THE SPACES BETWEEN THE PLACES – UPSTATE & SOUTHERN TIER, NEW YORK There have been numerous references throughout history to “the journey, not the destination”; the idea that one should savor the road being traveled, it being the actual reward above and beyond the destination itself. For me, the journey that consistently offers up its bounty is the vast expanse of upstate New York and its Southern Tier. To travel this region is a great reminder not only of the current state of things in rural America, but also of what used to be. The forests and watersheds allowed much of this area to thrive in the late 1800s, which made way for the prosperity of farms and small factory towns in the first half of the 20th century. You’ll see many stores, farms and factories, some still thriving, some barely hanging on and some in a state of disrepair, now only a remnant of what was and likely will never be again. It’s the ruralness of this area that can take you by surprise; the fact that these folks make do much by themselves so far from any greater metropolitan area. You can imagine that everyone must know their neighbor’s business. For the traveler passing through it seems that so little must have changed over the years, except that the vacant store fronts must once have been open for business, and the barns that are now collapsing in on themselves must have strongly stood upright in the afternoon sun.  For the rare small town that somehow shrugged off decay and demise and manages to carry on despite it all, it offers a glimpse of how it used to be better. It can genuinely give you a sense of stepping back in time, of driving into a town from decades past. And then you blink your eyes and you’re through it, back into the farmland until the next small town appears. * * * Guide to the Northeast Brett Klein lives in Connecticut and works in New York, but prefers small town life and his homestate of Maine. Any chance to get rural is a mental vacation. Follow Klein on Tumblr at The Coast is Clear. His curatorial collection of Americana, rural life, other artists and ephemera can be seen on Tumblr at Tons of Land.
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THE SPACES BETWEEN THE PLACES – UPSTATE & SOUTHERN TIER, NEW YORK There have been numerous references throughout history to “the journey, not the destination”; the idea that one should savor the road being traveled, it being the actual reward above and beyond the destination itself. For me, the journey that consistently offers up its bounty is the vast expanse of upstate New York and its Southern Tier. To travel this region is a great reminder not only of the current state of things in rural America, but also of what used to be. The forests and watersheds allowed much of this area to thrive in the late 1800s, which made way for the prosperity of farms and small factory towns in the first half of the 20th century. You’ll see many stores, farms and factories, some still thriving, some barely hanging on and some in a state of disrepair, now only a remnant of what was and likely will never be again. It’s the ruralness of this area that can take you by surprise; the fact that these folks make do much by themselves so far from any greater metropolitan area. You can imagine that everyone must know their neighbor’s business. For the traveler passing through it seems that so little must have changed over the years, except that the vacant store fronts must once have been open for business, and the barns that are now collapsing in on themselves must have strongly stood upright in the afternoon sun.  For the rare small town that somehow shrugged off decay and demise and manages to carry on despite it all, it offers a glimpse of how it used to be better. It can genuinely give you a sense of stepping back in time, of driving into a town from decades past. And then you blink your eyes and you’re through it, back into the farmland until the next small town appears. * * * Guide to the Northeast Brett Klein lives in Connecticut and works in New York, but prefers small town life and his homestate of Maine. Any chance to get rural is a mental vacation. Follow Klein on Tumblr at The Coast is Clear. His curatorial collection of Americana, rural life, other artists and ephemera can be seen on Tumblr at Tons of Land.
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THE SPACES BETWEEN THE PLACES – UPSTATE & SOUTHERN TIER, NEW YORK There have been numerous references throughout history to “the journey, not the destination”; the idea that one should savor the road being traveled, it being the actual reward above and beyond the destination itself. For me, the journey that consistently offers up its bounty is the vast expanse of upstate New York and its Southern Tier. To travel this region is a great reminder not only of the current state of things in rural America, but also of what used to be. The forests and watersheds allowed much of this area to thrive in the late 1800s, which made way for the prosperity of farms and small factory towns in the first half of the 20th century. You’ll see many stores, farms and factories, some still thriving, some barely hanging on and some in a state of disrepair, now only a remnant of what was and likely will never be again. It’s the ruralness of this area that can take you by surprise; the fact that these folks make do much by themselves so far from any greater metropolitan area. You can imagine that everyone must know their neighbor’s business. For the traveler passing through it seems that so little must have changed over the years, except that the vacant store fronts must once have been open for business, and the barns that are now collapsing in on themselves must have strongly stood upright in the afternoon sun.  For the rare small town that somehow shrugged off decay and demise and manages to carry on despite it all, it offers a glimpse of how it used to be better. It can genuinely give you a sense of stepping back in time, of driving into a town from decades past. And then you blink your eyes and you’re through it, back into the farmland until the next small town appears. * * * Guide to the Northeast Brett Klein lives in Connecticut and works in New York, but prefers small town life and his homestate of Maine. Any chance to get rural is a mental vacation. Follow Klein on Tumblr at The Coast is Clear. His curatorial collection of Americana, rural life, other artists and ephemera can be seen on Tumblr at Tons of Land.
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THE SPACES BETWEEN THE PLACES – UPSTATE & SOUTHERN TIER, NEW YORK There have been numerous references throughout history to “the journey, not the destination”; the idea that one should savor the road being traveled, it being the actual reward above and beyond the destination itself. For me, the journey that consistently offers up its bounty is the vast expanse of upstate New York and its Southern Tier. To travel this region is a great reminder not only of the current state of things in rural America, but also of what used to be. The forests and watersheds allowed much of this area to thrive in the late 1800s, which made way for the prosperity of farms and small factory towns in the first half of the 20th century. You’ll see many stores, farms and factories, some still thriving, some barely hanging on and some in a state of disrepair, now only a remnant of what was and likely will never be again. It’s the ruralness of this area that can take you by surprise; the fact that these folks make do much by themselves so far from any greater metropolitan area. You can imagine that everyone must know their neighbor’s business. For the traveler passing through it seems that so little must have changed over the years, except that the vacant store fronts must once have been open for business, and the barns that are now collapsing in on themselves must have strongly stood upright in the afternoon sun.  For the rare small town that somehow shrugged off decay and demise and manages to carry on despite it all, it offers a glimpse of how it used to be better. It can genuinely give you a sense of stepping back in time, of driving into a town from decades past. And then you blink your eyes and you’re through it, back into the farmland until the next small town appears. * * * Guide to the Northeast Brett Klein lives in Connecticut and works in New York, but prefers small town life and his homestate of Maine. Any chance to get rural is a mental vacation. Follow Klein on Tumblr at The Coast is Clear. His curatorial collection of Americana, rural life, other artists and ephemera can be seen on Tumblr at Tons of Land.
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THE SPACES BETWEEN THE PLACES – UPSTATE & SOUTHERN TIER, NEW YORK There have been numerous references throughout history to “the journey, not the destination”; the idea that one should savor the road being traveled, it being the actual reward above and beyond the destination itself. For me, the journey that consistently offers up its bounty is the vast expanse of upstate New York and its Southern Tier. To travel this region is a great reminder not only of the current state of things in rural America, but also of what used to be. The forests and watersheds allowed much of this area to thrive in the late 1800s, which made way for the prosperity of farms and small factory towns in the first half of the 20th century. You’ll see many stores, farms and factories, some still thriving, some barely hanging on and some in a state of disrepair, now only a remnant of what was and likely will never be again. It’s the ruralness of this area that can take you by surprise; the fact that these folks make do much by themselves so far from any greater metropolitan area. You can imagine that everyone must know their neighbor’s business. For the traveler passing through it seems that so little must have changed over the years, except that the vacant store fronts must once have been open for business, and the barns that are now collapsing in on themselves must have strongly stood upright in the afternoon sun.  For the rare small town that somehow shrugged off decay and demise and manages to carry on despite it all, it offers a glimpse of how it used to be better. It can genuinely give you a sense of stepping back in time, of driving into a town from decades past. And then you blink your eyes and you’re through it, back into the farmland until the next small town appears. * * * Guide to the Northeast Brett Klein lives in Connecticut and works in New York, but prefers small town life and his homestate of Maine. Any chance to get rural is a mental vacation. Follow Klein on Tumblr at The Coast is Clear. His curatorial collection of Americana, rural life, other artists and ephemera can be seen on Tumblr at Tons of Land.
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THE SPACES BETWEEN THE PLACES – UPSTATE & SOUTHERN TIER, NEW YORK There have been numerous references throughout history to “the journey, not the destination”; the idea that one should savor the road being traveled, it being the actual reward above and beyond the destination itself. For me, the journey that consistently offers up its bounty is the vast expanse of upstate New York and its Southern Tier. To travel this region is a great reminder not only of the current state of things in rural America, but also of what used to be. The forests and watersheds allowed much of this area to thrive in the late 1800s, which made way for the prosperity of farms and small factory towns in the first half of the 20th century. You’ll see many stores, farms and factories, some still thriving, some barely hanging on and some in a state of disrepair, now only a remnant of what was and likely will never be again. It’s the ruralness of this area that can take you by surprise; the fact that these folks make do much by themselves so far from any greater metropolitan area. You can imagine that everyone must know their neighbor’s business. For the traveler passing through it seems that so little must have changed over the years, except that the vacant store fronts must once have been open for business, and the barns that are now collapsing in on themselves must have strongly stood upright in the afternoon sun.  For the rare small town that somehow shrugged off decay and demise and manages to carry on despite it all, it offers a glimpse of how it used to be better. It can genuinely give you a sense of stepping back in time, of driving into a town from decades past. And then you blink your eyes and you’re through it, back into the farmland until the next small town appears. * * * Guide to the Northeast Brett Klein lives in Connecticut and works in New York, but prefers small town life and his homestate of Maine. Any chance to get rural is a mental vacation. Follow Klein on Tumblr at The Coast is Clear. His curatorial collection of Americana, rural life, other artists and ephemera can be seen on Tumblr at Tons of Land.
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THE SPACES BETWEEN THE PLACES – UPSTATE & SOUTHERN TIER, NEW YORK There have been numerous references throughout history to “the journey, not the destination”; the idea that one should savor the road being traveled, it being the actual reward above and beyond the destination itself. For me, the journey that consistently offers up its bounty is the vast expanse of upstate New York and its Southern Tier. To travel this region is a great reminder not only of the current state of things in rural America, but also of what used to be. The forests and watersheds allowed much of this area to thrive in the late 1800s, which made way for the prosperity of farms and small factory towns in the first half of the 20th century. You’ll see many stores, farms and factories, some still thriving, some barely hanging on and some in a state of disrepair, now only a remnant of what was and likely will never be again. It’s the ruralness of this area that can take you by surprise; the fact that these folks make do much by themselves so far from any greater metropolitan area. You can imagine that everyone must know their neighbor’s business. For the traveler passing through it seems that so little must have changed over the years, except that the vacant store fronts must once have been open for business, and the barns that are now collapsing in on themselves must have strongly stood upright in the afternoon sun.  For the rare small town that somehow shrugged off decay and demise and manages to carry on despite it all, it offers a glimpse of how it used to be better. It can genuinely give you a sense of stepping back in time, of driving into a town from decades past. And then you blink your eyes and you’re through it, back into the farmland until the next small town appears. * * * Guide to the Northeast Brett Klein lives in Connecticut and works in New York, but prefers small town life and his homestate of Maine. Any chance to get rural is a mental vacation. Follow Klein on Tumblr at The Coast is Clear. His curatorial collection of Americana, rural life, other artists and ephemera can be seen on Tumblr at Tons of Land.
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THE SPACES BETWEEN THE PLACES – UPSTATE & SOUTHERN TIER, NEW YORK There have been numerous references throughout history to “the journey, not the destination”; the idea that one should savor the road being traveled, it being the actual reward above and beyond the destination itself. For me, the journey that consistently offers up its bounty is the vast expanse of upstate New York and its Southern Tier. To travel this region is a great reminder not only of the current state of things in rural America, but also of what used to be. The forests and watersheds allowed much of this area to thrive in the late 1800s, which made way for the prosperity of farms and small factory towns in the first half of the 20th century. You’ll see many stores, farms and factories, some still thriving, some barely hanging on and some in a state of disrepair, now only a remnant of what was and likely will never be again. It’s the ruralness of this area that can take you by surprise; the fact that these folks make do much by themselves so far from any greater metropolitan area. You can imagine that everyone must know their neighbor’s business. For the traveler passing through it seems that so little must have changed over the years, except that the vacant store fronts must once have been open for business, and the barns that are now collapsing in on themselves must have strongly stood upright in the afternoon sun.  For the rare small town that somehow shrugged off decay and demise and manages to carry on despite it all, it offers a glimpse of how it used to be better. It can genuinely give you a sense of stepping back in time, of driving into a town from decades past. And then you blink your eyes and you’re through it, back into the farmland until the next small town appears. * * * Guide to the Northeast Brett Klein lives in Connecticut and works in New York, but prefers small town life and his homestate of Maine. Any chance to get rural is a mental vacation. Follow Klein on Tumblr at The Coast is Clear. His curatorial collection of Americana, rural life, other artists and ephemera can be seen on Tumblr at Tons of Land.
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THE SPACES BETWEEN THE PLACES – UPSTATE & SOUTHERN TIER, NEW YORK There have been numerous references throughout history to “the journey, not the destination”; the idea that one should savor the road being traveled, it being the actual reward above and beyond the destination itself. For me, the journey that consistently offers up its bounty is the vast expanse of upstate New York and its Southern Tier. To travel this region is a great reminder not only of the current state of things in rural America, but also of what used to be. The forests and watersheds allowed much of this area to thrive in the late 1800s, which made way for the prosperity of farms and small factory towns in the first half of the 20th century. You’ll see many stores, farms and factories, some still thriving, some barely hanging on and some in a state of disrepair, now only a remnant of what was and likely will never be again. It’s the ruralness of this area that can take you by surprise; the fact that these folks make do much by themselves so far from any greater metropolitan area. You can imagine that everyone must know their neighbor’s business. For the traveler passing through it seems that so little must have changed over the years, except that the vacant store fronts must once have been open for business, and the barns that are now collapsing in on themselves must have strongly stood upright in the afternoon sun.  For the rare small town that somehow shrugged off decay and demise and manages to carry on despite it all, it offers a glimpse of how it used to be better. It can genuinely give you a sense of stepping back in time, of driving into a town from decades past. And then you blink your eyes and you’re through it, back into the farmland until the next small town appears. * * * Guide to the Northeast Brett Klein lives in Connecticut and works in New York, but prefers small town life and his homestate of Maine. Any chance to get rural is a mental vacation. Follow Klein on Tumblr at The Coast is Clear. His curatorial collection of Americana, rural life, other artists and ephemera can be seen on Tumblr at Tons of Land.
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THE SPACES BETWEEN THE PLACES – UPSTATE & SOUTHERN TIER, NEW YORK There have been numerous references throughout history to “the journey, not the destination”; the idea that one should savor the road being traveled, it being the actual reward above and beyond the destination itself. For me, the journey that consistently offers up its bounty is the vast expanse of upstate New York and its Southern Tier. To travel this region is a great reminder not only of the current state of things in rural America, but also of what used to be. The forests and watersheds allowed much of this area to thrive in the late 1800s, which made way for the prosperity of farms and small factory towns in the first half of the 20th century. You’ll see many stores, farms and factories, some still thriving, some barely hanging on and some in a state of disrepair, now only a remnant of what was and likely will never be again. It’s the ruralness of this area that can take you by surprise; the fact that these folks make do much by themselves so far from any greater metropolitan area. You can imagine that everyone must know their neighbor’s business. For the traveler passing through it seems that so little must have changed over the years, except that the vacant store fronts must once have been open for business, and the barns that are now collapsing in on themselves must have strongly stood upright in the afternoon sun.  For the rare small town that somehow shrugged off decay and demise and manages to carry on despite it all, it offers a glimpse of how it used to be better. It can genuinely give you a sense of stepping back in time, of driving into a town from decades past. And then you blink your eyes and you’re through it, back into the farmland until the next small town appears. * * * Guide to the Northeast Brett Klein lives in Connecticut and works in New York, but prefers small town life and his homestate of Maine. Any chance to get rural is a mental vacation. Follow Klein on Tumblr at The Coast is Clear. His curatorial collection of Americana, rural life, other artists and ephemera can be seen on Tumblr at Tons of Land.
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THE SPACES BETWEEN THE PLACES – UPSTATE & SOUTHERN TIER, NEW YORK

