONCON - ATLANTA, GEORGIA Bagpipes fill the early morning air in Atlanta, Georgia. Rather than playing a traditional Scottish tune, the players are dressed as Imperial Stormtroopers and playing the Star Wars theme. The band leads thousands of elaborately dressed sci-fi and fantasy fans and cosplayers (short for “costume players”) down Peachtree Street to a rapt crowd about five people deep on the sidewalk. There are the ever present Star Wars fans, but Dragoncon runs the gamut of literature, games and pop culture. I have seen a gaggle of Lady Gagas, retired Spartans (men with beer bellies and dangling cigarettes wearing 300 gear), various “Dudes” from The Big Lebowski and Bert and Ernie with hyperrealistic features. There are always “Doctors” from Doctor Who, superheroes, wookies and the one guy who looks like Ferris Bueller. It is always interesting to see what phases out (the Mad Max crew were woefully absent from the 2012 parade) and what gets huge (2012 finally saw a group of The Venture Bros. characters). The four day festival spreads out between five downtown Atlanta hotels every Labor Day weekend. Guests follow tracks to optimize their panel viewing and choose the right fit from the thousands of hours of programming. Options include YA Lit, Robotics, Alternate History and Horror, among others. Some stand in line for photos of their favorite actors and entertainers ranging from FX master Tom Savini to Luke Perry (who couldn’t have been cooler). There are many special events during the weekend, too, like dressing up and going to the Georgia Aquarium and indie wrestling at night. My favorite thing to do is walk around downtown after the parade on Saturday, after people have filed away to eat at the food court or find a panel. The city bustles along—you can even see a stray Macho Man Randy Savage strutting around or find Waldo in his signature red stripes running across the street. Dragoncon 2013 is August 30 to September 2. Start planning your costume now! * * * Tammy Mercure is a State Guide to Tennessee. She was recently named one of the “100 under 100: The New Superstars of Southern Art” by Oxford American magazine. Follow on Tumblr at tammymercure or on her website, TammyMercure.com. Support her work at TCB Press.
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DRAGONCON - ATLANTA, GEORGIA Bagpipes fill the early morning air in Atlanta, Georgia. Rather than playing a traditional Scottish tune, the players are dressed as Imperial Stormtroopers and playing the Star Wars theme. The band leads thousands of elaborately dressed sci-fi and fantasy fans and cosplayers (short for “costume players”) down Peachtree Street to a rapt crowd about five people deep on the sidewalk. There are the ever present Star Wars fans, but Dragoncon runs the gamut of literature, games and pop culture. I have seen a gaggle of Lady Gagas, retired Spartans (men with beer bellies and dangling cigarettes wearing 300 gear), various “Dudes” from The Big Lebowski and Bert and Ernie with hyperrealistic features. There are always “Doctors” from Doctor Who, superheroes, wookies and the one guy who looks like Ferris Bueller. It is always interesting to see what phases out (the Mad Max crew were woefully absent from the 2012 parade) and what gets huge (2012 finally saw a group of The Venture Bros. characters). The four day festival spreads out between five downtown Atlanta hotels every Labor Day weekend. Guests follow tracks to optimize their panel viewing and choose the right fit from the thousands of hours of programming. Options include YA Lit, Robotics, Alternate History and Horror, among others. Some stand in line for photos of their favorite actors and entertainers ranging from FX master Tom Savini to Luke Perry (who couldn’t have been cooler). There are many special events during the weekend, too, like dressing up and going to the Georgia Aquarium and indie wrestling at night. My favorite thing to do is walk around downtown after the parade on Saturday, after people have filed away to eat at the food court or find a panel. The city bustles along—you can even see a stray Macho Man Randy Savage strutting around or find Waldo in his signature red stripes running across the street. Dragoncon 2013 is August 30 to September 2. Start planning your costume now! * * * Tammy Mercure is a State Guide to Tennessee. She was recently named one of the “100 under 100: The New Superstars of Southern Art” by Oxford American magazine. Follow on Tumblr at tammymercure or on her website, TammyMercure.com. Support her work at TCB Press.
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DRAGONCON - ATLANTA, GEORGIA Bagpipes fill the early morning air in Atlanta, Georgia. Rather than playing a traditional Scottish tune, the players are dressed as Imperial Stormtroopers and playing the Star Wars theme. The band leads thousands of elaborately dressed sci-fi and fantasy fans and cosplayers (short for “costume players”) down Peachtree Street to a rapt crowd about five people deep on the sidewalk. There are the ever present Star Wars fans, but Dragoncon runs the gamut of literature, games and pop culture. I have seen a gaggle of Lady Gagas, retired Spartans (men with beer bellies and dangling cigarettes wearing 300 gear), various “Dudes” from The Big Lebowski and Bert and Ernie with hyperrealistic features. There are always “Doctors” from Doctor Who, superheroes, wookies and the one guy who looks like Ferris Bueller. It is always interesting to see what phases out (the Mad Max crew were woefully absent from the 2012 parade) and what gets huge (2012 finally saw a group of The Venture Bros. characters). The four day festival spreads out between five downtown Atlanta hotels every Labor Day weekend. Guests follow tracks to optimize their panel viewing and choose the right fit from the thousands of hours of programming. Options include YA Lit, Robotics, Alternate History and Horror, among others. Some stand in line for photos of their favorite actors and entertainers ranging from FX master Tom Savini to Luke Perry (who couldn’t have been cooler). There are many special events during the weekend, too, like dressing up and going to the Georgia Aquarium and indie wrestling at night. My favorite thing to do is walk around downtown after the parade on Saturday, after people have filed away to eat at the food court or find a panel. The city bustles along—you can even see a stray Macho Man Randy Savage strutting around or find Waldo in his signature red stripes running across the street. Dragoncon 2013 is August 30 to September 2. Start planning your costume now! * * * Tammy Mercure is a State Guide to Tennessee. She was recently named one of the “100 under 100: The New Superstars of Southern Art” by Oxford American magazine. Follow on Tumblr at tammymercure or on her website, TammyMercure.com. Support her work at TCB Press.
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DRAGONCON - ATLANTA, GEORGIA Bagpipes fill the early morning air in Atlanta, Georgia. Rather than playing a traditional Scottish tune, the players are dressed as Imperial Stormtroopers and playing the Star Wars theme. The band leads thousands of elaborately dressed sci-fi and fantasy fans and cosplayers (short for “costume players”) down Peachtree Street to a rapt crowd about five people deep on the sidewalk. There are the ever present Star Wars fans, but Dragoncon runs the gamut of literature, games and pop culture. I have seen a gaggle of Lady Gagas, retired Spartans (men with beer bellies and dangling cigarettes wearing 300 gear), various “Dudes” from The Big Lebowski and Bert and Ernie with hyperrealistic features. There are always “Doctors” from Doctor Who, superheroes, wookies and the one guy who looks like Ferris Bueller. It is always interesting to see what phases out (the Mad Max crew were woefully absent from the 2012 parade) and what gets huge (2012 finally saw a group of The Venture Bros. characters). The four day festival spreads out between five downtown Atlanta hotels every Labor Day weekend. Guests follow tracks to optimize their panel viewing and choose the right fit from the thousands of hours of programming. Options include YA Lit, Robotics, Alternate History and Horror, among others. Some stand in line for photos of their favorite actors and entertainers ranging from FX master Tom Savini to Luke Perry (who couldn’t have been cooler). There are many special events during the weekend, too, like dressing up and going to the Georgia Aquarium and indie wrestling at night. My favorite thing to do is walk around downtown after the parade on Saturday, after people have filed away to eat at the food court or find a panel. The city bustles along—you can even see a stray Macho Man Randy Savage strutting around or find Waldo in his signature red stripes running across the street. Dragoncon 2013 is August 30 to September 2. Start planning your costume now! * * * Tammy Mercure is a State Guide to Tennessee. She was recently named one of the “100 under 100: The New Superstars of Southern Art” by Oxford American magazine. Follow on Tumblr at tammymercure or on her website, TammyMercure.com. Support her work at TCB Press.
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DRAGONCON - ATLANTA, GEORGIA Bagpipes fill the early morning air in Atlanta, Georgia. Rather than playing a traditional Scottish tune, the players are dressed as Imperial Stormtroopers and playing the Star Wars theme. The band leads thousands of elaborately dressed sci-fi and fantasy fans and cosplayers (short for “costume players”) down Peachtree Street to a rapt crowd about five people deep on the sidewalk. There are the ever present Star Wars fans, but Dragoncon runs the gamut of literature, games and pop culture. I have seen a gaggle of Lady Gagas, retired Spartans (men with beer bellies and dangling cigarettes wearing 300 gear), various “Dudes” from The Big Lebowski and Bert and Ernie with hyperrealistic features. There are always “Doctors” from Doctor Who, superheroes, wookies and the one guy who looks like Ferris Bueller. It is always interesting to see what phases out (the Mad Max crew were woefully absent from the 2012 parade) and what gets huge (2012 finally saw a group of The Venture Bros. characters). The four day festival spreads out between five downtown Atlanta hotels every Labor Day weekend. Guests follow tracks to optimize their panel viewing and choose the right fit from the thousands of hours of programming. Options include YA Lit, Robotics, Alternate History and Horror, among others. Some stand in line for photos of their favorite actors and entertainers ranging from FX master Tom Savini to Luke Perry (who couldn’t have been cooler). There are many special events during the weekend, too, like dressing up and going to the Georgia Aquarium and indie wrestling at night. My favorite thing to do is walk around downtown after the parade on Saturday, after people have filed away to eat at the food court or find a panel. The city bustles along—you can even see a stray Macho Man Randy Savage strutting around or find Waldo in his signature red stripes running across the street. Dragoncon 2013 is August 30 to September 2. Start planning your costume now! * * * Tammy Mercure is a State Guide to Tennessee. She was recently named one of the “100 under 100: The New Superstars of Southern Art” by Oxford American magazine. Follow on Tumblr at tammymercure or on her website, TammyMercure.com. Support her work at TCB Press.
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DRAGONCON - ATLANTA, GEORGIA Bagpipes fill the early morning air in Atlanta, Georgia. Rather than playing a traditional Scottish tune, the players are dressed as Imperial Stormtroopers and playing the Star Wars theme. The band leads thousands of elaborately dressed sci-fi and fantasy fans and cosplayers (short for “costume players”) down Peachtree Street to a rapt crowd about five people deep on the sidewalk. There are the ever present Star Wars fans, but Dragoncon runs the gamut of literature, games and pop culture. I have seen a gaggle of Lady Gagas, retired Spartans (men with beer bellies and dangling cigarettes wearing 300 gear), various “Dudes” from The Big Lebowski and Bert and Ernie with hyperrealistic features. There are always “Doctors” from Doctor Who, superheroes, wookies and the one guy who looks like Ferris Bueller. It is always interesting to see what phases out (the Mad Max crew were woefully absent from the 2012 parade) and what gets huge (2012 finally saw a group of The Venture Bros. characters). The four day festival spreads out between five downtown Atlanta hotels every Labor Day weekend. Guests follow tracks to optimize their panel viewing and choose the right fit from the thousands of hours of programming. Options include YA Lit, Robotics, Alternate History and Horror, among others. Some stand in line for photos of their favorite actors and entertainers ranging from FX master Tom Savini to Luke Perry (who couldn’t have been cooler). There are many special events during the weekend, too, like dressing up and going to the Georgia Aquarium and indie wrestling at night. My favorite thing to do is walk around downtown after the parade on Saturday, after people have filed away to eat at the food court or find a panel. The city bustles along—you can even see a stray Macho Man Randy Savage strutting around or find Waldo in his signature red stripes running across the street. Dragoncon 2013 is August 30 to September 2. Start planning your costume now! * * * Tammy Mercure is a State Guide to Tennessee. She was recently named one of the “100 under 100: The New Superstars of Southern Art” by Oxford American magazine. Follow on Tumblr at tammymercure or on her website, TammyMercure.com. Support her work at TCB Press.
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DRAGONCON - ATLANTA, GEORGIA

Bagpipes fill the early morning air in Atlanta, Georgia. Rather than playing a traditional Scottish tune, the players are dressed as Imperial Stormtroopers and playing the Star Wars theme. The band leads thousands of elaborately dressed sci-fi and fantasy fans and cosplayers (short for “costume players”) down Peachtree Street to a rapt crowd about five people deep on the sidewalk.

