The harvesting season for tobacco is rapidly drawing to an end, although I have little doubt that those working in the fields feel the rapidity as I do. It has been a long, and very hot, summer. For me, there is a sense of urgency to capture the illusive image – the one that lurks within me that I cannot touch… that I cannot access. “Could it be that there is one that would tell the entire story”, that I have not made through my camera’s lens, is the question that permeates my thoughts.

In less than an hour I will leave, once again, for the tobacco barns to photograph the firing process. This morning, however, is more about the video footage than about the stills. Later this afternoon I will be back out in the fields doing much the same thing.

I will miss this process when the project is finished. As grueling as it was, at times, it offered great personal rewards. I believe it is a Biblical saying, that “Iron Sharpens Iron”, and this project has taught me the truth of that saying. Being in the fields, around these people of great ethic, and integrity, I too want to strive for such attainment. They have reminded me that having a strong work ethic, and having a strong personal integrity, is not a thing of the past, and that it will never go out of fashion. They showed me that it still is possible to raise children with these values, and that traditions are not dead. And they re-enforced my lifelong belief that traditions are important – even essential, to life.

Until next time…

My absence has been a lengthy one, from posting to this blog. Since moving the posts for An American Tradition to their own site, that has been getting a great deal of my writing time. In addition, I have also devoted a stand-alone blog site for my photographic posts so that they are in one central location for people trying to home their craft.

An American Tradition has been keeping me quite busy, as they are in the heart of the harvesting and firing season. The heat has finally subsided a bit – quite a bit from the 102 degree days of a couple of weeks ago.

Working on An American Tradition has done a lot for me, especially in seeing that this kind of story is wanted, as opposed to simply being needed. Seeing this has sparked me to return, head to toe, to the storyteller I have been for more than two decades – something that I have burned to do, for so very long.

In doing An American Tradition I was reminded of how much one’s soul can burn – of how much one’s soul can be over-filled with something good, and of how one man’s telling of a story can change so much. The last time I saw this, so profoundly, was when I completed A Mountain Dignity, and subsequently lectured as the exhibition traveled. Even now, on those rare occasions that I am asked to lecture on Mountain Dignity, I see how it changes people’s understanding of this much maligned culture.

This is what I was born to do, and hopefully, will come to the end of my days doing – and An American Tradition has given me the opportunity to realize this again, and most importantly, to let me live this again.

Over the next few weeks I will be devoting most of my time to creating the two video documentaries that will accompany the exhibition; an experience that affords me the opportunity to connect with people on a very personal – and most of the time, one on one level.

Originally I had planned to hit the road for three or four weeks, this Fall, but that has been put on hold until Spring so that I can devote everything to this project. Stephnie and I have done the same with Paris, so that we can officially open the exhibition, with its lecture, this November.

All of this, along with a new company on the immediate horizon, life is pretty darn sweet.

Until next time…

Since I posted my post yesterday, regarding the heated controversy around building a mosque at Ground Zero, much has been said, both to me directly, and though dozens – possibly even hundreds, of blog sites that span the internet.

This post is not to re-establish any of my points, or to discuss the rights or wrongs, shoulds or shouldn’ts, of this issue. Enough has been rehashed, regurgitated, and presented. This post is about something to consider, and nothing more.

On Tuesday, September 11, 2001, 19 al-Qaeda terrorists, trained and dispatched under the control of Osama Bin Laden, launched a series of attacks on the people of The United States. Buildings crumbled, lives were destroyed, commerce was interrupted, and a way of life, for millions of people, had changed forever.

This act of aggression was blatant, overt, in-our-face, and recognizable to a fault. We knew our enemy, and we could see – with great clarity, what our enemy had done – and what our enemy was capable of doing again. We became a nation in fear – and that was Bin Laden’s, and al-Qaeda’s greatest victory of all.

As the rubble was cleared, and memorial services of various types were held, over the ensuing months, we, as a nation of people, began to regroup. Little by little we talked about it less, and little by little we adjusted. We went to war in Afghanistan, searching out and destroying the Taliban – and its al-Qaeda supporters, and we searched for Osama himself, but to no avail.