There have been numerous references throughout history to “the journey, not the destination”; the idea that one should savor the road being traveled, it being the actual reward above and beyond the destination itself. For me, the journey that consistently offers up its bounty is the vast expanse of upstate New York and its Southern Tier.

To travel this region is a great reminder not only of the current state of things in rural America, but also of what used to be. The forests and watersheds allowed much of this area to thrive in the late 1800s, which made way for the prosperity of farms and small factory towns in the first half of the 20th century. You’ll see many stores, farms and factories, some still thriving, some barely hanging on and some in a state of disrepair, now only a remnant of what was and likely will never be again.

It’s the ruralness of this area that can take you by surprise; the fact that these folks make do much by themselves so far from any greater metropolitan area. You can imagine that everyone must know their neighbor’s business. For the traveler passing through it seems that so little must have changed over the years, except that the vacant store fronts must once have been open for business, and the barns that are now collapsing in on themselves must have strongly stood upright in the afternoon sun. 

For the rare small town that somehow shrugged off decay and demise and manages to carry on despite it all, it offers a glimpse of how it used to be better. It can genuinely give you a sense of stepping back in time, of driving into a town from decades past. And then you blink your eyes and you’re through it, back into the farmland until the next small town appears.

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

OURAY, COLORADO - SLUSHY SEASON or THE LONG, SLOW BREAK-UP OURAY, 37 m. (7,800 alt., 707 pop.), seat of Ouray County, named for the great Ute chief, lies pocketed in a pear-shaped valley, with WHITE HOUSE MOUNTAIN (13,493 alt.) on the west, HAYDEN MOUNTAIN (13,100 alt.) on the south, and CASCADE MOUNTAIN (12,100 alt.) to the northwest. To the east, extending upward to the crest of the range, is a great natural amphitheater, part of the Ouray State Game Refuge. Densely wooded, but with many small parks, it is easily accessible on foot. Years ago the area was stocked with elk. Many are now so tame that they often wander along the streets of the town and through back yards, occasionally getting their antlers entangled in the family wash. — Colorado, A Guide To the Highest State (WPA, 1941) Spring in the Rockies can be like a good relationship going through a long break up. At first the snow piles high and everything is transformed and clean white. It’s all beautiful, new, exciting and fresh. Eventually the romance begins to fade, new fallen snow is more of a hassle to shovel and plow than a joy to see. Then it melts off, leaving things uglier, slushier, muddier than they were to begin with. Then it snows again, like a desperate one nighter, trying to reclaim a bit of winter’s passion. But it quickly flees again, it wasn’t meant to be and it leaves another dirty, slushy mess behind. And it will happen again, another quickie snowstorm before summer officially arrives — final break-up sex if you will. If you’ve ever lived through a Western winter and spring — or a really long and tedious break up — you know what I mean. *** KC O’Connor is a Guide to Wyoming for The American Guide. He’s a writer and photographer based in Lander, Wyoming. Follow him on Tumblr and Twitter.
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OURAY, COLORADO - SLUSHY SEASON or THE LONG, SLOW BREAK-UP

OURAY, 37 m. (7,800 alt., 707 pop.), seat of Ouray County, named for the great Ute chief, lies pocketed in a pear-shaped valley, with WHITE HOUSE MOUNTAIN (13,493 alt.) on the west, HAYDEN MOUNTAIN (13,100 alt.) on the south, and CASCADE MOUNTAIN (12,100 alt.) to the northwest. To the east, extending upward to the crest of the range, is a great natural amphitheater, part of the Ouray State Game Refuge. Densely wooded, but with many small parks, it is easily accessible on foot. Years ago the area was stocked with elk. Many are now so tame that they often wander along the streets of the town and through back yards, occasionally getting their antlers entangled in the family wash.

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

Spring in the Rockies can be like a good relationship going through a long break up. At first the snow piles high and everything is transformed and clean white. It’s all beautiful, new, exciting and fresh. Eventually the romance begins to fade, new fallen snow is more of a hassle to shovel and plow than a joy to see. Then it melts off, leaving things uglier, slushier, muddier than they were to begin with. Then it snows again, like a desperate one nighter, trying to reclaim a bit of winter’s passion. But it quickly flees again, it wasn’t meant to be and it leaves another dirty, slushy mess behind. And it will happen again, another quickie snowstorm before summer officially arrives — final break-up sex if you will.

If you’ve ever lived through a Western winter and spring — or a really long and tedious break up — you know what I mean.

