Mother nature and the missing critters
The Blue Ridge Parkway was silent this time.
Hurricane Helene had ravaged the area a few weeks prior — mass destruction, loss of life, entire small towns washed away. Utter heartbreak. The Parkway was closed because it had collapsed in places, and thousands of trees were down. I was surprised I could still access a little parking lot with a view, so I hung out there, just me and the vista, thankful for that little slice of heaven.
The next day, I went back to do it again. This time, I ignored the closed gates and warning signs and walked the Parkway anyway…right down the center of the road. Hundreds of visits and that was certainly a first. The parkway itself was as glorious as I’d ever seen it. I didn’t see a single tree down as I walked for miles (although the trails were impassable because of limbs and debris), and it struck me that as much as Helene took and destroyed, by far most of the natural majesty was intact.
There was not another being around as far as I could tell, human or otherwise, except for one bird — sounded like a crow. Not even any critters rustling in the leaves, which was rather disturbing for autumn. I don’t know what happened to the critters, but I heard most of the birds got swept up in the storm and wound up in Ohio.
The Lincoln
I was 11 or so when I took this photo. I was on a road trip with my dad and grandparents, who were visiting from Greece. We were heading to Iowa City in our enormous Lincoln Continental to visit my birthplace and where my dad had completed his residency — a boring trip with lots of opera in the background. I wrote some poetry by the glow of the personal reading light that you turned on from a switch inside the armrest, and I took some interesting photos with my first camera, an old medium-format with bellows.
The Lincoln was probably one of the longest sedans ever made. It barely fit in our garage. You had to pull it all the way in to the point where the front bumper practically touched the wall. If you came up short, the garage door would bounce off the rear bumper, reverse direction for a few feet, and then automatically try to go down again. This could go on for hours if you had gone inside quickly after parking.
Once I drove the Lincoln right through the garage and into the laundry room.
I was about 12 and sitting on a phone book so I could see out of the windshield. I had gotten into the habit of taking the car out for a spin on our street after school while my dad was at work (we’d gotten another car so this one was at home, waiting to be sold). One day, when I was pulling it back into the garage, I hit the gas instead of the brake. That big bumper went right through the sheetrock and into the laundry room. I was mortified! When I called my dad to tell him, my excuse was I had backed the car out into the driveway to wash it as a surprise for him and then messed up when I was pulling it back in.
Of course, I then had to wash the car before he got home.
Amazingly, I did not get in trouble. Nor did I take the Lincoln out for a spin again.
My favorite shot from the eclipse doesn’t include the eclipse
I met people from all across the US who, like me, chose Black Balsam Knob to watch day turn into night and then back again within a few minutes time. At an elevation of over 6200 feet and within the total eclipse zone, how could it not be extraordinary?
Still, none of us were prepared. It wasn’t like regular night. It was like magical night. At that altitude, we could see the edges of light at the periphery of the eclipse shadow so the darkness was a massive swath of dark across the sky with glowing borders. Audible gasps. Hushed voices. Awe.
I didn’t take pictures. I just stayed in the moment and let my GoPro shoot video instead.
When it was over, no one knew what to do with themselves. We all just kind of stood there and looked around a bit more and at each other, and then slowly and quietly packed up our stuff, respectful of what we’d just witnessed and aware that we were now a little different than before. If anyone talked on the way down the mountain, it was in whispers.
Thank you, Woody Cornwell
While sitting in my vet’s waiting room today the people next to me were talking about one of the founders of Eyedrum, an avant garde art space in Atlanta, who had died recently.
My heart sank — my favorite art teacher was a founder.
A quick Google search confirmed that, oh no, it was him. Woody Cornwell. In one design class, he taught me more about how to use line, shape, balance, and value than I would’ve ever thought possible. It clicked — the way he taught, the way I learn. He was fun, funny, patient, a rebel, a huge talent, and a tireless advocate for artists and their visions. He wanted us to learn the rules so we could break them and then defend why we did it. Notes from his class are in my bookcase and a cutout shape of a chair from one of his assignments hangs on my studio wall.
Mostly, he’s in the photos I take. These are a few random shots that probably wouldn’t exist had I not known Woody (link to come shortly). I have hundreds, maybe thousands. Woody, thank you.
Thank you thank you thank you thank you. Way too soon, my friend. Rest in peace.
Fixed
There is beauty in things that you have fixed, and a wide “fixed” spectrum.
There’s fixed so it’s almost like new. Fixed so it functions. Fixed as much as I have time for right now. Fixed as it’s ever gonna be. Fixed for now until I get the right parts. Fixed to last until company leaves. Fixed after oh-my-god how many tries? Fixed so it’s more interesting than when it was perfect. Fixed enough. Fixed in the nick of time. Fixed forever.
Fixed so the sun catches it just right in the morning.
Fixed so you can remember all the memorable experiences you’ve shared with the fixed thing and don’t want to let it go. Even if it is worn and tattered and not truly fixed.
White line
The Blue Ridge Parkway in North Carolina — the actual road — feels like home. Winding up the mountain to reach it feels like I’m getting closer and closer to being able to breathe deeply again…and then there it is! The first vista, whichever one it happens to be for that access point, and the first really deep breath. My entire chest expands along with the view, and it stays that way the entire time I’m up there. I’m breathing deeply right now just thinking about it.
Well, unless there’s “weather.”
Fog, rain, snow, wind, fog again. Which is often. I don’t mind. Weather is interesting. But the expansive-breathing part disappears when I’m crawling along at 5 MPH in a pea-soup cloud, focusing on the white line on the right so I don’t drive off the edge. Many miles of the Parkway have no guardrails, and the drop-off is hundreds of feet, if not a thousand. I’ve driven like that for dozens of miles, at a crawl, wondering when my turn-off will come and if I might miss it. I never miss it.
This day, I went for a hike and the clouds rolled in while I was on the trail, so I ended up walking in a cloud. It was magical. When I got back to the parking area, it took me a minute to locate my car because I couldn’t see it, and then I had to white-line-crawl-drive for at least half an hour. At one point, I was grinning so much that I stole a look at myself in the rearview mirror to see what such a pure smile looked like.