Periodically we would get word, though the media, that another terrorist again was suspected, or that one was thwarted. Green “condition” lights would switch to Orange, indicating a possible imminent threat, then return back to Green. And in this process our fears were brought back to the surface – again, and again.

Now, nine years later, we continue to prove that Osama Bin Laden, and the al-Qaeda band of thugs, is still in control, and getting exactly what they desired in the first place – to destabilize us. For that is how they gain their power – and their membership.

Look at history. The Taliban, and al-Qaeda, made great inroads into Afghanistan because the country was so destabilized after their long war with the Soviet Union. This is where Osama Bin Laden seized his first big opportunity – having fought with the Mujahideen.

Next they made their great inroads into Pakistan, in large part, because of the turmoil that existed their.

When the United States went into Iraq, and destabilized the country by removing Saddam Hussein from power, al-Qaeda immediately seized the opportunity – claiming that it was “another” example of the Infidels, of the United States, trying to eradicate the Muslim world. In other words, in each case, Bin Laden, and al-Qaeda, monger hatred in conditions of destabilization.

And that is where we are now. As a nation we live in fear of the Muslim Faith. A large section of our population, when polled, believe that “all” Muslims have only one mission, and that is to destroy our way of life. This section of our population also believes that “all” Muslims “hate” all Americans and “all” Christians. Networks news programming, almost daily, enforces and re-enforces this mind set, and has turned our society into one of hatred and distrust. This is at the heart of destabilization.

This is exactly what Adolf Hitler did in Germany. He seized upon a great destabilization, within the population… within the society, and capitalized on it – and rapidly won great popularity.

The fact is; when people are in fear, they become confused, uncertain, and impressionable – and, before long, lose complete control, which makes room for someone else – someone who appears to have all the answers, to assume control – and thereby power. It is also fact that; Fear creates Hate. It is also fact that; in order to overcome fear, one need gain a complete understanding of that which he, or she, fears.

If you want Osama Bin Laden, and al-Qeada, to continue to grow stronger continue we you are. As long as we do, he continues to win. If we truly want to defeat him, and his organization, perhaps we should begin to learn – truly learn, about one another… and move forward.

Much has been made, over the past several days, about the plans to build a mosque near the site of the World Trade Center. The Tea Party is using this as another “Call to Arms”, and key Republicans are using this as campaign fodder. Even key Democrats are pulling their loyalty to the President, because of his open stance that the mosque, according to the Constitution, has the right to be built.

Granted the idea to build this mosque, in such a location, is a sore reminder of the events of 9/11 and would be best served, to all, if it were built elsewhere. However, there is that first amendment in “our” Constitution: Freedom of Religion, Press, Expression, which states; “Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances”.
This amendment was ratified in 1791 – in other words, it is at the foundation of that which our country was built upon, and what many people have died to initiate and protect. To dishonor this amendment would be more unpatriotic than burning our country’s flag in demonstration.

I strongly feel that any representative, of our Nation’s government, that stands against this amendment should be ousted from office, for they are not worthy representatives of our government, and of our founding laws, but rather mongers of fear and blatant opportunists.

The true strength of a nation is that it stand true to its foundation when the toughest of scrutiny is upon it, and when it is challenged at its core – and that is where we stand now.

In the immediate years to follow WWII, Nazi groups made their presence known in the streets of the United States. As much as it was painful, it was allowed because of the constitution. Even when a Neo Nazi group threatened to descend upon a small American town – a town that was home to a large number of holocaust survivors who petitioned the Supreme Court to stop the rally, the courts upheld the Constitution’s ruling. But interestingly enough, in that particular case, wise government representatives took cause to pause, and to look for possible alternatives. In other words, instead of using the issue as political fodder, they focused their energies on a solution – and a solution they found. Through negotiations they were able to persuade the Neo Nazi group to demonstrate in Chicago, instead, where their impact would be somewhat diffused.

I, for one, refuse to live in such a state of fear and abhor anyone who tries to monger these fears. Our country was founded by people who stood up for freedom – and the rights to be so. They were true patriots, lest we forget.

Since beginning the harvesting portion of this documentary project, I have been presented, continually, with the challenge of lighting. The high sun of a clear sky, to be exact. To make matters even more frustrating – photographically speaking, the sun, at this time of year and in this part of the United States, doesn’t get low until well after the workers have finished for the day.

