THE ROOSEVELTS

Every night for the past week I have been watching a TV documentary about the Roosevelt's, made by Ken Burns. Fourteen hours of photographs and film clips were enhanced by compelling story line, tracing a hundred years of a family’s legacy and a nation’s journey. Teddy Roosevelt, FDR and Eleanor were the main characters but it embraced their extended family as well. 

I remember when FDR died, I was five years old. Even though memory is subject to err I always understood that the name “Roosevelt” was larger than life. The program was about people more so than the history they lived. It brought up an idea that has been with me for a very long time. The question is, do people rise of their own volition to make history or does history propel people into the mix and their destiny simply plays out? It begs many questions. History, in the short term for sure, is written by the victors and they frame it in their own favor, whatever the case. We use dumbed down, sound-bite logic to explain cause and effect when it comes to big ideas and complicated stories. Most of what we come to believe is based on what we want to believe or what seems to validate our prejudices. The Roosevelt’s were very private people, thrust into a global arena and they lived up to their ideals consistent with how they had been shaped. Their place in history is fixed but their reputations depend on which side of the political divide you stand. Franklin and Eleanor were either loved or hated; they betrayed their own class in favor of a fair, just society that protected the weak and the poor. 

It is interesting how some families, over generations, accumulate not only wealth and power but also assimilate an overarching consciousness that extends beyond that wealth and power. In the Roosevelt’s case it was a responsibility to promote and advance the greater good. Other families amassed great fortunes but never stretched their own purpose beyond the acquisition of more wealth and power. 

Teddy, FDR and Eleanor all realized they were not only in a unique position to influence the path of history but were by nature and disposition, compelled to spend themselves in that cause. I can imagine what that might be like but I can’t imagine myself in their place. The idea that any person can rise to that level of readiness is naive at best. Somewhere in the balance between heredity and acquired personality, equality is an ideal. We are not equal. Dedication and worthy purpose are not enough to insure anything. It’s not that simple.

Franklin and Eleanor identified with and protected vulnerable people from exploitation by the rich and powerful. I don’t think it was a choice as much as it was simply, who they were. I believe we all do that, be who we are. I am simple and small but life has been good to me and mine. We will not make news or history but a hundred years from now it won’t matter. We were here and it was good. 

KEEP COMING BACK

     Back in the days of Kodachrome 400 film I spent forty dollars on a workshop, Photographing Nature. It was at a hotel on the Plaza in Kansas City. I have forgotten the expert’s name and most of what he talked about was beyond my experience. I didn't have a darkroom so that part didn’t help me and correlations between settings were too much to remember, even if I did understand.  I thought I’d take notes but that was naive of me. He had thousands of photographs and a Kodak Carousel projector that flashed images on the screen, one after another, on and on. They were awesome but he went too fast for me to appreciate the object lesson. My eye wasn’t seasoned enough. It’s notable how some sounds are so unique you never forget them. The projector was on a tall stand beside the podium microphone. Everything he said was accompanied by the sound of the cooling fan on the projector and punctuated by the anticipated, three syllable action of slides being changed and advanced. I can hear it inside my head now as if I had one here beside me. 

      In the end I absorbed a couple of good ideas which is pretty good for any workshop. Enough was getting through to keep my attention. When he finished there was an open ended, question and answer session. Someone noted that there was a particular tree that kept popping up in the stream of photographs. The photos were taken from different angles,  different distances; some with the tree a lesser element in the design and others it was the main feature. Even I had noticed the frequent reoccurrence of that tree. Off the cuff he said he had noticed the tree in Jackson Hole, Wyoming in the 50’s. He kept taking photos of it over the years and it gave him a chronological index on the same subject where he could see for himself, how he was growing as an artist. That really resonated with me. It’s when I stopped thinking of myself as a man taking pictures and started thinking about photographs as an art form. 

     I began to think, ‘That’s what I need, a special place to keep coming back.’ Now, thirty years later, I have several favorite places that present wide ranges of opportunity and challenges as well. I keep coming back. Every time, there are changes in the landscape, different light, new angles and the camera sees with new eyes. I spend as much time as I can, reacquaint myself with the setting and look for compelling elements; lines, shapes and color. I don’t know how many photographs I’ve taken of the beach and lighthouse in Grand Haven, Michigan, or in the high meadow just north of Glen Arbor on Michigan Route 22. At Crow Agency in SE Montana, Little Bighorn Battle Field is a powerful place. I’ve only been there four times but it’s on my favorite list and I’ll be taking photos there again. Then in Alaska, where the road splits to either Seward or Homer, Tern Lake is a spot I can not drive by, I have to frame it through my lens, look for flashes of color, reflections in the water or a new array of shadows on the mountain side. I keep coming back.