There are the ever present Star Wars fans, but Dragoncon runs the gamut of literature, games and pop culture. I have seen a gaggle of Lady Gagas, retired Spartans (men with beer bellies and dangling cigarettes wearing 300 gear), various “Dudes” from The Big Lebowski and Bert and Ernie with hyperrealistic features. There are always “Doctors” from Doctor Who, superheroes, wookies and the one guy who looks like Ferris Bueller. It is always interesting to see what phases out (the Mad Max crew were woefully absent from the 2012 parade) and what gets huge (2012 finally saw a group of The Venture Bros. characters).

The four day festival spreads out between five downtown Atlanta hotels every Labor Day weekend. Guests follow tracks to optimize their panel viewing and choose the right fit from the thousands of hours of programming. Options include YA Lit, Robotics, Alternate History and Horror, among others. Some stand in line for photos of their favorite actors and entertainers ranging from FX master Tom Savini to Luke Perry (who couldn’t have been cooler). There are many special events during the weekend, too, like dressing up and going to the Georgia Aquarium and indie wrestling at night.

My favorite thing to do is walk around downtown after the parade on Saturday, after people have filed away to eat at the food court or find a panel. The city bustles along—you can even see a stray Macho Man Randy Savage strutting around or find Waldo in his signature red stripes running across the street.

Dragoncon 2013 is August 30 to September 2. Start planning your costume now!

* * *

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.

BRIDGE TO NOWHERE, or BUILD IT AND THEY WON’T COME - CHARLESTON, SOUTH CAROLINA Bridges are a necessity, especially in South Carolina’s Lowcountry. The swampy ground and tidal marsh make road building tricky on the eastern seaboard of the Palmetto State. More often than not, it’s easier to go over the pluff mud than through it. As a commuter in the Lowcountry chances are you will cross over a bridge or three on your daily trek. Small and large, old and new, modern and classical – these bridges come in many shapes and sizes. Recently, the most talked about bridge in Charleston is not the tallest, or the longest, or the grandest – no, oddly enough it is the least used. It has been deemed “the bridge to nowhere” by locals. It’s not very often you see a bridge that is devoid of not only people, but automobiles as well. You’re more likely to see friends of a feathered nature on this unused stretch of roadway than anything resembling a human. So what happened? The area where this bridge was constructed was largely polluted and vacant, but a renewal project was slotted to revitalize and repurpose the forgotten region into a viable community of commercial and residential developments, connected by this concrete span to the area near I-26. “2009” is innocuously inscribed on both ends of the bridge. It seems a harmless enough date, but many of us remember it as the year the recession bottomed out. 2008-2013 have been economically some of the hardest since the legendary Great Depression of the 1930s. And not even good intentions were spared during the financial downturn. The construction of homes and shops is on hold until demand returns to the real estate market. In the meantime, the white ibises have the place to themselves for a little longer and the bridge serves as a symbol of the economic collapse we as Americans have all endured. * * * John Lusk Hathaway is a State Guide to South Carolina and an At-Large Guide to the Southeast. He was born in Memphis Tennessee, and recently lived in Bali, Indonesia—so acclimating to the sweltering summers of the Lowcountry hasn’t been a problem. When he isn’t making pictures with old film cameras or burping a baby, he enjoys playing clawhammer banjo and surfing at Folly Beach. Follow him on Tumblr at johnluskhathaway or on his website, JohnLuskHathaway.com.
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BRIDGE TO NOWHERE, or BUILD IT AND THEY WON’T COME - CHARLESTON, SOUTH CAROLINA Bridges are a necessity, especially in South Carolina’s Lowcountry. The swampy ground and tidal marsh make road building tricky on the eastern seaboard of the Palmetto State. More often than not, it’s easier to go over the pluff mud than through it. As a commuter in the Lowcountry chances are you will cross over a bridge or three on your daily trek. Small and large, old and new, modern and classical – these bridges come in many shapes and sizes. Recently, the most talked about bridge in Charleston is not the tallest, or the longest, or the grandest – no, oddly enough it is the least used. It has been deemed “the bridge to nowhere” by locals. It’s not very often you see a bridge that is devoid of not only people, but automobiles as well. You’re more likely to see friends of a feathered nature on this unused stretch of roadway than anything resembling a human. So what happened? The area where this bridge was constructed was largely polluted and vacant, but a renewal project was slotted to revitalize and repurpose the forgotten region into a viable community of commercial and residential developments, connected by this concrete span to the area near I-26. “2009” is innocuously inscribed on both ends of the bridge. It seems a harmless enough date, but many of us remember it as the year the recession bottomed out. 2008-2013 have been economically some of the hardest since the legendary Great Depression of the 1930s. And not even good intentions were spared during the financial downturn. The construction of homes and shops is on hold until demand returns to the real estate market. In the meantime, the white ibises have the place to themselves for a little longer and the bridge serves as a symbol of the economic collapse we as Americans have all endured. * * * John Lusk Hathaway is a State Guide to South Carolina and an At-Large Guide to the Southeast. He was born in Memphis Tennessee, and recently lived in Bali, Indonesia—so acclimating to the sweltering summers of the Lowcountry hasn’t been a problem. When he isn’t making pictures with old film cameras or burping a baby, he enjoys playing clawhammer banjo and surfing at Folly Beach. Follow him on Tumblr at johnluskhathaway or on his website, JohnLuskHathaway.com.
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BRIDGE TO NOWHERE, or BUILD IT AND THEY WON’T COME - CHARLESTON, SOUTH CAROLINA Bridges are a necessity, especially in South Carolina’s Lowcountry. The swampy ground and tidal marsh make road building tricky on the eastern seaboard of the Palmetto State. More often than not, it’s easier to go over the pluff mud than through it. As a commuter in the Lowcountry chances are you will cross over a bridge or three on your daily trek. Small and large, old and new, modern and classical – these bridges come in many shapes and sizes. Recently, the most talked about bridge in Charleston is not the tallest, or the longest, or the grandest – no, oddly enough it is the least used. It has been deemed “the bridge to nowhere” by locals. It’s not very often you see a bridge that is devoid of not only people, but automobiles as well. You’re more likely to see friends of a feathered nature on this unused stretch of roadway than anything resembling a human. So what happened? The area where this bridge was constructed was largely polluted and vacant, but a renewal project was slotted to revitalize and repurpose the forgotten region into a viable community of commercial and residential developments, connected by this concrete span to the area near I-26. “2009” is innocuously inscribed on both ends of the bridge. It seems a harmless enough date, but many of us remember it as the year the recession bottomed out. 2008-2013 have been economically some of the hardest since the legendary Great Depression of the 1930s. And not even good intentions were spared during the financial downturn. The construction of homes and shops is on hold until demand returns to the real estate market. In the meantime, the white ibises have the place to themselves for a little longer and the bridge serves as a symbol of the economic collapse we as Americans have all endured. * * * John Lusk Hathaway is a State Guide to South Carolina and an At-Large Guide to the Southeast. He was born in Memphis Tennessee, and recently lived in Bali, Indonesia—so acclimating to the sweltering summers of the Lowcountry hasn’t been a problem. When he isn’t making pictures with old film cameras or burping a baby, he enjoys playing clawhammer banjo and surfing at Folly Beach. Follow him on Tumblr at johnluskhathaway or on his website, JohnLuskHathaway.com.
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BRIDGE TO NOWHERE, or BUILD IT AND THEY WON’T COME - CHARLESTON, SOUTH CAROLINA Bridges are a necessity, especially in South Carolina’s Lowcountry. The swampy ground and tidal marsh make road building tricky on the eastern seaboard of the Palmetto State. More often than not, it’s easier to go over the pluff mud than through it. As a commuter in the Lowcountry chances are you will cross over a bridge or three on your daily trek. Small and large, old and new, modern and classical – these bridges come in many shapes and sizes. Recently, the most talked about bridge in Charleston is not the tallest, or the longest, or the grandest – no, oddly enough it is the least used. It has been deemed “the bridge to nowhere” by locals. It’s not very often you see a bridge that is devoid of not only people, but automobiles as well. You’re more likely to see friends of a feathered nature on this unused stretch of roadway than anything resembling a human. So what happened? The area where this bridge was constructed was largely polluted and vacant, but a renewal project was slotted to revitalize and repurpose the forgotten region into a viable community of commercial and residential developments, connected by this concrete span to the area near I-26. “2009” is innocuously inscribed on both ends of the bridge. It seems a harmless enough date, but many of us remember it as the year the recession bottomed out. 2008-2013 have been economically some of the hardest since the legendary Great Depression of the 1930s. And not even good intentions were spared during the financial downturn. The construction of homes and shops is on hold until demand returns to the real estate market. In the meantime, the white ibises have the place to themselves for a little longer and the bridge serves as a symbol of the economic collapse we as Americans have all endured. * * * John Lusk Hathaway is a State Guide to South Carolina and an At-Large Guide to the Southeast. He was born in Memphis Tennessee, and recently lived in Bali, Indonesia—so acclimating to the sweltering summers of the Lowcountry hasn’t been a problem. When he isn’t making pictures with old film cameras or burping a baby, he enjoys playing clawhammer banjo and surfing at Folly Beach. Follow him on Tumblr at johnluskhathaway or on his website, JohnLuskHathaway.com.
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BRIDGE TO NOWHERE, or BUILD IT AND THEY WON’T COME - CHARLESTON, SOUTH CAROLINA Bridges are a necessity, especially in South Carolina’s Lowcountry. The swampy ground and tidal marsh make road building tricky on the eastern seaboard of the Palmetto State. More often than not, it’s easier to go over the pluff mud than through it. As a commuter in the Lowcountry chances are you will cross over a bridge or three on your daily trek. Small and large, old and new, modern and classical – these bridges come in many shapes and sizes. Recently, the most talked about bridge in Charleston is not the tallest, or the longest, or the grandest – no, oddly enough it is the least used. It has been deemed “the bridge to nowhere” by locals. It’s not very often you see a bridge that is devoid of not only people, but automobiles as well. You’re more likely to see friends of a feathered nature on this unused stretch of roadway than anything resembling a human. So what happened? The area where this bridge was constructed was largely polluted and vacant, but a renewal project was slotted to revitalize and repurpose the forgotten region into a viable community of commercial and residential developments, connected by this concrete span to the area near I-26. “2009” is innocuously inscribed on both ends of the bridge. It seems a harmless enough date, but many of us remember it as the year the recession bottomed out. 2008-2013 have been economically some of the hardest since the legendary Great Depression of the 1930s. And not even good intentions were spared during the financial downturn. The construction of homes and shops is on hold until demand returns to the real estate market. In the meantime, the white ibises have the place to themselves for a little longer and the bridge serves as a symbol of the economic collapse we as Americans have all endured. * * * John Lusk Hathaway is a State Guide to South Carolina and an At-Large Guide to the Southeast. He was born in Memphis Tennessee, and recently lived in Bali, Indonesia—so acclimating to the sweltering summers of the Lowcountry hasn’t been a problem. When he isn’t making pictures with old film cameras or burping a baby, he enjoys playing clawhammer banjo and surfing at Folly Beach. Follow him on Tumblr at johnluskhathaway or on his website, JohnLuskHathaway.com.
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BRIDGE TO NOWHERE, or BUILD IT AND THEY WON’T COME - CHARLESTON, SOUTH CAROLINA Bridges are a necessity, especially in South Carolina’s Lowcountry. The swampy ground and tidal marsh make road building tricky on the eastern seaboard of the Palmetto State. More often than not, it’s easier to go over the pluff mud than through it. As a commuter in the Lowcountry chances are you will cross over a bridge or three on your daily trek. Small and large, old and new, modern and classical – these bridges come in many shapes and sizes. Recently, the most talked about bridge in Charleston is not the tallest, or the longest, or the grandest – no, oddly enough it is the least used. It has been deemed “the bridge to nowhere” by locals. It’s not very often you see a bridge that is devoid of not only people, but automobiles as well. You’re more likely to see friends of a feathered nature on this unused stretch of roadway than anything resembling a human. So what happened? The area where this bridge was constructed was largely polluted and vacant, but a renewal project was slotted to revitalize and repurpose the forgotten region into a viable community of commercial and residential developments, connected by this concrete span to the area near I-26. “2009” is innocuously inscribed on both ends of the bridge. It seems a harmless enough date, but many of us remember it as the year the recession bottomed out. 2008-2013 have been economically some of the hardest since the legendary Great Depression of the 1930s. And not even good intentions were spared during the financial downturn. The construction of homes and shops is on hold until demand returns to the real estate market. In the meantime, the white ibises have the place to themselves for a little longer and the bridge serves as a symbol of the economic collapse we as Americans have all endured. * * * John Lusk Hathaway is a State Guide to South Carolina and an At-Large Guide to the Southeast. He was born in Memphis Tennessee, and recently lived in Bali, Indonesia—so acclimating to the sweltering summers of the Lowcountry hasn’t been a problem. When he isn’t making pictures with old film cameras or burping a baby, he enjoys playing clawhammer banjo and surfing at Folly Beach. Follow him on Tumblr at johnluskhathaway or on his website, JohnLuskHathaway.com.
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BRIDGE TO NOWHERE, or BUILD IT AND THEY WON’T COME - CHARLESTON, SOUTH CAROLINA Bridges are a necessity, especially in South Carolina’s Lowcountry. The swampy ground and tidal marsh make road building tricky on the eastern seaboard of the Palmetto State. More often than not, it’s easier to go over the pluff mud than through it. As a commuter in the Lowcountry chances are you will cross over a bridge or three on your daily trek. Small and large, old and new, modern and classical – these bridges come in many shapes and sizes. Recently, the most talked about bridge in Charleston is not the tallest, or the longest, or the grandest – no, oddly enough it is the least used. It has been deemed “the bridge to nowhere” by locals. It’s not very often you see a bridge that is devoid of not only people, but automobiles as well. You’re more likely to see friends of a feathered nature on this unused stretch of roadway than anything resembling a human. So what happened? The area where this bridge was constructed was largely polluted and vacant, but a renewal project was slotted to revitalize and repurpose the forgotten region into a viable community of commercial and residential developments, connected by this concrete span to the area near I-26. “2009” is innocuously inscribed on both ends of the bridge. It seems a harmless enough date, but many of us remember it as the year the recession bottomed out. 2008-2013 have been economically some of the hardest since the legendary Great Depression of the 1930s. And not even good intentions were spared during the financial downturn. The construction of homes and shops is on hold until demand returns to the real estate market. In the meantime, the white ibises have the place to themselves for a little longer and the bridge serves as a symbol of the economic collapse we as Americans have all endured. * * * John Lusk Hathaway is a State Guide to South Carolina and an At-Large Guide to the Southeast. He was born in Memphis Tennessee, and recently lived in Bali, Indonesia—so acclimating to the sweltering summers of the Lowcountry hasn’t been a problem. When he isn’t making pictures with old film cameras or burping a baby, he enjoys playing clawhammer banjo and surfing at Folly Beach. Follow him on Tumblr at johnluskhathaway or on his website, JohnLuskHathaway.com.
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BRIDGE TO NOWHERE, or BUILD IT AND THEY WON’T COME - CHARLESTON, SOUTH CAROLINA Bridges are a necessity, especially in South Carolina’s Lowcountry. The swampy ground and tidal marsh make road building tricky on the eastern seaboard of the Palmetto State. More often than not, it’s easier to go over the pluff mud than through it. As a commuter in the Lowcountry chances are you will cross over a bridge or three on your daily trek. Small and large, old and new, modern and classical – these bridges come in many shapes and sizes. Recently, the most talked about bridge in Charleston is not the tallest, or the longest, or the grandest – no, oddly enough it is the least used. It has been deemed “the bridge to nowhere” by locals. It’s not very often you see a bridge that is devoid of not only people, but automobiles as well. You’re more likely to see friends of a feathered nature on this unused stretch of roadway than anything resembling a human. So what happened? The area where this bridge was constructed was largely polluted and vacant, but a renewal project was slotted to revitalize and repurpose the forgotten region into a viable community of commercial and residential developments, connected by this concrete span to the area near I-26. “2009” is innocuously inscribed on both ends of the bridge. It seems a harmless enough date, but many of us remember it as the year the recession bottomed out. 2008-2013 have been economically some of the hardest since the legendary Great Depression of the 1930s. And not even good intentions were spared during the financial downturn. The construction of homes and shops is on hold until demand returns to the real estate market. In the meantime, the white ibises have the place to themselves for a little longer and the bridge serves as a symbol of the economic collapse we as Americans have all endured. * * * John Lusk Hathaway is a State Guide to South Carolina and an At-Large Guide to the Southeast. He was born in Memphis Tennessee, and recently lived in Bali, Indonesia—so acclimating to the sweltering summers of the Lowcountry hasn’t been a problem. When he isn’t making pictures with old film cameras or burping a baby, he enjoys playing clawhammer banjo and surfing at Folly Beach. Follow him on Tumblr at johnluskhathaway or on his website, JohnLuskHathaway.com.
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BRIDGE TO NOWHERE, or BUILD IT AND THEY WON’T COME - CHARLESTON, SOUTH CAROLINA