I received a call from Terry Head – one of the brothers who own, and work, the farm. he said that they would be “heavy firing” a barn this evening if I wanted to photograph it. he also mentioned that they would be in the fields, cutting, until about 6:00p.m.

As I watched the sky, heavy with clouds throughout the day, I saw my potential opportunity to have light, without the harshness. By 3:30p.m. I was en route to the field. As I drew near rain began to cover my windshield. “Oh no”, I thought, “please don’t let them cancel the harvesting.”

I continued the drive. By the time I reached the field, the rain had moved on. The humidity was still quite high, but the ambient temps were only in the high 80’s. This was a blessing all around!

Finally! I was able to shoot from any angle that I desired! It was a dream come true. As the sun fully exposed itself, I decided to turn to shooting video segments off to the edge of the field. I had what I came to get.

After they finished work in the field, everyone packed up in their trucks and headed for the barn. Just as I arrived, Jamie and Terry were there to greet me. The first thing they asked was: “do you want to see inside the other barn that we fired four days ago?” “There’s a small door on the back side.Just open it and look through.”

As soon as I agreed to look, Jamie said, “Come on, I’ll take you back.” As we arrived at the back side of the barn, Jamie opened the small door and, immediately, climbed through and told me to follow. Without hesitation I followed almost on his heels.

Inside the pitch black darkness of the barn, small glowing embers could be seen sporadically from one end of the floor to the other. The smoke was thick, and the air was hot. My eyes burned and my lungs rebelled violently, and painfully, but I wasn’t about to leave this opportunity.

Almost immediately after entering, Jamie turned on his flashlight and began shining it upwards onto the tobacco plants. The light illuminated the smoke and the browning tobacco leaves simultaneously. It was incredible to be in there.

Finally I had to get air. My lungs demanded it to a point that I could no longer refuse them. I stepped outside, breathed in deeply, then returned inside to make my photographs. Once finished, we both exited the barn, sealed the small door, and walked back to the other barn, where the process had begun.

Long sections of split wood were carried, one or two at a time, and laid lengthwise on the dirt floor of the barn. Then a second layer of small strips were laid to fill in the spaces left by the larger pieces. Once the floor was covered, bundles of dried tobacco stalks, from last year’s harvest, were placed strategically from one end of the barn floor to the other. The a thick layer of sawdust, approximately 10 – 12 inches thick, was placed over the wood and bundles of stalks – being careful to keep the ends of the bundles exposed.

Once the floor was completely covered, all but one of the barn doors was closed, and sealed. Dirt was carefully shoveled to seal the base of the doors, so that no air could penetrate. Once sealed up, Jamie entered from the remaining opened door and, one by one, poured diesel fuel on the exposed ends of the stalks and, with a small torch stick, lit the stalks ablaze. A glow began to permeate the interior of the barn, followed by trails of smoke making their way upward through the packed tobacco leaves hanging from the rafters above.

After each bundle of stalks was lit, Jamie sat the the interior edge of the barn, near the remaining opened door, and watched as the flames grew, keeping his fingers crossed that they would burn down to the wooden slats beneath, to begin the burning process.

Smoke continued to rise, getting thicker by the moment. I grabbed the tripod and went into the center of the barn – to capture the beauty of the process. The smoke, much like the previous barn, was thick. My eyes watered and burned intensely, but I wanted these images. I couldn’t leave until I was certain I had them.

It was incredible! Being a first-hand witness to the process – the process that these men have witnessed repeatedly for decades, just as their father before them had witnessed. And now I was a part of the initiate. I had been given the right to observe, the privilege to take part – the privilege to bear witness and tell the story.

Today… was another good day, and once again I am blessed.

Until next time…

It has been a few days since I was in the fields, or even in the barns. My body has recuperated, and I feel a longing to be back there. It’s strange, really, but I feel the draw to be out there, working in the fields again, cutting, gathering, staking, and loading, and I don’t know why. Perhaps I have gotten a small taste of what brings them back, like migratory Wildebeests that cross the harsh Savannah every year to reach the grazing grounds of their ancestors.

