Traveling a Fast Road

I prefer traveling the back roads; interstates offer a great deal of sameness and make for a tedious ride. The interstates are what Americans want to believe the country is: fast, commercial, egalitarian, clean, efficient, well-organized. The side roads are where we find the real United States, a much more complex society: full of small business, local history, cafes, diners, and people who are friendly not because they are being paid to be so. It is a good place to observe the angst of the country as well. It is not uncommon to see shuttered storefronts and closed local schools. Nevertheless, sometimes, for efficiency sake, we must travel those fast highways to be where we are supposed to be, when we are expected to be there.

Often, I find myself traveling west on the Pennsylvania Turnpike, perhaps the closest thing to a compromise between the efficiency of an interstate and curiosities of an early twentieth century route. The turnpike was opened in 1940 and served as a model for the interstate system of highways that dominates the United States today. While it has limited access, the turnpike does have views and sights that make the drive entertaining and interesting. Thus, there are two places near Somerset, both of which capture my imagination in different way, and serve as mental waypoints for my journey.

An old brick structure that is sits closer to the road than would probably be allowed in the modern construction, conjures images of travel from days past. While driving through the countryside just east of Somerset, I can catch a glimpse of this evocative old structure and imagine it to be an old inn, perhaps from the 19th-century. Perhaps it was a railroad hotel; but there are no railroad tracks nearby. Maybe the turnpike took the place of an older road which this inn served. Or, perhaps this is just an old farmhouse, with an interesting design, and I have let my imagination get the best of me. Each time I drive through this section of the turnpike, I take a quick peak, and the building sparks questions in my mind: How can I find out more? What would have been here before the turnpike was built? This is why I probably enjoy this part of the drive so much. The building (the inn) gives me a pleasant distraction from the mind-numbing monotony of interstate driving.

"Cranberry House," near Somerset, PA

After passing the structure numerous times, I began making notes about its location and calculating an investigation. I was able to determine that the structure was located near the village of Wells, adjacent to Cranberry Road. A nice name I thought; in my mind, I have named the structure Cranberry House.  Its location is, decidedly, on private property. Yet, the bridge on Cranberry Road, which traverses the turnpike, affords a vantage point to observe and photograph the building. There is, of course, a temptation to research and learn more. But maybe it is more entertaining to create stories in my head about what it might have been.

Birds atop the globe

Just a few miles down the road is a structure that offers a great deal of mirth. A large tower, with a globe atop, marks the headquarters for Jenny Steam Cleaning Products. The globe is noticeable and attracts attention from passing motorists. What catches my attention, why I make sure I look every time I pass, is that there are always birds, specifically pigeons, who perch on top of the globe. In all kinds of weather, and every season, as I pass the Somerset exit, I take a quick look at the revolving globe to make sure there are birds, slowly spinning, watching the busy humans, as they travel the Pennsylvania Turnpike.

Philadelphia Streets by Night

It is not late, but it feels like it is. In mid-November, the sunset in Philadelphia is at 4:45PM. Walking along Ludlow Street, adjacent to St. John the Evangelist Church, it was difficult not to acknowledge my own privilege. Beneath a scaffolding structure, sleeping bags, blankets, plastic bags, and winter coats were strewn on the sidewalk. Several human beings were nestled, half buried, among the piles of materials used for bedding. When I was a boy scout, I had subzero sleeping bag from an army surplus store for winter camping. I am sure, on that sidewalk, there were many who would have gladly used it on this night. It is easy to avert one’s eyes when you see people in need navigating a city during the day; however, seeing half a dozen or so lonely people, huddled together, preparing to sleep rough on a cold night, is difficult to ignore. As humans, we all need something; some need more than others.

While walking in Philadelphia, I often find that the soundtrack in my head is primarily comprised of Bruce Springsteen singing about the streets of Philadelphia. Such was the case on this evening. Being a flâneur at night is not necessarily dangerous, but the deep shadows create a sense of mystery while roaming a city. Perhaps the most dangerous element of such a walk is the likelihood of tripping on uneven sidewalks. But the darkness obscures people, things and intentions. At the same time, it lowers inhibitions for some.

Walking down a residential street, I passed a woman smoking a cigarette outside her front door. I was having difficulties finding my destination, I had an incorrect address it turns out, so I passed her twice during my search. She looked at me nonchalantly, with her left hand propped against the doorjamb and her right hand caressing her cigarette. As I passed her front window, I noticed that the only source of light was toward the back of her house and her austere living room was lit indirectly. There was no one else at home, I imagined. She appeared to be in no hurry to finish her cigarette, was waiting for no one in particular, and had nowhere to go. My quick espy of her, wondering if she was about to face a lonely Saturday night, led me to consider Oscar Wilde’s De Profundis for the next few blocks.