     North of the river in Kansas City I noticed a hillside that was groomed like a golf course with well spaced, mature trees but it wasn’t a golf course. Behind the hill was a seminary for wannabe preachers. I stopped and took photographs. That was three years ago and I now have a file full of those trees. The way the hill slopes in two different planes makes framing tricky. There is no horizon for reference and the tree trunks lean into the hillside; nothing vertical or horizontal to show level or perpendicular. The whole scenario changes from one extreme to another as the light changes, early to late. I went there this morning to get early morning light and late summer foliage. Someday I want to hang a grouping with that tree through the four seasons. Before I could get the first frame my socks were soaked and my shoes full of water. I made more noise sloshing than the traffic down on the street. Changing lens’ and shuffling things in and out of the camera bag was tedious at times but there were a few photos worth keeping and that’s a good start for the weekend. I be coming back again.

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. 

NEWS

My radio comes on at 6:00 a.m. with news. I start thinking about the day and what I want to do with it. But the news is bad, always bad, really bad. It’s been bad for a long time and that’s a sad, sorry way to start the day. I have to beg the question; is the news all bad or is there just so much news they never get to the better news? I know that a 13 year old girl is pitching on a boys team in the Little League World Series and she is pitching very well. Beyond that, it’s all downhill. Some stuff sounds good but only because it’s counter point to terrible stuff. They have had some success treating victims of the Ebola virus but the virus itself is fatal in 2 of every 3 cases. The Israelis and Palestinians stopped fighting for a couple of days but they are killing each other again. Congress is on vacation but they haven’t done any work in years. They all understand how public opinion polls rate them worse than dreadful but they are all convinced that they are the good guys and it’s the other guys screwing things up. Big banks are paying astronomical fines for the crimes they committed in the housing fiasco of 2008 but the worst offenders have even more wealth stashed away now than they did before. Ferguson, Missouri was singled out as a great place to live only a few years ago. All it took to peel back that veneer was for a white policeman to shoot an unarmed, black teenager. To make matters worse, a grieving, angry community has been exploited by criminal looters and Jim Crow pushback, supporting use of deadly force and attacking the victim’s character. 

I’m getting tired of bad news. I remember, 40 years ago when CNN started giving us news 24-7. It spawned the age of News Junkies, people who couldn’t get enough Wolf Blitzer. Now it’s compounded by political hyperbole and propaganda on ridiculous talk shows. Now there are so many news outlets that you can pick your mis-disinformation as it be, from a wide range of outlets who are much more concerned about their ratings and advertisers than they are about unbiased reporting. So it all gets spun before it goes on air. Each one of us represents a demographic that has been targeted by producers who know what pushes our buttons. Even the weather channel, even PBS; they all frame language and stories to appeal to a well defined sensibility. Of all the news organizations, the BBC is probably the least-spun, unbiased news on the dial. 

I spend a lot of time on highways and Interstates. As I search station to station, I can recognize the tenor of background music and tone of voice so I don’t have to wait for a polarizing statement before I hit the “Skip” button again. Behind the visor on the passenger side I have a CD sleeve with a dozen or so CD’s. I don’t think I can listen to them all in one day. Switching back and forth between road noise, surfing the dial and music, I can hold out for several days. It beats bad news. It’s always a surprise when the radio goes silent and my dashboard comes alive with an amplified, cell phone ring tone. So I touch a button on the steering wheel and say, “Hello.” After we finish and hang up I can touch another button and my dashboard will ask me what I want. I tell it to call a different person. “Do you want to call this person?” it asks. I tell it I do and shortly the phone rings and I talk to someone else; never take my hands off the wheel or my eyes off the road. That’s pretty good news. I slept in the car at a Pilot truck stop in Bristol, TN recently. At 6:00 a.m. I walked up to the diesel fuel counter with my ditty bag and asked if I could have a shower. The young woman didn’t ask me for anything, just punched in a code an handed me a receipt with the assigned shower and pin number. She smiled a real smile and said, “Have a great shower.” That was great news. Shower are free to 18-wheelers but cost $10 or $12 for a 4-wheeler like me. I came out a half hour later, fresh scrubbed in clean clothes and got myself a cup of coffee. At the convenience store counter, I was behind a young man who was buying snacks, smokes and a cold drink. Something was not right, he turned and headed for the back of the store. The same young lady had changed counters. She watched him for a moment then looked at me, with my cup of coffee and a $5 bill. She had already keyed his sale into the register; she smiled the same, genuine smile as before, nodded her head toward the door and told me to have a great day. I thanked her, thanked her again going out the door. That’s good news. 