The other day, as I stepped into the fields at 3:15 p.m., the ambient temperature was hovering at 102 degrees F. The heat index was far above that, as the humidity was high. They had already been in the field for nearly an hour, and that is after having spent the morning hanging tobacco in the barn.

Already shirts were soaked, completely, with sweat but it was the salvation each time the breeze passed through the open, fully exposed, field. I made my way, from one end of a row to the other, then back again, and again, and again – at times walking precariously between rows – careful not to break a leaf in the process. I covered the field from side to side, traversing, zig-zaging, most times keeping pace with a worker and, at times, even engaged in conversation.

I spent a fair amount of time with Terry, the oldest of the brothers, as he cut plant after plant, barely straightening up between each one. He told me how he was beginning to fall behind. I laughed. Looking around, I said to Terry, “there are still six guys behind you, and the others are in pace with you.” He finished is final row, then stood up straight, and said: “yea, but I always led the pack.” “I turn 54, next week, and I’m starting to slow down”, he continued, with a hint of anguish in his voice.

Terry was beginning to feel the wear and tear of nearly 50 years if work in the fields, and he didn’t like it. Terry is a worker – a hard worker. Terry is the epitome of the men who labored, tirelessly, to build this country. He is one of them. He began to tell me of how he was always the best splitter – a form of cutting that no longer exists because very few people were able to learn it. It became a dying art – and Terry was the last of that breed.

He spoke with great pride. Not the pride that makes a man a bragger, but a pride that makes a person good, and able. Once again I found myself humbled.

Earlier that morning I photographed in the barn. The temperature was easily 100 degrees F up in the rafters. Three men, stacked one above the other, straddled the rafters to brace themselves into position. The man on the bottom would bend, reach, and grab a stake of five cut plants, lift them up, straighten up, then pass the stake to the man above, who would then pass it to the man above him, who would then hang in in the rafter above him. This process repeated itself six times, until each man hung two at his position, then the process began again, and again, and again, until the entire barn was filled.

At one point, while I was standing on the ground underneath the hanging tobacco, I noticed a steady flow of large water droplets – the kind that fall just before a rainstorm begins a downpour. At first I thought is was moisture that had accumulated on the plants, but it was sweat from the men in the rafters. I was astonished. These weren’t just a few intermittent drops. These were a steady – heavy dripping, that I never would have thought possible from humans sweating.

The more I am around these people, the more I am in awe of what they do – and how they continue to do it. I have worked many jobs, that I thought brutal: recapping tires, laying asphalt, and the list goes on – but this is more arduous than any of those – and I know first hand, because I have now done this job as well. I know it intimately and first hand, and I am humbled.

Until next time…

7.29.2010: I realized today, as I was relaying the events of my morning in the firing barn to Terri Jordan – the Curator at the Customs House Museum where An American Tradition will premiere in November, that I have yet to hear any complaining, any negative or debilitating talk – from anyone. Even with regard to the Elliott’s when I worked with them.

In the fields, and especially in the barn this morning – even in the stripping barn, back in December, the majority of the conversation was around football – college and high school. There has never been talk complaining about the difficulty of the work, the heat of the day, or the “oh so often water cooler – themed talk, of just plain old complaining about having to spend another day at work.

I know he guys were tired when they arrived to retrieve the remaining racks of plants left at the edge of the field, last night. I saw it in their body language yesterday, as the day grew long. It was apparent that the heat of the long day in the open-sky field was taking its toll, yet never a complaint. But one could see their bodies beginning to give way to the conditions.

I met them in the field at 7:00 a.m and followed them to the firing barn, where the harvest of yesterday was being hung in the blackened rafters that reached high and dark. At first just two men – Terry and Edgar, stood in the upper reaches of the cavernous space, their legs spread to span the distance between the rafter boards – a span of about four feet, with their feet [barely as wide as the rafter boards on which they were braced], secured them into place.

As in the fields, the almost ritualistic act of bending was performed here, with each stake that was passed from the floor to Terry, and then on up to Edgar, then hung into place. While Edgar hung his stake, Terry was bending to grab another, to hang on his level.

One rack immediately followed another, with no respite in between. Each stake containing several plants.

As they moved to the other side of the barn, a third man was added to the tiers, and the process continued until the entire cavern of the barn was filled.

