Hallowed Ground

The fallen lay three or four deep in some places, and, with but a few exceptions, they were shot in and about the head…. With much labor a detail of Union soldiers buried the dead by simply turning the captured breastworks upon them. Thus had these unfortunate victims unwittingly dug their own graves. - Union Soldier

     The most ferocious fighting of the Civil War happened at this spot, the Bloody Angle at the Battle of Spotsylvania.
     The dark earth behind my hand is the remnant of a Confederate breastworks. Union forces assaulted the position from the field in view. Hand to hand combat ensued. The line did not yield during hours of attacks. Eventually the Confederates withdrew.
     I stood here with a sense of awe. A plaque described rifle fire so intense that an oak tree toppled over. Other trees were shredded. They once stood behind me.
     As I read the plaque, tapping sounds distracted me. By coincidence, oak nuts were falling on the ground where that tree once stood. My wonderment increased. For one century-and-a-half, Mother Nature has been restoring the damage.

Bird Watching

     Eleven thousand people poured out of a stadium. Traffic clogged the roads. A campaign rally with President Obama was over.
     A contingent of Mitt Romney supporters held signs toward the exodus of cars. Most of the Obama backers smiled. Some countered with their own campaign signs. Others pointed thumbs down.
     But not everyone in the cars reacted with civility. A few people flipped birds and launched F bombs at the Romney crew.
     I wanted to photograph middle fingers juxtaposed against Romney signs. For compositional reasons I stood on a chair. A camera rested in my hands.
     No middle fingers stabbed the air.
     After a spell I stepped down on the pavement. One of the Romney backers indicated that a middle finger was being wagged. I raised the camera too late. The moment passed. 
    I got back on the chair. Nothing happened. I got off the chair. More obscene gestures happened when I wasn't looking.
     My camera never captured a middle finger in the act. But the incident did offer an insight into human nature. When I--or better said, my camera--was in view, the middle fingers chilled out. This lull in one finger salutes hints that people who hurl obscenities know their behavior is wrong. They do possess a capacity for shame.

Mixing Politics with Prayer

      A prayer to God and a Pledge of Allegiance. That's how presidential campaign events begin.
     When a minister or priest leads these invocations, I bow my head in reverence. But all too often my head snaps back into position before the prayer finishes. This reaction happens whenever a clergyman asks God to grant an election success to a candidate.
     These supplications for victory happen at least fifty percent of the time. Clergymen ought to keep political bias out of these prayers.
     The photo was taken during a prayer at a Paul Ryan campaign rally. I can't remember the preacher's exact words, but he requested divine guidance for all the candidates.
     My head remained bowed for the duration, well, after taking the photo.

Sign Fatigue

     I'm overdosing on signs and shirts.
     At presidential campaign rallies, messages appear on signs, on clothing, and on souvenir buttons. This hodgepodge of props includes busts of candidates embroidered on T-shirts.
     Images depicting props serve a purpose. They enable viewers to determine what's going on.
     But after a while, props become redundant. They compete for attention with other elements in photos. Too many photos with signs and T-shirt messages strain the eyes.
     Yesterday I photographed a rally with President Obama. Twelve photos were uploaded.
Only two of these images depicted scenes without signs or Obama shirts in them. That percentage needs to change.
     Redundancy is common at most jobs. But in the creative arts--and that includes photojournalism--redundancy diminishes creativity.