I was to meet A & M for a drink at a local bar, Dirty Franks at 13th and Pine, which has a long history beginning with its opening a month prior to the end of prohibition. [A story for another time perhaps]  In the dark it was difficult to discern any sign, and I was already confused about the location. I watched a young couple in the mid-twenties, walk into this building and figured it had the be the place. It is a windowless structure with a drawing of Frank Sinatra, the young version, on the side of the building. Upon entering, I encountered the same young couple being compelled to show their identity to demonstrate they were of age. A bouncer, who was old enough to make me wonder if he could manage a brawl should one occur, was closely inspecting their driver’s licenses. When the couple were granted admission, I reached for my wallet, and the bouncer gruffly barked, “If you must!” I am not as young as I used to be.

The bar has a long, horseshoe shaped bar and wooden booths that were constructed when the average person was smaller than today. Harkening back to decades of history, Dirty Franks still has pinball machines, dart boards, and dozens or pictures and artifacts collected over the years. I took a seat at an empty booth and waited for A & M to arrive. The Saturday night chatter, facilitated by the social lubricant of alcohol, was lively and robust. A woman with dark hair, sitting at the bar just a few feet from me at the bar, was relaying a story about a recent evening that included drinking. The culmination of her story was, upon returning home, she decided to forego dinner and to have a bath instead. She woke up the next morning, naked in her bathtub, with no water. From the volume of her voice, and the expletive-laden description of that night, I imagined that she might have a similar story to tell the following Saturday night.

A & M breezed into the bar a few minutes later. After drinks were ordered, perfunctory questions about dinner, shopping and families were asked, our attention was distracted by the arrival of a French bulldog at the booth next to ours. The dog in question was quite popular. Since it was the cutest, and only canine, in the bar, it became the subject of several selfies with fellow patrons. M became absorbed by the plight of a hapless woman, desperately trying to attract the attention of a couple of men, while learning how to play darts. Because I had my back to drama, M gave me a play-by-play description of the scene that rivaled several sports announcers. But soon she grew quiet and continued to observe without a word.

The bar began to fill up. The effects of alcohol began to kick in. Sing-alongs and serenades punctured the buzz of bar conversations. One man, DeVaughn, who had been sitting at the bar for a while, saw an empty seat at our booth and insinuated himself in our conversation. I am quite sure he saw us as easy marks for free drinks and a little pocket money. After he enquired about out marital status (all married, but not to each other), he told us a confusing story about the last time he had been in Dirty Franks. He said that an eight-year old had been singing karaoke, an odd occurrence no doubt. He marveled that she was allowed in the bar; I wondered why this bar would have karaoke. DeVaughn began a story about how a guy, someone he trusted, had just stolen his wallet. His story continued with that he would not be able to be able to get any money until Monday. M snapped out of her trance of studying hapless women learning to play darts, or pretending not to know how, to announce that it was time for us to go. I was ready to hear the twisted machinations of a story that led to the guy needing money. I was willing to buy him a drink and slide him a dollar or two. M was not going to have any of it. We excused ourselves and made our way back out onto the cold streets in this city of brotherly love.

Walking back to our hotel, we passed a late-night cookie and dairy shop, situated adjacent to an adult toy store. Warm cookies and milk before bedtime is a siren call for many, including my companions. There is something genius about a company that will deliver warm cookies and cold milk to college students until 3AM. I am unsure about the success of the delivery part of the business, but there was a long line for cookies and ice cream. We all went in, but I declined an offer of cookies and/or ice cream. Soon, a group of self-described “parents from the suburbs” entered. The three couples were enjoying themselves having dinner and exploring establishments that were unlikely to be found in sedate suburban neighborhoods. One of the men was chuckling about the irony of the sex shop next door to a storefront selling milk and cookies. A woman, with dark bobbed hair, stood next me and began a conversation. One of the men asked where her husband was, she nodded that he was outside eating ice cream. We continued our small talk, as she was curious about the nature of the establishment. She picked up the glossy piece of paper that served as a menu, and asked, “What would you recommend? The chocolate chip, macadamia nut, or the vibrator?” I was being baited; nonplussed I replied, “It really depends on what you are in the mood for.” Within seconds, her husband came in and was ready for more food. He began to engage me in conversation, and his wife grew quiet.

A & M had their late-night treat and we continued our journey back to the hotel. M was put off by the softness, and therefore messiness, of her warm cookie, She wrapped it up and the cookie somehow found its way into my coat pocket. Once again, we passed those sleeping outside St John the Evangelist. 