I returned to the fields this afternoon. Once yesterday’s harvest was hung, they returned to the fields to resume the harvest. By the time I arrived the sky began to grow heavy with clouds. A large section of the field had been cut and was laying to wilt. With the sun behind the heavy clouds, the process was taking longer.

After a water break, and time to ponder the approaching weather, it was decided to stake the plants. With only a third of the harvest staked, the sky opened with no warning and the rain poured down. Lightning flashed and thunder rolled, and the wind drove the rain sideways. The tobacco had to be left on the ground.

Until next time…

7/28/2010: I arrived at the tobacco field about 12:45 p.m. The sun was nearly directly above our heads, in a sky that was spattered with clouds – but only enough so, to give intermittent reprieves from the suns intense rays.

Without hesitation the men grabbed their hatchets – specially designed for cutting the tobacco plant, and entered the field much like a team of NFL players about to do a Sunday afternoon battle.

Approach the plant, bend at the waist, grab the plant with one hand, and whack the hatchet blade against the base of the plant – cutting it through [hopefully with just one whack], lift the plant, give it a slight forward motion to reposition the leaves, then set it on the ground and move to the next plant in the long… very long… row.

Plant after plant, the stickiness from the nicotine transferring to eat cutter’s arms and hands. After a row of cutting, one customarily grabs a handful of the dried earth and rubs his hand together – nullifying the stickiness.

As each of the rows are cut, half way through the length of the field, and spanning its entire width, the plants of begun to sufficiently wilt and give up their stiffened structure.

Once again the workers return to the beginning point of the field – after several glasses of water, and begin the process of staking the plants. First the plants are placed into piles – each pile with enough plants to fit on one stake. Then each man picks a row, and begins a third pilgrimage, stopping at each pile, lifting a stick that has become blackened from years of hanging in the firing barn. As the stick is brought vertical, a severely-pointed metal cone is placed over it’s top end. With that the cone is grabbed by one hand – careful to place one’s thumb just beside the very tip, but not at all touching the point itself. Again one bends at the waist, reaches to the ground with the other hand, grabs a stalk, raises it horizontally, with a tiny bit of flare, bringing the stalk to rest in contact with the point of the cone. Once contact in made, a quick flick of the arm causes the cone to pierce the stalk and slide down onto the stick.

The process is then repeated with the remaining plants that have been piled, then it’s on to the very next pile, then the very next pile, then the very… next…pile, until every pile has been staked.

Once the staking process is complete, and more water has been consumed, the long metal rails that comprise the transport racks, are back into position. Each stake is lifted from the field and slid onto the rack. Once this section of field has been cleared, the process begins anew, with cutting.

Shortly into the initial staking process, Jamie asked if I would like to try it. I had him explain the technique, as I was concerned of ruining the plant. I gave it a try, and it wasn’t quite as smooth and effortless as they made it appear.

Later in the day, still unable to shoot effectively because of the high angle of the sun, I decided to lend my hand at cutting. By the end of the first double row, I felt a blister forming on my right hand. When I paused to look, I noticed that I was well on to my way of a second blister on the same spot [a phenomenon I didn’t think possible]. Everyone else had been cutting for hours, and there were no other blisters to be heard of. I wasn’t about to let on about mine, nor was I about to quit my cutting.

Since beginning this documentary, I was completely aware of the extreme physical labor that was involved. In fact, that has been, from the original concept of this project, one of the things I wanted to portray. Today, however, I was blown away at how incredibly taxing this work is.

The temperature was a constant 93 degrees Fahrenheit, and the sun was rarely covered. These guys worked, with only short breaks for water after each process was complete, from 12:45 p.m. until well after 6 p.m. One young man did have to leave at 5:45 p.m. for football practice. I cut tobacco for 30 minutes – maybe 40 minutes tops, and I was exhausted, light-headed, and already beginning to stiffen.

Some of you may think the disparity is because the other guys working were a lot younger – I wish that could be my excuse. Jamie, Terry, and Johnny, are all close to my age, and they were performing as well as the younger ones.