On my last road trip I bought four new T-shirts. Several light weight, white ones for the hot weather and one from the Martin Guitar Factory gift shop. My shirt drawer is full and I can afford to buy new T-shirts even before the old ones wear out. That’s great news. I got my camera back from the Canon Servicer Center in Virginia just before I left home. When I tried to take photos, it wouldn’t hold a charge on the battery. In Pennsylvania, I sent it UPS, back to Canon. When I got home two weeks later there was a notice on the door; UPS had tried to deliver it and would again the next day. When the bell rang I knew who it was. I signed the electronic receipt and took it inside. Reloaded, new battery, fresh sim card and I came back outside to see how it worked. I looked around for something interesting and the best  I could do was a late-summer grasshopper, perched on the garden hose on my porch rail. It’s that time of year, big grasshoppers only get big after a series of molts (instars) where they shed their exoskeleton, increase in size and grow another chitinous, outer coat. It takes lots of instars over the growing season to get big. This guy was maybe only one instar away from being the herd bull. I put on my macro lens and leaned right up next to it. Shutter-click, shutter-click and I had enough. My camera is working again and that’s great news. I’ve got fresh blue berries, strawberries, apples and tomatoes in the refrigerator. If I had peaches too, I wouldn’t know what to do with myself. So there is good news. You just won’t get it from the news media. I shut the radio off in the morning as soon as I get the message. I’ll hear it all, soon enough. But it means I survived the night and that’s great news. 

OCOEE

I have friends who think that life doesn’t get any better than when you sit in a comfortable place, with sweet tea and a good book. Don’t get me wrong; I like all of those but it does gets better, it can get a lot better. I’ve been dabbling in White Water since I was a teenager. A friend and I cut up some large tree limbs, lashed them together and rode the Blue River in flood stage. Instead of life jackets we had plastic jugs tied together with clothes line rope. We put in where the river was narrow and fast but not too deep. As side streams emptied in, its volume increased and whatever control we had over our makeshift raft, vanished. We were just flotsam in a roaring stream that dragged us through treetops, sharing space with all manner of floating debris. With only a foot or two of clearance under a highway bridge, we knew we had to get out. The fact that we both walked away from it is testimony to good luck.

We didn’t tell anyone because it was a foolish thing to do. There is "Crazy" and there is "Stupid." Rather than impressing someone we would have only proven our stupidity. But I did get the “White Water” bug. Over the years, canoe floating in Michigan and Missouri has been great fun and risks were minimal. Then there have been commercial floats on the Arkansas, in Colorado. Plunging down into and coming up out of those monster hydraulics is better than any book I ever read. Each time, I promise myself that we’ll do it again. The last time was four years ago. 

In the Great Smokey Mountains of Tennessee and North Carolina, there are two, very special rivers; the Ocoee and the Nantahala. Both drop through steep, narrow gorges with channels full of boulders and outcroppings; the best white water east of the Rocky Mts. In 1996, kayak events for the Atlanta Olympics were staged on the Ocoee. I was there last Friday. There were a few shallow pools between rapids and a thin trickle of current here and there. At the White Water Center they told me, “. . . come back tomorrow.” Lake Ocoee is just upstream, behind the dam. During the week, they hold water back but on weekends, they send it down for kayakers and rafters to ride down the gorge. I did come back and the transformation was awesome. Hundreds of cars, kayaks, rafts and thousands of people, all pointed down stream. Ocoee was running 1,400 cubic feet per second, perfect for both safety and thrills. I watched for a while but had too many miles in front of me to linger. 

Next summer, my daughter and I are floating the Colorado; Lee’s Ferry to Diamond Creek in the Grand Canyon. That will take eight days but I can wait; I don't have a choice. But I’m looking for someone to go with me to the Ocoee, some other time, before I get too old to pull a paddle. I’ll always want to go again. 

OLD BONES

We went to Musik Fest the other day. In Allentown and Bethlehem, PA, it’s a mid-summer festival that stretches along the banks of the river, through two cities. Most folks park in a distant parking lot and ride a shuttle bus to the venue. It reminds me of the October, Storytelling Festival in Jonesboro, TN. All along the way there are circus size tents with different music groups scheduled in every hour or so. We sat in on a Cajun band from Baltimore. Nobody spoke or sang to us in French, not even an accent, and their play list had nothing to do with the “Bayou” talk they were trying to emulate. But they did have an accordion and one of the guitar players had a washboard he used on several songs. I told my son, “If the accordion player doesn’t dance or at least shuffle his feet, he ain’t Cajun.” He played o.k. but never got out of his chair. Then who am I to be critical? They were getting paid and I was listening. The music was good, the crowd got up and danced while we munched on soft pretzels. 

