on 47th and Baltimore Avenue in West Philadelphia.
The city of Philadelphia displays the largest collection of public murals in the country. One of the 2,000 murals rests on the wall outside of the A-Space, a collectively run anarchist community center and art gallery. Titled The Heart of Baltimore Avenue, the muralist, David Ginn, depicts West Philly neighbors working together.
Passing by on May Day 2013, caught this moment . . . which stands as a tribute to all workers who make our cities great.
Over the past couple months I’ve taken a photography course at the Community Arts Center with the hope that I could improve on my blog photos. Steven Miller, who has photographs in the permanent collection of the Smithsonian Museum, presented us with a series of assignments that emphasized various photographic techniques. Inspired to step out of my comfort zone, I experimented with photographing different subjects.
My travels during this time took me to a narrow backstreet in the Mount Airy section of Philadelphia. Near the corner of Carpenter and Greene, little stores nestled on either side of street. A cooperative grocery, an independent coffee shop, a second-hand store offered a bustling section to an otherwise quiet street. The Big Blue Marble Bookstore with its colorful façade and window dressing of books and toys offered a particularly bright spot. Just across from the bookstore, I discovered a honey hole of photographic opportunity, the Philadelphia Salvage Company. The shop, a wonderland of restoration projects, overflowed with antique doors and stained glass windows. Vintage boxes and light fixtures lined the aisles. Boxes of buttons, rows of tiles, planks of wood scattered about the warehouse. On one of the shelves someone had arranged a collection of gears, and that’s where I found my prize photo, the best of the 500 pictures I took during this time.
Click on the photo for a better view.
Freewheeling
Update: Photograph won first prize at the Community Arts Member Show, June 2013.
A trip to the Philadelphia Zoo provided a great opportunity to photograph the animals close up. J. R. Blackwell provided guidance as well as her own interpretation to most of these shots. Click to enlarge as the details are extraordinarily better in the larger format. Thanks for offering your choice!
So why do we head out into the chilled night air to look at pumpkins?
From ghoulies and ghosties And long-leggedy beasties And things that go bump in the night Good Lord, deliver us! Scottish Prayer
Halloween has always been my favorite holiday. Growing up, I thought it was everyone’s favorite because our family made the day a special celebration. I attribute that fondness for the holiday to my Mother, who was born in Scotland and brought with her the spirit of Halloween with stories of ghosties and ghoulies. My neighborhood friend, Joan, reminded me that Mom would peel apples for us, taking care to not break the peel. Each of us then tossed the peel behind our backs to see if ghostie would grant our wish. Halloween originated in Scotland dating back when the ancient Celts celebrated Samhain, marking the end of summer and the beginning of the dark half of the year. The Celts celebrated the day by wearing masks, called “guising” or going into disguise, to scare away evil spirits. Halloween night seemed to be mystical experience–dressing in costumes, wandering about in the cool evening air, and thinking about the specter of strange and otherworldly happenings.
When Fall came around, our family usually headed out to the country to buy gourds, indian corn and pumpkins. We carved our pumpkins into jack ‘o lanterns; the tradition arises from the strange occurrence of light flickering over peat bogs. Originally turnip lanterns provided the Halloween decorations in Ireland and the Scottish Highlands.
Despite all the talk of witches, fairies, ghosts, skeletons, devils and apparition of all sorts I knew that these references were merely whimsical. Mom was firmly planted in reality and folk beliefs were just stories. Mom clearly identified superstitions, including most religious customs, and separated fact from fiction. We had so much fun trick-or-treating around the neighborhood with our friends. Supposedly, the idea was to threaten a trick if we didn’t receive a treat, but that scenario was never part of our tradition.
Harvest moons, apples, hayrides, anything to do with the season still resonates with the whimsy of my childhood so it seemed only natural to drive out to Chadds Ford to see the Historical Society’s annual pumpkin carving contest this past weekend. The Great Pumpkin Carve, a Chadds Ford tradition, began in the 1970s and spread from a few porch displays at the Chads Ford Inn to covering the entire lawn. All the pumpkins used in the contest are native grown, some weighing as much as 400 pounds.
What I imagined as a few pumpkins displayed in field turned out to be an explosion of activity. It seemed as if everyone in the county turned out to view the works of the pumpkin artists! Nobody could be disappointed. Below just a few of the displays . . . .