Bridges are a necessity, especially in South Carolina’s Lowcountry. The swampy ground and tidal marsh make road building tricky on the eastern seaboard of the Palmetto State. More often than not, it’s easier to go over the pluff mud than through it. As a commuter in the Lowcountry chances are you will cross over a bridge or three on your daily trek. Small and large, old and new, modern and classical – these bridges come in many shapes and sizes.

Recently, the most talked about bridge in Charleston is not the tallest, or the longest, or the grandest – no, oddly enough it is the least used. It has been deemed “the bridge to nowhere” by locals. It’s not very often you see a bridge that is devoid of not only people, but automobiles as well. You’re more likely to see friends of a feathered nature on this unused stretch of roadway than anything resembling a human.

So what happened?

The area where this bridge was constructed was largely polluted and vacant, but a renewal project was slotted to revitalize and repurpose the forgotten region into a viable community of commercial and residential developments, connected by this concrete span to the area near I-26.

“2009” is innocuously inscribed on both ends of the bridge. It seems a harmless enough date, but many of us remember it as the year the recession bottomed out. 2008-2013 have been economically some of the hardest since the legendary Great Depression of the 1930s. And not even good intentions were spared during the financial downturn. The construction of homes and shops is on hold until demand returns to the real estate market. In the meantime, the white ibises have the place to themselves for a little longer and the bridge serves as a symbol of the economic collapse we as Americans have all endured.

* * *

John Lusk Hathaway is a State Guide to South Carolina and an At-Large Guide to the Southeast. He was born in Memphis Tennessee, and recently lived in Bali, Indonesia—so acclimating to the sweltering summers of the Lowcountry hasn’t been a problem. When he isn’t making pictures with old film cameras or burping a baby, he enjoys playing clawhammer banjo and surfing at Folly Beach. Follow him on Tumblr at johnluskhathaway or on his website, JohnLuskHathaway.com.

