Searching For Hope In The Storm

I spent the day shooting tornado damage.  While driving between assignments, I was trying to remember how many tornadoes I have seen or at least worked the aftermath. The first tornado I remember was the 1974 tornado outbreak.  We were under our house as the storm hit. The roof was ripped of part of my grade school. I saw the '89 tornado move down Airport Road, wrapped in rain. I had been working as a photojournalist for just over a year.  I've seen the aftermath of more than a dozen smaller tornadoes which hit communities from New Hope to Fayetteville.  I figure I have seen or been in the path of two dozen tornadoes, most since working as a photographer. 

I'm no expert, but I feel fairly confident when working around tornadoes.  I have taken storm spotter training.  I keep very aware and listen to the police and emergency management folks on the radio, they are always pretty much on top of it. A couple times I have been closer than I would have liked.  Once, I was on an overpass and really shouldn't have been.  Another time, chasing a rare December tornado, I was right behind it and almost wrecked my car. On Friday, I had rushed to the path of a tornado that had just passed, only to find myself in the path of a second tornado. As the hail fell all around, I realized I was in a bad spot. I just wasn't expecting the back to back tornadoes. I think the second tornado passed within a half a mile, it flipped an 18-wheeler just down the road from me.  I owe my guardian angel a beer.

It sounds jaded, I know, but the images are always the same.  There is pink insulation covering the ground like a surreal snow. The trees are jagged and broken. The homes look like matchsticks. Cars are crushed like cans. As much as I hate to say it, the looks on the people are the same. The stunned, empty look as they try to figure out what happened, where there house is, and sometimes, what street they are walking down. You look for the rescuer making their way through the rubble, the homeowner salvaging what they can from the rubble, the hugs and the tears.  If they are lucky, they just lost their home or a car.  At worst, they lose a loved one.  

Some tornadoes are worse than others.  The April 27 tornado wiped the earth clean wherever it touched down.  It was like demons took an eraser and just cleaned a mile wide strip of land.  There was just nothing left, nothing at all.  The tornadoes on Friday, while awful, damaged a much smaller path and the level of destruction was much less.  But, if it was your home in the direct path, it didn't matter. 

It is unbelievable these tornadoes took the exact same path as the April 27th tornadoes.  While shooting the damage and clean-up, I had a hard time telling what damage was from this tornado and from the April 27th tornado.  Finally I started to see the color of the wood as the indicator of recent destruction.  If it was yellow, clean wood - it was the latest tornado.  If the shattered homes were showing darker, weathered wood - they were destroyed in the April 27th storms.  I was shooting on the same roads as before, Yarbrough Road, Jeff Road, Anderson Hills.  This is the third time Anderson Hills has been hit by a tornado.  It's just chance that it happened this way, but people have come up with all sorts of theories why these three tornadoes would follow the same path - gravity waves, the shape of the land, and proximity to the mountains.  I think it's just chance, but don't tell that to someone's home that has been hit twice by a twister. 

A few years ago I found my film from the '89 tornado on Airport Road.  I was looking through the images of the destroyed Goldbro, Holy Spirit Church, Winn Dixie, the Westbury Apartments.  Most things I remembered.  The images stick with me in my mind - it was the first major natural disaster I had ever photographed.  To this day it is one of the biggest news events I have ever covered. 

While looking through the images, I kept finding these photos of dead pets.  A dead dog in the rubble or a dead cat in the road.  I had a handful of these photos.  Horrible photos.  I don't remember shooting any of them.  Not at all.  I was quite shocked, in fact, when I saw I had shot them.  I just didn't remember them.  It's funny how the mind can block the bad from our memory.  I think that is a good thing. I don't know if we could survive if we remembered the horrible things with the intensity with which they happened. 

What we do remember are the people helping one another.  The way the neighbors help clear the property.  The meal cooked for the family that lost a home.  The tree cut down off a house. All theses acts of kindness weave together to make us stronger than the destruction. It make some sense of the chaos, and to give us hope for something better.  So, tomorrow or the next day, when I'm shooting the tornado recovery or the next tornado I won't be looking for images of destruction.  I'll be looking for images of hope. 