I’m a little pumpkin, short and stout . . .
Ouch!
An entire story on the surface of a pumpkin . .
Mad hatter, no less
Nevermore
Calling wolf
Friends, cider, pumpkins and enjoying the moonlit night . . . it’s Halloween!
Beaufort: Legacy of Pirates along the North Carolina Coast
Schooner Wolf
Yo Ho Ho & a Bottle of Rum
As we arrived in Beaufort, we found the town overrun with people streaming down toward the wharf. After scouring the neighborhood streets for a parking place, we headed the way of the crowds toward the waterfront. Some were dressed in colonial costumes–this began to look like fun!
Turns out, we arrived just in time for a pirate invasion! Folks lined the piers and watched as the events unfolded on the river. A classic topsail schooner led the attack by sea, her pirate crew taking aim at the shoreline blasting her cannons. Muskets fired back in defense. Pirates in longboats plowed the water, and buccaneers on land brandished swords. Townsfolk cheered as the pirates clashed with the military guard.
We just happened on Beaufort’s Annual Pirate Invasion: It Takes a Village to Pillageevent, the town’s recreating of an actual pirate invasion in 1747. The story goes that Spanish privateers sailed into the harbor and stole several ships, easy pickings when only a few men guarded the coast. Not satisfied, the pirates returned several months later to take the town! About fifty militiamen were not enough to protect the village, so citizens high-tailed it out of the area. After collecting more recruits, however, the militia counterattacked, driving the pirates out for good this time.
Blackbeard supposedly had been a frequent visitor to Beaufort around 1718. The governor of Virginia, tired of piracy along the coast, sent two sloops on a mission to capture Blackbeard; the governor’s ships eventually tracked down the pirate, and an intense sea battle followed in which Blackbeard was killed. Three hundred years later divers discovered the wreckage of his ship, Queen Anne’s Revenge, in Beaufort Inlet.
Capture of Blackbeard
The weekend featured all sorts of pirate activities from sword dancing, to pirate cruises, and costume contests. The trial and supposed hanging of the pirates highlighted the afternoon. With so many events, I would come back and enjoy the entire weekend!
More about our stay in Beaufort as well as our road trip through the towns of coastal North Carolina at the link.
Watching the blue moon rise, a flock of birds flew across the scene reminding me that migration season is upon us and fall is just a few weeks away. The landscape will change from green to shades of orange, red and yellow, but for now I’m thinking blue. I searched for blue flowers to compliment the feeling of tranquility–that the moon will rise and the birds will begin their migration this time of year.
What’s the big deal about a chair? Actually, this chair is so big, about four times larger than a typical chair, and it’s a work of art that has taken on a life of its own. Jake Beckman, a student at Swarthmore College, conceived and built the original chair, which found a place among the other standard-sized Adirondack chairs that dot the stretch of lawn in front of the main hall on campus. Even The Colbert Report featured a segment about the famous chair.
Several years ago the original chair fell apart and was discreetly removed from the lawn. However, the campus community, becoming attached to the Big Chair, clamored to bring the chair back. Jake agreed to return to rebuild the structure, and the chair resumed its place with the others.
I guess I wasn’t the only one beginning to think metaphorically about the Big Chair. Some unnamed inventives would come by during the night, leaving the chairs in different arrangements, such as the Big Chair leading a line of the other chairs or the Big Chair in the middle of a circle. One morning, the Big Chair stood upright while a semicircle of normal chairs tipped down in front of the Big Chair.
Now I was thinking hard. The chairs assumed the metaphor for power dynamics . . . and not just at Swarthmore! I thought about “Big Chair” people, folks that tell us what to do or think: politicians, pundits, advertisers, bosses, CEOs, presidents, board of directors . . . and I’m sure you can think of a lot more. Do we perceive these folks as big in influence, power, authority, and wealth and get drawn into a mindset that binds us to a deferential attitude? Many normal chairs sit on the lawn–there is strength in numbers when we act collectively. And normal-sized chairs serve a real function. We wouldn’t make 25 more Big Chairs.
On reflection, perhaps we do need the Big Chair–reminding us to keep the right perspective.