I walked off the field with a new found respect for these workers – and the level of respect I had before today was already quite high. I also realized something else that opened my eyes a bit wider: Watching these guys bend and cut, I was starkly reminded of photographing the henequen workers in the Yucatan, but I also realized that, in the work I do – even though I feel connected with those I photograph I am, at the same time, very far removed. I claim to understand their endeavors, and to a great extent I still think that I do, however, I realized, today, that I will only truly get a glimpse if I, at the very least, take a step, or two, in their shoes.

Until next time…

I had resigned myself, long ago, that I would never again taste a real peach. In fact, the last time I had such a pleasure was in Seattle when I bit into a Wanachee Peach. The juice squirted from the fruit and ran, not only down the corners of my mouth, but out onto my cheeks and over my hands.

However earlier today, after getting my hair cut by Vikki the Barber, in Cross Plains, I stopped by The Orchard where a gentleman of late retired age greeted me. When I told him of my quest for a magnificent peach, he led me directly to his small refrigerated room where boxes of peaches were sitting in waiting. “Just picked them this morning”, he told me, and asked me how many I would like.

“A whole box”, I replied, and a basket of Blackberries as well.

I no sooner got back in the Expedition, and buckled my belt, that I was sinking my teeth into a peach. The juice squirted, and even ran over my hand a bit. The sweetness… The flavor! Could it really be??? I was in a state of bliss. Perhaps I had even reached the state of Nirvana. As much as denial tried to take over, assuring me that it was all a dream, I knew better.

Before long I had another one, although I needed to wait for a traffic light to turn red, which one never did. Finally I had to pull over. “Why the hell did I put the box in the back”, I repeatedly asked myself?

Once home I had another peach – this time sliced up in a yogurt smoothie, “just as an experiment”, I told myself. Voila! It was fantastic! “But I need to moderate”, I told myself. “Don’t burn out on them” So refrain I did, until after eating my roasted ear of (now isn’t this ironic?) Peaches and Cream corn on the cob – which brings me to another subject of this post: Eisebock.

What the heck is Eisbock, you may be asking yourself? Well, while I was in Iowa several weeks ago, I purchase several new beers from Bavaria. One happened to be the Eisbock – which I had forgotten about. When I pulled it from the fridge I immediately noticed that is was a normal-sized bottle – as opposed to the 20oz. bottles that I had remembered.

I cracked it opened, poured it into the special glass, (designed just for this particular beer), and sat back to enjoy. I knew there was something different about the Eisbock, as opposed to the regular beer by this brewery, although I was at a loss to remember what.

I took my first deep sip and, as the beer left the palette of my tongue, the remaining flavors that unfolded were amazing. Another deep sip was warranted – and that one followed by a third. It was at this point that I was beginning to remember what made this beer so special…

As the firing patterns of brain’s neurons began to alter – quite dramatically, the difference began to surface – enough so, that I donned my reading glasses and viewed the bottle’s label. Sure enough my suspicions were confirmed: 12% alcohol, but ohhhh what a taste!

Until next time…

Before embarking on the Farmerie family reunion I had all intentions – and motivations, to post regularly and… to create a series of portraits – informal, but telling, in a way of documentation.
This endeavor began rather well but, as the intensity of the reunion escalated, my time dwindled. There was also the unexpected “weather issues” that created a small amount of havoc, with regard to my equipment. It amazed me as to how small the amount of breeze needs to be, to rip loose the muslin and knock over the lights – when no one is looking. In hindsight I should have anticipated that living lakeside would produce its share of breeze.

I learned a great deal, however, about logistics and pre-planning, but also about portraiture on the fly – especially when time, and alcohol consumption, are factors. Factor in, as well, that none of us had seen one another in a year – and for many of us in attendance, it has been several years. There were also new babies present, as well as new wives.

All in all, though, I feel that the portrait idea was a sound and, in the end, a very valued presence at the reunion. It was also a great experiment for me, with regard to an Autumn road trip that I am planning. But I also became aware that I am the one to step into Uncle Charlie’s shoes, as the family documentarian – a role that is humbling, to say the least, as the shoes are rather large compared to the feet the are stepping into them. And as for Uncle Charlie, he was in attendance for the entire reunion – and, for that, we were all a little extra blessed.

Until next time…

As for the images, there are far too many to post to this site, but I will post them to a Flickr site and post the link in a future blog post.