Seige Mentality

     Saturday night and the motel parking lot was empty and dark. Its location is downtown in a city that's seen better times. Boarded up homes stand behind a line of trees.
     I should have turned the car around. But I was tired and looking for a bargain. In this part of Ohio, motels jack up their already high rates on Fridays and Saturdays. This fleabag joint keeps the rate steady at $39 per night.
     While I waited for the desk clerk behind the plexiglass, a shady looking man loitered outside. After a couple of minutes he walked inside and drew near.
     "Hello" I said.
     He didn't reply and headed down the hallway.
     I asked clerk why there were no customers.
     "We've got 'em," he said. "They're monthly. They're out back."
     "But I don't see any cars."
     "They don't own cars."
     "Oh."
     "Have there been any problems here, you know, safety issues."
     "Not recently."
     At least the guy was being honest.
     My room has a door facing the parking lot and another door facing the hallway. The locks are rinky dink and the chains flimsy. There are no sliding bolts. To calm my worries, I placed a desk against the door facing the parking lot. The refrigerator in the room now rests against the other door.
     I parked the car across the lot; that way, nobody will know what room has an occupant. But keeping the car away from my room makes the car vulnerable to theft.
     I've made a couple of forays to the car for things I forgot to take in. During each trip, a dog has checked me out, darted through a hole in a chain link fence, and ran away. I don't know the species. It's s tiny animal, the kind that looks like a hot dog. A Dachshund perhaps? It's hard to identify in dim light.
    I whistled at him but could not entice him back. Too bad. Petting a dog would have been nice, given this grim setting.
     After getting my stuff squared away in the room, I shut off the light and peered out the window. I needed to check on my car. To my surprise, the dog stood on the pavement near my door.
     As if on cue, the animal squatted and took a crap.
     It's been four hours since that incident. I've been working at my laptop and uploading photos. I just looked out the window again. Three more cars in the lot.
     Neighbors! Fellow travelers.
     I'm feeling a little better about this place.
     Tomorrow morning, I'll need to watch where I step when I open the door.

Morning Update:
          A silhouette passed across the brightness of the window drape. A  brushing sound
accompanied this movement. Somebody was sweeping the pavement. Was that turd being
cleaned up?
     I opened the door and encountered an older man bent over a broom. He was washing the
walkways in front of the doors to each room. My sense is that he's a long term resident performing a labor for room deal.
    "What's up with that dog?" I said.
     He told me that nobody knows where it lives.
     I asked him to explain the lack of customers on a Saturday night.
     He blamed the slowdown on sports. The Ohio Buckeyes football team had played a game. As a rule, people stay home in droves to watch Buckeye football.
    We talked pro sports. He said the Cleveland Browns suck. Lots of people in this part of Ohio follow the Pittsburgh Steelers. 
     As we conversed, I realized the man hadn't noticed the dog turd. I didn't point it out. Why ruin the vibe by suggesting that he go clean up dog crap?
     Minutes later the perpetrator of the turd showed up behind the fence. The dog was acting skittish again. It watched me taking its photo. I think the dog wants a friend but is too spooked to trust anyone.

    The clean up man wished me safe travels.
     In the office, I returned the room key--a real key, not one of those plastic cards--to the proprietress. She refunded my five dollar deposit. 
     I told told her I'm traveling often in Ohio. She said she'd give me the same cheap rate for a better room upstairs if I visited again. Her personality was engaging.
     My experience at the Siege Arms Motel (not the real name) demonstrates something about human
nature. Once we make connections with people, our opinions of a place change for the better,
even at a run down motel. I've become acquainted with a clean up man, an owner, and a feral dog.  Anything that eases the burden of loneliness on the campaign trail is worth pursuing.
     During my next visit, I'll sleep better.

Creeping Tyranny?

 

'Big Brother is watching you.' - George Orwell, Nineteen Eighty-Four

     A camera aimed down at me while I idled at an intersection in Virginia. It's the camera in the middle of the photo. As I looked up at that dark circular spot--the eye of a municipal government--discomfort swelled up in me. I took out my own camera and fired back.
      I am a law abiding citizen. There's no rap sheet with my name. But a record of good citizenship did not shield me from this government surveillance.
     Red light cameras are showing up all over the place. Proponents cite public safety to justify their use. Is our society's obsession with safety chipping away at our freedoms?

Nothing Sweet About Luxury Suites

     Look at the rapt attention on the face of the man in the photo. He's a delegate listening to a speech during the Democratic National Convention. His concentration is typical of most people late in the evening of a convention; that's when marquee speeches are delivered.
     What's not visible in the photo is a luxury suite located nearby. There, guests stood in clusters, shooting the breeze and nibbling on food. Their din of conversation and laughter got so loud that delegates in the normal seats glanced their way with disapproval.
     The luxury suite people were clueless of the distraction they were creating. What explained their insensitivity? Was liquor being dispensed? Was it the free food and party atmosphere? Was it the physical barrier separating them from the normal seats?
     There was a time when arena seating joined together people from all economic groupings. This mingling of rich and poor was good for our society. Nowadays at ballparks and arenas, wealthy people and businesses buy their way out of mingling with lower classes.
     The segregation of luxury suites represents a step backward, not forward.