***

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

DOLLYWOOD - TENNESSEE  “A few years back, when I first started seeing the Hollywood sign, I kept thinking how cute it would be if I could change the H to a D—and see how long it would take anybody to notice. It just popped into my mind that it would be a good name for a park.” - Dolly Parton Dolly Parton was born in Sevierville — pronounced SEVERE-ville — Tennessee, to a poor but loving family that included her parents and eleven siblings. It’s tough to pick favorites by a woman who’s written over 3,000 songs, but for a sampling of her best, I recommend the heartbreaking “Jolene”, “Coat of Many Colors” — a classic about her early days — and “I Will Always Love You” (written by Dolly, but you might know Whitney Houston’s 1992 version better). Dolly stayed true to her Tennessee roots and currently lives in Brentwood, right outside of Nashville. The Nashville bus tours that traverse the city — driving by famous country singers’ homes — often get a big wave from the lady herself when she’s in residence. In 1986, she co-opened Dollywood, a reincarnation of a lineage of theme parks like Rebel Railroad and Goldrush Junction. Today, Dollywood plays host to over 2.5 million guests a year and is the biggest employer in the Pigeon Forge area. The park truly embodies her spirit. Guests are welcomed by a kind tram driver who makes jokes and reminds them that they are parked in lot D/E for “Dolly’s Earrings.” Surrounded by beautiful foliage, the park is nestled at the bottom of the Great Smoky Mountains, which shade it all summer long. It has something for everyone: thrilling rides, country cooking, musical shows and tours through Dolly’s childhood home (not to mention her tour bus when it’s not on the road). Music floats in the air from the outdoor venues and the steam train whistle harmonizes from time to time. Guide Note: Come May time every year, see Dolly in person at “Dolly’s Homecoming Parade.” Friday, May 10th, will be the 28th annual, and will see Dolly borne by float along the streets of Pigeon Forge with marching bands, baton twirlers, horses, a submarine and a NASCAR race car.    Just outside of Pigeon Forge, be sure to stop in Sevierville’s town square to see the bronze Dolly statue and, as is the local tradition, rub her boob for good luck.  * * * 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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DOLLYWOOD - TENNESSEE  “A few years back, when I first started seeing the Hollywood sign, I kept thinking how cute it would be if I could change the H to a D—and see how long it would take anybody to notice. It just popped into my mind that it would be a good name for a park.” - Dolly Parton Dolly Parton was born in Sevierville — pronounced SEVERE-ville — Tennessee, to a poor but loving family that included her parents and eleven siblings. It’s tough to pick favorites by a woman who’s written over 3,000 songs, but for a sampling of her best, I recommend the heartbreaking “Jolene”, “Coat of Many Colors” — a classic about her early days — and “I Will Always Love You” (written by Dolly, but you might know Whitney Houston’s 1992 version better). Dolly stayed true to her Tennessee roots and currently lives in Brentwood, right outside of Nashville. The Nashville bus tours that traverse the city — driving by famous country singers’ homes — often get a big wave from the lady herself when she’s in residence. In 1986, she co-opened Dollywood, a reincarnation of a lineage of theme parks like Rebel Railroad and Goldrush Junction. Today, Dollywood plays host to over 2.5 million guests a year and is the biggest employer in the Pigeon Forge area. The park truly embodies her spirit. Guests are welcomed by a kind tram driver who makes jokes and reminds them that they are parked in lot D/E for “Dolly’s Earrings.” Surrounded by beautiful foliage, the park is nestled at the bottom of the Great Smoky Mountains, which shade it all summer long. It has something for everyone: thrilling rides, country cooking, musical shows and tours through Dolly’s childhood home (not to mention her tour bus when it’s not on the road). Music floats in the air from the outdoor venues and the steam train whistle harmonizes from time to time. Guide Note: Come May time every year, see Dolly in person at “Dolly’s Homecoming Parade.” Friday, May 10th, will be the 28th annual, and will see Dolly borne by float along the streets of Pigeon Forge with marching bands, baton twirlers, horses, a submarine and a NASCAR race car.    Just outside of Pigeon Forge, be sure to stop in Sevierville’s town square to see the bronze Dolly statue and, as is the local tradition, rub her boob for good luck.  * * * 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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DOLLYWOOD - TENNESSEE  “A few years back, when I first started seeing the Hollywood sign, I kept thinking how cute it would be if I could change the H to a D—and see how long it would take anybody to notice. It just popped into my mind that it would be a good name for a park.” - Dolly Parton Dolly Parton was born in Sevierville — pronounced SEVERE-ville — Tennessee, to a poor but loving family that included her parents and eleven siblings. It’s tough to pick favorites by a woman who’s written over 3,000 songs, but for a sampling of her best, I recommend the heartbreaking “Jolene”, “Coat of Many Colors” — a classic about her early days — and “I Will Always Love You” (written by Dolly, but you might know Whitney Houston’s 1992 version better). Dolly stayed true to her Tennessee roots and currently lives in Brentwood, right outside of Nashville. The Nashville bus tours that traverse the city — driving by famous country singers’ homes — often get a big wave from the lady herself when she’s in residence. In 1986, she co-opened Dollywood, a reincarnation of a lineage of theme parks like Rebel Railroad and Goldrush Junction. Today, Dollywood plays host to over 2.5 million guests a year and is the biggest employer in the Pigeon Forge area. The park truly embodies her spirit. Guests are welcomed by a kind tram driver who makes jokes and reminds them that they are parked in lot D/E for “Dolly’s Earrings.” Surrounded by beautiful foliage, the park is nestled at the bottom of the Great Smoky Mountains, which shade it all summer long. It has something for everyone: thrilling rides, country cooking, musical shows and tours through Dolly’s childhood home (not to mention her tour bus when it’s not on the road). Music floats in the air from the outdoor venues and the steam train whistle harmonizes from time to time. Guide Note: Come May time every year, see Dolly in person at “Dolly’s Homecoming Parade.” Friday, May 10th, will be the 28th annual, and will see Dolly borne by float along the streets of Pigeon Forge with marching bands, baton twirlers, horses, a submarine and a NASCAR race car.    Just outside of Pigeon Forge, be sure to stop in Sevierville’s town square to see the bronze Dolly statue and, as is the local tradition, rub her boob for good luck.  * * * 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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DOLLYWOOD - TENNESSEE  “A few years back, when I first started seeing the Hollywood sign, I kept thinking how cute it would be if I could change the H to a D—and see how long it would take anybody to notice. It just popped into my mind that it would be a good name for a park.” - Dolly Parton Dolly Parton was born in Sevierville — pronounced SEVERE-ville — Tennessee, to a poor but loving family that included her parents and eleven siblings. It’s tough to pick favorites by a woman who’s written over 3,000 songs, but for a sampling of her best, I recommend the heartbreaking “Jolene”, “Coat of Many Colors” — a classic about her early days — and “I Will Always Love You” (written by Dolly, but you might know Whitney Houston’s 1992 version better). Dolly stayed true to her Tennessee roots and currently lives in Brentwood, right outside of Nashville. The Nashville bus tours that traverse the city — driving by famous country singers’ homes — often get a big wave from the lady herself when she’s in residence. In 1986, she co-opened Dollywood, a reincarnation of a lineage of theme parks like Rebel Railroad and Goldrush Junction. Today, Dollywood plays host to over 2.5 million guests a year and is the biggest employer in the Pigeon Forge area. The park truly embodies her spirit. Guests are welcomed by a kind tram driver who makes jokes and reminds them that they are parked in lot D/E for “Dolly’s Earrings.” Surrounded by beautiful foliage, the park is nestled at the bottom of the Great Smoky Mountains, which shade it all summer long. It has something for everyone: thrilling rides, country cooking, musical shows and tours through Dolly’s childhood home (not to mention her tour bus when it’s not on the road). Music floats in the air from the outdoor venues and the steam train whistle harmonizes from time to time. Guide Note: Come May time every year, see Dolly in person at “Dolly’s Homecoming Parade.” Friday, May 10th, will be the 28th annual, and will see Dolly borne by float along the streets of Pigeon Forge with marching bands, baton twirlers, horses, a submarine and a NASCAR race car.    Just outside of Pigeon Forge, be sure to stop in Sevierville’s town square to see the bronze Dolly statue and, as is the local tradition, rub her boob for good luck.  * * * 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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DOLLYWOOD - TENNESSEE  “A few years back, when I first started seeing the Hollywood sign, I kept thinking how cute it would be if I could change the H to a D—and see how long it would take anybody to notice. It just popped into my mind that it would be a good name for a park.” - Dolly Parton Dolly Parton was born in Sevierville — pronounced SEVERE-ville — Tennessee, to a poor but loving family that included her parents and eleven siblings. It’s tough to pick favorites by a woman who’s written over 3,000 songs, but for a sampling of her best, I recommend the heartbreaking “Jolene”, “Coat of Many Colors” — a classic about her early days — and “I Will Always Love You” (written by Dolly, but you might know Whitney Houston’s 1992 version better). Dolly stayed true to her Tennessee roots and currently lives in Brentwood, right outside of Nashville. The Nashville bus tours that traverse the city — driving by famous country singers’ homes — often get a big wave from the lady herself when she’s in residence. In 1986, she co-opened Dollywood, a reincarnation of a lineage of theme parks like Rebel Railroad and Goldrush Junction. Today, Dollywood plays host to over 2.5 million guests a year and is the biggest employer in the Pigeon Forge area. The park truly embodies her spirit. Guests are welcomed by a kind tram driver who makes jokes and reminds them that they are parked in lot D/E for “Dolly’s Earrings.” Surrounded by beautiful foliage, the park is nestled at the bottom of the Great Smoky Mountains, which shade it all summer long. It has something for everyone: thrilling rides, country cooking, musical shows and tours through Dolly’s childhood home (not to mention her tour bus when it’s not on the road). Music floats in the air from the outdoor venues and the steam train whistle harmonizes from time to time. Guide Note: Come May time every year, see Dolly in person at “Dolly’s Homecoming Parade.” Friday, May 10th, will be the 28th annual, and will see Dolly borne by float along the streets of Pigeon Forge with marching bands, baton twirlers, horses, a submarine and a NASCAR race car.    