ROADHOUSE

When I’m on a road trip I pay attention to traffic and drive safely but I also look for photo opportunities. Like a moth to the flame I can’t resist lines and angles, something about edges and shapes layered over and under. When I notice something it’s usually too late for scrutiny or a second look. Sometimes I just drive on, other times I juggle possibilities with logic weighing the inconvenience of getting turned around, where to park and the value of the time I’d lose. A well conditioned gut reflex responds in parallel; “. . . was that as good as it looked or were there things in the frame that would spoil it all?” It can take a few seconds or several minutes; I let it go or we turn around and go back. Maybe half the photographs I take on go-backs are worth the trouble. Yesterday I went back. 

Mid morning I was making my way north between Forrest and Carthage, in the middle of Mississippi. Highway 35 is a good two lane with narrow shoulders and deep ditches. Farms and homes, neat and well groomed, you would think the area to be properly gentrified. Traffic was light and I was stretching the speed limit by a few mph. There it was, and there it went. A glance in my mirror didn’t help, too many trees. So began the dialogue; was it as good as it looked or do we keep on going? A mile up the road I saw a turnout in time to slow down. I am a story teller who plays with a guitar and takes photographs. A photograph is a razor thin slice of a greater story and it’s better than nothing but why settle for a slice if you can have it all?

There was a building near the road, under pine trees. It was well maintained but it was old, unpainted. It looked like the office to a camp ground or a store straight out of the Great Depression but there was no camp ground; only a blue, Pepsi Cola machine on the porch to suggest any commerce. A low roofed addition had windows that were boarded up and I couldn’t help myself. I remembered the movie, “A River Runs Through It.” Two boys, sons of a Presbyterian minister, growing up in Montana just after World War I. The older, serious and grounded one goes off to Dartmouth College while the younger, prodigal son (Brad Pitt) stays and becomes a rebellious journalist. Looking for the younger, they found him in a remote speakeasy where people of all races and classes mingled, where whiskey and poker were righteous and the saints left their haloes at the door. But this was Mississippi, nearly a century later. Still, it was all there. Come friday night, I can imagine music of Son House and Robert Johnson from the far end of the boarded up addition. Musicians of another generation but their legacy is still part of Mississippi’s foot print. Baptist deacons and Pentecostal Elders from neighboring counties drive long miles so they can tip long neck bottles and bourbon shots with local sinners. Everybody dances, nobody fights, girls go home with the guys that brought them and the devil’s in the deal. Sunday comes soon enough. 

If it’s not a road house, I still like the story. 

p.s.  Nearly two years ago I posted my first blog entry. It was from Peggy's Cove in Nova Scotia. Today, "Roadhouse" is my 100th blog post. I have several regular followers and I think of you every time. The website records over 5000 hits, from all over the world. I'm not sure how that works but those of you I don't know, I hope you like what you find here.