David Robert Farmerie 10/19/23 David Robert Farmerie 10/19/23

Boardwalk Jesus

One thing that I have seen over the past decade, or so, is an increase in Christian evangelism here in America. It has always existed, but there has been a steady escalation that began, at least for me, more than a decade ago when I began seeing billboards going up along the backroads, and interstates - especially in the south. At first the billboards all had a commonality: the words were painted in white lettering, generally with the first letter of the first word painted in red; and they were all painted on a black metal background. In an attempt to better understand them I began to photograph them, eventually creating a photographic exhibition titled: Roadside Redemption. I wanted to know if they were being created to promote hope, or was it to promote fear?

Just over a year after seeing the first of these: “Where Will You Spend Eternity”, I discovered the man who was responsible for creating them. His name is Jimmy. As it turned out, Jimmy lives in Scottsboro, Kentucky, only an hour's drive from my home on the outskirts of Nashville, Tennessee. I was able to contact Jimmy, and in that conversation he agreed to be interviewed. The interview lasted for nearly three hours, and illuminated a great deal for me. It turned out that the basis for the billboards was born out of fear.

As I embarked on this journey to discover what America is about, in March of 2015, I knew from the start that Christian evangelism would need to be part of it; which by this point had soared to an even greater fervor.

As I returned now to the boardwalk, decades later, it was still a familiar place to me. The chaotic movement of thousands of people along that boarded walkway, which was now a bit wider, but other than that it had not changed at all. As I walked up onto the boardwalk at the farthest southern end I immediately came upon a man dressed in a blue t-shirt and shorts, standing at the edge of the boardwalk near where the sand from the beach met the wooden planks. He stood there with a life size cross slung over his shoulder, presumably just as Jesus did as he walked through the streets, crowded with onlookers, on his way to Calvary.

This cross however had significant differences. This cross was made from two-by-fours instead of the thick, rough-hewn, and very heavy pieces of wood that scripture describes. This man’s cross also has a metal wheel attached to the base for easy mobility. There was to be no dragging with this cross. I realize that this man’s cross was to be symbolic, but for me it was more of a parody - and one that created a sadness deep within me. It was weeks later, when I was preparing the image to be printed, that I discovered a much deeper meaning to what I had captured - one that sparked an internal dialog that I share with you now.

As I stood there, knowing immediately that I had to make a photograph. I positioned myself about 20 feet away from the man and slightly behind him so that he was unaware of me making the photograph. And then I waited. I waited until all of the elements came together.

When I say that “I waited until all of the elements came together” it sounds as if this is a very conscious endeavor - it is not; at least not for me. Yes, there are times when I am conscious of the various elements that comprise my scene, but more times than not the experience is on a level much deeper. It comes from a place where one must disengage from the frontal lobe.

The scene that I captured was a scene that sparked the internal dialog that I had mentioned earlier in this writing. Could it be that I had captured a scene that could be very reminiscent of the day of the crucifixion; when Jesus was nailed to the cross?

For the first six years of my education I was indoctrinated with the stories of the crucifixion, including the days that led up to it, as well as the days that followed. Every detail of those events have been etched indelibly into my memories. Now however I found myself questioning - not the validity of the events themselves, but rather the human condition that surrounded the events. And therein indwells the crux of my examination.

On the surface the composition of the image is a reinforcement of the parody that I perceived, but in reviewing it later I realized that it was - quite possibly, more.

On the opposite side of the boardwalk was a pizza shop. Atop the pizza shop backed by the sky, was a statue of a short, chubby, Italian looking man wearing a white Baker’s jacket and hat. His arms raised and stretched outward as if he were a representation of God welcoming His son home. Just beneath this statue standing on the boardwalk was a young chubby boy wearing a bright red shirt, who had just emerged from the front doors of the pizza shop. A boxed pizza in his left hand and an ice cream cone in his right. He just stood there facing the man with the cross coming as if anticipating the coming crucifixion. From the left of the frame emerged a couple walking past the man with a cross, seemingly not paying attention at all. Coming from the other direction were a single horizontal line of teenage girls who also seemed oblivious to the man with a cross. Could all of these elements - not just the man with a cross, be some sort of modern representation of the scene that unfolded more than 2,000 years ago?

It can be read in scripture that Jesus was paraded through the streets carrying his heavy cross, and at times stumbling, and if memory serves me, even falling. Scripture tells us that the people who lined the sidewalks jeered at Jesus, spat upon him, and more. But I don’t remember reading what the people did after Jesus passed by.

Did they join the procession to Calvary, or did they return to their daily lives? On Calvary itself did hordes of people gather or was it just another crucifixion? We know from history that crucifixions during this time of the Roman occupation were quite common.

Did people bring refreshments to the crucifixion?

I do not utter these words in sarcasm, but rather from a place of deep questioning. One need only look at recorded history; the public executions that began in the late Medieval Period and were not banned in the United States until the 1930’s. Yet even with this “ban,” public executions - known more commonly as “lynchings,” during the time of racial segregation where blacks were routinely hung from the branches of trees while people gathered with picnic baskets and cameras. Picture postcards were created and sold as souvenirs.

Could this have been a similar situation during the crucifixion of Jesus?

Seeing this man standing there with a cross, resting upon his shoulder, certainly stirred deep-seated emotions within me - emotions that revealed themselves as questions portrayed in this photograph. This also reminded me of the importance of the photographic image - to bring forth questions that prompt dialog - either within ourselves, or as a community.

David Robert Farmerie 10/9/23 David Robert Farmerie 10/9/23

The Importance of Tribes: After Thought

After thoughts:

This morning I read a comment left by a friend of mine regarding my post on Tribalism. The comment made reference to the “family” tribe, and the detriment that its breakdown - its disintegration has caused within society.

The family tribe is perhaps the most important of all tribes, as it is the foundation of one’s identity. As I pondered this I realized that [traditionally], within each tribe are the ‘sub’ tribes - family being the most important of these. If the family tribe broke down, the overall tribe would take over - assimilating the remaining members of that family into the larger family.

This too has been lost among much of society - especially within what is commonly referred to as the “inner city”. When family units break down, gangs tend to take over the role of family - providing that foundational identity.

I can speak to this with some authority based on my own upbringing. The “pondering” I mentioned at the onset of this writing has illuminated my own experiences regarding this foundational identity.

I was put up for adoption at the moment of my birth. To be honest I don’t know if I was ever held, even for a moment, by my biological mother. Fortunately for me I was adopted within several months of my arriving into this world, by a very loving family: parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins. I was raised as one of their own. I was told early on, by my parents, that I was adopted. If recollection holds with accuracy, I was probably about four years of age. It was also brought up a few times throughout my life - especially in my mother’s final year of life. All this to say that it was never allowed to become ‘an issue’ - an “elephant-in-the-room.

When I was eleven years old my dad died, and two weeks later my grandpa died. These were the foundational male role models in my life. In many ways my entire foundation collapsed within that two-week period. I still remember, with great clarity, the deep sense of bewilderment that I experienced, as well as the deep sense of suddenly being untethered to anything. As I write this I can say now that the experience of being untethered can be equated to what I imagine it would be to be in outer space - outside of the spaceship without any cord to restrict my connection.

I felt so utterly alone.

I even remember specific instances; one where I just stood outside the house, as if I was disconnected from it as well. I was wearing this old jacket. I don’t even remember where I got it. It was well-worn, and sort of a muted plaid color of browns, and it had rather large buttons. I mention this because I relished in the fact that the jacket was “old” and “worn”. It was not new and nice - and this had great significance for me at the time - although I still have no sense as to why - nor did I then. I do remember feeling that ‘I didn’t deserve anything better than this old worn jacket’ - that in some way it seemed to be representative of me… I can still feel that jacket.

I remember, as well, standing in the back of the church, during Sunday mass - and yes, wearing that jacket. I remember just standing there not wanting to go in. As one passed through the main doors of the church’s front entrance, there was an area probably twenty feet in depth before one would pass through a second set of doors that opened into the church itself. It was in that area that I stood. A few times one of the ushers, who was seated in the back pew, would walk over to me to encourage me to come inside. It wasn’t because he was being kind, in fact it was the opposite… But each time I refused is encouragement. I just stood there with the same deep sense of ‘not belonging’. And the feeling of that old coat was just as it was as I stood outside of the house.

Life continued on, and my connection to this family was never left to any doubt. At no time did I ever feel as if I were not part of this family. Yet, in hindsight, there was a part of me that always felt disconnected - but this feeling was brought on by me, and not from the treatment of others. Would I have felt this disconnection had I never known that I had been adopted? I don’t know. Something tells me that the answer is “yes”, but this is only speculation on my part. Only “speculation”, but one that is based on a deep feeling within me that I was “disconnected” somehow - yet I must question if this ‘feeling’ only surfaced after the death of my dad, and my grandpa.