Just outside of Pigeon Forge, be sure to stop in Sevierville’s town square to see the bronze Dolly statue and, as is the local tradition, rub her boob for good luck.  * * * 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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DOLLYWOOD - TENNESSEE  “A few years back, when I first started seeing the Hollywood sign, I kept thinking how cute it would be if I could change the H to a D—and see how long it would take anybody to notice. It just popped into my mind that it would be a good name for a park.” - Dolly Parton Dolly Parton was born in Sevierville — pronounced SEVERE-ville — Tennessee, to a poor but loving family that included her parents and eleven siblings. It’s tough to pick favorites by a woman who’s written over 3,000 songs, but for a sampling of her best, I recommend the heartbreaking “Jolene”, “Coat of Many Colors” — a classic about her early days — and “I Will Always Love You” (written by Dolly, but you might know Whitney Houston’s 1992 version better). Dolly stayed true to her Tennessee roots and currently lives in Brentwood, right outside of Nashville. The Nashville bus tours that traverse the city — driving by famous country singers’ homes — often get a big wave from the lady herself when she’s in residence. In 1986, she co-opened Dollywood, a reincarnation of a lineage of theme parks like Rebel Railroad and Goldrush Junction. Today, Dollywood plays host to over 2.5 million guests a year and is the biggest employer in the Pigeon Forge area. The park truly embodies her spirit. Guests are welcomed by a kind tram driver who makes jokes and reminds them that they are parked in lot D/E for “Dolly’s Earrings.” Surrounded by beautiful foliage, the park is nestled at the bottom of the Great Smoky Mountains, which shade it all summer long. It has something for everyone: thrilling rides, country cooking, musical shows and tours through Dolly’s childhood home (not to mention her tour bus when it’s not on the road). Music floats in the air from the outdoor venues and the steam train whistle harmonizes from time to time. Guide Note: Come May time every year, see Dolly in person at “Dolly’s Homecoming Parade.” Friday, May 10th, will be the 28th annual, and will see Dolly borne by float along the streets of Pigeon Forge with marching bands, baton twirlers, horses, a submarine and a NASCAR race car.    Just outside of Pigeon Forge, be sure to stop in Sevierville’s town square to see the bronze Dolly statue and, as is the local tradition, rub her boob for good luck.  * * * 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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DOLLYWOOD - TENNESSEE  “A few years back, when I first started seeing the Hollywood sign, I kept thinking how cute it would be if I could change the H to a D—and see how long it would take anybody to notice. It just popped into my mind that it would be a good name for a park.” - Dolly Parton Dolly Parton was born in Sevierville — pronounced SEVERE-ville — Tennessee, to a poor but loving family that included her parents and eleven siblings. It’s tough to pick favorites by a woman who’s written over 3,000 songs, but for a sampling of her best, I recommend the heartbreaking “Jolene”, “Coat of Many Colors” — a classic about her early days — and “I Will Always Love You” (written by Dolly, but you might know Whitney Houston’s 1992 version better). Dolly stayed true to her Tennessee roots and currently lives in Brentwood, right outside of Nashville. The Nashville bus tours that traverse the city — driving by famous country singers’ homes — often get a big wave from the lady herself when she’s in residence. In 1986, she co-opened Dollywood, a reincarnation of a lineage of theme parks like Rebel Railroad and Goldrush Junction. Today, Dollywood plays host to over 2.5 million guests a year and is the biggest employer in the Pigeon Forge area. The park truly embodies her spirit. Guests are welcomed by a kind tram driver who makes jokes and reminds them that they are parked in lot D/E for “Dolly’s Earrings.” Surrounded by beautiful foliage, the park is nestled at the bottom of the Great Smoky Mountains, which shade it all summer long. It has something for everyone: thrilling rides, country cooking, musical shows and tours through Dolly’s childhood home (not to mention her tour bus when it’s not on the road). Music floats in the air from the outdoor venues and the steam train whistle harmonizes from time to time. Guide Note: Come May time every year, see Dolly in person at “Dolly’s Homecoming Parade.” Friday, May 10th, will be the 28th annual, and will see Dolly borne by float along the streets of Pigeon Forge with marching bands, baton twirlers, horses, a submarine and a NASCAR race car.    Just outside of Pigeon Forge, be sure to stop in Sevierville’s town square to see the bronze Dolly statue and, as is the local tradition, rub her boob for good luck.  * * * 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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DOLLYWOOD - TENNESSEE  “A few years back, when I first started seeing the Hollywood sign, I kept thinking how cute it would be if I could change the H to a D—and see how long it would take anybody to notice. It just popped into my mind that it would be a good name for a park.” - Dolly Parton Dolly Parton was born in Sevierville — pronounced SEVERE-ville — Tennessee, to a poor but loving family that included her parents and eleven siblings. It’s tough to pick favorites by a woman who’s written over 3,000 songs, but for a sampling of her best, I recommend the heartbreaking “Jolene”, “Coat of Many Colors” — a classic about her early days — and “I Will Always Love You” (written by Dolly, but you might know Whitney Houston’s 1992 version better). Dolly stayed true to her Tennessee roots and currently lives in Brentwood, right outside of Nashville. The Nashville bus tours that traverse the city — driving by famous country singers’ homes — often get a big wave from the lady herself when she’s in residence. In 1986, she co-opened Dollywood, a reincarnation of a lineage of theme parks like Rebel Railroad and Goldrush Junction. Today, Dollywood plays host to over 2.5 million guests a year and is the biggest employer in the Pigeon Forge area. The park truly embodies her spirit. Guests are welcomed by a kind tram driver who makes jokes and reminds them that they are parked in lot D/E for “Dolly’s Earrings.” Surrounded by beautiful foliage, the park is nestled at the bottom of the Great Smoky Mountains, which shade it all summer long. It has something for everyone: thrilling rides, country cooking, musical shows and tours through Dolly’s childhood home (not to mention her tour bus when it’s not on the road). Music floats in the air from the outdoor venues and the steam train whistle harmonizes from time to time. Guide Note: Come May time every year, see Dolly in person at “Dolly’s Homecoming Parade.” Friday, May 10th, will be the 28th annual, and will see Dolly borne by float along the streets of Pigeon Forge with marching bands, baton twirlers, horses, a submarine and a NASCAR race car.    Just outside of Pigeon Forge, be sure to stop in Sevierville’s town square to see the bronze Dolly statue and, as is the local tradition, rub her boob for good luck.  * * * 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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DOLLYWOOD - TENNESSEE  “A few years back, when I first started seeing the Hollywood sign, I kept thinking how cute it would be if I could change the H to a D—and see how long it would take anybody to notice. It just popped into my mind that it would be a good name for a park.” - Dolly Parton Dolly Parton was born in Sevierville — pronounced SEVERE-ville — Tennessee, to a poor but loving family that included her parents and eleven siblings. It’s tough to pick favorites by a woman who’s written over 3,000 songs, but for a sampling of her best, I recommend the heartbreaking “Jolene”, “Coat of Many Colors” — a classic about her early days — and “I Will Always Love You” (written by Dolly, but you might know Whitney Houston’s 1992 version better). Dolly stayed true to her Tennessee roots and currently lives in Brentwood, right outside of Nashville. The Nashville bus tours that traverse the city — driving by famous country singers’ homes — often get a big wave from the lady herself when she’s in residence. In 1986, she co-opened Dollywood, a reincarnation of a lineage of theme parks like Rebel Railroad and Goldrush Junction. Today, Dollywood plays host to over 2.5 million guests a year and is the biggest employer in the Pigeon Forge area. The park truly embodies her spirit. Guests are welcomed by a kind tram driver who makes jokes and reminds them that they are parked in lot D/E for “Dolly’s Earrings.” Surrounded by beautiful foliage, the park is nestled at the bottom of the Great Smoky Mountains, which shade it all summer long. It has something for everyone: thrilling rides, country cooking, musical shows and tours through Dolly’s childhood home (not to mention her tour bus when it’s not on the road). Music floats in the air from the outdoor venues and the steam train whistle harmonizes from time to time. Guide Note: Come May time every year, see Dolly in person at “Dolly’s Homecoming Parade.” Friday, May 10th, will be the 28th annual, and will see Dolly borne by float along the streets of Pigeon Forge with marching bands, baton twirlers, horses, a submarine and a NASCAR race car.    Just outside of Pigeon Forge, be sure to stop in Sevierville’s town square to see the bronze Dolly statue and, as is the local tradition, rub her boob for good luck.  * * * 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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DOLLYWOOD - TENNESSEE 