Ash Wednesday

lightning, thunder.
rain falling, hard.
whispers of prayer.
lightning flashing in the darkness.
looking into the dark places in the soul.
prayers.
"remember that you are but dust - and to dust you shall return."
dark matter, matter, thinking of stardust.
rough scraping of ashes on skin.
cross of ashes.
prayers.
rain falling hard, cleansing souls.
Bless The Lord My Soul.
the blood of Christ, salvation.
The Peace that passes all understanding.
blessing.
Just As I Am.
rain stops.

Who is John Galt?

    I'm listening to Atlas Shrugged by Ayn Rand on an audiobook.  It has been years since I first read the book.  I was listening to the book while driving to meet family in Birmingham today. The book, a post-captalist view of the United States, paints a grim photo of the country after the capitalists are driven down by increasing taxation and government regulations and disappear.  While driving through Birmingham and seeing the rusting foundries and deserted buildings and rail yards, it seemed like I was driving through the scenes Ayn Rand was painting with her words.  It seemed like I was IN a movie. The scenes I was seeing could mix with the dialogue of the movie perfectly.  It was like watching a movie come together before your mind.

     I am halfway thorough Atlas Shrugged and find myself driving around just to listen to a few more chapters of the book.  Rand remarked that the core idea for the book came to her after a 1943 telephone conversation with a friend, who asserted that Rand owed it to her readers to write a nonfiction book about her philosophy. Rand replied, "What if I went on strike? What if all the creative minds of the world went on strike?" What if...or what if they already have?
    It is interesting in the context of today's current political and economic situation.  Give it a read.
  
    And, you'll find out the meaning to the question "Who Is John Galt?"

Waiting on ambien,
to slip into my head.
Sneak up to all the demons,
and put them all to bed.
Waiting on ambien,
to invite the darkness in.
Hide the white noise echoing in my mind.
Silence that never-ending static.
Waiting on ambien,
to make my world smaller.
So tiny it's just a grain of sand.
I can drop it in a bottle,
toss the bottle into the sea.
Drown the demons,
and change the white noise into surf.
Once the demons are out of my head,
there's room for all the dreams and ideas -
to mingle on the beach.
Under a lighthouse,
guiding the ideas of the mind.
Next to a lighthouse, that's where I'm waiting,
I'm just waiting on the ambien,
to slip into my head.

The Names of 9/11

Name after name after name. Listening to the families read the names of the dead in New York - their brothers, sisters, mothers, fathers and friends uttering their names. Some say them in a monotone voice, some say them with a firm voice, some say them with precision, some cry as they mention their loved ones...others, others can barely find the strength to mention the name.  The cadence of the voices seems like one continuous prayer, broken only by the brother, son, or daughter telling a personal remembrance. Then, the names start again. 2,606 names.

You can hear the pride, and the pain, as they recite the names.  Each name an individual with hopes to fulfill their little corner of the American Dream.  But, now, these names have formed a collective.  They are all linked and intertwined by a moment we still can't truly comprehend.  Survivors linked with other survivor's families in a way they never could have imagined.  All the names linked to the loss of some sort of American innocence.  All these names are linked to something so horrible that a nation came together in a brotherhood, for a short time. All names linked to 9/11.

Each name is an individual, a person, a life.  Each name is a dream. Each name is a laugh. Each name is kiss. Each name is a good friend. Each name is a thread of life. Each name is somebody.  Each name is an essence.  Each name is a soul.

The names are etched in stone in the stone which makes up the memorial. Family members were making rubbings of their loved ones on the programs to carry with them to remember.  An outline of the name to carry home with them.  Something to remember, that's all they want.  It means everything to remember that name. They say the name, pray the name. They write the name.  But in the end, all they have left is a name.

In today's paper there was another list of names.  It was a list of soldiers killed in Alabama since 9/11.  That list of names keeps growing. Those names are on a killed-in-action list because someone thought those names on 9/11 were worth putting their name on a list.

We should remember all these names.