Greed and Folding on the Campaign Trail

     
     While in Charlotte to photograph the Democratic National Convention, I experienced bad and good sides of human nature.
     Motel owners jacked up their rates. For example, a motel that normally charged forty-five dollars per night asked for one hundred-and-seventy. No way I'd pay that much.
     I found a low budget motel willing to charge its normal rate. But with a catch. The owner required me to call him late each day. He needed the daylight hours to book the rooms with suckers willing pay usurious rates. If he filled the rooms, I'd be out of luck. As it turned out, not many fish took his bait. He accepted my lower payments.
     One night a woman appeared at my door. She said, "What are you doing in there all alone?" I told her I was getting ready to sleep, adding "I know what's going on and I'm not interested." Hearing that, the prostitute departed.
     Some parking lots near the convention arena charged thirty dollars per day. But not all. One lot situated farther out charged five dollars. That place got my business.
     Inside the convention arena, a standard sized bottle of water cost $4.50. I drank from water fountains.
     At the end of the second session, the temperature in the upper seats had gotten hot. Thirsty people mobbed a concession stand before leaving. A man walked over to me with a dazed expression. He told me the concessionaires had hosed him for $7.50 for one bottle of water.
     Greed on top of greed.
    The good side of humanity revealed itself inside a laundromat. I asked a woman, a fellow customer, if she'd keep an eye on my clothes. Would she be willing, later on, to transfer my clothes from a washer to a dryer, and feed some coins into the slot? In return for this assistance, I told her I'd pay the cost of drying her own clothes.
     This arrangement would enable me to go somewhere for lunch, retrieve dry clothes, and get to the arena before the convention proceedings resumed.
     The woman agreed to the deal.
     When I got back to the laundromat she was gone. I walked up to the dryer. My jaw dropped with
amazement. Inside the dryer, my clothes weren't only dry, they were folded in a pile.

Pillow Pilferage

     One pillow and several towels gets stolen each morning.
     While I checked out of a low budget motel in Georgia, the owner told me that thievery by guests is rampant. He added that at a second motel he owns in Florida, with pricier rooms, the ripoffs aren't as prevalent.
     The cost per room in Georgia is $39.00. The motel in Florida charges over $70.00.
     Why the discrepancy in rates of theft? The owner cites a difference in the 'quality' of the people living in the two regions. He described the people living near his Florida motel as honest. He said their standards of living are higher.  He said that people living near his Georgia establishment are more than poor in comparison, they're deficient in moral values.
     To underscore this claim, he revealed to me that when he sleeps on the premises of his Georgia motel, he keeps a pistol in the room.
     The owner's morality claim got me wondering. Does a lack of moral values contribute to a lack of income? To quote Heraclitus, a Greek philosopher, 'Character is destiny.'

Convention Fallout

     Four days and twelve hours of sleep.
     Photographing last week's Republican National Convention in Tampa was draining. I became so deprived of sleep that I found myself cutting in front of TV cameras, stepping on people's toes, not moving aside right away when asked, and getting lost in hallways.
     The photo above depicts the grand finale.
     On the day after the event, I woke up early with one hour of sleep. In nearby Lakeland I photographed a presidential campaign rally featuring Mitt Romney and Paul Ryan. In my stupor of exhaustion, I got careless and leaned a monopod with a camera and lens against a fold up chair. Moments later, a media person grabbed the chair. My photo equipment crashed down on asphalt.
     I started to cuss the person out then stopped in mid sentence, realizing it was an accident. My anger should have been directed at myself. Placing camera gear in a precarious spot was inviting disaster. The repair bill will cost me hundreds of dollars.
     On the next night I slept for ten hours.
     It's been years, if not decades, since I uttered a profanity at someone. Why the outburst?
     Someone once told me about a wife who was always clean with her language. In her
later years she became afflicted with Alzheimer's disease. To her husband's shock, she began
cussing a blue streak.
     I wonder if there's a beast of profanity lurking within us. We do our best to keep this creature
locked in, but every now and then it escapes.