“A few years back, when I first started seeing the Hollywood sign, I kept thinking how cute it would be if I could change the H to a D—and see how long it would take anybody to notice. It just popped into my mind that it would be a good name for a park.” - Dolly Parton

Dolly Parton was born in Sevierville — pronounced SEVERE-ville — Tennessee, to a poor but loving family that included her parents and eleven siblings. It’s tough to pick favorites by a woman who’s written over 3,000 songs, but for a sampling of her best, I recommend the heartbreaking “Jolene”, “Coat of Many Colors” — a classic about her early days — and “I Will Always Love You” (written by Dolly, but you might know Whitney Houston’s 1992 version better).

Dolly stayed true to her Tennessee roots and currently lives in Brentwood, right outside of Nashville. The Nashville bus tours that traverse the city — driving by famous country singers’ homes — often get a big wave from the lady herself when she’s in residence.

In 1986, she co-opened Dollywood, a reincarnation of a lineage of theme parks like Rebel Railroad and Goldrush Junction. Today, Dollywood plays host to over 2.5 million guests a year and is the biggest employer in the Pigeon Forge area.

The park truly embodies her spirit. Guests are welcomed by a kind tram driver who makes jokes and reminds them that they are parked in lot D/E for “Dolly’s Earrings.” Surrounded by beautiful foliage, the park is nestled at the bottom of the Great Smoky Mountains, which shade it all summer long. It has something for everyone: thrilling rides, country cooking, musical shows and tours through Dolly’s childhood home (not to mention her tour bus when it’s not on the road). Music floats in the air from the outdoor venues and the steam train whistle harmonizes from time to time.

Guide Note: Come May time every year, see Dolly in person at “Dolly’s Homecoming Parade.” Friday, May 10th, will be the 28th annual, and will see Dolly borne by float along the streets of Pigeon Forge with marching bands, baton twirlers, horses, a submarine and a NASCAR race car.   

Just outside of Pigeon Forge, be sure to stop in Sevierville’s town square to see the bronze Dolly statue and, as is the local tradition, rub her boob for good luck. 

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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.