Passed By One Wheel

Sometimes, Life laughs at you. Sometimes, Life humbles you. Sometimes, life kicks you square in the ...well, you get the idea. Today was one of those days.

I was riding in the SORBA mountain biking summer time trial series.  I sort of promised myself I would ride this Thursday night mountain bike series on Monte Sano.  I have been riding mountain bikes on Monte Sano for years.  I'm not the best mountain biker, far from it.  Most riders have lighter, faster bikes - but I really love riding my old Gary Fisher Joshua F4 on Monte Sano. Most riders have lighter, faster bodies, too. I promised myself I would try to ride the time trials for a few reasons:  I need to get less fat, I need to work on my mountain biking skills and I need to defeat a little demon.  In 2006 I had a pretty bad wreck on my mountain bike, leaving me in the hospital with a collapsed lung, broken collar bone and cracked ribs.  I made myself get back on the bike and have been riding often since then.  But I am very cautious and make for a very apprehensive mountain biker.  I thought riding the time trial series would help defeat the demon and be fun at the same time.

So, here I am waiting for the second time trial to start.  The course is on the Mountain Mist trail, a Monte Sano favorite.  There are dozens of riders, all in their spandex riding garb, waiting to start at one-minute intervals. Next to me, balancing perfectly, is a dude on a unicycle, a mountain-biking unicycle.  I have never seen such a thing. It had a fat tire, like a motorcycle tire. The rider, dressed in all black and covered in body armor, also showed me he had brakes and two gears!  It was a very peculiar ride.  I chat with the unicyclist for a while, listening to the peculiar skill set needed to ride a unicycle on a trail.

I was toward the back of the line.  The fast riders were dropping down the trail first.  I am not a fast rider.  I haven't been riding much this year, especially my mountain bike.  Last week, in the first time trial, I was just glad not to be last.  But to be fair to myself, most of these riders are very good riders.  Many of these riders are much younger than me. All of these riders have faster bikes than me.  Last week, I finished third from last.

Every sixty seconds a rider plunges down the drop to the Mountain Mist trail.  I hate this drop.  I always have.  I have wrecked on it a number of times over the years. It has a steep drop and then you go into a bouncy turn.  I hate this drop.  I know if I can get past this drop I can do this and kick the demon in the head. I turn on the Red Hot Chili Peppers' and "The Power of Equality" starts thumping in my ears.  A dozen more riders and it's my turn.

I am three riders in front of the mountain unicycle dude.  I know I am not a fast rider and I have not ridden this trail in...well, since last year.  There are a couple of guys, the unicyclist, and a handful of girls behind me. As we wait the lead riders are starting to come in from the four-mile ride. They look spent, one rider's arm is covered in blood. They collapse on the ground after getting off their bikes. I turn up the Chili Peppers, "Suck My Kiss" is playing.

5, 4, 3, 2, 1...pedal to The Drop. I start down....can't. I slide down the trail and the bike gets squirrly on me.  I walk it over the worst part of the drop. Drop Fail. But, after the first part, I do manage to get the bike down to the Mountain Mist trail before the first rider passes me. Really? Already? I pedal as fast as I can as Flea sings "Mellowship Slinky in B Major".

By now, my lungs are on fire, my legs are burning and I'm pouring sweat.  I'm riding my heart out but it is vary clear to me my body wasn't quite prepared for this.  I'm riding as hard as I can and I hear another rider call out. She passes me and quickly rides the ribbon through the green forest floor and out of sight.  I keep pedaling but have a bitch of a time on a rocky climb.  My lack of strength and practice are showing. I can barely move.  I would drink but that would take time away from my breathing.  But I push on through the switchbacks, rocks and roots.

About two miles into the ride, I hear it. A rider is coming up behind me. I  count the riders behind me in my head and say a little prayer, "Please, Lord...no."   A rider calls out behind me that he is passing me.  I have to pull over and let the rider pass. I can't keep a faster pace.  The rider is right behind me when I pull over. But I don't want to. I know who it is. It's him, the rider in the black armor.  One wheel sounds different than two wheels.