ALL ROADS LEAD TO NEWTOWN …this route passes through level country to Danbury, winding up hills to Newtown with its fine views over valleys and rolling hills from the hilltop main street. — Connecticut, A Guide To Its Roads, Lore, and People (WPA, 1938) In the days after the school shooting at Sandy Hook Elementary the whole world seemed to be streaming into Newtown, Connecticut, as fast as they could. All roads led there, like a network of veins feeding a heart. Waves of people and intensity broke over the hamlet. Traffic from every direction was a one-lane parking lot of cars at a dead stop. I’d been through Newtown years ago and there was no particular attraction that would have warranted my return except maybe its quaintness and its general store, so the enormity that was now dwarfing this town was a striking reminder of how small Newtown really is. That flagpole you can see at the top of the hill is the best example of this: there are few towns in America that could have a flagpole literally in the middle of the road in the center of their town at a four way intersection that has no stop signs. On a normal day there is so little traffic it’s effortless to navigate this landmark, but now it was gridlock. In contrast with that old flagpole, which has stood since 1876, was the makeshift one freshly planted in the middle of a farmer’s cornfield. It was there because nobody knew what to do with their grief. So to compensate, there were temporary memorials wherever you looked: in the town center, on the side of the highway, in front of the tall pine tree in Sandy Hook. Piles of flowers, mounds of stuffed animals, handmade signs to pray. And those signs were everywhere: “Pray for Newtown” — “Pray for Sandy Hook” — “Pray.”  Editor’s note: Pictures were taken in Newtown, Connecticut, on December 16 and 17, 2012. * * * Maine State Guide Brett Klein lives in Connecticut and works in New York, but prefers small town life and his homestate of Maine. Any chance to get rural is a mental vacation. Follow Klein on Tumblr at The Coast is Clear. His curatorial collection of Americana, rural life, other artists and ephemera can be seen on Tumblr at Tons of Land.
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ALL ROADS LEAD TO NEWTOWN …this route passes through level country to Danbury, winding up hills to Newtown with its fine views over valleys and rolling hills from the hilltop main street. — Connecticut, A Guide To Its Roads, Lore, and People (WPA, 1938) In the days after the school shooting at Sandy Hook Elementary the whole world seemed to be streaming into Newtown, Connecticut, as fast as they could. All roads led there, like a network of veins feeding a heart. Waves of people and intensity broke over the hamlet. Traffic from every direction was a one-lane parking lot of cars at a dead stop. I’d been through Newtown years ago and there was no particular attraction that would have warranted my return except maybe its quaintness and its general store, so the enormity that was now dwarfing this town was a striking reminder of how small Newtown really is. That flagpole you can see at the top of the hill is the best example of this: there are few towns in America that could have a flagpole literally in the middle of the road in the center of their town at a four way intersection that has no stop signs. On a normal day there is so little traffic it’s effortless to navigate this landmark, but now it was gridlock. In contrast with that old flagpole, which has stood since 1876, was the makeshift one freshly planted in the middle of a farmer’s cornfield. It was there because nobody knew what to do with their grief. So to compensate, there were temporary memorials wherever you looked: in the town center, on the side of the highway, in front of the tall pine tree in Sandy Hook. Piles of flowers, mounds of stuffed animals, handmade signs to pray. And those signs were everywhere: “Pray for Newtown” — “Pray for Sandy Hook” — “Pray.”  Editor’s note: Pictures were taken in Newtown, Connecticut, on December 16 and 17, 2012. * * * Maine State Guide Brett Klein lives in Connecticut and works in New York, but prefers small town life and his homestate of Maine. Any chance to get rural is a mental vacation. Follow Klein on Tumblr at The Coast is Clear. His curatorial collection of Americana, rural life, other artists and ephemera can be seen on Tumblr at Tons of Land.
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ALL ROADS LEAD TO NEWTOWN …this route passes through level country to Danbury, winding up hills to Newtown with its fine views over valleys and rolling hills from the hilltop main street. — Connecticut, A Guide To Its Roads, Lore, and People (WPA, 1938) In the days after the school shooting at Sandy Hook Elementary the whole world seemed to be streaming into Newtown, Connecticut, as fast as they could. All roads led there, like a network of veins feeding a heart. Waves of people and intensity broke over the hamlet. Traffic from every direction was a one-lane parking lot of cars at a dead stop. I’d been through Newtown years ago and there was no particular attraction that would have warranted my return except maybe its quaintness and its general store, so the enormity that was now dwarfing this town was a striking reminder of how small Newtown really is. That flagpole you can see at the top of the hill is the best example of this: there are few towns in America that could have a flagpole literally in the middle of the road in the center of their town at a four way intersection that has no stop signs. On a normal day there is so little traffic it’s effortless to navigate this landmark, but now it was gridlock. In contrast with that old flagpole, which has stood since 1876, was the makeshift one freshly planted in the middle of a farmer’s cornfield. It was there because nobody knew what to do with their grief. So to compensate, there were temporary memorials wherever you looked: in the town center, on the side of the highway, in front of the tall pine tree in Sandy Hook. Piles of flowers, mounds of stuffed animals, handmade signs to pray. And those signs were everywhere: “Pray for Newtown” — “Pray for Sandy Hook” — “Pray.”  Editor’s note: Pictures were taken in Newtown, Connecticut, on December 16 and 17, 2012. * * * Maine State Guide Brett Klein lives in Connecticut and works in New York, but prefers small town life and his homestate of Maine. Any chance to get rural is a mental vacation. Follow Klein on Tumblr at The Coast is Clear. His curatorial collection of Americana, rural life, other artists and ephemera can be seen on Tumblr at Tons of Land.
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ALL ROADS LEAD TO NEWTOWN …this route passes through level country to Danbury, winding up hills to Newtown with its fine views over valleys and rolling hills from the hilltop main street. — Connecticut, A Guide To Its Roads, Lore, and People (WPA, 1938) In the days after the school shooting at Sandy Hook Elementary the whole world seemed to be streaming into Newtown, Connecticut, as fast as they could. All roads led there, like a network of veins feeding a heart. Waves of people and intensity broke over the hamlet. Traffic from every direction was a one-lane parking lot of cars at a dead stop. I’d been through Newtown years ago and there was no particular attraction that would have warranted my return except maybe its quaintness and its general store, so the enormity that was now dwarfing this town was a striking reminder of how small Newtown really is. That flagpole you can see at the top of the hill is the best example of this: there are few towns in America that could have a flagpole literally in the middle of the road in the center of their town at a four way intersection that has no stop signs. On a normal day there is so little traffic it’s effortless to navigate this landmark, but now it was gridlock. In contrast with that old flagpole, which has stood since 1876, was the makeshift one freshly planted in the middle of a farmer’s cornfield. It was there because nobody knew what to do with their grief. So to compensate, there were temporary memorials wherever you looked: in the town center, on the side of the highway, in front of the tall pine tree in Sandy Hook. Piles of flowers, mounds of stuffed animals, handmade signs to pray. And those signs were everywhere: “Pray for Newtown” — “Pray for Sandy Hook” — “Pray.”  Editor’s note: Pictures were taken in Newtown, Connecticut, on December 16 and 17, 2012. * * * Maine State Guide Brett Klein lives in Connecticut and works in New York, but prefers small town life and his homestate of Maine. Any chance to get rural is a mental vacation. Follow Klein on Tumblr at The Coast is Clear. His curatorial collection of Americana, rural life, other artists and ephemera can be seen on Tumblr at Tons of Land.
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ALL ROADS LEAD TO NEWTOWN …this route passes through level country to Danbury, winding up hills to Newtown with its fine views over valleys and rolling hills from the hilltop main street. — Connecticut, A Guide To Its Roads, Lore, and People (WPA, 1938) In the days after the school shooting at Sandy Hook Elementary the whole world seemed to be streaming into Newtown, Connecticut, as fast as they could. All roads led there, like a network of veins feeding a heart. Waves of people and intensity broke over the hamlet. Traffic from every direction was a one-lane parking lot of cars at a dead stop. I’d been through Newtown years ago and there was no particular attraction that would have warranted my return except maybe its quaintness and its general store, so the enormity that was now dwarfing this town was a striking reminder of how small Newtown really is. That flagpole you can see at the top of the hill is the best example of this: there are few towns in America that could have a flagpole literally in the middle of the road in the center of their town at a four way intersection that has no stop signs. On a normal day there is so little traffic it’s effortless to navigate this landmark, but now it was gridlock. In contrast with that old flagpole, which has stood since 1876, was the makeshift one freshly planted in the middle of a farmer’s cornfield. It was there because nobody knew what to do with their grief. So to compensate, there were temporary memorials wherever you looked: in the town center, on the side of the highway, in front of the tall pine tree in Sandy Hook. Piles of flowers, mounds of stuffed animals, handmade signs to pray. And those signs were everywhere: “Pray for Newtown” — “Pray for Sandy Hook” — “Pray.”  Editor’s note: Pictures were taken in Newtown, Connecticut, on December 16 and 17, 2012. * * * Maine State Guide Brett Klein lives in Connecticut and works in New York, but prefers small town life and his homestate of Maine. Any chance to get rural is a mental vacation. Follow Klein on Tumblr at The Coast is Clear. His curatorial collection of Americana, rural life, other artists and ephemera can be seen on Tumblr at Tons of Land.
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ALL ROADS LEAD TO NEWTOWN …this route passes through level country to Danbury, winding up hills to Newtown with its fine views over valleys and rolling hills from the hilltop main street. — Connecticut, A Guide To Its Roads, Lore, and People (WPA, 1938) In the days after the school shooting at Sandy Hook Elementary the whole world seemed to be streaming into Newtown, Connecticut, as fast as they could. All roads led there, like a network of veins feeding a heart. Waves of people and intensity broke over the hamlet. Traffic from every direction was a one-lane parking lot of cars at a dead stop. I’d been through Newtown years ago and there was no particular attraction that would have warranted my return except maybe its quaintness and its general store, so the enormity that was now dwarfing this town was a striking reminder of how small Newtown really is. That flagpole you can see at the top of the hill is the best example of this: there are few towns in America that could have a flagpole literally in the middle of the road in the center of their town at a four way intersection that has no stop signs. On a normal day there is so little traffic it’s effortless to navigate this landmark, but now it was gridlock. In contrast with that old flagpole, which has stood since 1876, was the makeshift one freshly planted in the middle of a farmer’s cornfield. It was there because nobody knew what to do with their grief. So to compensate, there were temporary memorials wherever you looked: in the town center, on the side of the highway, in front of the tall pine tree in Sandy Hook. Piles of flowers, mounds of stuffed animals, handmade signs to pray. And those signs were everywhere: “Pray for Newtown” — “Pray for Sandy Hook” — “Pray.”  Editor’s note: Pictures were taken in Newtown, Connecticut, on December 16 and 17, 2012. * * * Maine State Guide Brett Klein lives in Connecticut and works in New York, but prefers small town life and his homestate of Maine. Any chance to get rural is a mental vacation. Follow Klein on Tumblr at The Coast is Clear. His curatorial collection of Americana, rural life, other artists and ephemera can be seen on Tumblr at Tons of Land.
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ALL ROADS LEAD TO NEWTOWN …this route passes through level country to Danbury, winding up hills to Newtown with its fine views over valleys and rolling hills from the hilltop main street. — Connecticut, A Guide To Its Roads, Lore, and People (WPA, 1938) In the days after the school shooting at Sandy Hook Elementary the whole world seemed to be streaming into Newtown, Connecticut, as fast as they could. All roads led there, like a network of veins feeding a heart. Waves of people and intensity broke over the hamlet. Traffic from every direction was a one-lane parking lot of cars at a dead stop. I’d been through Newtown years ago and there was no particular attraction that would have warranted my return except maybe its quaintness and its general store, so the enormity that was now dwarfing this town was a striking reminder of how small Newtown really is. That flagpole you can see at the top of the hill is the best example of this: there are few towns in America that could have a flagpole literally in the middle of the road in the center of their town at a four way intersection that has no stop signs. On a normal day there is so little traffic it’s effortless to navigate this landmark, but now it was gridlock. In contrast with that old flagpole, which has stood since 1876, was the makeshift one freshly planted in the middle of a farmer’s cornfield. It was there because nobody knew what to do with their grief. So to compensate, there were temporary memorials wherever you looked: in the town center, on the side of the highway, in front of the tall pine tree in Sandy Hook. Piles of flowers, mounds of stuffed animals, handmade signs to pray. And those signs were everywhere: “Pray for Newtown” — “Pray for Sandy Hook” — “Pray.”  Editor’s note: Pictures were taken in Newtown, Connecticut, on December 16 and 17, 2012. * * * Maine State Guide Brett Klein lives in Connecticut and works in New York, but prefers small town life and his homestate of Maine. Any chance to get rural is a mental vacation. Follow Klein on Tumblr at The Coast is Clear. His curatorial collection of Americana, rural life, other artists and ephemera can be seen on Tumblr at Tons of Land.
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ALL ROADS LEAD TO NEWTOWN …this route passes through level country to Danbury, winding up hills to Newtown with its fine views over valleys and rolling hills from the hilltop main street. — Connecticut, A Guide To Its Roads, Lore, and People (WPA, 1938) In the days after the school shooting at Sandy Hook Elementary the whole world seemed to be streaming into Newtown, Connecticut, as fast as they could. All roads led there, like a network of veins feeding a heart. Waves of people and intensity broke over the hamlet. Traffic from every direction was a one-lane parking lot of cars at a dead stop. I’d been through Newtown years ago and there was no particular attraction that would have warranted my return except maybe its quaintness and its general store, so the enormity that was now dwarfing this town was a striking reminder of how small Newtown really is. That flagpole you can see at the top of the hill is the best example of this: there are few towns in America that could have a flagpole literally in the middle of the road in the center of their town at a four way intersection that has no stop signs. On a normal day there is so little traffic it’s effortless to navigate this landmark, but now it was gridlock. In contrast with that old flagpole, which has stood since 1876, was the makeshift one freshly planted in the middle of a farmer’s cornfield. It was there because nobody knew what to do with their grief. So to compensate, there were temporary memorials wherever you looked: in the town center, on the side of the highway, in front of the tall pine tree in Sandy Hook. Piles of flowers, mounds of stuffed animals, handmade signs to pray. And those signs were everywhere: “Pray for Newtown” — “Pray for Sandy Hook” — “Pray.”  Editor’s note: Pictures were taken in Newtown, Connecticut, on December 16 and 17, 2012. * * * Maine State Guide Brett Klein lives in Connecticut and works in New York, but prefers small town life and his homestate of Maine. Any chance to get rural is a mental vacation. Follow Klein on Tumblr at The Coast is Clear. His curatorial collection of Americana, rural life, other artists and ephemera can be seen on Tumblr at Tons of Land.
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ALL ROADS LEAD TO NEWTOWN …this route passes through level country to Danbury, winding up hills to Newtown with its fine views over valleys and rolling hills from the hilltop main street. — Connecticut, A Guide To Its Roads, Lore, and People (WPA, 1938) In the days after the school shooting at Sandy Hook Elementary the whole world seemed to be streaming into Newtown, Connecticut, as fast as they could. All roads led there, like a network of veins feeding a heart. Waves of people and intensity broke over the hamlet. Traffic from every direction was a one-lane parking lot of cars at a dead stop. I’d been through Newtown years ago and there was no particular attraction that would have warranted my return except maybe its quaintness and its general store, so the enormity that was now dwarfing this town was a striking reminder of how small Newtown really is. That flagpole you can see at the top of the hill is the best example of this: there are few towns in America that could have a flagpole literally in the middle of the road in the center of their town at a four way intersection that has no stop signs. On a normal day there is so little traffic it’s effortless to navigate this landmark, but now it was gridlock. In contrast with that old flagpole, which has stood since 1876, was the makeshift one freshly planted in the middle of a farmer’s cornfield. It was there because nobody knew what to do with their grief. So to compensate, there were temporary memorials wherever you looked: in the town center, on the side of the highway, in front of the tall pine tree in Sandy Hook. Piles of flowers, mounds of stuffed animals, handmade signs to pray. And those signs were everywhere: “Pray for Newtown” — “Pray for Sandy Hook” — “Pray.”  Editor’s note: Pictures were taken in Newtown, Connecticut, on December 16 and 17, 2012. * * * Maine State Guide Brett Klein lives in Connecticut and works in New York, but prefers small town life and his homestate of Maine. Any chance to get rural is a mental vacation. Follow Klein on Tumblr at The Coast is Clear. His curatorial collection of Americana, rural life, other artists and ephemera can be seen on Tumblr at Tons of Land.
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ALL ROADS LEAD TO NEWTOWN …this route passes through level country to Danbury, winding up hills to Newtown with its fine views over valleys and rolling hills from the hilltop main street. — Connecticut, A Guide To Its Roads, Lore, and People (WPA, 1938) In the days after the school shooting at Sandy Hook Elementary the whole world seemed to be streaming into Newtown, Connecticut, as fast as they could. All roads led there, like a network of veins feeding a heart. Waves of people and intensity broke over the hamlet. Traffic from every direction was a one-lane parking lot of cars at a dead stop. I’d been through Newtown years ago and there was no particular attraction that would have warranted my return except maybe its quaintness and its general store, so the enormity that was now dwarfing this town was a striking reminder of how small Newtown really is. That flagpole you can see at the top of the hill is the best example of this: there are few towns in America that could have a flagpole literally in the middle of the road in the center of their town at a four way intersection that has no stop signs. On a normal day there is so little traffic it’s effortless to navigate this landmark, but now it was gridlock. In contrast with that old flagpole, which has stood since 1876, was the makeshift one freshly planted in the middle of a farmer’s cornfield. It was there because nobody knew what to do with their grief. So to compensate, there were temporary memorials wherever you looked: in the town center, on the side of the highway, in front of the tall pine tree in Sandy Hook. Piles of flowers, mounds of stuffed animals, handmade signs to pray. And those signs were everywhere: “Pray for Newtown” — “Pray for Sandy Hook” — “Pray.”  Editor’s note: Pictures were taken in Newtown, Connecticut, on December 16 and 17, 2012. * * * Maine State Guide Brett Klein lives in Connecticut and works in New York, but prefers small town life and his homestate of Maine. Any chance to get rural is a mental vacation. Follow Klein on Tumblr at The Coast is Clear. His curatorial collection of Americana, rural life, other artists and ephemera can be seen on Tumblr at Tons of Land.
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ALL ROADS LEAD TO NEWTOWN