Later in life, due to various circumstances, my relationship with aunts and uncles, and even cousins, seemed to drift apart. First with those on my mother’s side of the family. In fact, it was after my mother died that this drift began… and this brings up another tangent of the family foundation:

When I was younger we would have dinner every Sunday - most often with my mother’s side of the family. It was a family gathering of the entire extended family. Generally it was a pot roast with roasted potatoes and carrots - still one of my favorite meals. This tradition carried on until my Grandmother died - by which time I was in my late twenties. After she died these gatherings ceased with somewhat of an immediacy. The cohesiveness of the extended family vanished, and it became fractured in many ways. After my mother died that fracture became even more pronounced and, in time, I lost contact with that side of the family. It was after my mother died that I also began to feel the sense of ‘not’ belonging.

On my dad’s side of the family I had maintained a close contact with my cousin Carolyn over the years. Eventually, when I was in my late forties, I reconnected with much of that side of the family as well. I was invited to the annual reunions - which I attended. And it was at one of the reunions that the subject of my “adoption” came up - not in a negative way, but more from a point of clarity. As time went on I began to feel as if there was a light chasm between us. I blamed this feeling on myself. Then there was a break in the cohesiveness. Suddenly I was set adrift by this part of the family - and to this moment I have no idea why. The connection had been broken by them.

So in pondering the comment that led me to this writing, I am struck by the importance of the “family tribe”, and the power that it provides us - or keeps from us. I mentioned early on in this writing about the formation of our “identities” that comes from the family tribe. For me, I had an identity that was formed by the family tribe. Yet mine was an identity that remained in flux - until it finally revealed itself as a false identity.

For several years I had a friend who was a devout Scientologist, so I gained an understanding of much of their teachings. They have something that they refer to as “stable datum”. In short this is one’s foundation regarding any situation. The premise is that, if this foundation is weakened in any way, it causes the collapse of the individual. I see this in so many aspects of life on a near-daily basis. For me, however, I witnessed its effects time and time again throughout my life - and through to this very moment. At each phase that I have divulged in this writing, I have experienced the effects of a weakened, or crumbling foundation. And each time it has set me adrift - questioning who I am - and more so, what is my relevance in this world.

This constant flux has been a double-edged sword for me - one that has caused great conflict within me - and presumably throughout the entirety of my life. I have always been good with being a solitary being. I have embraced, and oftentimes even insisted on being left alone. Being alone was, and is, my sanctuary. Yet I also crave the connection of a tribe - the sense of belonging to something greater than just myself. This caving has manifested itself in many forms throughout the decades - yet each time I never feel fully connected to the tribe. I always feel that I am still the “outsider”. In some ways, I suppose, I will always be that eleven year old boy in the old, worn, brown plaid jacket who is standing outside of his house, or in the back of the church, adrift…

David Robert Farmerie 10/5/23 David Robert Farmerie 10/5/23

Brother and Sister

I was in Chicago to present a lecture at the annual Filter Photo Conference. As is my ritual, I head off somewhere before my lecture in order to clear my head, and get focused on my presentation.

With about 90 minutes until I was scheduled to begin, I grabbed my camera and walked out of the hotel, turning left onto Michigan Avenue. The sidewalk was filled with people moving in a chaotic form, each oblivious to the other.

As I walked I found a rhythm in navigating my way through the frenetic stream of the pedestrian torrent. Ahead I saw what seemed to be a woman doing pushups on the sidewalk. These glimpses, broken into segments by people sporadically darting across my field of vision, made it difficult to discern for sure what I was seeing.

Sure enough, as I approached closer, the woman was now sitting with her back against the municipal trash bins. In front of her was a cardboard sign that stated: “I will do 10 Full Body Push ups for Thank $10.00. One Push Up = $1.00”. “Donations Against Abuse”. “All Money Earned Goes to Domestic Shelter”.

I wanted to stop - to talk with her and hear her story. I also wanted to tell her how much I admired her for the way she approached the situation, but there was too much chaos. She was positioned at a major intersection of traffic and pedestrians. Instead I continued along Michigan Avenue then crossed over to walk down a side street. There I found a small coffee house. I ordered a doppio espresso, which is also part of my ritual when available. With my espresso in hand I found a stool to sit on at a small high round top table.

I sat there commiserating the fact that I had not made a photograph of the woman, and not recorded her story. Unable to relax, I drank the espresso in two tips of the cup, then left the coffee house to make my way back to Michigan Avenue - hoping that she would still be there.

Sure enough as I approached the corner I saw here once again doing pushups. I positioned myself at the periphery of people until the woman finished. When she stood up I approached her - reaching out my hand to introduce myself.

“Hello”, I said. “I’m David” “I am blown away by what you are doing here!” Do you have a minute to talk?” I asked.

“Sure”, she replied.

With that I saw a man approaching her somewhat quickly. She reached out her left arm in his direction, and as he drew close they embraced one another.

brother and sister on the corner in Chicago

“This is my brother”, she told me.

“Hello” I said to him; but his response was just a stare - still clinging to his sister.

I asked if I could make a photograph of the two of them, to which she agreed. Then she told me their story.

They were brother and sister. When they were young she was abused physically by their father. Each time the brother would step in to protect her - at his own peril. When they finally left home he eventually became homeless. She moved onto the streets as well - this time to be his protector.

David Robert Farmerie 9/30/23 David Robert Farmerie 9/30/23

Wild Echoes of Assateague

A tale of the horses continues to be shrouded in mystery. Their origins continue to spark debate. Some tales whisper of a shipwreck, with the horses finding refuge on these sandy shores.

Assateague Wild Horse Grazing ©Copyright 2023 David Robert Farmerie

An excerpt from “America Found”.

Assateague Island, a slender ribbon of land stretching north to south along the Maryland and Virginia coastline, cradled between the relentless Atlantic Ocean to the east and the tranquil Chincoteague Bay to the west, held its own enigmatic allure. In its Maryland territory, it was under the watchful guardianship of the National Park Service. As this slip of land crossed the border into Virginia, it assumed the identity of Chincoteague Island National Wildlife Refuge, overseen by the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service.

A tale of the horses continues to be shrouded in mystery. Their origins continue to spark debate. Some tales whisper of a shipwreck, with the horses finding refuge on these sandy shores. Yet, the prevailing belief was that in the late 17th century the ancestors of these horses were brought from the mainland, for owners to escape the grasp of fencing laws and the burdening taxation on livestock.

Life on Assateague Island has never been for the faint-hearted. Mosquitoes swarm with relentless determination during the intense heat and humidity of the summer months. The winters unleash their fury, driven by oceanic winds. When the human inhabitants eventually abandoned the island, the horses were left behind to carve their existence from the harsh, unforgiving landscape. Yet, amid these severe challenges, the horses have adapted seamlessly. It is this adaptation and survival that has drawn me to know them, and to experience them at the deepest level possible.

And now the beckoning for my return, that has endured within me for more than four decades, was now within my grasp.

Return to the Island:

There were no childhood memories that surfaced - no remembrances of my childhood visit as I passed through the unoccupied entrance gate onto the Island. It was as if I were experiencing it for the first time. It was like entering a ghost town. Desolation greeted me. There was an eerie quiet, vacant of tourists, park rangers, and even the horses. The mid-afternoon bathed the island landscape, even adding a slight bit of warmth to the cold damp air.

As I climbed out of the Expedition the winds coming across from the Atlantic penetrated into the marrow of my bones. In the near distance I spotted a pathway that seemed to beckon me, so without hesitation I followed it, allowing it to lead me deep into the forested heart of the island.

Once I emerged from the woods, I was greeted by the tranquil open vista of the bay's marshland, and in the distance, a small band of horses were grazing, oblivious to my approach. Attempting to draw nearer, I found myself challenged by the cramping cold waters of the marsh. With each forward step my feet, then my legs submerged deeper into the water, first to my ankles, then rising just above my calves, not quite reaching my knees. My calves tightened immediately into severe cramps, feeling as if the muscle fibers would tear and disconnect from the bones. All I could do was stand still until my muscles acclimated through numbing. Using a long focal length lens I attempted to photograph the band of horses in the distance, but to no avail. They were too far away. It is this vastness of the marshland that has provided a sanctuary for the Assateague Horses, both as isolation as well as an inexhaustible supply of food.

With the inability to make a suitable photograph, I retraced my steps through the marsh, and back to the pathway that led me through the forest. Once I reached the Expedition I dug through my ‘emergency gear bag’ - a deep red broad mesh bag that contained an extra pair of pants, a shirt, a few pairs of socks, towels, and extra pair of boots etc. I stripped off my boots, socks and pants. Since there was no room inside the fully packed Expedition, I was left to change outside - exposed to the winds now mixed with moistened sand that had a slight sting to it as it blew across my exposed skin. These are the adventures that I live for.

With dry clothing I decided to explore the rest of the island. A nearby hiking trail guided me through the austere landscape, where scrub and other resilient plants clung to life.

I attempted to capture their essence in photographs, finding metaphors for existence in their determination to adapt and survive. This is something that I have always loved about photographing the landscape, especially in minute detail. It allows me to connect, to witness, and to gain an insight into its magic. It is as if I am granted a peek through a special window. It is through this window that I found the beauty in this landscape, and a stillness amidst the violence of the elements that surrounded me.