BROOKLYN NAVY YARD - NEW YORK “The United States Navy Yard, Navy Street, Flushing and Clinton Avenues, better known as the Brooklyn Navy Yard, skirts Wallabout Bay, a semicircular elbow of the East River opposite Corlear’s Hook, Manhattan. This busy naval city covers a total of 197 acres, 118 on land, 79 on water, and is surrounded by forbidding brick walls with massive iron gateways.” – New York City Guide (WPA, 1939) Biking down Flushing Avenue, dubbed the Hipster Highway for its convenient bike connection between the neighborhoods of DUMBO, Williamsburg, and Greenpoint, any sense of neighborhood evades you. Warehouses and auto parts stores are countered by an expanse of quiet industrialism along the East River waterfront. The district now seems to lack the pulsating energy of intensive production in the Navy Yard’s past: from 1801 to 1966, the Navy Yard was one of the foremost shipbuilding and provisioning centers in the nation with a workforce upwards of 70,000 employees during World War II. Now owned by the city and operated as an industrial park, the gates remain and entry is restricted - an anomaly of the street grid with a smattering of competing building styles and orientations, punctuated by half empty parking lots that give the impression of just another industrial waterfront awaiting redevelopment. “The yard (…) contains four drydocks ranging in length from 326 to 700 feet, two huge steel shipways, and six big pontoons and cylindrical floats for salvage work (…) numerous foundries, machine shops, and warehouses (…) barracks for marines, a power plant, a large radio station, and a railroad spur. (…) Beyond the dull waters of the East River looms the New York sky line, like the backdrop of a stage set.” – New York City Guide (WPA, 1939) Despite its guarded, dulling presentation to the outside, the Navy Yard thrives. Now one of the fastest growing green manufacturing centers in the nation, the Yard also houses artists, an urban farm, the city’s oldest current operating whiskey distillery (a few years old), woodworkers, architects, a pioneering modular construction firm, and remnants of its ship-centric past operating the gargantuan dry docks reaching inland. The steel hull of Building 128 - just months ago a bygone shipbuilding factory shrouded in caution tape and rust - is slowly shaping into a Collaborative Design and Fabrication Center. Steiner Studios, the largest film studio complex outside of Hollywood and home to the largest sound stage on the East Coast, provides a backdrop ripe for the silver screen: the Empire State Building, the Manhattan and Williamsburg Bridges, and the new World Trade Center building all rise in the distance. “At the south end, facing Flushing Avenue are the officer’s quarters, two-story buildings of painted brick, scrupulously neat despite their age (some were built before the Civil War), and bordered by gardens, tennis courts, and carefully kept walks.” – New York City Guide (WPA, 1939) The past and the present meet frequently in New York, but rarely do the past and the future coalesce so nearly as they do in the Navy Yard. Bordered by the crumbling facades of Admiral’s Row and the regally decrepit former hospital, industry is adapting to the constraints and needs of the current environment. The nonprofit development corporation that manages the site has made the rich history of the Navy Yard’s past and present available through BLDG 92, a museum, job placement center, and community space housed in the adaptively reused Marine Commandant’s Residence. It may not look like much from the outside, but the Navy Yard stands in stark contrast to an economy founded on real estate booms and the fluctuations of Wall Street, and is much more impressive and intriguing for it. Guide Note: While admission to BLDG 92 is free, tours of the Navy Yard itself run to at least $20. I highly suggest a visit to the distillery followed by some slightly illicit exploration of the grounds, by bike if possible. * * * JONATHAN TARLETON is a State Guide to New York. He was schooled in Georgia and North Carolina before moving on to denser pastures in Brooklyn. He currently helps out at Urban Omnibus where he researches and writes about the policy, art, peculiarities, and movements that make New York City so enticingly combative. He likes to be outside and to make things, preferably concurrently. Follow him on Tumblr at jttarleton.tumblr.com.
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BROOKLYN NAVY YARD - NEW YORK “The United States Navy Yard, Navy Street, Flushing and Clinton Avenues, better known as the Brooklyn Navy Yard, skirts Wallabout Bay, a semicircular elbow of the East River opposite Corlear’s Hook, Manhattan. This busy naval city covers a total of 197 acres, 118 on land, 79 on water, and is surrounded by forbidding brick walls with massive iron gateways.” – New York City Guide (WPA, 1939) Biking down Flushing Avenue, dubbed the Hipster Highway for its convenient bike connection between the neighborhoods of DUMBO, Williamsburg, and Greenpoint, any sense of neighborhood evades you. Warehouses and auto parts stores are countered by an expanse of quiet industrialism along the East River waterfront. The district now seems to lack the pulsating energy of intensive production in the Navy Yard’s past: from 1801 to 1966, the Navy Yard was one of the foremost shipbuilding and provisioning centers in the nation with a workforce upwards of 70,000 employees during World War II. Now owned by the city and operated as an industrial park, the gates remain and entry is restricted - an anomaly of the street grid with a smattering of competing building styles and orientations, punctuated by half empty parking lots that give the impression of just another industrial waterfront awaiting redevelopment. “The yard (…) contains four drydocks ranging in length from 326 to 700 feet, two huge steel shipways, and six big pontoons and cylindrical floats for salvage work (…) numerous foundries, machine shops, and warehouses (…) barracks for marines, a power plant, a large radio station, and a railroad spur. (…) Beyond the dull waters of the East River looms the New York sky line, like the backdrop of a stage set.” – New York City Guide (WPA, 1939) Despite its guarded, dulling presentation to the outside, the Navy Yard thrives. Now one of the fastest growing green manufacturing centers in the nation, the Yard also houses artists, an urban farm, the city’s oldest current operating whiskey distillery (a few years old), woodworkers, architects, a pioneering modular construction firm, and remnants of its ship-centric past operating the gargantuan dry docks reaching inland. The steel hull of Building 128 - just months ago a bygone shipbuilding factory shrouded in caution tape and rust - is slowly shaping into a Collaborative Design and Fabrication Center. Steiner Studios, the largest film studio complex outside of Hollywood and home to the largest sound stage on the East Coast, provides a backdrop ripe for the silver screen: the Empire State Building, the Manhattan and Williamsburg Bridges, and the new World Trade Center building all rise in the distance. “At the south end, facing Flushing Avenue are the officer’s quarters, two-story buildings of painted brick, scrupulously neat despite their age (some were built before the Civil War), and bordered by gardens, tennis courts, and carefully kept walks.” – New York City Guide (WPA, 1939) The past and the present meet frequently in New York, but rarely do the past and the future coalesce so nearly as they do in the Navy Yard. Bordered by the crumbling facades of Admiral’s Row and the regally decrepit former hospital, industry is adapting to the constraints and needs of the current environment. The nonprofit development corporation that manages the site has made the rich history of the Navy Yard’s past and present available through BLDG 92, a museum, job placement center, and community space housed in the adaptively reused Marine Commandant’s Residence. It may not look like much from the outside, but the Navy Yard stands in stark contrast to an economy founded on real estate booms and the fluctuations of Wall Street, and is much more impressive and intriguing for it. Guide Note: While admission to BLDG 92 is free, tours of the Navy Yard itself run to at least $20. I highly suggest a visit to the distillery followed by some slightly illicit exploration of the grounds, by bike if possible. * * * JONATHAN TARLETON is a State Guide to New York. He was schooled in Georgia and North Carolina before moving on to denser pastures in Brooklyn. He currently helps out at Urban Omnibus where he researches and writes about the policy, art, peculiarities, and movements that make New York City so enticingly combative. He likes to be outside and to make things, preferably concurrently. Follow him on Tumblr at jttarleton.tumblr.com.
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BROOKLYN NAVY YARD - NEW YORK “The United States Navy Yard, Navy Street, Flushing and Clinton Avenues, better known as the Brooklyn Navy Yard, skirts Wallabout Bay, a semicircular elbow of the East River opposite Corlear’s Hook, Manhattan. This busy naval city covers a total of 197 acres, 118 on land, 79 on water, and is surrounded by forbidding brick walls with massive iron gateways.” – New York City Guide (WPA, 1939) Biking down Flushing Avenue, dubbed the Hipster Highway for its convenient bike connection between the neighborhoods of DUMBO, Williamsburg, and Greenpoint, any sense of neighborhood evades you. Warehouses and auto parts stores are countered by an expanse of quiet industrialism along the East River waterfront. The district now seems to lack the pulsating energy of intensive production in the Navy Yard’s past: from 1801 to 1966, the Navy Yard was one of the foremost shipbuilding and provisioning centers in the nation with a workforce upwards of 70,000 employees during World War II. Now owned by the city and operated as an industrial park, the gates remain and entry is restricted - an anomaly of the street grid with a smattering of competing building styles and orientations, punctuated by half empty parking lots that give the impression of just another industrial waterfront awaiting redevelopment. “The yard (…) contains four drydocks ranging in length from 326 to 700 feet, two huge steel shipways, and six big pontoons and cylindrical floats for salvage work (…) numerous foundries, machine shops, and warehouses (…) barracks for marines, a power plant, a large radio station, and a railroad spur. (…) Beyond the dull waters of the East River looms the New York sky line, like the backdrop of a stage set.” – New York City Guide (WPA, 1939) Despite its guarded, dulling presentation to the outside, the Navy Yard thrives. Now one of the fastest growing green manufacturing centers in the nation, the Yard also houses artists, an urban farm, the city’s oldest current operating whiskey distillery (a few years old), woodworkers, architects, a pioneering modular construction firm, and remnants of its ship-centric past operating the gargantuan dry docks reaching inland. The steel hull of Building 128 - just months ago a bygone shipbuilding factory shrouded in caution tape and rust - is slowly shaping into a Collaborative Design and Fabrication Center. Steiner Studios, the largest film studio complex outside of Hollywood and home to the largest sound stage on the East Coast, provides a backdrop ripe for the silver screen: the Empire State Building, the Manhattan and Williamsburg Bridges, and the new World Trade Center building all rise in the distance. “At the south end, facing Flushing Avenue are the officer’s quarters, two-story buildings of painted brick, scrupulously neat despite their age (some were built before the Civil War), and bordered by gardens, tennis courts, and carefully kept walks.” – New York City Guide (WPA, 1939) The past and the present meet frequently in New York, but rarely do the past and the future coalesce so nearly as they do in the Navy Yard. Bordered by the crumbling facades of Admiral’s Row and the regally decrepit former hospital, industry is adapting to the constraints and needs of the current environment. The nonprofit development corporation that manages the site has made the rich history of the Navy Yard’s past and present available through BLDG 92, a museum, job placement center, and community space housed in the adaptively reused Marine Commandant’s Residence. It may not look like much from the outside, but the Navy Yard stands in stark contrast to an economy founded on real estate booms and the fluctuations of Wall Street, and is much more impressive and intriguing for it. Guide Note: While admission to BLDG 92 is free, tours of the Navy Yard itself run to at least $20. I highly suggest a visit to the distillery followed by some slightly illicit exploration of the grounds, by bike if possible. * * * JONATHAN TARLETON is a State Guide to New York. He was schooled in Georgia and North Carolina before moving on to denser pastures in Brooklyn. He currently helps out at Urban Omnibus where he researches and writes about the policy, art, peculiarities, and movements that make New York City so enticingly combative. He likes to be outside and to make things, preferably concurrently. Follow him on Tumblr at jttarleton.tumblr.com.
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BROOKLYN NAVY YARD - NEW YORK

“The United States Navy Yard, Navy Street, Flushing and Clinton Avenues, better known as the Brooklyn Navy Yard, skirts Wallabout Bay, a semicircular elbow of the East River opposite Corlear’s Hook, Manhattan. This busy naval city covers a total of 197 acres, 118 on land, 79 on water, and is surrounded by forbidding brick walls with massive iron gateways.” – New York City Guide (WPA, 1939)

Biking down Flushing Avenue, dubbed the Hipster Highway for its convenient bike connection between the neighborhoods of DUMBO, Williamsburg, and Greenpoint, any sense of neighborhood evades you. Warehouses and auto parts stores are countered by an expanse of quiet industrialism along the East River waterfront. The district now seems to lack the pulsating energy of intensive production in the Navy Yard’s past: from 1801 to 1966, the Navy Yard was one of the foremost shipbuilding and provisioning centers in the nation with a workforce upwards of 70,000 employees during World War II. Now owned by the city and operated as an industrial park, the gates remain and entry is restricted - an anomaly of the street grid with a smattering of competing building styles and orientations, punctuated by half empty parking lots that give the impression of just another industrial waterfront awaiting redevelopment.