…this route passes through level country to Danbury, winding up hills to Newtown with its fine views over valleys and rolling hills from the hilltop main street.

— Connecticut, A Guide To Its Roads, Lore, and People (WPA, 1938)

In the days after the school shooting at Sandy Hook Elementary the whole world seemed to be streaming into Newtown, Connecticut, as fast as they could. All roads led there, like a network of veins feeding a heart.

Waves of people and intensity broke over the hamlet. Traffic from every direction was a one-lane parking lot of cars at a dead stop.

I’d been through Newtown years ago and there was no particular attraction that would have warranted my return except maybe its quaintness and its general store, so the enormity that was now dwarfing this town was a striking reminder of how small Newtown really is. That flagpole you can see at the top of the hill is the best example of this: there are few towns in America that could have a flagpole literally in the middle of the road in the center of their town at a four way intersection that has no stop signs. On a normal day there is so little traffic it’s effortless to navigate this landmark, but now it was gridlock.

In contrast with that old flagpole, which has stood since 1876, was the makeshift one freshly planted in the middle of a farmer’s cornfield. It was there because nobody knew what to do with their grief. So to compensate, there were temporary memorials wherever you looked: in the town center, on the side of the highway, in front of the tall pine tree in Sandy Hook. Piles of flowers, mounds of stuffed animals, handmade signs to pray. And those signs were everywhere: “Pray for Newtown” — “Pray for Sandy Hook” — “Pray.” 

Editor’s note: Pictures were taken in Newtown, Connecticut, on December 16 and 17, 2012.

* * *

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

WELCOME TO CORTEZ CORTEZ, 200.5 m.  (6,198 alt., 921 pop.), seat of Montezuma County, is a trading center for sheep and cattle raisers who pasture their herds on the sage flats to the west.  The town was founded in 1887 when ranchers first pushed into the Montezuma Valley; many of the tan sandstone buildings were erected during that period.  Cortez is interesting on Saturday nights, when its main street is filled with ranchers, farmers, and Indians; the latter are usually dressed in brilliant velveteens and calicoes, and aglitter with silver and turquoise jewelry. (…) The majority are Ute, although there is a sprinkling of Navaho and Piute. — Colorado: A Guide To the Highest State (WPA, 1941) Today Cortez is a town of 8,500 people.  It is still the seat of Montezuma County, in the southwest corner of Colorado.  The main industries are tourism, energy, and agriculture, and Saturday nights tend to be quiet.  Most tourists who visit Cortez are headed for Mesa Verde National Park.  And don’t get me wrong, Mesa Verde is great.  Along with the famous cliff dwellings, the park has an old school museum, the Chapin Mesa Archaeological Museum, full of dioramas and displays made by Civilian Conservation Corps (CCC) workers in the 1930s.  There’s also a sweet new visitor center right at the park entrance.  And from the top of the mesa, you can see forever. But if you go to Cortez, spend a day or two at Mesa Verde, and leave, you will have missed out on what makes this area so special.  [Read more over at textless.tumblr.com…] * * * Amadee Ricketts is an At-Large Guide to the West. She’s worked as a cemetary groundskeeper, a shoeshine valet, and a bill collector. More recently, she’s been a children’s librarian in five states. She takes a lot of pictures and lives near Durango, CO. You can see her photos at textless.tumblr.com.
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WELCOME TO CORTEZ CORTEZ, 200.5 m.  (6,198 alt., 921 pop.), seat of Montezuma County, is a trading center for sheep and cattle raisers who pasture their herds on the sage flats to the west.  The town was founded in 1887 when ranchers first pushed into the Montezuma Valley; many of the tan sandstone buildings were erected during that period.  Cortez is interesting on Saturday nights, when its main street is filled with ranchers, farmers, and Indians; the latter are usually dressed in brilliant velveteens and calicoes, and aglitter with silver and turquoise jewelry. (…) The majority are Ute, although there is a sprinkling of Navaho and Piute. — Colorado: A Guide To the Highest State (WPA, 1941) Today Cortez is a town of 8,500 people.  It is still the seat of Montezuma County, in the southwest corner of Colorado.  The main industries are tourism, energy, and agriculture, and Saturday nights tend to be quiet.  Most tourists who visit Cortez are headed for Mesa Verde National Park.  And don’t get me wrong, Mesa Verde is great.  Along with the famous cliff dwellings, the park has an old school museum, the Chapin Mesa Archaeological Museum, full of dioramas and displays made by Civilian Conservation Corps (CCC) workers in the 1930s.  There’s also a sweet new visitor center right at the park entrance.  And from the top of the mesa, you can see forever. But if you go to Cortez, spend a day or two at Mesa Verde, and leave, you will have missed out on what makes this area so special.  [Read more over at textless.tumblr.com…] * * * Amadee Ricketts is an At-Large Guide to the West. She’s worked as a cemetary groundskeeper, a shoeshine valet, and a bill collector. More recently, she’s been a children’s librarian in five states. She takes a lot of pictures and lives near Durango, CO. You can see her photos at textless.tumblr.com.
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WELCOME TO CORTEZ CORTEZ, 200.5 m.  (6,198 alt., 921 pop.), seat of Montezuma County, is a trading center for sheep and cattle raisers who pasture their herds on the sage flats to the west.  The town was founded in 1887 when ranchers first pushed into the Montezuma Valley; many of the tan sandstone buildings were erected during that period.  Cortez is interesting on Saturday nights, when its main street is filled with ranchers, farmers, and Indians; the latter are usually dressed in brilliant velveteens and calicoes, and aglitter with silver and turquoise jewelry. (…) The majority are Ute, although there is a sprinkling of Navaho and Piute. — Colorado: A Guide To the Highest State (WPA, 1941) Today Cortez is a town of 8,500 people.  It is still the seat of Montezuma County, in the southwest corner of Colorado.  The main industries are tourism, energy, and agriculture, and Saturday nights tend to be quiet.  Most tourists who visit Cortez are headed for Mesa Verde National Park.  And don’t get me wrong, Mesa Verde is great.  Along with the famous cliff dwellings, the park has an old school museum, the Chapin Mesa Archaeological Museum, full of dioramas and displays made by Civilian Conservation Corps (CCC) workers in the 1930s.  There’s also a sweet new visitor center right at the park entrance.  And from the top of the mesa, you can see forever. But if you go to Cortez, spend a day or two at Mesa Verde, and leave, you will have missed out on what makes this area so special.  [Read more over at textless.tumblr.com…] * * * Amadee Ricketts is an At-Large Guide to the West. She’s worked as a cemetary groundskeeper, a shoeshine valet, and a bill collector. More recently, she’s been a children’s librarian in five states. She takes a lot of pictures and lives near Durango, CO. You can see her photos at textless.tumblr.com.
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WELCOME TO CORTEZ CORTEZ, 200.5 m.  (6,198 alt., 921 pop.), seat of Montezuma County, is a trading center for sheep and cattle raisers who pasture their herds on the sage flats to the west.  The town was founded in 1887 when ranchers first pushed into the Montezuma Valley; many of the tan sandstone buildings were erected during that period.  Cortez is interesting on Saturday nights, when its main street is filled with ranchers, farmers, and Indians; the latter are usually dressed in brilliant velveteens and calicoes, and aglitter with silver and turquoise jewelry. (…) The majority are Ute, although there is a sprinkling of Navaho and Piute. — Colorado: A Guide To the Highest State (WPA, 1941) Today Cortez is a town of 8,500 people.  It is still the seat of Montezuma County, in the southwest corner of Colorado.  The main industries are tourism, energy, and agriculture, and Saturday nights tend to be quiet.  Most tourists who visit Cortez are headed for Mesa Verde National Park.  And don’t get me wrong, Mesa Verde is great.  Along with the famous cliff dwellings, the park has an old school museum, the Chapin Mesa Archaeological Museum, full of dioramas and displays made by Civilian Conservation Corps (CCC) workers in the 1930s.  There’s also a sweet new visitor center right at the park entrance.  And from the top of the mesa, you can see forever. But if you go to Cortez, spend a day or two at Mesa Verde, and leave, you will have missed out on what makes this area so special.  [Read more over at textless.tumblr.com…] * * * Amadee Ricketts is an At-Large Guide to the West. She’s worked as a cemetary groundskeeper, a shoeshine valet, and a bill collector. More recently, she’s been a children’s librarian in five states. She takes a lot of pictures and lives near Durango, CO. You can see her photos at textless.tumblr.com.
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WELCOME TO CORTEZ CORTEZ, 200.5 m.  (6,198 alt., 921 pop.), seat of Montezuma County, is a trading center for sheep and cattle raisers who pasture their herds on the sage flats to the west.  The town was founded in 1887 when ranchers first pushed into the Montezuma Valley; many of the tan sandstone buildings were erected during that period.  Cortez is interesting on Saturday nights, when its main street is filled with ranchers, farmers, and Indians; the latter are usually dressed in brilliant velveteens and calicoes, and aglitter with silver and turquoise jewelry. (…) The majority are Ute, although there is a sprinkling of Navaho and Piute. — Colorado: A Guide To the Highest State (WPA, 1941) Today Cortez is a town of 8,500 people.  It is still the seat of Montezuma County, in the southwest corner of Colorado.  The main industries are tourism, energy, and agriculture, and Saturday nights tend to be quiet.  Most tourists who visit Cortez are headed for Mesa Verde National Park.  And don’t get me wrong, Mesa Verde is great.  Along with the famous cliff dwellings, the park has an old school museum, the Chapin Mesa Archaeological Museum, full of dioramas and displays made by Civilian Conservation Corps (CCC) workers in the 1930s.  There’s also a sweet new visitor center right at the park entrance.  And from the top of the mesa, you can see forever. But if you go to Cortez, spend a day or two at Mesa Verde, and leave, you will have missed out on what makes this area so special.  [Read more over at textless.tumblr.com…] * * * Amadee Ricketts is an At-Large Guide to the West. She’s worked as a cemetary groundskeeper, a shoeshine valet, and a bill collector. More recently, she’s been a children’s librarian in five states. She takes a lot of pictures and lives near Durango, CO. You can see her photos at textless.tumblr.com.
Zoom Info
WELCOME TO CORTEZ CORTEZ, 200.5 m.  (6,198 alt., 921 pop.), seat of Montezuma County, is a trading center for sheep and cattle raisers who pasture their herds on the sage flats to the west.  The town was founded in 1887 when ranchers first pushed into the Montezuma Valley; many of the tan sandstone buildings were erected during that period.  Cortez is interesting on Saturday nights, when its main street is filled with ranchers, farmers, and Indians; the latter are usually dressed in brilliant velveteens and calicoes, and aglitter with silver and turquoise jewelry. (…) The majority are Ute, although there is a sprinkling of Navaho and Piute. — Colorado: A Guide To the Highest State (WPA, 1941) Today Cortez is a town of 8,500 people.  It is still the seat of Montezuma County, in the southwest corner of Colorado.  The main industries are tourism, energy, and agriculture, and Saturday nights tend to be quiet.  Most tourists who visit Cortez are headed for Mesa Verde National Park.  And don’t get me wrong, Mesa Verde is great.  Along with the famous cliff dwellings, the park has an old school museum, the Chapin Mesa Archaeological Museum, full of dioramas and displays made by Civilian Conservation Corps (CCC) workers in the 1930s.  There’s also a sweet new visitor center right at the park entrance.  And from the top of the mesa, you can see forever. But if you go to Cortez, spend a day or two at Mesa Verde, and leave, you will have missed out on what makes this area so special.  [Read more over at textless.tumblr.com…] * * * Amadee Ricketts is an At-Large Guide to the West. She’s worked as a cemetary groundskeeper, a shoeshine valet, and a bill collector. More recently, she’s been a children’s librarian in five states. She takes a lot of pictures and lives near Durango, CO. You can see her photos at textless.tumblr.com.
Zoom Info
WELCOME TO CORTEZ CORTEZ, 200.5 m.  (6,198 alt., 921 pop.), seat of Montezuma County, is a trading center for sheep and cattle raisers who pasture their herds on the sage flats to the west.  The town was founded in 1887 when ranchers first pushed into the Montezuma Valley; many of the tan sandstone buildings were erected during that period.  Cortez is interesting on Saturday nights, when its main street is filled with ranchers, farmers, and Indians; the latter are usually dressed in brilliant velveteens and calicoes, and aglitter with silver and turquoise jewelry. (…) The majority are Ute, although there is a sprinkling of Navaho and Piute. — Colorado: A Guide To the Highest State (WPA, 1941) Today Cortez is a town of 8,500 people.  It is still the seat of Montezuma County, in the southwest corner of Colorado.  The main industries are tourism, energy, and agriculture, and Saturday nights tend to be quiet.  Most tourists who visit Cortez are headed for Mesa Verde National Park.  And don’t get me wrong, Mesa Verde is great.  Along with the famous cliff dwellings, the park has an old school museum, the Chapin Mesa Archaeological Museum, full of dioramas and displays made by Civilian Conservation Corps (CCC) workers in the 1930s.  There’s also a sweet new visitor center right at the park entrance.  And from the top of the mesa, you can see forever. But if you go to Cortez, spend a day or two at Mesa Verde, and leave, you will have missed out on what makes this area so special.  [Read more over at textless.tumblr.com…] * * * Amadee Ricketts is an At-Large Guide to the West. She’s worked as a cemetary groundskeeper, a shoeshine valet, and a bill collector. More recently, she’s been a children’s librarian in five states. She takes a lot of pictures and lives near Durango, CO. You can see her photos at textless.tumblr.com.
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WELCOME TO CORTEZ CORTEZ, 200.5 m.  (6,198 alt., 921 pop.), seat of Montezuma County, is a trading center for sheep and cattle raisers who pasture their herds on the sage flats to the west.  The town was founded in 1887 when ranchers first pushed into the Montezuma Valley; many of the tan sandstone buildings were erected during that period.  Cortez is interesting on Saturday nights, when its main street is filled with ranchers, farmers, and Indians; the latter are usually dressed in brilliant velveteens and calicoes, and aglitter with silver and turquoise jewelry. (…) The majority are Ute, although there is a sprinkling of Navaho and Piute. — Colorado: A Guide To the Highest State (WPA, 1941) Today Cortez is a town of 8,500 people.  It is still the seat of Montezuma County, in the southwest corner of Colorado.  The main industries are tourism, energy, and agriculture, and Saturday nights tend to be quiet.  Most tourists who visit Cortez are headed for Mesa Verde National Park.  And don’t get me wrong, Mesa Verde is great.  Along with the famous cliff dwellings, the park has an old school museum, the Chapin Mesa Archaeological Museum, full of dioramas and displays made by Civilian Conservation Corps (CCC) workers in the 1930s.  There’s also a sweet new visitor center right at the park entrance.  And from the top of the mesa, you can see forever. But if you go to Cortez, spend a day or two at Mesa Verde, and leave, you will have missed out on what makes this area so special.  [Read more over at textless.tumblr.com…] * * * Amadee Ricketts is an At-Large Guide to the West. She’s worked as a cemetary groundskeeper, a shoeshine valet, and a bill collector. More recently, she’s been a children’s librarian in five states. She takes a lot of pictures and lives near Durango, CO. You can see her photos at textless.tumblr.com.
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WELCOME TO CORTEZ