The blue sky had now succumbed to heavy gray clouds. The wind off of the Atlantic had intensified. There was a fierceness to them as if trying to dissuade me from lingering any longer. I ventured to the island's Atlantic side, encountering a vast, wild beach that stretched beyond the horizon.

There was a primal quality to it as if I were witnessing a scene that has played out here for millions of years. Waves crashed with a violence, as if they had been angered by unseen forces. The wind, ladened with salt and spray, pummeled me - reminding me of my own insignificance in this passion play of nature.

It was exhilarating! I was witnessing nature at its most authentic and, most of all, I was bearing witness to life on this island.

A Bittersweet Encounter

As I began my drive off the island I came across a small band of horses in the main parking lot. The scene was bittersweet at best. The horses were scavenging for food in the now empty trash cans, just like the bears in places like Yellowstone. This adaptation was part of their survival, but at what cost? I must admit that, for me, there was an apocalyptic feel to the scene, and one that left me disenchanted.

A Dawn Revelation

The following morning I returned to the island just as dawn was breaking. There was a calmness now, unlike the feeling of desolation I felt the day before. This time I felt as if I was entering a pristine landscape void of any human discovery before my arrival. The unoccupied entry gate now seemed to mark the transition point between civilization and nature. As I drove along the twisting roadway I noticed a narrow gap in the vegetation. That inner voice told me to slow down, so that I could peer through the opening. As I did I glimpsed a chestnut-colored horse grazing in the marshland just on the other side of the tall scrub that created the barrier.

Checking my rear view mirror to make sure no one was behind me, I turned the steering wheel hard to the left, turning the Expedition around. There was a grassy area just off of the paved road where I could park. I grabbed two cameras, one with a short telephoto lens, and the other with a wide angle zoom. Again checking to see that no other cars were in the vicinity I crossed the road, passed through the narrow opening in the vegetation. It was like walking through a magical doorway. Before me was the vastness of the marshland, bathed in the warm glow of low the early morning light that cast long deep shadows across the landscape.

This time the horses were not off in the distance, but right there. I stepped into the marsh, but this time the cold water had no adverse effect on me.

Soon I was surrounded by five of the horses, so close that they brushed against me as they grazed. It was as if I had become part of the herd. Suddenly photography had become secondary; this was an experience to be cherished - to be taken in as fully as possible.

I was able to see the thickness of their heavy winter coats that protected them from the elements, and to feel its texture on my hands. Eventually I began to photograph them, but with great difficulty because of their close proximity to me. In time they began to move further away as they continued to graze. I too was then able to move about. For nearly an hour I remained embedded with these magnificent creatures, feeling a profound connection to the primal natural world.

Then I noticed, through the narrow opening in the vegetation, a minivan passing by. I had no way of knowing if they saw me, or not; but regardless they would have surely noticed my vehicle parked on the opposite side of the road. I wasn’t willing to take a chance of being discovered, because that would mean that the horses would be discovered as well. I positioned myself so that I would be hidden by the vegetation if they drove by again, so that I could pause for a moment to thank the horses for sharing their lives with me - for allowing me a glimpse into their world.

With that I listened for the sounds of a vehicle. When I felt that the road was clear, I slipped into the narrow opening, peered in both directions as I emerged on the other side, then quickly ran across the roadway, climbed into the Expedition, started the engine, and drove away. Once I exited the island I pulled over once again, shut off the engine and sat in silence for several minutes. What had I just experienced? It was still surreal. I wanted to get out of the Expedition and dance with joy. I wanted to burst into tears at the profoundness of what I had just witnessed. But most of all I needed to remain in silence to just be - to not get caught up in the analyzing of what just occurred. That would have been disrespectful to the entirety of it all. So I sat there in silence, and in overwhelming gratitude for the gift that I had been given.

Even as I write this, several years later, I still have not fully absorbed the event, and it is doubtful that I ever will - which continues to speak to the profoundness of it. On that morning I came to know the Assateague Horses - as intimately as any human possibly could. I existed within their environment, and witnessed their existence in its authenticity. I had been accepted by them with equality, and my very existence had been changed profoundly, and indelibly.

David Robert Farmerie 9/21/23 David Robert Farmerie 9/21/23

Nothing is too late - even when it seems that it is.

I came across this piece that I had written - apparently as a trilogy of thoughts based on its original title, when I was first struck by the need to engage in the In Search of America project.

It reminded me of my original commitment which, I am proud to say, has not diminished over time. And this comes at a crucial time, as well, when I find myself questioning my unwavering commitment to continuing with the project.

My commitment is still there but my optimism, at times, does seem to dip low - feeling as if I am a bandleader with only a few band members following. Yes people want change… many crave it; but few seem to be willing to engage in a process to help bring about the change.

I am reminded of my mother who, for decades, was a heavy smoker. I accompanied her to a physical exam where they x-rayed her lungs. One lung looked as if it were an onion sack, with more holes than lung. The other lung was’t better. Yet even with this awareness she continued to smoke just as heavily.

Was it a sense of hopelessness that prevented her from quitting? Believing that there was no point now? Fortunately, a few months later she did quit, and her lungs actually began to regenerate - proving that nothing is too late - even when it seems that it is.

I leave you with the original text that began it all:

Introduction: Part Two of Three
December 4, 2014

Over the years, for far more than a decade, I have watched as our society has become increasingly estranged from itself. With each passing day we seem to become more, and more, polarized within ourselves. Our elected officials seem to capitalize on this destruction, as does the news media. They seem to continually feed this demon, and we, as individuals willingly digest these offerings for the beast - unwittingly I want to believe, and that is why I must follow through on this project.

As the [working title] title says: “In Search of America”. My heart tells me that not all is lost to the beast; that throughout this country there are still those who abide by the America that I knew growing up, and that my parents, and grandparents knew - and fought for, and believed in, long before I was born. I see glimpses of it everywhere; sometimes in small ways, and sometimes powerfully obvious. The media doesn’t seem to want us to know, nor do our elected officials. But it is my responsibility, as a photographer, and as a storyteller, to bring this truth to light, if it exists; to shed a light upon it, and to give those devoted to it a voice that can be heard by all.

A wonderful quote from a song written by Leonard Cohen: “There is a crack in everything, and that’s where the light comes in”. I am looking for the cracks, and my desire is to pry them open wide so that the light pours in.

In the end, perhaps I will have failed. Perhaps I am wrong, and the hope is gone. But I still must try. I am willing to take that chance.

I have no choice.

David Robert Farmerie 9/18/23 David Robert Farmerie 9/18/23

Climate Change

Storm Front: Northern Iowa ©David Robert Farmerie

For the past several weeks I have been preparing for a panel discussion on Climate Change - a panel discussion that I will moderate for the United Nations Association. I mention this because it is through this research, and preparation that I am compelled to write this post.

I remember, quite vividly, the first Earth day celebration. It was a milestone event for the environmental movement. I was living in Pittsburgh at the time - a city that has a long history of severe environmental pollution - to the air, the water, and the soil. Steel mills, iron furnaces, coke ovens, and various chemical factories spewed toxic gasses into the air, and dumped poisoned water into the three rivers that Pittsburgh is known for.

As a young child my dad would take my mother and me for periodic nighttime rides in the Oldsmobile, along Ohio River Boulevard, which ran north following the Ohio River. To our left were a series of islands - each heavily industrialized. When we reached the point where the town of Aliquippa was to our left, across the Ohio River, we could see the molten slag being poured over the steep slope that made its way to the river. (slag is the waste product from the smelting of iron ore). This was a beautiful site; the molten slag, glowing bright red like lava flowing from an erupting volcano. And if one timed it just right - arriving just as the slag was being dumped, one could watch the initial flow before it was clouded by the intense rise of steam as the slag reached the water.

Throughout Pittsburgh, as well as surrounding areas like Aliquippa - which is about 18 miles north of pIttsburgh, slag mounds became prevalent. In fact, to give you a sense of scale, once the steel mills and iron furnaces were shut down, a shopping mall was constructed atop one of the slag mounds - aptly named: “Century Three Mall”.

As a sidenote of irony, if you have ever seen the Netflix series: “Manhunter”, it was filmed in the now defunct Century Three Mall.

But since that first Earth Day celebration not much progress has been made. Yes, pollution has been abated. Using Pittsburgh as an example, the once “Smikey City”, known for its dreary skies and oil-slicked rivers, is now a beautiful city embraced by the now clean waters of the Three Rivers it is known for.

Yet, even with cleaner air, and less polluted waters, the climate still continues to change - in ways that are not good. Global temperatures continue to rise, causing ice flows and glaciers to melt at alarming rates, which is causing sea levels to rise around the globe. Tornados, hurricanes, tropical storms, wildfires all seem to be increasing in their frequency and in their intensity.