Brought us to the Edgewood Plantation in our search for a bed and breakfast in the area along the James River, which runs through Richmond to the Chesapeake Bay. The Edgewood website richly described the historic house and gardens quoting Country Collections magazine, “Have you ever dreamed of waking up to an antebellum room that would be the envy of Scarlett O’Hara?” A resident ghost, chased by the TV Ghost Hunters, reportedly resides in the upper story. Sounded like a perfect place to stay!
We drove from Petersburg crossing the Benjamin Harrison Memorial Bridge to the John Tyler Memorial Highway (Route 5), a scenic road lined with forests on either side. A bike path parallels the road in several sections. We drove up a circular driveway to the house, an example of Gothic Revival architecture with a fan-style front porch decorated with wicker seating and floral arrangements on the tables.
An orange cat greeted us in the parking lot and led the way to the porch steps where we met the proprietor, Dot, who warmly welcomed us, offering a glass of wine as we walked through the gardens.
The Edgewood Estate had once been part of the Berkeley Plantation, the home of the ninth President of the United States, William Henry Benjamin Harrison, a signer of the Declaration of Independence. His grandson, Benjamin Harrison, became 23rd President. Harrison built a mill at this site in 1725 so that he could grind wheat and corn rather than having to export the crops elsewhere for processing. Water flowed from a pond down to the mill, creating a waterway, now arched by a white clapboard bridge.
Around 1854, Richard S. Rowland traveled from New Jersey to run the grist mill, moving into the house with his family. Harrison also owned large bake ovens for making sea bread, a food used by the sailors on voyages to England. The mill operated into the 1930s and was known for the excellent meal produced by the burr stones turned by a water wheel.
We explored around the mill peeking through an open door. Inside remnants of the mill remained including chains and hooks still hanging from the cross beams; the famous limestone grinding stones rested on the ground outside.
Older view of the mill; photo courtesy of Dot
A building that was once the slave quarters sits in back of the main house. Restored and now used as guest rooms, certainly would not resemble what once the slaves called home. According to the definition on Wikipedia, a plantation would have been supported by slave labor. Any romantic recounting of the period that only includes the view of grand mansions with elaborate furnishings and horse-drawn carriages quickly dissipates at the thought that the system of slavery that imprisoned people to a master. A first-hand account here describes the conditions the slaves endured.
Dot shared with me this photograph of the slave quarters.
Antiques of Every Kind
The rooms in the house provided a backdrop for an eclectic collection of antiques and artifacts. Dot restored the kitchen, taking down a plaster wall that hid the original fireplace.
Original Fireplace in the Kitchen
Other rooms in the home in the slide show:
Ties to the Civil War
During the Civil War the Confederate generals camped at the Berkeley Plantation and relied on their soldiers to climb to the third story of Roland’s house, which they used as a lookout post for union troops. On June 15, 1862, Confederate General J.E.B. Stuart stopped at Edgewood for coffee on his way to Richmond to warn General Robert E. Lee of the Union Army’s strength. Two weeks later 100,000 Union troops spread over the lands along the James River and camped for six weeks. The owners have found shell casings on the property. The mill ground corn for both the Union and Confederate armies.
Rooming with a Ghost?
Lizzie’s Room was our accommodation for the night. Elizabeth Rowland, daughter of the original owner, carved her name on an upstairs window pane. Legend has it that she died of a broken heart when her lover never returned from the Civil War. Some say Lizzie still waits at the window on the third floor.
Ghosts Come to Life as We Breakfast with the President and Mrs. Lincoln
We were fortunate to have breakfast with folks who bring the era of the Civil War to life through reenactments. One of the guests, Gary, portrays a Private 3rd Class in the VT Hemlocks, who are “dedicated to proudly and accurately portraying the common Vermont infantry and artillery soldier during the War of the Rebellion, 1861 – 1865.”
We also had the honor of breakfast with President Lincoln and his wife, Mary Todd Lincoln, a.k.a. Robert and Cheryl. The context of seeing Abe and Mary Lincoln within the Edgewood Plantation house was amazing. As they descended the staircase, we wondered, were we seeing ghosts?
President and Mrs. Lincoln . . .
Mrs. Lincoln with our Host, Dot
An evening spent at Edgewood carried us back to another time. These buildings were haunting in of themselves as they served as witnesses to history. Lizzie carved her name in the window, perhaps imaging that the house would hold her permanent legacy. We look forward to another visit to uncover more historical treasures. And maybe a President will join us for tea.
