Bluebirds on a cold day

I was trying to photograph a pair of killdeers, but not having much luck. It was a cold day at the Shippensburg Township Park and bluebirds huddled together for warmth near the Cumberland Valley Rail Trail.

Translating English (Part 3)

Each region of the United States has its own dialect, idioms, and colorful phrases. Pittsburgh, and Western Pennsylvania, is no exception. Perhaps most famous in the Pittsburghese lexicography is the use of the word, “Yinz,” or you ones. It is used frequently in Western Pennsylvania to make informal inquiries or observations, as in “Yinz going to the Steelers game?”

Kennywood is an iconic amusement park, dating from the late-19th century, in the metropolitan Pittsburgh area. It is famous among locals and natives as a place of great rides, school outings and summertime fun. Yet, if you ask or tell a male in Pittsburgh “Kennywood’s open,” it has a profound effect. You are indicating that the person’s pants zipper is down. It is widely known and employed, in fact a local restaurant chain has the phrase on the men’s room door to remind patrons to check their wardrobe before exiting.

My grandmother, a long-term resident of Louisville, Kentucky, was fond of saying criticizing people by saying something was, “Lit up like Levy’s.” The reference was to Levy’s Brothers Department Store, in downtown Louisville, which had a large and bright Christmas display each year. If there were too many lights on in the house, which usually meant she considered it a waste of electricity, they she would utter the phrase. 

Baltimore in January

US Route 1 winds its way through some of the most depressed areas of Baltimore; it is a route heavy with boarded up buildings and general urban decay. The overcast day in mid-January, when I traversed the road, was an appropriate backdrop for this trip through the center of the city. Although the temperature was in the med-30s, several elderly people sat in the front of the ubiquitous row houses, seeming companionship and distraction. One man was feeding pigeons outside his house; two women sat on a stoop, speaking animatedly to one another.

Row houses along Monroe Street in central Baltimore

There were several handmade signs along the route that pointed to a general feeling of despair. In an abandoned lot, painted in purple, one sign read, “Enough is Enough.” At a liquor store, closed during my mid-morning excursion or perhaps permanently, the word “pray” was painted below the store’s damaged sign. A little further on, in another abandoned lot, trash, almost ankle deep, strewn around a hand-painted sign, optimistically proclaimed, “Every problem has a solution.”

Yet, it must not seem so to many of the residents I imagine. Orwell observed: “It is fatal to look hungry. It makes people want to kick you.” A drug addled or mentally ill, perhaps both, man was soliciting money from cars waiting at a light near the intersection of Monroe and Mulberry, where two of the country’s most important routes, US 1 and US 40 meet. He was wearing a grey sweatshirt with a hood and dark pants, insufficient for the windy cold day that it was. Even though he was relatively young, perhaps in his thirties, he had difficulty navigating around the cars; he looked as if he was going to fall several times and placed a hand on several of the cars waiting at the light to steady himself. An ambulance, on an emergency run, came through the intersection. The cars moved to one side to allow it to pass; the man gazed at the ambulance from the middle of road with a look of incomprehension darting across his face.

It is stunning that these scenes occur along these two great highways: one that navigates the east coast, the other runs from New Jersey to Utah down the center of the country. Despite being right along the major thoroughfares, places like Baltimore are a part of the country that many of the powerful have forgotten or, perhaps, they choose to avert their gaze. Structural poverty creates a never ending cycle of misery and despair. Often it is hidden in plain sight.

Abandoned Churches in Pittsburgh (Part 2)

About three years ago, I began an exploration of abandoned churches in Pittsburgh. Since that time, I have read quite a lot about the phenomenon of urban abandonment and have become very interested in photography as a way of preserving that which is in danger of being lost. The decline in the number of people who regularly go to church, the loss of congregations to more contemporary services, and the trend of megachurches has fueled the disappearance of late nineteenth and early twentieth century religious edifices in the United States.

Albright United Methodist Church (Pittsburgh)

In the Bloomfield neighborhood of Pittsburgh, the Albright United Methodist Church stands on the edge of oblivion. The structure, built in 1905, was slated for demolition in 2015. Its land was to be redeveloped as space for retail buildings, no doubt using modern building methods that are less permanent. Seemingly, at least for now, there appears to be a reprieve. These great stone buildings, both religious and secular, give the neighborhood a unique feel. It makes the area an attractive destination for urban dwellers. Yet, the demand for modern shopping and conveniences undermine the essential quality of the neighborhood. It is an ironic situation: the aesthetic character of Bloomfield, East Liberty, and Shadeyside that attract modern urban dwellers create an impetus to destroy the things that make the area attractive.

St. Peter and Paul Roman Catholic Church
(Pittsburgh) 

I revisited St. Peter and Paul Roman Catholic Church. Over the past three years nothing in the status of the building has really changed, except that more decay has occurred. In what is ostensibly a “bad area,” people are friendly many times offering a greeting. In my mind, I suspect they are curious about the guy photographing abandoned buildings but local people, nonetheless, usually offer a reticent “hello,” and are more forthcoming when I return the greeting. Nevertheless, just in case I am challenged as to why I am in the neighborhood, I have a cover story ready. It is along the lines of a great aunt who attended the church in the 1970s and I am reflecting in the past. The great aunt part is not true, but every time I run across a church like this I think about the numerous parishioners who once offered their time and effort, their meager financial support, to the particular institution. What they have worked so hard for in their lifetimes stands upon a precipice of existence. It is difficult to think about buildings such as these and not consider the importance of them to generations of the past. 

Souvenirs in Apalachicola

I was waiting to have my growler filled with Hooter Brown, a wonderful beer made with Tupelo honey, at Oyster City Brewery in Apalachicola. A man and woman, obviously from the area, were laughing hysterically as they made their way to the bar. The local man told the bartender that they had just come from a tourist shop and were tickled to find that the proprietor was selling oyster shells, ten for a dollar.

The bartender responded that he reckoned that he had about twenty dollars’ worth of shells sitting in the window in the brewery. Still laughing, the patron asked if anyone really bought the shells. The bartender looked serious, nodded his head, and assured the man, “Oh yeah.” In my travels, I have seen tourists spend money on even more bizarre souvenirs.

My Encounters with Strangers

I was worried that as I have gotten older that my approachability was diminishing. Throughout my adult life, people who I do not know have sought me out to ask me questions. Often these inquiries are regarding directions of recommendations. But with great regularity I attract interesting people with questions that border on the bizarre. For example, one time while at a festival, my friends and I watched as a street person weaved through a crowd to single me out and ask if I were carrying any alcohol he might have. (I did not.)

Any concerns I might have appear to be unfounded. I was sitting in Chipotle, enjoying a couple of tacos and jotting some notes and observations in my journal after a walk. A man and his wife, who I had noticed when I sat down and judged to be about my age, approached me as I was studiously recording the afternoon’s event. “Excuse me,” he said, “do you mind if I ask you a question?” Such an inquiry is usually a prelude to a request for money but, as he had just finished eating and there was no other signs that he might need money, I was intrigued. I indicated my willingness to be engaged. “Does the type of music they play here bother you?” he asked. I chuckled that he had navigated his way through a maze of people and chairs in a half full restaurant to solicit my opinion of the music played over the speakers. He seemed rather disappointed when I said that it did not, in fact, bother me. He excused himself noting that he found the music very irritating. We both went our own ways, me thinking about what make people think I would be interested in these conversations. 

Paradise Meeting House

Located near Route 11, the meeting house was built in 1861 in Franklin County, Pennsylvania just a few mile north of the Maryland state line.