CORTEZ, 200.5 m.  (6,198 alt., 921 pop.), seat of Montezuma County, is a trading center for sheep and cattle raisers who pasture their herds on the sage flats to the west.  The town was founded in 1887 when ranchers first pushed into the Montezuma Valley; many of the tan sandstone buildings were erected during that period.  Cortez is interesting on Saturday nights, when its main street is filled with ranchers, farmers, and Indians; the latter are usually dressed in brilliant velveteens and calicoes, and aglitter with silver and turquoise jewelry. (…) The majority are Ute, although there is a sprinkling of Navaho and Piute.

— Colorado: A Guide To the Highest State (WPA, 1941)

Today Cortez is a town of 8,500 people.  It is still the seat of Montezuma County, in the southwest corner of Colorado.  The main industries are tourism, energy, and agriculture, and Saturday nights tend to be quiet. 

Most tourists who visit Cortez are headed for Mesa Verde National Park.  And don’t get me wrong, Mesa Verde is great.  Along with the famous cliff dwellings, the park has an old school museum, the Chapin Mesa Archaeological Museum, full of dioramas and displays made by Civilian Conservation Corps (CCC) workers in the 1930s.  There’s also a sweet new visitor center right at the park entrance.  And from the top of the mesa, you can see forever.

But if you go to Cortez, spend a day or two at Mesa Verde, and leave, you will have missed out on what makes this area so special. 

[Read more over at textless.tumblr.com…]

* * *

Amadee Ricketts is an At-Large Guide to the West. She’s worked as a cemetary groundskeeper, a shoeshine valet, and a bill collector. More recently, she’s been a children’s librarian in five states. She takes a lot of pictures and lives near Durango, CO. You can see her photos at textless.tumblr.com.