In the five decades since the first Earth Day Celebration, there is more information available, and an abundance of research data; yet we seem to be more divided, more confused, and feeling more hopeless than ever. Why? And How can this be? One would think that with all of this data, we could get control over the influences that create such catastrophic damage to our environment. But it appears that the opposite has occurred… and this is - in large part, due to mis-information - and, I believe, a great deal of mis-direction. Much like the great magicians use mis-direction to achieve their illusions, so do politicians, corporations, and other entities bent on keeping their agendas in place.

So how do we change these paradigms?

We change them through information, and that is how I am approaching this panel discussion. I am bringing together experts from as many factions as possible - and from as many viewpoints as possible, to bring clarity to the facts.

In a recent blog post: The Importance of Tribalism, I talked about micro-tribes, and the dangers of being so myopic. The environmental movement - and [more specifically], the Climate Change/Global Warming movement has become myopic - regardless of which side of this fence one is on. It is my belief that this myopic mindset has allowed so much of the mis-direction to take hold… and again, this mis-direction is on both sides of the fence.

What we must do, instead, is to open our vision - and our dialogs, to acquire [all] of the facts, and squarely debate them through open, and respectful dialog. Through this approach, I believe it is possible to find compromise, and through this compromise we can find solutions that benefit the entirety of the planet, as well as all of its inhabitants.

You can join me in the In Search of America Members Cafe’ for a discussion on Oil Dependence.

David Robert Farmerie 9/10/23 David Robert Farmerie 9/10/23

The Importance of Tribes

Supporters at Vigil for Bloody Sunday Anniversary © David Robert Farmerie

When most people think of “Tribes” they tend to think of it in terms of American Natives, or those who live in the remote locations hidden within the Amazon. But in reality we all live among tribes - and in many instances we live among multiple tribes simultaneously.

Sports teams, churches, social organizations, politics, and so on are all forms of a tribe. Over the past couple of decades many of us have entered into - what I refer to, as Micro Tribes. These tribes have been sparked into existence by the social media platforms - beginning as far back as the inception of the internet, and AOL (America On Line).

When MySpace entered the picture we were introduced to “Blogging” for the first time, as well as the ability to build a community - a tribe, comprised of people from all over the world. During these early years the Tribes were more generic - much like the more modern-day communities that are comprised of people with varying interests and backgrounds that found commonalities with one another. As time moved forward, as well as the evolution of social media platforms, ie: Facebook, which was introduced in February of 2004 these communities began to evolve into tribes - where people came together with more specific commonalities: family, friends (as in actual friends), and acquaintances. In late 2010 we saw the introduction of Instagram, which grew to one million users within the first year. By mid-2018 Instagram had one billion users.

Through the evolution of these two platforms people began migrating into the “micro-tribes”. Because of the worldwide connectivity of these platforms, as well as the huge number of users, people were able to narrow their tribes to very specific criteria. As an example, now it was no longer political parties, but rather specific ideologies within a political party, and eventually these ideologies became even more specific - hence “micro-tribalism”: I like A, and B, but I don’t like C. If you are in agreement then you can be part of my tribe; but if you like A, and don’t like C, but are ambivalent regarding B, then you cannot be part of my tribe.

What I have discovered, through hundreds of conversations while on the road with the In Search of America project, is that this micro-tribalism was born out of a seemingly ever-increasing fear among members of a society. And as fear increases, the desperation to find a refuge of safety becomes more and more imperative. This is why tribes were created in the first place - to provide safety from outside threats: wild animals that found you as their prey, territorialism and others encroaching on your hunting grounds, and even community cooperation for hunting and, eventually, agriculture. It all boiled down to the same thing that it does today: safety in numbers.

The issue now, with micron-tribalism, is that such narrow focus blinds us to possibilities that might help in relieving our fears - such as learning the truth about something as opposed to believing in the propagandas that are perpetuated by those who benefit from us being in such deep fear.

Tribes, however, can be of great benefit to us - for reasons other than the feeling of safety. As an example I look at the Artist’s Salon that Gertrude Stein had each week at her apartment in Paris - in the early 1900’s. People - mostly artists, would gather each week to socialize, discuss art, and life in general. Out of this Salon emerged the artists that we now revere for their works: Matisse, Picasso, Hemingway, Sinclair Lewis, Ezra Pound, and so on.

In the 1940’s and 1950’s another tribe of artists emerged - this time in the United States. They became known as the Beat Poets. They began to organize, as a movement, in the 1940’s, but then more formally came together in the 1950’s, in the Bay Area of San Francisco - and more specifically, gathered at City Lights Bookstore, owned by publisher, Lawrence Ferlinghetti. Out of this tribe came writers and poets such as: Bob Donlon, Neal Cassady, Allen Ginsberg, and Robert LaVigne,

Modern day tribes provide more than just a perceived security. They can also provide nurturing, and mentoring. Most of all modern day tribes provide a synergy - regardless of what the tribe is based around: art, politics, gardening, food, etc. When two or more come together under a common mind, a synergy is created that becomes more powerful than any one individual.

Also, as part of a tribe, one has a community of like-minded individuals to contemplate with, explore ideas and thoughts with, in a trusted safe environment. It is important to understand that being “like-minded” does not mean that each person is the same as the other. Being “like-minded” refers to having core beliefs in something. The danger, however - which is what I see so much of now with micro-tribalism, is that people seek out others who not only share core beliefs, but they also seek out - and even demand that each member of the tribe “thinks” the same as them. When we lose the diversity of thoughts, vision, and ideas, we lose the ability to see the full picture.

I am reminded of something that former Tennessee Senator, Howard Baker Jr. had said - and I am paraphrasing a bit; ‘Essentially he said that partisanship is about drafting new ideas and policies. Bipartisanship is about flushing out all of the details to make sure nothing was missed.’

If we only look at situations with our own myopic vision we will never be able to see the entirety of anything. In micro-tribes we cannot “see the forest through the trees”, nor can we see anything but the trees - including obstacles, pitfalls, or optional - and quite possibly better pathways.

Many years ago I was part of a group of eight photographers who started a Salon. Our purpose was to create a group of “like-minded” individuals - all with an expertise, as well as a dep passion for photography. Each of us were well-accomplished photographers, but each from a different discipline of photography. And it was from this diversity of disciplines - differences in how we engaged in photography, that each of us grew significantly within our own disciplines.

Keep in mind that a great soup is made up of more than just one ingredient. The richest flavors come from the synergy of many ingredients melding their individual influences together.

Which brings me to the close of this piece by relating an analogy that I have repeated many times:

When we are born we are like a cauldron of water simmering over a low fire. With each experience - good or not so good, it becomes an ingredient for our soup that we call life. At the end of our lives it is this soup that we leave behind for others to dine on.. What kind of soup do you want to leave behind: one that will be full of the most amazing flavors that enrich the hearts and souls of those consuming it, or one that will be rancid, or simply have no flavor at all?

The choice is ours…

David Robert Farmerie 6/26/23 David Robert Farmerie 6/26/23

A New Series: Food Stories

As a sidenote of irony, if you have ever seen the Netflix series: “Manhunter”, it was filmed in the now defunct Century Three Mall.

So how do we change these paradigms?

In a recent episode: The Importance of Tribalism, I talked about micro-tribes, and the dangers of being so myopic. The environment movement - and more [specifically], the Climate Change/Global Warming movement has become myopic - regardless of which side of this fence one is on. It is my belief that this myopic mindset has allowed so much of the mis-direction to take hold… and again, this mis-direction is on both sides of the fence.

As a sidenote: You can join me in the In Search of America Members Cafe’ for a discussion on Oil Dependence.

David Robert Farmerie 5/12/21 David Robert Farmerie 5/12/21

Letting Go!

May 13, 2021

It was a day with no assignment work. In fact, it had been a week since I photographed the sheep shearing, and it would be six more days until I photographed the second one. Most of my days, in-between, had been spent running errands - such as dropping off film for procession, and of course domestic errands. But you must understand that “running errands” is not a casual as one might think. To drop film off at the lab, run to the grocery store, and make a stop at Sam’s Club, is a full-day event, and logs in about 450 mile - roundtrip.

But on Monday, May 10th, I decided to take a day just to make pictures, and to explore! I pulled out of the driveway at 6:00 a.m on the dot. And 12 hours, 24 minutes, and 47 seconds later - after having logged 405.2 miles of backroads, off-roads, and interstate highway, I pulled back into the driveway that I had pulled out of that morning.

My first stop - approximately 36 miles into the drive, was along Highway 191. I had been wanting to make a photograph of this sign for nearly a year. The problem has been in the timing. I had a window of about 20 minutes to access the ideal light.

For me, this sign was the quintessential statement for the Dine’, with regard to fighting COVID.

Just another couple of miles along 191 I pulled onto my first dirt road. It is known as the ‘road to Nazlini’. There I was treated to the most magnificent vista - enhanced by the perfect timing of the sunrise.

My next stop, which had nothing to do with photography, but rather it had everything to do with tradition; it was a drive through stop at the Burger King, for a breakfast sandwich, tater tots, and a coffee.