Then it happens. I get passed by a unicycle on Mountain Mist trail. The guy just pedaled past and you couldn't even see his feet he was pedaling so fast.   I was passed by a unicycle on my mountain bike.  I can't tell you how deflated I felt. "Give it Away Now" plays on my iPod.  I watched as the mountain unicycle dude rode over the next ridge, as I am gasping for air and getting on my bike.

After I was passed by the unicycle, I just didn't care.  I just wanted to finish. I rode out the trail, the fast part of Mountain Mist before it runs into the closed part of Bankhead Parkway where I was passed by a heavy guy riding his first time on that trail. He filled me in on the details after the ride. Then, while climbing out on Bankhead a much older dude passed me and said some encouraging words. And finally, a few hundred yards before the finish, three kids rode their bikes onto the street form the cabins where they were camping. I was forced to stop while this eight-year-old boy showed me how he could do donuts in his Big Wheel. Briefly, I thought about running over his leg. But I waited the show out and started rolling to the finish, knowing unicyle-rider was probably already packing his one-wheeled cycle into his car. (Come to think of it, I think you have to mount your number on your handlebars. Black-Body-Armored-Unicylist didn't even have handles. He pinned his number to his back. Those mountain-biking unicyclists - cheaters, that's what they are.  I think he should be disqualified.)

I did finish the time trail.RHCP's "Scar Tissue" was playing. I didn't even look at the time.  The trail kicked me square in the ass today. When a unicycle beats you on your mountain bike, do you really want to look at your time? But maybe, just maybe, I kicked the demon between the eyes once or twice.  Next week, maybe I'll be riding without my demon? Then, maybe, I won't be the last rider.

My Dog Is Addicted To Pot(s)

My dog, Rocket, is addicted to pot(s).

If he sees a pot his pupils dilate and he starts drooling. The bigger the pot, the better. He just can't get enough pot action. I keep having to go out and buy him new pots.

Plastic pots. The black plastic pots you buy that dogwood in at a nursery or garden center. He loves them.

Rocket will run with his front paws in the pot sliding it across the patio like a sled. He will spin in circles while holding the pot in his mouth. Around and around and around. I've seen him so dizzy he sits down because he can't  walk.  He's constantly carrying the pot around the yard. He will stalk the pot. He sleeps next to the pot. He just loves the pot. 

Sometimes, I'll take the pot away. Rocket gets too obsessed with the pot. I don't think it's good for him to play with the pot so much.  I put the pot on top of the work shed, out of his reach. He sits on the sidewalk looking at the pot, just waiting for the wind to blow the pot down. After a while, I can't stand it and I give Rocket his pot. I know, I'm an enabler.

After a few weeks, the pot is destroyed. Pieces of black plastic litter the  yard.  He mostly ignores the little shreds of pot. Occasionally, he picks a piece up and shakes it half-heartedly.  But you can tell the addiction has run it's course. But, also, it seems like Rocket has lost a little something, a little pot spark. I see the anticipation in his blue eyes when  he sees the pot in the back yard first thing in the morning, pawing at the door to get out and play with his pot again.  Now, he just wanders on the back yard, seemingly without purpose.  Oh sure, he sniffs here and there, but it's not the same as chasing a big, black pot around the yard.

But after a while, I drive by the garden center again. I think of Rocket wandering listlessly in the back yard.  I know I shouldn't stop. Stacks of black pots in every size are stacked by the back door.  I talk to the clerk. He takes me to the back and shows me the stacks of pots. I pick out a pot, the bigger to the better. I try to explain the pot is for my dog.  I'm not sure whether he believes me.  I walk to the counter and offer to pay.  He gives me a unsure look and tells me I can just have the pot for nothing. It's pity, I think.

When I walk around the side of the house holding the pot, I can see Rocket's bright blue eyes light up. His tail starts wagging. He starts jumping and barking. I throw the pot into the back yard and he is on it immediately- sliding in the pot, spinning in the pot, chasing the pot around the yard. This will go on for hours.

My dog is addicted to pot(s).