“The yard (…) contains four drydocks ranging in length from 326 to 700 feet, two huge steel shipways, and six big pontoons and cylindrical floats for salvage work (…) numerous foundries, machine shops, and warehouses (…) barracks for marines, a power plant, a large radio station, and a railroad spur. (…) Beyond the dull waters of the East River looms the New York sky line, like the backdrop of a stage set.” – New York City Guide (WPA, 1939)

Despite its guarded, dulling presentation to the outside, the Navy Yard thrives. Now one of the fastest growing green manufacturing centers in the nation, the Yard also houses artists, an urban farm, the city’s oldest current operating whiskey distillery (a few years old), woodworkers, architects, a pioneering modular construction firm, and remnants of its ship-centric past operating the gargantuan dry docks reaching inland. The steel hull of Building 128 - just months ago a bygone shipbuilding factory shrouded in caution tape and rust - is slowly shaping into a Collaborative Design and Fabrication Center. Steiner Studios, the largest film studio complex outside of Hollywood and home to the largest sound stage on the East Coast, provides a backdrop ripe for the silver screen: the Empire State Building, the Manhattan and Williamsburg Bridges, and the new World Trade Center building all rise in the distance.

“At the south end, facing Flushing Avenue are the officer’s quarters, two-story buildings of painted brick, scrupulously neat despite their age (some were built before the Civil War), and bordered by gardens, tennis courts, and carefully kept walks.” – New York City Guide (WPA, 1939)

The past and the present meet frequently in New York, but rarely do the past and the future coalesce so nearly as they do in the Navy Yard. Bordered by the crumbling facades of Admiral’s Row and the regally decrepit former hospital, industry is adapting to the constraints and needs of the current environment. The nonprofit development corporation that manages the site has made the rich history of the Navy Yard’s past and present available through BLDG 92, a museum, job placement center, and community space housed in the adaptively reused Marine Commandant’s Residence. It may not look like much from the outside, but the Navy Yard stands in stark contrast to an economy founded on real estate booms and the fluctuations of Wall Street, and is much more impressive and intriguing for it.

Guide Note: While admission to BLDG 92 is free, tours of the Navy Yard itself run to at least $20. I highly suggest a visit to the distillery followed by some slightly illicit exploration of the grounds, by bike if possible.

* * *

JONATHAN TARLETON is a State Guide to New York. He was schooled in Georgia and North Carolina before moving on to denser pastures in Brooklyn. He currently helps out at Urban Omnibus where he researches and writes about the policy, art, peculiarities, and movements that make New York City so enticingly combative. He likes to be outside and to make things, preferably concurrently.

Follow him on Tumblr at jttarleton.tumblr.com.

STAYING ALIVE IN THE DEAD OF WINTER - SOUTHCOAST MASSACHUSETTS + RHODE ISLAND  The past couple of years have brought us some pretty weak New England winters, not that I am complaining… at all. I was actually getting used to it and enjoying the milder temperatures. Then, 2013 came in with a bang as “Nemo” hit the East Coast hard. 

Blizzard Nemo brought us state of emergencies, power outages, parking + driving bans, snow plows and closed businesses. What it brought me was a sense of togetherness with everyone and everything around me: neighborhoods came together to shovel and plow the streets, families united with board games, friends fumbled with drinking games and we played in the snow as if we were eight years old again. 



Guide Note: Head over to “Winter Storm Central” at Weather.com for some great storm-porn pics. My personal favorite is #15 (awesome!) and #89 (I used to live in Portland, Maine, and they really do ski in the streets when it snows!) * * * Brittany Marcoux is a Guide to Rhode Island and an At-Large Guide to New England for The American Guide. She’s a photographer and a native New Englander. Follow her work on Tumblr or via her website.
Zoom Info
STAYING ALIVE IN THE DEAD OF WINTER - SOUTHCOAST MASSACHUSETTS + RHODE ISLAND  The past couple of years have brought us some pretty weak New England winters, not that I am complaining… at all. I was actually getting used to it and enjoying the milder temperatures. Then, 2013 came in with a bang as “Nemo” hit the East Coast hard. 

Blizzard Nemo brought us state of emergencies, power outages, parking + driving bans, snow plows and closed businesses. What it brought me was a sense of togetherness with everyone and everything around me: neighborhoods came together to shovel and plow the streets, families united with board games, friends fumbled with drinking games and we played in the snow as if we were eight years old again. 



Guide Note: Head over to “Winter Storm Central” at Weather.com for some great storm-porn pics. My personal favorite is #15 (awesome!) and #89 (I used to live in Portland, Maine, and they really do ski in the streets when it snows!) * * * Brittany Marcoux is a Guide to Rhode Island and an At-Large Guide to New England for The American Guide. She’s a photographer and a native New Englander. Follow her work on Tumblr or via her website.
Zoom Info
STAYING ALIVE IN THE DEAD OF WINTER - SOUTHCOAST MASSACHUSETTS + RHODE ISLAND  The past couple of years have brought us some pretty weak New England winters, not that I am complaining… at all. I was actually getting used to it and enjoying the milder temperatures. Then, 2013 came in with a bang as “Nemo” hit the East Coast hard. 

Blizzard Nemo brought us state of emergencies, power outages, parking + driving bans, snow plows and closed businesses. What it brought me was a sense of togetherness with everyone and everything around me: neighborhoods came together to shovel and plow the streets, families united with board games, friends fumbled with drinking games and we played in the snow as if we were eight years old again. 



Guide Note: Head over to “Winter Storm Central” at Weather.com for some great storm-porn pics. My personal favorite is #15 (awesome!) and #89 (I used to live in Portland, Maine, and they really do ski in the streets when it snows!) * * * Brittany Marcoux is a Guide to Rhode Island and an At-Large Guide to New England for The American Guide. She’s a photographer and a native New Englander. Follow her work on Tumblr or via her website.
Zoom Info
STAYING ALIVE IN THE DEAD OF WINTER - SOUTHCOAST MASSACHUSETTS + RHODE ISLAND  The past couple of years have brought us some pretty weak New England winters, not that I am complaining… at all. I was actually getting used to it and enjoying the milder temperatures. Then, 2013 came in with a bang as “Nemo” hit the East Coast hard. 

Blizzard Nemo brought us state of emergencies, power outages, parking + driving bans, snow plows and closed businesses. What it brought me was a sense of togetherness with everyone and everything around me: neighborhoods came together to shovel and plow the streets, families united with board games, friends fumbled with drinking games and we played in the snow as if we were eight years old again. 



Guide Note: Head over to “Winter Storm Central” at Weather.com for some great storm-porn pics. My personal favorite is #15 (awesome!) and #89 (I used to live in Portland, Maine, and they really do ski in the streets when it snows!) * * * Brittany Marcoux is a Guide to Rhode Island and an At-Large Guide to New England for The American Guide. She’s a photographer and a native New Englander. Follow her work on Tumblr or via her website.
Zoom Info
STAYING ALIVE IN THE DEAD OF WINTER - SOUTHCOAST MASSACHUSETTS + RHODE ISLAND  The past couple of years have brought us some pretty weak New England winters, not that I am complaining… at all. I was actually getting used to it and enjoying the milder temperatures. Then, 2013 came in with a bang as “Nemo” hit the East Coast hard. 

Blizzard Nemo brought us state of emergencies, power outages, parking + driving bans, snow plows and closed businesses. What it brought me was a sense of togetherness with everyone and everything around me: neighborhoods came together to shovel and plow the streets, families united with board games, friends fumbled with drinking games and we played in the snow as if we were eight years old again. 



Guide Note: Head over to “Winter Storm Central” at Weather.com for some great storm-porn pics. My personal favorite is #15 (awesome!) and #89 (I used to live in Portland, Maine, and they really do ski in the streets when it snows!) * * * Brittany Marcoux is a Guide to Rhode Island and an At-Large Guide to New England for The American Guide. She’s a photographer and a native New Englander. Follow her work on Tumblr or via her website.
Zoom Info
STAYING ALIVE IN THE DEAD OF WINTER - SOUTHCOAST MASSACHUSETTS + RHODE ISLAND  The past couple of years have brought us some pretty weak New England winters, not that I am complaining… at all. I was actually getting used to it and enjoying the milder temperatures. Then, 2013 came in with a bang as “Nemo” hit the East Coast hard. 

Blizzard Nemo brought us state of emergencies, power outages, parking + driving bans, snow plows and closed businesses. What it brought me was a sense of togetherness with everyone and everything around me: neighborhoods came together to shovel and plow the streets, families united with board games, friends fumbled with drinking games and we played in the snow as if we were eight years old again. 



Guide Note: Head over to “Winter Storm Central” at Weather.com for some great storm-porn pics. My personal favorite is #15 (awesome!) and #89 (I used to live in Portland, Maine, and they really do ski in the streets when it snows!) * * * Brittany Marcoux is a Guide to Rhode Island and an At-Large Guide to New England for The American Guide. She’s a photographer and a native New Englander. Follow her work on Tumblr or via her website.
Zoom Info
STAYING ALIVE IN THE DEAD OF WINTER - SOUTHCOAST MASSACHUSETTS + RHODE ISLAND  The past couple of years have brought us some pretty weak New England winters, not that I am complaining… at all. I was actually getting used to it and enjoying the milder temperatures. Then, 2013 came in with a bang as “Nemo” hit the East Coast hard. 

Blizzard Nemo brought us state of emergencies, power outages, parking + driving bans, snow plows and closed businesses. What it brought me was a sense of togetherness with everyone and everything around me: neighborhoods came together to shovel and plow the streets, families united with board games, friends fumbled with drinking games and we played in the snow as if we were eight years old again. 