My next photographic stop was not for another 90 miles, or so. Again, it was a photograph that I had been wanting to make for several months. This time I timed it [again] for the perfect light. It was a roadside tourist attraction, and gift shop, that touted its Petrified Wood - which was only a natural thing to do since Petrified National Park is only 10 miles, or so, to the east. Much to my surprise, the place was out of business, however, the photo op was still available!

Not far from the, now defunct, Petrified Wood Souvenir Shop was another abandoned establishment: the Painted Desert Motel. It’s demise, as I would think was also the demise of the souvenir shop, was the creation of the I-40, which replaced much of the Historic Route 66.

What intrigued me, as I walked around the abandoned motel property, was the remnants of what had once been there: pieces of children’s toys, mattresses, furniture, a few suitcases, and a variety of other left-behind objects.

From there I continued west, on the I-40, to a place that I had photographed on my first-ever trip out this way - some four years ago. It was the “Meteor City” road side attraction - also now just a ruin. Since the light was good I decided to spend some time making photographs. There is something about these places that intrigues me. And they also fill me with a sense of adventure, exploration, and even [I suppose] a bit of voyeurism, in a sense.

Just another six miles, or so, back on I-40, I exited the interstate - turned left, and drove for another six miles to the Meteor Crater attraction. I just admit that it was amazing. On one hand, it is just a big hole in the ground. But when you realize that it was made by a meteor impacting it, 50,000 years ago, it becomes much more intriguing. It is also where the Apollo Astronauts trained for their missions to the moon.

At this point of the journey I turned back to the east, stopping in Winslow. This time it was not to photograph “the Corner”, which has become a very famous tourist spot because of the song, “Takin’ It Easy”, by The Eagles. Instead, I stopped for a bite to eat, at a cafe/restaurant that I had discovered four years ago while out there on assignment. A “New Mexico Dog” is what was the special for the day: a fantastic hot dog, with Green Chili’s, and Cream Cheese! Yes… I did take a bite before photographing it.. I was hungry!

After a leisurely lunch I left Winslow and, rather than returning to the interstate, I decided to drive northeast, on Highway 87 - but not before making a quick stop to photograph the Trading Post, which sits at the junction.

About 26 miles, along Highway 87, I turned right onto Dilkon Road. This road passes through the back side of the extinct volcanos, and rugged landscape. The views are beyond breathtaking. This is a road that I have travelled many times, but never at the optimal time for photographing. On this day I made sure that I timed it as perfectly as I could.

The wind, by now, was gusting regularly, and near-constantly, at about 30 - 40 mph. In no time at all my mouth, my nose, and my eyes were caked with the fine dirt that becomes airborne, and ferociously penetrating when carried by these winds. I stopped in several locations to make photographs; and this is where I really made use of my various film cameras - including the 4x5 view camera.

That was the last location that I photographed that day. Clouds began moving in, even as I was photographing there. But it was ok. By this time I had been photographing, on and off, for about 10 hours!

It was indeed a day filled with magic! The kind of magic that can only come from letting go…

Tomorrow I do an errand run again - back to Flagstaff, to drop film off at the lab, and retrieve the film that I had processed. This Sunday I will photograph the second sheep shearing - at Helen Grayeyes’. As much as I am looking forward to photographing the shearing, I look forward, even more, to see Helen, and her sister, Alice, again…

Until next time….

_David

David Robert Farmerie 9/4/20 David Robert Farmerie 9/4/20

Time In The High Desert

The High Desert is much different than all of the other types of deserts. The most noticeable is that there are no large cactus here. In fact, the only cactus found here are small, and low to the ground. But the color palette is one that soothes my soul just by being surrounded by it. And then there is the [light]. It is the quality of light that has been sought out by artists, and painters, for centuries - especially the early morning, and late evening light. There is the silence, accentuated by the subtle sounds of small birds, or the occasional passing dove, or Raven. Even the near-constant breeze, which sometimes escalates to a wind, has its own sound, that is perfectly compatible with everything else. And when the breeze pauses, there is a stillness that is felt with the entirety of one’s being.

The tan color of the earth holds a visual background to the blue-greens of the sage. Dotted about the landscape are small, dome-shaped bushes covered in tiny yellow tips.

And the occasional deep green of the Juniper Cedar Tree that looms above everything else - but as one draws closer, the heavily textured, and twisted surface of their trunks is a visual splendor in, and of itself. As one walks across the High Desert landscape, they will be treated to tiny flowering plants, that remain close to the ground, each bearing tiny flowers - some yellow, and some purple. These offerings cannot be scene by the viewer who simply stands at the edge, and gazes at the overall. These gems are only for those who venture into the landscape - to experience it as nature intended it.

And then there is the rejuvenating scent of sage, as one wraps their hand, ever-so-gently around the tops of the plant, as they continue to walk. The skin is embed with the scent, that one can hold to their nose, and breathe in deeply - time and time again. When the scent fades, simply allow the hand to rub over the tops of another plant.

When one stands back, and observes the landscape of the High Desert, overall, it appears as a soft palette of color, and texture. But when one explores closely, one is made aware of the resilience, to the harsh environment, that is built into each of these plants. Root systems, of these plants, for the most part, grow straight down, into the earth - for any semblance of moisture, and to protect themselves from the harsh rays of the intense sunlight.

Yesterday I spoke with my friend, Peter, who explores the nuances of the desert, frequently. Peter is also an aficionado in the art of Bonsai - and is currently experimenting with desert plants that have already had their growth stunted, by the harshness of the environment. he told me of small specimens, that he has come across in the desert, that are as young as 25 years, and as old as 100 years, or more. “They grow slow here”, he said. “But transplanting them from the desert environment, into pots, is difficult”, he continued. “They tend to not survive”.

As I walked in the desert, earlier this afternoon, I began to look at the plants from Peter’s perspective. I came across one (that I felt compelled to make a photograph of]. I have even been contemplating returning to it, and attempting to retrieve it. It is situated in the center of two worn tire ruts in the dirt road. It seems that its only connection to the ground is one center root that has gone deep. the other roots are fully exposed, and driftwood-dry. The plant, even though it appears to be old, is only about 12 inches high; but still it manages to, not only survive, but to bloom its tiny yellow flowers.

I had also brought back with me, from this excursion into the desert, a small piece of tree trunk, or tree branch, that is excessively dried, and weathered. It is only about eight inches in length, or height (depending on how one views it), but it has such a beauty to it. I want to photograph it with my large-format camera when I return home.

The rains have begun again.

David Robert Farmerie 7/30/20 David Robert Farmerie 7/30/20

Quarantined

It wasn’t until the accident that I experienced the changes in my quarantined status…

My left clavicle broken into three pieces.

Like everyone else in the world, I have been in quarantine since the beginning of March. For awhile I was able to find freedom from quarantine by getting out on “Velvet”, by 1993 BMW motorcycle. But on Memorial Day that all came crashing to a halt - literally, and figuratively. Since then I have been quarantined, more due to recovery, than from the avoidance of COVID.

On Tuesday, the 21st of July, I finally had surgery to put the broken pieces back together - just three days shy of 8 weeks since I had broken the bones.

But this post is not about the broken bones, or the accident. Instead, it is about differing effects, brought on by the different types of quarantine - something that I never would have imagined existed. And how I became aware of this phenomenon was through my photography.

In the early days of self-quarantine, when it was all about avoiding the COVID virus and, simultaneously, not spreading it if I was infected by it, little had changed in my life - aside from the fact that I wasn’t working on assignments. But being sequestered in my home, for me, was no different than any other time I am in between assignments. That is my time to regroup. And the fact that I was able to get out, almost daily, on Velvet, I really wasn’t experiencing a true quarantine.

After the accident the quarantine still had no affect on me; but now, the only thing present in my awareness, was the pain; my clavicle was broken into three pieces, and six of my ribs were broken in nine places. I had no sense of being quarantined. In fact, I relished the aloneness - aside from having to walk the dog a few times a day.

Two weeks after the accident, my wife, and I drove to northern Arizona, so that I could get medical help (trust me, it’s a long story). The three-day drive brought about a limited awareness of the quarantine - with restaurants closed, and the need to wear a mask, and constantly be cognizant of washing my hands after the slightest contact with anything outside the car.

Once in northern Arizona, and being on the Navajo Reservation, the restrictions brought on by COVID were strict, and strongly enforced - but still, I simply felt as if I were between assignments - and, healing from injuries. Now it was a double-side kind of situation. This forced quarantine still, for me, was not forced. Had there been no forced quarantine, by days would have been spent exactly the same way. My primary focus - the focus that occupied most of my waking, and even sleeping awareness was managing the pain, and trying to get the injuries resolved.