Every morning I hurriedly climb a back staircase to get to the office to begin another day of work. A week ago a small brown bird danced along the hand rail as I came up the steps. The little bird stood her ground. I admired her defiance.
On the second morning, she was back flitting between a nearby tree and the railing. The night before I checked my bird book and identified her as a House Wren, with her turned up tail and warbling tweetie song. I thought she must have a nest somewhere. I looked in the tree and scanned the walls of the building to see if twigs might be sticking out from a light fixture or downspout, but no such signs appeared.
Checking the Internet, I learned that Wrens can build their nests in strange places. A cavity nest builder, their nests turn up in abandoned bee hives, old hats, tin cans or flower pots. I couldn’t see any such cavities in the area.
On the third morning, the Wren appeared again. This time I watched her from the window on the second floor. Surprisingly, the little Houdini just disappeared! I had to get a closer look to discover the magic trick.
I inspected the railing and found a tiny opening between the pieces of metal. Evidently her brood had already hatched judging from the beak full of breakfast she prepared.
Her magic disappearing act worked well as almost no one noticed her on the stairway–until those babies started squawking, drawing attention to themselves. I guess a loud voice trumps discretion for the young ones.
As I rise and fall on the steps, I think about the deliberate actions of the parent Wren on the railing and the little ones tucked in the metal encasement. I wonder at their place on the staircase, intentions as deliberate as mine heading to the office.
Heaven and earth are only three feet apart, but in the thin places that distance is even smaller. Celtic Saying
Years ago, before I had much travel experience, I journeyed to Scotland, with my teenaged daughter, unsure what such an adventure would bring–especially since we would be traveling without the support of an escorted tour. We ventured across Scotland on the Haggis Bus, a bright yellow mini-bus driven by young Scotsmen, all of whom could tell humorous and fantastic stories of their homeland while negotiating the winding roadways with the confidence and vigor that youth brings. As we left Edinburgh, the bus followed a narrow highway far into the emerald countryside, passing wee villages lined with stoned walls and whitewashed houses topped with brick chimneys. The bus rolled along on the “wrong side” –my attention riveted to the road ahead.
Our bus stopped just outside the Isle of Skye, so we were on our own to navigate the remote sections of the island by rental car. We planned our adventure to include Skye because the descriptions from the Whitewave Outdoor Center offered spectacular views of coastline via kayak.
The narrow road ribboned its way along the coastline from Portee to Uig. The ocean stretched against the sky and hills, the wind scattering the clouds across the sea. Villages nestled on inlets, the island’s geological formations creating ragged edges around the island. Drawn into the landscape, we stopped often along the way to take short walks or to sit in green pastures that fell to jagged ridges and rocky shores below us.
Faerie Glen
Skye, which already had an otherworldly spirit, became even more so upon discovering the Faerie Glen, just east of Uig. We passed through the gate, hidden from the main road, and followed a single-track car path through conical-shaped hillocks. Sheep dotted the landscape, their soft baaing breaking the silence of the hillsides. Further down the way, a narrow stream flowed into a pond where dancing sounds of water trickled through the deep green. Ferns and foxglove covered the lower elevations, and higher up deep ridges encircled the mounds.
We peeked behind rocks and into crevices created by gnarled tree roots. If faeries ever existed, this would be the place.
Bovine observer: we were not alone.
Faerie Bridge
We found the Faerie Bridge traversing a small stream on the road to Dunvegan. We waded through the mounds of colored brush surrounding the stone archway to explore all views of the bridge.
As we leaned on the arch to view the other side, we wondered if we had arrived at a portal to another world, the cool dampness on this side, the warm sunlight on the other. According to legend, the chief of the MacLeod Clan married a faerie, but alas, after twenty years, she had to return to her fairyland. On this bridge the fairy bade farewell to her husband.
In the photograph below a misty light cloud appears left of center. I’m not sure why.
Memories Linger
Upon returning home, the magic of Skye stayed with me and inspired a flurry of artistic creations: a mural on a wall, a majolica tile and a wee bridge from clay.
One more project remained: recreating a magical place in the garden. Part II coming next.
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