Guide Note: Head over to “Winter Storm Central” at Weather.com for some great storm-porn pics. My personal favorite is #15 (awesome!) and #89 (I used to live in Portland, Maine, and they really do ski in the streets when it snows!) * * * Brittany Marcoux is a Guide to Rhode Island and an At-Large Guide to New England for The American Guide. She’s a photographer and a native New Englander. Follow her work on Tumblr or via her website.
Zoom Info
STAYING ALIVE IN THE DEAD OF WINTER - SOUTHCOAST MASSACHUSETTS + RHODE ISLAND  The past couple of years have brought us some pretty weak New England winters, not that I am complaining… at all. I was actually getting used to it and enjoying the milder temperatures. Then, 2013 came in with a bang as “Nemo” hit the East Coast hard. 

Blizzard Nemo brought us state of emergencies, power outages, parking + driving bans, snow plows and closed businesses. What it brought me was a sense of togetherness with everyone and everything around me: neighborhoods came together to shovel and plow the streets, families united with board games, friends fumbled with drinking games and we played in the snow as if we were eight years old again. 



Guide Note: Head over to “Winter Storm Central” at Weather.com for some great storm-porn pics. My personal favorite is #15 (awesome!) and #89 (I used to live in Portland, Maine, and they really do ski in the streets when it snows!) * * * Brittany Marcoux is a Guide to Rhode Island and an At-Large Guide to New England for The American Guide. She’s a photographer and a native New Englander. Follow her work on Tumblr or via her website.
Zoom Info
STAYING ALIVE IN THE DEAD OF WINTER - SOUTHCOAST MASSACHUSETTS + RHODE ISLAND  The past couple of years have brought us some pretty weak New England winters, not that I am complaining… at all. I was actually getting used to it and enjoying the milder temperatures. Then, 2013 came in with a bang as “Nemo” hit the East Coast hard. 

Blizzard Nemo brought us state of emergencies, power outages, parking + driving bans, snow plows and closed businesses. What it brought me was a sense of togetherness with everyone and everything around me: neighborhoods came together to shovel and plow the streets, families united with board games, friends fumbled with drinking games and we played in the snow as if we were eight years old again. 



Guide Note: Head over to “Winter Storm Central” at Weather.com for some great storm-porn pics. My personal favorite is #15 (awesome!) and #89 (I used to live in Portland, Maine, and they really do ski in the streets when it snows!) * * * Brittany Marcoux is a Guide to Rhode Island and an At-Large Guide to New England for The American Guide. She’s a photographer and a native New Englander. Follow her work on Tumblr or via her website.
Zoom Info

STAYING ALIVE IN THE DEAD OF WINTER - SOUTHCOAST MASSACHUSETTS + RHODE ISLAND 

The past couple of years have brought us some pretty weak New England winters, not that I am complaining… at all. I was actually getting used to it and enjoying the milder temperatures. Then, 2013 came in with a bang as “Nemo” hit the East Coast hard.



Blizzard Nemo brought us state of emergencies, power outages, parking + driving bans, snow plows and closed businesses.

What it brought me was a sense of togetherness with everyone and everything around me: neighborhoods came together to shovel and plow the streets, families united with board games, friends fumbled with drinking games and we played in the snow as if we were eight years old again.





Guide Note: Head over to “Winter Storm Central” at Weather.com for some great storm-porn pics. My personal favorite is #15 (awesome!) and #89 (I used to live in Portland, Maine, and they really do ski in the streets when it snows!)

* * *

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

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.
Zoom Info
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.
Zoom Info
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.
Zoom Info
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.
Zoom Info
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.
Zoom Info
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.
Zoom Info
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.

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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.

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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.

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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.

EGGLAND - PETALUMA, CALIFORNIA A guide to Petaluma, California, using California: a Guide to the Golden State (WPA, 1939) as your map. “The World’s Egg Basket.” “Egg Capital of the World.” “Chickaluma.” These are just a few of the historical nicknames for Petaluma, a Sonoma County town just off today’s Hwy. 101, north of San Francisco. The unusual name, which voice-activated GPS systems don’t usually agree with, probably comes from a Miwok word, in the language of the area’s First Peoples. (Farming and ranching by both Mexican settlers and, eventually, Americans, overran the original inhabitants.) Petaluma’s story really began in the 1870s when a Canadian named Lyman Byce realized that the area was perfect for poultry and, of course, egg production. Working with a local dentist named Isaac Dias, Byce also created the first egg incubator, which sped up the process of getting eggs to market. By World War I, Petaluma’s chickens and eggs were being promoted in sophisticated advertising campaigns, and the town was enshrined with its reputation and nickname as the capital of all things eggy. Just ask the WPA Guide to California: “Petaluma even has a CHICKEN PHARMACY, on the main street, devoted exclusively to the sale of remedies for ailing chickens.” Modern factory farming after World War II made the chicken coops and even the old incubators obsolete, and Petaluma reverted to its original agricultural roots. Acres of flowers grown for seed companies soon flourished. And its beautiful setting on the river of the same name, plus its proximity to San Francisco, also helped make the town a magnet for families and commuters. Today, remnants of Petaluma’s past can still be seen in a drive around town: grain elevators, old, brick buildings which used to house poultry supplies and the “Butter and Eggs Day” parade and craft fair held every April. * * * Lynn Downey is an At-large Guide to the West for The American Guide. She’s a writer and archivist based in Sonoma, California. Follow on her website, LynnDowney.com.
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EGGLAND - PETALUMA, CALIFORNIA A guide to Petaluma, California, using California: a Guide to the Golden State (WPA, 1939) as your map. “The World’s Egg Basket.” “Egg Capital of the World.” “Chickaluma.” These are just a few of the historical nicknames for Petaluma, a Sonoma County town just off today’s Hwy. 101, north of San Francisco. The unusual name, which voice-activated GPS systems don’t usually agree with, probably comes from a Miwok word, in the language of the area’s First Peoples. (Farming and ranching by both Mexican settlers and, eventually, Americans, overran the original inhabitants.) Petaluma’s story really began in the 1870s when a Canadian named Lyman Byce realized that the area was perfect for poultry and, of course, egg production. Working with a local dentist named Isaac Dias, Byce also created the first egg incubator, which sped up the process of getting eggs to market. By World War I, Petaluma’s chickens and eggs were being promoted in sophisticated advertising campaigns, and the town was enshrined with its reputation and nickname as the capital of all things eggy. Just ask the WPA Guide to California: “Petaluma even has a CHICKEN PHARMACY, on the main street, devoted exclusively to the sale of remedies for ailing chickens.” Modern factory farming after World War II made the chicken coops and even the old incubators obsolete, and Petaluma reverted to its original agricultural roots. Acres of flowers grown for seed companies soon flourished. And its beautiful setting on the river of the same name, plus its proximity to San Francisco, also helped make the town a magnet for families and commuters. Today, remnants of Petaluma’s past can still be seen in a drive around town: grain elevators, old, brick buildings which used to house poultry supplies and the “Butter and Eggs Day” parade and craft fair held every April. * * * Lynn Downey is an At-large Guide to the West for The American Guide. She’s a writer and archivist based in Sonoma, California. Follow on her website, LynnDowney.com.
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EGGLAND - PETALUMA, CALIFORNIA

A guide to Petaluma, California, using California: a Guide to the Golden State (WPA, 1939) as your map.

“The World’s Egg Basket.” “Egg Capital of the World.” “Chickaluma.”

These are just a few of the historical nicknames for Petaluma, a Sonoma County town just off today’s Hwy. 101, north of San Francisco. The unusual name, which voice-activated GPS systems don’t usually agree with, probably comes from a Miwok word, in the language of the area’s First Peoples. (Farming and ranching by both Mexican settlers and, eventually, Americans, overran the original inhabitants.)

Petaluma’s story really began in the 1870s when a Canadian named Lyman Byce realized that the area was perfect for poultry and, of course, egg production. Working with a local dentist named Isaac Dias, Byce also created the first egg incubator, which sped up the process of getting eggs to market.

By World War I, Petaluma’s chickens and eggs were being promoted in sophisticated advertising campaigns, and the town was enshrined with its reputation and nickname as the capital of all things eggy. Just ask the WPA Guide to California: “Petaluma even has a CHICKEN PHARMACY, on the main street, devoted exclusively to the sale of remedies for ailing chickens.”

Modern factory farming after World War II made the chicken coops and even the old incubators obsolete, and Petaluma reverted to its original agricultural roots. Acres of flowers grown for seed companies soon flourished. And its beautiful setting on the river of the same name, plus its proximity to San Francisco, also helped make the town a magnet for families and commuters.

Today, remnants of Petaluma’s past can still be seen in a drive around town: grain elevators, old, brick buildings which used to house poultry supplies and the “Butter and Eggs Day” parade and craft fair held every April.

* * *

Lynn Downey is an At-large Guide to the West for The American Guide. She’s a writer and archivist based in Sonoma, California. Follow on her website, LynnDowney.com.

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.
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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.

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.

* * *

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.

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

SUGARLAND

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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