SIKH PARADE - STOCKTON, CALIFORNIA “I just got back from the Sikh Parade,” I tell my friends. “The what?” they say. “The Sikh Parade. Starts near the beginning of San Joaquin Street, snakes through Downtown and across Weber, then back up California Street. Ya know?” “Never heard of it.” I’ve attended the Sikh Parade for three years in a row now, and I maintain that it is one of the most enjoyable and liberating events that Stockton, California, has to offer its residents. Fresh, delicious Indian food is available on every street corner. Cultural music spills out of float speakers as they roll by. A wash of vibrant, colorful fabric streams through the street — collecting the bright spring sunlight and reflecting it against shop windows and the dashboards of parked cars. In 2012, the April parade preluded the October celebration of the 100th anniversary of the Stockton Gurdwara on South Grant Street. This temple is the first permanent Sikh settlement in the United States, and Sikhs from all over the California Central Valley come to visit and participate in the parade’s progression through the city. The Sikh parade happens each year at the tail end of April.  * * * Brandon Getty is a State Guide to California, specifically the Central Valley region and his home city of Stockton. Follow on Tumblr at Maps to Stockton, on blogspot at Shooting Daggers, or on his Carbonmade Portfolio.
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SIKH PARADE - STOCKTON, CALIFORNIA “I just got back from the Sikh Parade,” I tell my friends. “The what?” they say. “The Sikh Parade. Starts near the beginning of San Joaquin Street, snakes through Downtown and across Weber, then back up California Street. Ya know?” “Never heard of it.” I’ve attended the Sikh Parade for three years in a row now, and I maintain that it is one of the most enjoyable and liberating events that Stockton, California, has to offer its residents. Fresh, delicious Indian food is available on every street corner. Cultural music spills out of float speakers as they roll by. A wash of vibrant, colorful fabric streams through the street — collecting the bright spring sunlight and reflecting it against shop windows and the dashboards of parked cars. In 2012, the April parade preluded the October celebration of the 100th anniversary of the Stockton Gurdwara on South Grant Street. This temple is the first permanent Sikh settlement in the United States, and Sikhs from all over the California Central Valley come to visit and participate in the parade’s progression through the city. The Sikh parade happens each year at the tail end of April.  * * * Brandon Getty is a State Guide to California, specifically the Central Valley region and his home city of Stockton. Follow on Tumblr at Maps to Stockton, on blogspot at Shooting Daggers, or on his Carbonmade Portfolio.
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SIKH PARADE - STOCKTON, CALIFORNIA “I just got back from the Sikh Parade,” I tell my friends. “The what?” they say. “The Sikh Parade. Starts near the beginning of San Joaquin Street, snakes through Downtown and across Weber, then back up California Street. Ya know?” “Never heard of it.” I’ve attended the Sikh Parade for three years in a row now, and I maintain that it is one of the most enjoyable and liberating events that Stockton, California, has to offer its residents. Fresh, delicious Indian food is available on every street corner. Cultural music spills out of float speakers as they roll by. A wash of vibrant, colorful fabric streams through the street — collecting the bright spring sunlight and reflecting it against shop windows and the dashboards of parked cars. In 2012, the April parade preluded the October celebration of the 100th anniversary of the Stockton Gurdwara on South Grant Street. This temple is the first permanent Sikh settlement in the United States, and Sikhs from all over the California Central Valley come to visit and participate in the parade’s progression through the city. The Sikh parade happens each year at the tail end of April.  * * * Brandon Getty is a State Guide to California, specifically the Central Valley region and his home city of Stockton. Follow on Tumblr at Maps to Stockton, on blogspot at Shooting Daggers, or on his Carbonmade Portfolio.
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SIKH PARADE - STOCKTON, CALIFORNIA “I just got back from the Sikh Parade,” I tell my friends. “The what?” they say. “The Sikh Parade. Starts near the beginning of San Joaquin Street, snakes through Downtown and across Weber, then back up California Street. Ya know?” “Never heard of it.” I’ve attended the Sikh Parade for three years in a row now, and I maintain that it is one of the most enjoyable and liberating events that Stockton, California, has to offer its residents. Fresh, delicious Indian food is available on every street corner. Cultural music spills out of float speakers as they roll by. A wash of vibrant, colorful fabric streams through the street — collecting the bright spring sunlight and reflecting it against shop windows and the dashboards of parked cars. In 2012, the April parade preluded the October celebration of the 100th anniversary of the Stockton Gurdwara on South Grant Street. This temple is the first permanent Sikh settlement in the United States, and Sikhs from all over the California Central Valley come to visit and participate in the parade’s progression through the city. The Sikh parade happens each year at the tail end of April.  * * * Brandon Getty is a State Guide to California, specifically the Central Valley region and his home city of Stockton. Follow on Tumblr at Maps to Stockton, on blogspot at Shooting Daggers, or on his Carbonmade Portfolio.
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SIKH PARADE - STOCKTON, CALIFORNIA “I just got back from the Sikh Parade,” I tell my friends. “The what?” they say. “The Sikh Parade. Starts near the beginning of San Joaquin Street, snakes through Downtown and across Weber, then back up California Street. Ya know?” “Never heard of it.” I’ve attended the Sikh Parade for three years in a row now, and I maintain that it is one of the most enjoyable and liberating events that Stockton, California, has to offer its residents. Fresh, delicious Indian food is available on every street corner. Cultural music spills out of float speakers as they roll by. A wash of vibrant, colorful fabric streams through the street — collecting the bright spring sunlight and reflecting it against shop windows and the dashboards of parked cars. In 2012, the April parade preluded the October celebration of the 100th anniversary of the Stockton Gurdwara on South Grant Street. This temple is the first permanent Sikh settlement in the United States, and Sikhs from all over the California Central Valley come to visit and participate in the parade’s progression through the city. The Sikh parade happens each year at the tail end of April.  * * * Brandon Getty is a State Guide to California, specifically the Central Valley region and his home city of Stockton. Follow on Tumblr at Maps to Stockton, on blogspot at Shooting Daggers, or on his Carbonmade Portfolio.
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SIKH PARADE - STOCKTON, CALIFORNIA “I just got back from the Sikh Parade,” I tell my friends. “The what?” they say. “The Sikh Parade. Starts near the beginning of San Joaquin Street, snakes through Downtown and across Weber, then back up California Street. Ya know?” “Never heard of it.” I’ve attended the Sikh Parade for three years in a row now, and I maintain that it is one of the most enjoyable and liberating events that Stockton, California, has to offer its residents. Fresh, delicious Indian food is available on every street corner. Cultural music spills out of float speakers as they roll by. A wash of vibrant, colorful fabric streams through the street — collecting the bright spring sunlight and reflecting it against shop windows and the dashboards of parked cars. In 2012, the April parade preluded the October celebration of the 100th anniversary of the Stockton Gurdwara on South Grant Street. This temple is the first permanent Sikh settlement in the United States, and Sikhs from all over the California Central Valley come to visit and participate in the parade’s progression through the city. The Sikh parade happens each year at the tail end of April.  * * * Brandon Getty is a State Guide to California, specifically the Central Valley region and his home city of Stockton. Follow on Tumblr at Maps to Stockton, on blogspot at Shooting Daggers, or on his Carbonmade Portfolio.
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SIKH PARADE - STOCKTON, CALIFORNIA “I just got back from the Sikh Parade,” I tell my friends. “The what?” they say. “The Sikh Parade. Starts near the beginning of San Joaquin Street, snakes through Downtown and across Weber, then back up California Street. Ya know?” “Never heard of it.” I’ve attended the Sikh Parade for three years in a row now, and I maintain that it is one of the most enjoyable and liberating events that Stockton, California, has to offer its residents. Fresh, delicious Indian food is available on every street corner. Cultural music spills out of float speakers as they roll by. A wash of vibrant, colorful fabric streams through the street — collecting the bright spring sunlight and reflecting it against shop windows and the dashboards of parked cars. In 2012, the April parade preluded the October celebration of the 100th anniversary of the Stockton Gurdwara on South Grant Street. This temple is the first permanent Sikh settlement in the United States, and Sikhs from all over the California Central Valley come to visit and participate in the parade’s progression through the city. The Sikh parade happens each year at the tail end of April.  * * * Brandon Getty is a State Guide to California, specifically the Central Valley region and his home city of Stockton. Follow on Tumblr at Maps to Stockton, on blogspot at Shooting Daggers, or on his Carbonmade Portfolio.
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SIKH PARADE - STOCKTON, CALIFORNIA

“I just got back from the Sikh Parade,” I tell my friends. “The what?” they say. “The Sikh Parade. Starts near the beginning of San Joaquin Street, snakes through Downtown and across Weber, then back up California Street. Ya know?”

“Never heard of it.”

I’ve attended the Sikh Parade for three years in a row now, and I maintain that it is one of the most enjoyable and liberating events that Stockton, California, has to offer its residents.

Fresh, delicious Indian food is available on every street corner. Cultural music spills out of float speakers as they roll by. A wash of vibrant, colorful fabric streams through the street — collecting the bright spring sunlight and reflecting it against shop windows and the dashboards of parked cars.

In 2012, the April parade preluded the October celebration of the 100th anniversary of the Stockton Gurdwara on South Grant Street. This temple is the first permanent Sikh settlement in the United States, and Sikhs from all over the California Central Valley come to visit and participate in the parade’s progression through the city.

The Sikh parade happens each year at the tail end of April. 

* * *

Brandon Getty is a State Guide to California, specifically the Central Valley region and his home city of Stockton. Follow on Tumblr at Maps to Stockton, on blogspot at Shooting Daggers, or on his Carbonmade Portfolio.

M4M - NORTHPORT, MAINE

The Maine Yankee is not nearly so taciturn as a stranger might at first consider him, but it is a rule that words are not to be wasted.

— Maine, A Guide ‘Down East’ (WPA, 1937)

This is a short doc about one man trying to find love in the middle of nowhere Maine.  

Epilogue: Bob emailed me on Valentines Day to let me know he got a response on his Craig’s List add from a guy in Tennessee. The guy is coming up to Maine to visit Bob for a month in April. And he said he’s very excited to start a relationship. He has a date! And at the very end of the email he added, “So see maybe you changed my luck.”

* * *

Barton Girdwood is a peer educator and independent multimedia producer based in Bloomington, IN. Outside his studies, he helps direct American Student Radio, an online publication and educational resource for high school and college students. You can find him on Twitter, on Tumblr at americanstudentradio, and on SoundCloud.