After checking out crafts booths and food vendors it was time to catch another shuttle for the ride across town to the venue in Bethlehem. I couldn’t tell when we crossed city limits but through the trees, you could see the skyline change. Next to the river, the black stacks of old coke furnaces were still intact from another generation, gone to rust. Bethlehem Steel had been the base for an economy here but not anymore. There is a grassy park by the river and things have been cleaned up but the buildings and furnaces are like fossilized bones of giant dinosaurs, left behind in a great, archeological dig site. Some building were still intact; red brick walls, arched windows and rusting, steel beams. Others had been torn down and the grounds cleaned up, leaving only stone walls with pillared archways. The festival was strung out along the main street with an athletic field and grand stands next to the old furnaces. A popular country singer was scheduled to perform there later in the evening. 

We went into a multiplex, theater complex where the local songwriters guild was showcasing their talents. A four piece band played original material and it was fun. The air conditioning in the theater was comfortable and the time went by so quickly, we weren’t ready to leave when the time came. The long walk past rows of concession stands and craft displays took us past the old furnaces, looming over us like movie props in a science fiction thriller. The ride back to the parking lot was uneventful and the idea of going home was a necessity more than preference. I’m glad I got to see the old steel mills and furnaces. I can imagine a time, in my lifetime, when the smoke was belching and steel was glowing, red hot on the foundry floor. Bethlehem Steel was building ships and selling steel in a world that was still blind to its environmental impact. So seeing the old bones of that industry begged the question. Is the aftermath worth the profit to begin with? 

C.F. MARTIN

C. F. Martin immigrated to New York City from Germany in the 1830’s. He was a luthier, made violins, lutes and ultimately guitars. His wife didn’t like New York so after a few years they relocated to Nazareth, Pennsylvania. Martin guitars are still made in Nazareth by another C.F. Martin, six generations removed. Visiting Allentown for the first time I didn’t realize how near we were to the Martin factory. My son suggested that I might be interested in touring Martin Guitars. He didn’t have to twist my arm.

Lots of history in Pennsylvania; everywhere you turn (you turn often) there are museums and namesake landmarks for famous people and events. The roads twist and turn, rise and fall along the same paths as game trails of past centuries, foot paths of indigenous people and two-tracks cut in the ground by wagon wheels. You never know what you will find around the next bend. Along a narrow street in a well kept, old neighborhood we turned right and there was the old, brick front factory with C.F. Martin painted in big white letters above the entrance. Inside, we signed up for the factory tour. In the hour that we had to wait, there was the guitar showroom where you can play guitars, a gift shop and of course a museum. 

Every company that makes good guitars has a museum. Business is business and they give complimentary guitars to the biggest stars; then use photographs of those stars, with their guitars, in advertising. But C.F. Martin is not just another guitar maker. It is the yardstick by which all other good guitars are measured. “Oh, you have this, or that; how does it stack up with a Martin D 28”? Anyway, the museum is loaded with memorabilia and guitars. Under a spotlight, behind glass, there is a life size photo of Johnny Cash with his Martin guitar. I don’t know why Johnny Cash rather than Elvis; maybe his musical legacy and celebrity are more current. In one case, the donors names read like an all star lineup. From left to right they were, Paul Simon, Neil Young, David Crosby, Steven Stills, Judy Collins and more. If Elvis is the king, then the royalty in his kingdom are equally wonderful and they all played Martin guitars. 

Guitars get expensive fast. Once you learn a few chords and start picking out melodies, you realize you need a better guitar. It’s no secret, the better the instrument, the easier to play, the better you sound. Martin quality and workmanship are as good as it gets. Inside the factory, the tour guide showed us the Custom Shop, where custom guitars are made. (Guitars that cost over $5,000 are considered “Custom”) He said that Eric Clapton had just ordered two guitars, exactly alike. That way if a string breaks in a concert, they can switch in the moment and continue without a hitch. For the cost of those two guitars you could buy a new Mercedes Benz and have money left over. They have a factory in Mexico now that makes guitars for the lower end, cheaper models. I have one of those; it’s a really small, backpacker model. It’s nice for sitting in front of the computer and feeling your way through music off the internet. My best guitar is a Taylor 412 CE Limited Edition. Taylor Guitars have their factory in California but their legacy doesn’t begin to go back like Martin does. But they make world class instruments and they have a museum too, with many of the same stars, with Taylor guitars. When other pickers hear my 412 they say, “Sweet; how does it stack up with a Martin?” If they play much they already know but I tell them, “It’s about the same as a D 28.”  I bought a tee-shirt in the gift shop. The tour guide gave everyone a token of the tour, the cut out disc from the sound hole that had the Martin logo burned into the spruce. We were the last in line and he gave me the leftovers, enough to make a set of coasters.