It wasn’t until I returned home, and had the surgery, that things changed. Now my quarantine status was (for me) all about the physical recovery process. But after weeks of binge-watching streaming services, and unable to read - because of an impaired vision, I began to crave intellectual stimulation - which, in hindsight, was the result (in large part) of the quarantine. What I realized is that, had it not been for the quarantine, I would have been able to engage in face to face conversation, with others. I would have had the opportunities to debate ideas, concepts, and curiosities, with others. This was the result of the mandated quarantine, for me. It was not about [not] being able to go out. It was about not being able to have anyone come in.

My craving, for intellectual stimulation, was fulfilled [ironically] by binge-watching. But this time the watching was of the intellectual nature - and as an added benefit, it was all photography- related. I still longed for the interaction with others. In fact, that longing had become intensified because of the things I was watching. I wanted to discuss it. I wanted to gain outside insights into it.

After the third day, following my surgery, I began to react - creatively. But even before that, from the moment that I arrived home, after the surgery (it was done as an outpatient), things began stirring within me. Over the past several weeks: eight to be exact, much had begun to change within me. Now that the surgery was done, all of the stresses, that surrounded that, had vanished. No longer did I need to worry, nearly every moment, about shifting my broken bones. No longer did I need to worry about worsening the injuries. No longer did I need to worry about finding a surgeon. All of this was behind me.

My reaction, on day three, was completely spontaneous. I came out of the bedroom - for what reason, I have no recollection. But what I do remember is seeing a scene - at the kitchen windows that open out onto the deck. They were heavily fogged, from the high humidity outside, pressing against the chilled glass, from the interior air conditioning. Immediately I returned to the bedroom, to grab one of my cameras - a digital Nikon. Quickly - well, as quickly as was possible under the circumstances, I returned to the scene, made a series of images, and then abruptly stopped… I needed to record this scene on film - black & white - of course, with one of my Hasselblads. For the first time, in months - quite possibly, years, I was pre-visualizing in the square format. I was also pre-visualizing in black & white. I was on fire, within. Passion, creativity - they both burned as intensely as they ever had.

The light was fading, rapidly - and the Hasselblads were downstairs, in my office, in a latched hardcase. I would also need a tripod. My left arm was still virtually useless, but I needed it - to unlatch the case, and to carry the camera, and tripod upstairs in one trip. I also needed both hands to secure the camera to the tripod head. I did what needed to be done...

The day before, while the rains fell in a deluge of repeated downpours, I found myself making images of the curtains that cover the master bedroom windows, as well as photographs of the view through barren bushes detailed with raindrops. I had even begun photographing the cats, as they laid on the bed - something that is never permitted (cats laying on the bed - not “photographing” the cats). I was photographing what I felt - translating my emotions lossless-ly. I had returned to the core of being an image-maker, and a visual storyteller. I had returned to life.

David Robert Farmerie 6/23/20 David Robert Farmerie 6/23/20

Photographing Helen Greyeyes

June 22, 2020

Yesterday I drove to Helen Greyeyes’ house specifically to photograph her. One week prior I visited with her, since it had been several months since my previous visit. I also wanted to make the arrangements for yesterday’s photo shoot. My goal was to photograph her weaving on her traditional loom, and then to make a formal portrait of her.

When I arrived Helen emerged from a small room off of the dining room. I was stopped dead in my tracks. She was adorned in her finest jewelry - all made of silver and turquoise. This, in Navajo tradition, is a sign of status. Helen’s silver hair was pulled back tight, and fashioned into a short ponytail that was wrapped in carefully in cord. The silver hair, and the silver and turquoise jewelry, all set against her darkened skin, and her finely chiseled features, was something of truly authentic beauty. Her age, of 83, could not be seen. She was timeless.

It was at that moment that I decided to make her portrait first, and then the weaving.

But before any of that could take place, we sat down to eat. In honor of my visit, Helen’s sister, Alice, made Navajo Tacos so that we could share a meal together - the “Breaking of Bread”, as it were. This was a great honor.

It took some time for me to set up a studio in Helen’s ‘other’ house - a mobile home that sits beside her daily house. Even though it is larger, Helen continues to live in the much smaller house. Living in the larger space, for just one person, would be greedy, in a sense - taking more than she needed. It is part of her traditional Navajo ways.

As I made the portrait, and the photographs of her weaving, I was treated to the ongoing dialog between Helen, her sister, Alice, and her daughter, Rena. The language has such a beautiful sound to it. One can hear its antiquity - as it has continued to flow through time.

And again, through both the portrait session, as well as the photographing of the weaving, there was this unspoken duality: the antiquity, and traditions of her attire, of her language, and of the way that she sat on the floor, in front of her loom, weaving - juxtaposed against the photographic lights, the cameras, and even the interior surroundings of her mobile home. And I was a part of it… For the better part of four hours, I was granted a glimpse of something that has been, for millennia.

Members of my Patreon site can see “Behind The Scenes” video from this shoot! Go to: https://www.patreon.com/davidrobertfarmerie

David Robert Farmerie 3/31/20 David Robert Farmerie 3/31/20

A Time To Reflect, and to Re-Evaluate:

As it seems to be with each approaching election cycle, social media explodes with bashing. Granted, there has been considerable bashing ever since the last Presidential election - even more than normally follows such a momentous thing, but what has it achieved? We are also in the midst of a pandemic - a worldwide emergency that begs for a sense of outreach, and community.

Recently I have been doing a lot of reflection - primarily because I have been engaged in reading books that have sparked such reflection, which brings me to my next point: the Vietnam War. I know that many of you, who read this blog still remember that time in our history. For those fo you who are too young to remember, follow along and learn something.

The era of the Vietnam War was a turning point for America - but it wasn’t the war that sparked it. It was the assassination of a President - President John F. Kennedy. It was also a time of the Civil Rights Movement, and eventually the assassination of Dr. Martin Luther King, and Robert Kennedy. It was a time of upheaval in our country. We had soldiers being spit on for their participation in the war, and we had “conscientious objectors” who fled to Canada to avoid fighting in the war. And we had protests in the streets - both for Vietnam, and for Civil Rights. And then we had Woodstock.

What has change is the way we protest what we disagree with. Now it is bashing - primarily on social media; but also on the news stations: CNN, Fox, MSNBC, and so on. We have countless radio talk shows that fill the airwaves with vile dialog - generally limited to rankings rather than any kind of civil dialog. And the only “dialog” that occurs is Bashing. This side bashes the other side, and the other side bashes this side. The only dialog is in the accusations - some true, and most agendized. In the end the only thing that has been created, is Hate - and an increasing division among our citizenry.

During the protests of the 60’s, and early 70’s the protests were angry - primarily among those protesting the war. The protests of The Civil Rights Movement were essentially peaceful - on the part of the protestors. Those who were against the protestors were incredibly violent. When Dr. Martin Luther King spoke in protest, his voice was that of a southern Black preacher, and the words that flowed from his mouth were illuminating the changes that were needed - but he never spoke in hatred. When Robert Kennedy was running for the Presidency, his words were effective as he spoke about the issues that needed to be addressed. And both men spoke of solutions instead of bashing.

Then there was the music. It spoke of the issues, but it also spoke of a better way. Then Woodstock happened. Yes, everyone was stoned, and then some, but the music prevailed - and some it of talked of peace - and that became the focus of the movement. What most people overlook about Woodstock is the “peacefulness”, and community. In a field were gathered 500,000 people, in the hot sun, and torrential downpours of rain. They shared with one another. Even more notable were the food line - yes, the food lines. Each day 500,000 people were fed, and at each feeding each person waited in line [peacefully]. Even the State Police commented, to the New York Times, at their astonishment of how this many people could gather for three days (under any circumstances) and remain completely violence-free. And from that, peace happened. The war in Vietnam finally ended.

My point here is that we no longer talk of solutions. We only throw around blame. We agendize everything that happens - on both sides. Neither side can do anything right in the eyes of the other side - and that is not new to this administration. It has been going on for decades - but it continues to escalate.

So I propose a new paradigm: a few news organizations have recently made the decision to not run anything live from President Trump - in an attempt to have time to fact check everything that’s said. personally I love the idea, and I would love to see the news organizations do this with every politician who speaks. But what I propose is that we, the general public, have a censorship of our own - and that begins with a stop to the Bashing. If you want to debate something that someone says, present the [accurate] facts - and present them unbiasedly, and without hatred in your heart. When negative words are spoken in hatred, or anger, counter them with a positive look, or simply ignore them - as in DO NOT RESPOND. Break the cycle. Change the paradigm.

For all of you who truly hate what this administration is doing, do something about it. Don’t bitch, or bash... “do something” to effect a positive change. Also, in case you haven’t figured it out yet - every time you engage with anyone who is in this state of anger, you are only strengthening their voice, and their power. If you want to diffuse their power - including that of this administration, disengage from the banter. Instead, use that energy to find solutions - and focus on those. Let’s be the first to stop hating....

_David

David Robert Farmerie 3/27/20 David Robert Farmerie 3/27/20

Murder Most Foul

Early this morning I had a Skype session with my dear friend, Terry Price. Normally we meet once a week, at Beck’s Farmhouse Coffee, for a couple hours of mostly uninterrupted conversation. With the continuing spread of the Corona Virus, everyone has self-quarantined themselves, and most establishments - like the coffee shop, have shut their doors until the threat of this virus is over.