This dispatch arrived care of THE AMERICAN GUIDE submission page. Be a guide yourself and send a post from your state: theamericanguide.org/submit.
PENN HILLS, PENNSYLVANIA  Penn Hills, Pennsylvania is a community in transition. As a first-ring suburb, it currently faces issues of population loss and aging infrastructure. And how innovative its municipal government can be with its limited resources will greatly determine how Penn Hills will move forward. The neighborhood of Lincoln Park’s place in Penn Hills is even more precarious. Most recently, for example, the residents of Lincoln Park defeated a redistricting measure that would have taken their neighborhood out of Penn Hills and moved it into a poorer, adjacent district. Despite these challenges, what remains special about Penn Hills is its vibrant community, and residents who have a strong sense of civic pride. - Into the Wild: Santiago Street -  When I parked my car at the end of Santiago Street in Lincoln Park, I half expected to find a cul-de-sac devoid of houses. That’s because days earlier, during a conversation with Chris Blackwell, principal planner from the Penn Hills Department of Planning and Economic Development, he told me how his department had demolished nearly all the street’s blighted properties in recent years. “There’s almost nothing left down there,” he said. “Almost” was the key word. Once a quiet suburban cul-de-sac that boasted upwards of 20 or more homes, the housing stock on Santiago has dwindled to almost nothing in the last two decades. Today only four houses remain on the street. Two are vacant, with broken windows and kicked-in garage doors, weeds sprouting from gutters and trash bags lying heaped in the driveways. Two are not. In one of the homes that appeared to be inhabited, I heard a TV set blaring and could see the dull glow of its screen. There were no signs of people, however. Allegheny County assessment records show that a man named Martin Lloyd owns the home. I would have walked the steep staircase leading to the front door, knocked and introduced myself explaining that I was a journalist working on a story, but for whatever reason, my fear won out. Maybe it was my knowledge of Lincoln Park’s sordid history that gave me pause, or knowing that people who live in isolated areas sometimes do so for a reason. However unfounded my fear may have been, I listened to instinct. Instead I walked the empty street taking photographs, waiting to see some signs of life. When I returned to my car, I opened my notepad and jotted down house numbers. The legacy of Santiago Street and its near-death is most likely tied to foreclosures or owner abandonment that took place sometime back in the 1990s, Blackwell said. He assured me it had nothing to do with the recent string of mortgage foreclosures that have plagued the Pennsylvania suburb in the wake of the Great Recession. Regardless of how it came to be, the municipality of Penn Hills — where Santiago Street is located — now owns much of the vacant property. Santiago Street is located off Mount Carmel Road and dead-ended on one side by a massive property housing a demolition and excavation company. That essentially makes Santiago Street, and its surrounding streets and alleyways, their own micro-province. That day the tall weeds lining the hillside at the end of Santiago swayed like prairie grass, moved by the warm August breeze. Wild rabbits darted back and forth between overgrown hedges. In the near distance, beyond a sign that discouraged dumping trash or parking your car, I heard two dogs howl, followed by a man’s voice that occasionally yelled to quiet them. But still I saw no one. * * * Matthew Newton is a writer, journalist and editor from Western Pennsylvania. His writing has appeared in The Atlantic, Esquire, Forbes and Guernica, among other publications. He’s currently at work on No Place For Disgrace, a series of nonfiction stories about the life and death of the suburban dream. You can find him on his website blog.matthewnewton.us, or at the journal he founded, Annals of Americus.
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PENN HILLS, PENNSYLVANIA  Penn Hills, Pennsylvania is a community in transition. As a first-ring suburb, it currently faces issues of population loss and aging infrastructure. And how innovative its municipal government can be with its limited resources will greatly determine how Penn Hills will move forward. The neighborhood of Lincoln Park’s place in Penn Hills is even more precarious. Most recently, for example, the residents of Lincoln Park defeated a redistricting measure that would have taken their neighborhood out of Penn Hills and moved it into a poorer, adjacent district. Despite these challenges, what remains special about Penn Hills is its vibrant community, and residents who have a strong sense of civic pride. - Into the Wild: Santiago Street -  When I parked my car at the end of Santiago Street in Lincoln Park, I half expected to find a cul-de-sac devoid of houses. That’s because days earlier, during a conversation with Chris Blackwell, principal planner from the Penn Hills Department of Planning and Economic Development, he told me how his department had demolished nearly all the street’s blighted properties in recent years. “There’s almost nothing left down there,” he said. “Almost” was the key word. Once a quiet suburban cul-de-sac that boasted upwards of 20 or more homes, the housing stock on Santiago has dwindled to almost nothing in the last two decades. Today only four houses remain on the street. Two are vacant, with broken windows and kicked-in garage doors, weeds sprouting from gutters and trash bags lying heaped in the driveways. Two are not. In one of the homes that appeared to be inhabited, I heard a TV set blaring and could see the dull glow of its screen. There were no signs of people, however. Allegheny County assessment records show that a man named Martin Lloyd owns the home. I would have walked the steep staircase leading to the front door, knocked and introduced myself explaining that I was a journalist working on a story, but for whatever reason, my fear won out. Maybe it was my knowledge of Lincoln Park’s sordid history that gave me pause, or knowing that people who live in isolated areas sometimes do so for a reason. However unfounded my fear may have been, I listened to instinct. Instead I walked the empty street taking photographs, waiting to see some signs of life. When I returned to my car, I opened my notepad and jotted down house numbers. The legacy of Santiago Street and its near-death is most likely tied to foreclosures or owner abandonment that took place sometime back in the 1990s, Blackwell said. He assured me it had nothing to do with the recent string of mortgage foreclosures that have plagued the Pennsylvania suburb in the wake of the Great Recession. Regardless of how it came to be, the municipality of Penn Hills — where Santiago Street is located — now owns much of the vacant property. Santiago Street is located off Mount Carmel Road and dead-ended on one side by a massive property housing a demolition and excavation company. That essentially makes Santiago Street, and its surrounding streets and alleyways, their own micro-province. That day the tall weeds lining the hillside at the end of Santiago swayed like prairie grass, moved by the warm August breeze. Wild rabbits darted back and forth between overgrown hedges. In the near distance, beyond a sign that discouraged dumping trash or parking your car, I heard two dogs howl, followed by a man’s voice that occasionally yelled to quiet them. But still I saw no one. * * * Matthew Newton is a writer, journalist and editor from Western Pennsylvania. His writing has appeared in The Atlantic, Esquire, Forbes and Guernica, among other publications. He’s currently at work on No Place For Disgrace, a series of nonfiction stories about the life and death of the suburban dream. You can find him on his website blog.matthewnewton.us, or at the journal he founded, Annals of Americus.
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PENN HILLS, PENNSYLVANIA  Penn Hills, Pennsylvania is a community in transition. As a first-ring suburb, it currently faces issues of population loss and aging infrastructure. And how innovative its municipal government can be with its limited resources will greatly determine how Penn Hills will move forward. The neighborhood of Lincoln Park’s place in Penn Hills is even more precarious. Most recently, for example, the residents of Lincoln Park defeated a redistricting measure that would have taken their neighborhood out of Penn Hills and moved it into a poorer, adjacent district. Despite these challenges, what remains special about Penn Hills is its vibrant community, and residents who have a strong sense of civic pride. - Into the Wild: Santiago Street -  When I parked my car at the end of Santiago Street in Lincoln Park, I half expected to find a cul-de-sac devoid of houses. That’s because days earlier, during a conversation with Chris Blackwell, principal planner from the Penn Hills Department of Planning and Economic Development, he told me how his department had demolished nearly all the street’s blighted properties in recent years. “There’s almost nothing left down there,” he said. “Almost” was the key word. Once a quiet suburban cul-de-sac that boasted upwards of 20 or more homes, the housing stock on Santiago has dwindled to almost nothing in the last two decades. Today only four houses remain on the street. Two are vacant, with broken windows and kicked-in garage doors, weeds sprouting from gutters and trash bags lying heaped in the driveways. Two are not. In one of the homes that appeared to be inhabited, I heard a TV set blaring and could see the dull glow of its screen. There were no signs of people, however. Allegheny County assessment records show that a man named Martin Lloyd owns the home. I would have walked the steep staircase leading to the front door, knocked and introduced myself explaining that I was a journalist working on a story, but for whatever reason, my fear won out. Maybe it was my knowledge of Lincoln Park’s sordid history that gave me pause, or knowing that people who live in isolated areas sometimes do so for a reason. However unfounded my fear may have been, I listened to instinct. Instead I walked the empty street taking photographs, waiting to see some signs of life. When I returned to my car, I opened my notepad and jotted down house numbers. The legacy of Santiago Street and its near-death is most likely tied to foreclosures or owner abandonment that took place sometime back in the 1990s, Blackwell said. He assured me it had nothing to do with the recent string of mortgage foreclosures that have plagued the Pennsylvania suburb in the wake of the Great Recession. Regardless of how it came to be, the municipality of Penn Hills — where Santiago Street is located — now owns much of the vacant property. Santiago Street is located off Mount Carmel Road and dead-ended on one side by a massive property housing a demolition and excavation company. That essentially makes Santiago Street, and its surrounding streets and alleyways, their own micro-province. That day the tall weeds lining the hillside at the end of Santiago swayed like prairie grass, moved by the warm August breeze. Wild rabbits darted back and forth between overgrown hedges. In the near distance, beyond a sign that discouraged dumping trash or parking your car, I heard two dogs howl, followed by a man’s voice that occasionally yelled to quiet them. But still I saw no one. * * * Matthew Newton is a writer, journalist and editor from Western Pennsylvania. His writing has appeared in The Atlantic, Esquire, Forbes and Guernica, among other publications. He’s currently at work on No Place For Disgrace, a series of nonfiction stories about the life and death of the suburban dream. You can find him on his website blog.matthewnewton.us, or at the journal he founded, Annals of Americus.
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PENN HILLS, PENNSYLVANIA  Penn Hills, Pennsylvania is a community in transition. As a first-ring suburb, it currently faces issues of population loss and aging infrastructure. And how innovative its municipal government can be with its limited resources will greatly determine how Penn Hills will move forward. The neighborhood of Lincoln Park’s place in Penn Hills is even more precarious. Most recently, for example, the residents of Lincoln Park defeated a redistricting measure that would have taken their neighborhood out of Penn Hills and moved it into a poorer, adjacent district. Despite these challenges, what remains special about Penn Hills is its vibrant community, and residents who have a strong sense of civic pride. - Into the Wild: Santiago Street -  When I parked my car at the end of Santiago Street in Lincoln Park, I half expected to find a cul-de-sac devoid of houses. That’s because days earlier, during a conversation with Chris Blackwell, principal planner from the Penn Hills Department of Planning and Economic Development, he told me how his department had demolished nearly all the street’s blighted properties in recent years. “There’s almost nothing left down there,” he said. “Almost” was the key word. Once a quiet suburban cul-de-sac that boasted upwards of 20 or more homes, the housing stock on Santiago has dwindled to almost nothing in the last two decades. Today only four houses remain on the street. Two are vacant, with broken windows and kicked-in garage doors, weeds sprouting from gutters and trash bags lying heaped in the driveways. Two are not. In one of the homes that appeared to be inhabited, I heard a TV set blaring and could see the dull glow of its screen. There were no signs of people, however. Allegheny County assessment records show that a man named Martin Lloyd owns the home. I would have walked the steep staircase leading to the front door, knocked and introduced myself explaining that I was a journalist working on a story, but for whatever reason, my fear won out. Maybe it was my knowledge of Lincoln Park’s sordid history that gave me pause, or knowing that people who live in isolated areas sometimes do so for a reason. However unfounded my fear may have been, I listened to instinct. Instead I walked the empty street taking photographs, waiting to see some signs of life. When I returned to my car, I opened my notepad and jotted down house numbers. The legacy of Santiago Street and its near-death is most likely tied to foreclosures or owner abandonment that took place sometime back in the 1990s, Blackwell said. He assured me it had nothing to do with the recent string of mortgage foreclosures that have plagued the Pennsylvania suburb in the wake of the Great Recession. Regardless of how it came to be, the municipality of Penn Hills — where Santiago Street is located — now owns much of the vacant property. Santiago Street is located off Mount Carmel Road and dead-ended on one side by a massive property housing a demolition and excavation company. That essentially makes Santiago Street, and its surrounding streets and alleyways, their own micro-province. That day the tall weeds lining the hillside at the end of Santiago swayed like prairie grass, moved by the warm August breeze. Wild rabbits darted back and forth between overgrown hedges. In the near distance, beyond a sign that discouraged dumping trash or parking your car, I heard two dogs howl, followed by a man’s voice that occasionally yelled to quiet them. But still I saw no one. * * * Matthew Newton is a writer, journalist and editor from Western Pennsylvania. His writing has appeared in The Atlantic, Esquire, Forbes and Guernica, among other publications. He’s currently at work on No Place For Disgrace, a series of nonfiction stories about the life and death of the suburban dream. You can find him on his website blog.matthewnewton.us, or at the journal he founded, Annals of Americus.
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PENN HILLS, PENNSYLVANIA 

Penn Hills, Pennsylvania is a community in transition. As a first-ring suburb, it currently faces issues of population loss and aging infrastructure. And how innovative its municipal government can be with its limited resources will greatly determine how Penn Hills will move forward. The neighborhood of Lincoln Park’s place in Penn Hills is even more precarious. Most recently, for example, the residents of Lincoln Park defeated a redistricting measure that would have taken their neighborhood out of Penn Hills and moved it into a poorer, adjacent district. Despite these challenges, what remains special about Penn Hills is its vibrant community, and residents who have a strong sense of civic pride.

- Into the Wild: Santiago Street - 

When I parked my car at the end of Santiago Street in Lincoln Park, I half expected to find a cul-de-sac devoid of houses. That’s because days earlier, during a conversation with Chris Blackwell, principal planner from the Penn Hills Department of Planning and Economic Development, he told me how his department had demolished nearly all the street’s blighted properties in recent years. “There’s almost nothing left down there,” he said. “Almost” was the key word.

Once a quiet suburban cul-de-sac that boasted upwards of 20 or more homes, the housing stock on Santiago has dwindled to almost nothing in the last two decades. Today only four houses remain on the street. Two are vacant, with broken windows and kicked-in garage doors, weeds sprouting from gutters and trash bags lying heaped in the driveways. Two are not.

In one of the homes that appeared to be inhabited, I heard a TV set blaring and could see the dull glow of its screen. There were no signs of people, however. Allegheny County assessment records show that a man named Martin Lloyd owns the home. I would have walked the steep staircase leading to the front door, knocked and introduced myself explaining that I was a journalist working on a story, but for whatever reason, my fear won out. Maybe it was my knowledge of Lincoln Park’s sordid history that gave me pause, or knowing that people who live in isolated areas sometimes do so for a reason. However unfounded my fear may have been, I listened to instinct. Instead I walked the empty street taking photographs, waiting to see some signs of life. When I returned to my car, I opened my notepad and jotted down house numbers.

The legacy of Santiago Street and its near-death is most likely tied to foreclosures or owner abandonment that took place sometime back in the 1990s, Blackwell said. He assured me it had nothing to do with the recent string of mortgage foreclosures that have plagued the Pennsylvania suburb in the wake of the Great Recession. Regardless of how it came to be, the municipality of Penn Hills — where Santiago Street is located — now owns much of the vacant property.

Santiago Street is located off Mount Carmel Road and dead-ended on one side by a massive property housing a demolition and excavation company. That essentially makes Santiago Street, and its surrounding streets and alleyways, their own micro-province. That day the tall weeds lining the hillside at the end of Santiago swayed like prairie grass, moved by the warm August breeze. Wild rabbits darted back and forth between overgrown hedges. In the near distance, beyond a sign that discouraged dumping trash or parking your car, I heard two dogs howl, followed by a man’s voice that occasionally yelled to quiet them. But still I saw no one.

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Matthew Newton is a writer, journalist and editor from Western Pennsylvania. His writing has appeared in The Atlantic, Esquire, Forbes and Guernica, among other publications. He’s currently at work on No Place For Disgrace, a series of nonfiction stories about the life and death of the suburban dream. You can find him on his website blog.matthewnewton.us, or at the journal he founded, Annals of Americus.