Photographing the World

A historical marker on Chestnut Street, in central Philadelphia, commemorates the place where the earliest photograph created in the United States occurred. Taken on 25 September 1839, Joseph Saxton captured, with a crude lens and a cigar box, an image of the Central High School for Boys. It was not the first photograph in the world. The previous month, there was an announcement in France that Daguerre the successful capturing and saving of a photograph.

The simple sign on Chestnut, a busy city street in Philadelphia, does not allude to the monumental cultural impact these early experiments had on our world. Today, the primary feature on our telephones today is a camera; we live in a time where photographs and moving images are ubiquitous. Yet, we rarely consider the lasting impacts and the changes in society that photography has had.

The invention of photography allows us to capture a moment in time. It is an artifact of documentarian efforts. We capture a moment in space and time as a visual reminder of people, places and things. Prior to the invention of photography, we had to rely on words and artistic representations, such as paintings and sculptures, for documentation. Almost incomprehensible today is a fact that we have no photographs of George Washington and a handful of photographs of Abraham Lincoln. There are no photographs of the Irish Famine (1845-1850), but numerous images and videos of the Rwandan Genocide (1994). 

At first, very few people had access, or could afford, to have photographs made. Early on in photography, because of exposure times, the subject had to remain motionless for several seconds to capture a clear image. The equipment and materials were delicate and, sometimes, difficult to handle. For example, the last portrait of Abraham Lincoln had only one print made from the original glass negative, after which the negative was discarded because it was cracked. But because of the limited availability of cameras in the nineteenth century, the rise of momento mori photography, the photographing of deceased loved ones and family members as a souvenir. While the photographs may appear disturbing to us today, in many instances, they were the only images families would have had of individuals.

Krauss Photo Shop (Port Jervis, NY)
established 1907

As camera became increasingly popular, an entire industry emerged to develop negative and make prints. Small towns would have places, often drugstores, where people could take their film to be developed. Rather than the instantaneous gratification of phones and digital cameras, we would have a week or so to wait for our prints to return. Opening the envelope that contained prints was a chance to briefly relive the captured events over again.

In the twenty-first century, with billions of people having cameras in some form or another, and with the popularity of documenting events, from the momentous to the mundane, we have reached a point where virtually the entire planet, and most of its human inhabitants, have been recorded through photographs. It is impossible to know how many times we have been photographed in our lives. When I was a Boy Scout growing up in Louisville, parking cars on Derby Day, a woman, perhaps in her late twenties, rolled down the window of her car, leaned out and took a picture of me holding a sign advertising our parking spaces for five dollars. One of my friends turned to me and said, “You’ve just made someone’s photo album!” I think about this event often, especially while traveling in touristy areas. I like to consider how many times I have inadvertently appeared in the background (or foreground) of someone treasured photograph of a monument, church, building, landscape, or friends and family.

LPQ, 12 Nov 2017

Our photographs do not tell a complete story, however. I can take a photograph of a restaurant where I enjoy breakfast; a place where I feel inspired to write. But within seconds, what I have captured on my smart phone can change dramatically. I captured an orderly restaurant, neatly arranged and waiting for customers. Within two minutes of the capturing of that image, a French-speaking couple and their three young children inhabit the table that is the center of the picture. The scene instantly becomes populated with people; the orderly table becomes disarranged as the children explored and inspected the condiments and decorations. It disrupts what the restaurateurs, and perhaps customers, believed was aesthetically pleasing. I find it interesting that this scene as well is probably worthy of recording, but it is not ethical to do so without consent. The propriety of privacy matters when the people, especially children, are the subject of the photograph.

I am very fond of photography and photographs. But these images are not always sufficient in telling stories. Near the historical marker where Saxton created that first American photograph, on an early Sunday morning in November, I watch two different men carefully scouring the sidewalk, looking for cigarette butts that still contains minuscule amounts of tobacco in an effort to collect enough to create a makeshift cigarette of their own. Another man, clad in a black knit hat and a blue flannel shirt, was working diligently using a pocket knife to pry loose a penny that had been pressed down into the asphalt when cars had runover it. He repeated watched the traffic light at the end of the block so that he could gauge whether he had a few seconds to work the coin loose. I do not feel comfortable capturing images such as these. As intriguing as I found the story, I do not find it necessary or desirable to photograph these individuals. As evocative as these photographs might have been, the process of storytelling requires more than a photograph. It requires context. A good storyteller, like George Orwell, examining and relaying the stories of the desperate poor in Paris and London during the 1930s, gives us a fuller understanding of these lives. It helps to explain what is not observed in the photograph.