During our conversation, this morning, Terry had mentioned something that his wife brought up: about how much has happened in our lifetime; and since Terry and I are close in age, this topic was valid for me as well. It began with the assignation of President John F. Kennedy, followed by the assignation of Dr. Martin Luther King - only to be followed, shortly thereafter, by the assassination of Robert Kennedy. And then there was the assassination of Malcom X, and then Watergate with President Nixon. We had the war in Vietnam, with strong, and unrelenting protests at home - marked by the murder of four protestors by National Guard Soldiers who fired approximately 67 rounds in 13 seconds, in an attempt to squelch the protests. This order was given by then President Nixon.

What makes this conversation so ironic is because of something that I experienced about an hour ago, while listening to Jim Ladd’s radio broadcast. He played a brand new song by, Bob Dylan, that was just released today. The title: Murder Most Foul.

I freely admit that I have always been in a very tiny minority when it comes to Bob Dylan: I just never really thought that much of his music - until now. I have been moved by many pieces of music, but I don’t think that any have moved me the way this piece did. It is just over 16 minutes in length, and inescapable once the first few words are sung. Everything about this piece of music is profound.

Listening to it opened a door within me, as I sat on the deck with my headphone on. I sat motionless. I felt, in ways that I haven’t felt in a while, and this feeling reminded me of why I am here - upon this earth. It is to tell the stories - hopefully as powerfully as Dylan has told this one. Before this evening it had been - for decades, Bruce Springsteen’s “Nebraska” album that acted as a benchmark for storytelling. “Murder Most Foul” has joined that album, as yet another benchmark.

As a society, along with numerous other societies around the world, we are experiencing something never encountered in any of our lifetimes. Violence, hatred, and outright lying by politicians is at an all time high. Racism is prevalent, and the focus on individualism is still rising. I find it to be a critical contrast: a few weeks ago a tornado swept through Nashville, devastating homes, business, and even lives. Without hesitation, people from all walks of life came to the aid of those affected by the devastation. Even in the predominantly black neighborhood of North Nashville, people of all races came together to help in the cleanup. They also came together with an abundance of donations - of food, clothing, and blankets; and in many cases these donation were were purchased, and donated as brand new. And then along came the virus...

When the first clues that the virus was approaching, people attacked the grocery stores and cleared the shelves. Now, a few weeks into the virus, grocery store shelves still remain empty. It became a frenzy, with no consideration of anyone else. Yet there is another side - aside where other individuals have come up with creative ways to bring about a sense of community, and of balance. I strongly believe that, she this virus passes, there will be a new way of doing things - at least for many people. I believe that this has shown - with great clarity, where people’s hearts reside; and for those whose hearts remained good - and open to one another, they will continue to bond together, and grow roots that are even stronger, as they interconnect. And yes, there will still be those who are in it for themselves - and so beit, But a new light may just be beginning to shine. I am reminded, quite fondly, of a line from a Leonard Cohen song: “There is a Crack Where the Light Gets In”.

_David

David Robert Farmerie 3/9/20 David Robert Farmerie 3/9/20

North Nashville: Cleanup

For the first several days the North Nashville section had been ignored by the media, and even by many who were donating their money, and services. Most of the emphasis was on East Nashville - the upscale, and trendy part of town with its boutique shops, and upscale restaurants. North Nashville is not that. It is a residential neighborhood that is considered the less-than-upscale part of town. This morning, however, all that had changed.

I arrived near 10:30 a.m. The temperature hovered around 41 degrees F. Dust and debris filled the air, sometimes swirling just a bit in the gusts of wind that remained prevalent throughout the morning.

Cockrill Street, beginning around 11th street, and continuing down as far as the eye can see, was devastated. Each side street, off of Cockrill, is littered with broken trees, downed power lines, furniture, household appliances, broken glass, cars smashed to varying degrees, and the remnants of houses - some with nothing more than a missing, or smashed roof, to those who are missing walls - giving the appearance of the backlot of a movie set.

Trucks and crews from NEC - the electric utility company, line the streets as they replace utility poles, so there is something to attach the power lines to. Until this is accomplished, residents will remain without power - which also means being without heat, as nighttime temperatures, once again, return down into the 20’s.

There is no a word, that I am aware of in the English language, that can adequately describe the devastation of North Nashville. Nor is there an adequate word to describe the coming together of people to help those in need; the two extremes of this situation. I witnessed people from as young as elementary school kids, to those well into their senior years.

On every block there were people walking around with boxes of sandwiches, bag lunches, and even breakfast burritos wrapped in aluminum foil, to be grabbed and eaten by anyone in need of nourishment. And cases upon case of bottled water were stacked throughout each block.

If viewed from high above the scene would appear, I am certain, like a sea of ants busy at work. Volunteers numbered in the hundreds. People from all walks of life, now walked along the same path of life - one of helping those in need. There was no complaining, and there didn’t really seem to be anyone “in charge”. Periodically someone would guide a group of people to a task-at-hand, but aside from that, there were no “bosses”. When people would finish with a task, they would simply move a few feet, or a few blocks, to find another one. No one sat around. No one approached it casually. There was no complaining - even by those who had lost everything.

At Greater Heights Missionary Baptist Church, large aluminum trays of fired catfish were piled high. Off of one of the main highways there was a public parking area with a cardboard sign: “Free Food.” Traffic lights throughout the area were out, but no one tried to cut someone out. Each car respectfully took its turn - as if there was a stop sign present. No horns blared; no one yelled, or gestured - except to wave hello.

What astounded me, almost as much as the devastation, were the houses that remained unscathed. Along 14th street, house after house was damaged - extensively to severely. Then, within 50 feet was a house that had no damage whatsoever; and the one next to it had only minor damage to the siding. It was if there had never been a tornado. To see additional images from the North Nashville cleanup, click here.

_David

David Robert Farmerie 1/26/20 David Robert Farmerie 1/26/20

Boquillas, Mexico: Part 2

Separated by the narrow Rio Grande River, Boquillas, at times, can be so close, yet so far away…

For those traveling to Boquillas, from Big Bend National Park, they make their way through the immigration station that is located within the park. As one exits through the out door, they walk down a dirt path that meanders through a stand of trees. At the far end is the Rio Grande River. On the other side of the river, which one can easily see, there are always a group of men - and a few row boats. Just simply wave your hand and motion for them to come and get you. A man will row is boat across, help you in, and row you the the Mexican side of the river. There you will pay you fee: $5.00 USD, in cash. That provides you with a round trip boat ride.

Adrian rows the boat from the Mexico side of the river, to the U.S. side to pick up passengers for Boquillas.

Then you will have option to ‘walk’ into town - which is about one mile along a rutted dirt road; or you can hire a truck to drive you into town. But theist alternative - in my opinion, is to opt for the Burro ride. Both the truck, and the Burro are an additional $5.00 USD, in cash, for a round trip ticket.

Phillipe parks his mule after bring a tourist into town. The mule will remain there until it is needed for the trip back to the boat.

You will also be asked if you want a guide. You can get by without one, but if you have the means, why not support their economy. In my experience, when I have asked the guides how much their fee is, they simply say “what ever you want”. Be generous, please. As an FYI, I use Philippe whenever I can.

Jose Falconi’s Restaurant in Boquillas - located on the left as one enters into the village.

In the village of Boquillas you will need to check into Mexican immigration. It will be helpful if you can communicate in Spanish. But if not, you’re still get by. At times there is also an “ Entry Fee” , which, as I recall was $5.00 USD, in cash. As one enters the village, there are two restaurants - one on either side of the main road. Both are equally good, but my preference is the one on the left. My suggestion is that you treat yourself to two meals, while in Boquillas - thereby sampling both places.

Walking along the main street there are vendors at nearly every house, and each vendor is selling the same thing: fabrics, and wire animals are the main items. About half way down the main street, on the right, is a small green house, where Pablo lives. He sells the best wire animals. He also sells rocks, which are a great deal - except, they will be confiscated by U.S. Immigration when you return to the U.S..

Pablo, sitting on his porch, making wire animals to be sold to the passing tourists. This is Pablo’s only source of income.

Boquillas is a charming village, albeit severely depressed, economically. But there is no crime - that I have ever experienced, or even heard of; and the people are welcoming. one can walk through the entire village in about an hour - a bit more if you want to browse the various vendors. Depending on the season, Boquillas can be hot - as there is no shade.

For me, I also find a great romance to Boquillas. It is a place where time stood still. It is a glimpse into the authentic rural Mexico - and again, without the crime. Depending on the time of year, one may see matresses laying in the front yards of people’s homes. They are not thrown out as junk - as one may see in parts of rural America; but rather, they are there for sleeping. At certain times of the year, the daytime temperature get so high that the houses cannot cool down inside. So people will sleep outside, under the stars, on their mattresses.

The scene along the main road through Boquillas, Mexico

There is a school, a church, and a small medical clinic in the village. A few years ago Boquillas installed a small array of solar panels, providing them with some electricity. The supply is not enough, however, to provide them with power 24/7.

Boquillas is a destination for lovers (as the saying goes), but in this case, I belive, it is more for the lovers of adventure, and deep geographical romance - like living in a Mexica version of the movie Casablanca.
There are two ways to experience this very special place: one is to experience it as a tourist. The other, and the one that I highly recommend, is to experience it as the adventurer, and the hopeless romantic. Find your Hemingway, or even your Indiana Jones within yourself. Disengage from any preconceived notions that you may have, and enter into this adventure completely naked - emotionally that is; and if you do, you will return forever changed - for the better.

_David

David Robert Farmerie 1/25/20 David Robert Farmerie 1/25/20

Boquillas, Mexico: Part 1

Boquillas, Mexico, just across the Rio Grande River, from Big Bend National Park, in southern Texas, is a magical land…

The Rio Grande River which is the border between the United Staes, and Mexico.

I originally ended up in Boquillas while I was photographing a story on “Border Towns, along the U.S. Mexico Border. Since that visit I have returned several times. It has become a destination of the heart.

Boquillas, Mexico is a small village just across the Rio Grande River from Big Bend National Park, in southern Texas. In the early 1890s silver was discovered in the Sierra del Carmen, whose northern tip lies just east of Boquillas. This discovery brought an onslaught of miners, who established two border camps - one on either side of the river. In addition to silver, the miners also extracted lead, and zinc. At the peak of the mining operation, the population of Boquillas was between 2,000 and 4,000 people.

Entering into the 20th century the primary employers were those industries involved in the production of Lead, Silver, and fluorite ore. In 1919 mining abruptly ceased, causing a rapid decline in the town’s population.

For years, following this dramatic decline in population, and employment opportunities, residents of Boquillas adapted by creating trade that catered to the tourism industry of Big bend National Park. Residents of Boquillas could move freely across the Rio Grande River (the border between the United States, and Mexico) to sell their wares.

It was the events of 911 that significantly changed the fate of Boquillas’ residents. In May, of 2002, the border crossing, from Boquillas to Big bend National Park was closed, indefinitely. By October of 2006, only 19 families - which equates to about 100 residents in total, remained in Boquillas. Most had fled to other parts of Mexico due to the elimination of the tourist trade.

With a current population of less than 100 residents, Boquillas, at times, can seem almost like a Ghost Town.

As of April 10, 2013 the border crossing was officially reopened, but with severe restrictions that continue to this day. There is an immigration office, on the U.S. side - about 100 yards north of the river. Visitors to Big Bend National Park are able to pass through - as long as they have a valid passport. This is a requirement for all wishing to travel across the river to Boquillas. And herein lies the rub; unless they know in advance, most U.S. citizens do not travel to Texas with their passport - and only a passport will get you permission to cross. I have witnessed countless people trying to gain permission using active Military ID’s, but they are denied. In addition, the immigration office is only open a few days a week - sometime less.

As for the residents of Boquillas, their access to the United States is nearly impossible - preventing them from gaining access to the tourist trade that is unable to cross into Mexico.And tourism is still the [only] means of generating an income for residents of Boquillas.

What is even more devastating is that the closest gas station, and the closest hospital, to Boquillas, is approximately 200 kilometers by gravel road.

Small Wire Animals, and other trinkets are displayed on a rock, atop an overlook of the Rio Grande River, in Big Bend National Park - United States.

Some residents of Boquillas will make their way across the river, to leave handmade trinkets on the U.S. side, for sale. They will place the items in an area where there will be a somewhat steady stream of tourist, along with a container, and a sign. The sign has the price of the items, and is based solely on a ‘trust system’, for tourists to take a trinket, and put the money in the container. Moreover, they also need to trust that someone - a tourist, will not just run off with the container of money.

This, of course is “illegal”, and there are notifications, in the park, warning tourists of this illegality. I had, on one occasion, had the opportunity to make a series of photograph, of young man who was bringing his wares across the river. I declined to make the photographs because I know, if they were published, he would be arrested.

_David

David Robert Farmerie 1/23/20 David Robert Farmerie 1/23/20

The Marfa Lights

The Marfa Lights have been disputed, for more than a century. But to see them, for one’s self, is undeniably real.

**"Scientific research suggests that most, if not all, are atmospheric reflections of automobile headlights and campfires.”**

Obvious to anyone who has seen the Marfa Lights, the person responsible for the above quote had never seen them, for themselves….

It wasn’t until my first trip through south Texas that I even heard of the Marfa Lights. I had stopped in Amarillo, to visit with my brother-in-law, James, and his family. I told him that I was heard on to El Paso, and then down along the border towns of Texas, as part of an assignment that I was working on. My brother-in-law. He asked if I was familiar with the Marfa Lights - to which I responded with the most appropriate of questions: “What???”

It turns out that the lights were first seen, in 1883 by, Robert Reed Ellison - a local cowhand. As history tells it, “he saw a flickering light while he was driving cattle through Paisano Pass and wondered if it was the campfire of Apache Indians. Other settlers told him they often saw the lights, but that when they investigated they found no ashes or other evidence of a campsite.”
In 1885 Joe and Anne Humphreys reported seeing the lights, as well. Both of these accounts are published in History of Marfa and Presidio County, Texas 1535-1946, by Cecilia Thompson.
Elton Miles’s, 1976 book: Tales of the Big Bend included stories of the Marfa Lights, dating to the 19th century .

Yet science simply dismisses them - presumably because, after numerous attempts, they have not been able to garner any conclusive evidence as to what is causing the lights.

For me, I was quite skeptical, but equally, I was intrigued. Hell, what’s not to be intrigued about! So off to Marfa I went. It turns out that they have a beautiful ‘viewing station’ constructed along Highway 90 - which runs east/west between Marfa and Alpine. The architecture, alone, is worth the visit! On the back side of the building is a concrete platform, with a few binoculars - you know, the kind that always show up in the old movies from atop the Empire State Building. The view is quite beautiful, on its own - regardless of the lights. It peers out over a vista of the Chihuahua Desert, with a small mountain range off in the distance.

The first night that I was there, I saw nothing. I did, however, get the scoop from a tour bus driver who was there with a group of tourists. He told me that two nights before, the lights had appeared within close proximity to the viewing station, and all of the tourists scrambled for the confines of the tour bus! Most times the lights are seen way off in the distance - probably about 15 miles away. This, for me, in and of itself, was impressive. To be able to see these lights, brightly, from that distance, needs some intensity.

But on my second visit I did, in fact, see “the lights”. And yes, they were far off in he distance. But here is where it got very real, for me - as well as all of those who were on the platform with me: First there was one light - an orb, really. It was red, in color. It appeared a small distance above the ground - as if located on one of the mountainsides. It pulsated a bit, then turned white. As it did, another light appeared some distance to the right of this one. It was white, as well. Then it turned green. When this happened, the original light went out.
This scenario continued, with more and more lights making themselves visible. Eventually the lights spanned much of the width of the mountain range. Several of the lights were near the tops of the range.

Then, here were the ‘realness’ got even more real: A light appeared above the mountain range, and began to move to the right. There was a gap between peaks, which I estimated to me at least a mile. This orb, which appeared to be moving slowly, actually traversed this gap in 13 seconds. If the orb were traveling at 60 miles per hour, it would have taken it one full minute to traverse this gap. If it had been traveling at 120 miles per hour, it would have taken it thirty seconds. You finish the math.
Then another light appeared, much farther to the right of this one. It moved diagonally, from right to left, across the face of the mountain range.
All in all, the lights - more than twenty in all, appeared, disappeared, and reappeared for more than two hours - several of them alternation colors (primarily white, red, and green).

Now, where I live it is out in the country. I am also in the flight path for the helicopters out of Fort Campbell. Most nights there is at least one helicopter perched high in the sky, with a very bright spotlight on. For a while I actually thought it was a bright star in the sky. But as bright as this light it, it is truly minuscule compared to the lights that I saw in Marfa - and they were much farther away than this helicopter perched above my neighborhood.

I am certain that their origin is NOT as the opening sentence of this post implies: "that most, if not all, are atmospheric reflections of automobile headlights and campfires.” Whatever else they could be is rather irrelevant to me. And the reason for this is that they are just ‘cool as heck’. And the “coolness”, combined with the absolute mystery, is enough to keep me going back - and just watching.

_David

David Robert Farmerie 1/23/20 David Robert Farmerie 1/23/20

Mr. Adam Morales:

Mr. Adam Morales owned, and operated the Adam's Cypress Swamp Driftwood Family Museum, in Pierre Port, Louisianna. Upon his death I felt moved to write a post about this joyous man, and his driftwood paradise.

August 15, 2019
Mr. Adam Morales, of Pierre Port, Louisiana, died day before yesterday.

ny of you may remember my social media posts, back when I first met Mr. Adam Morales, as well as my posts from subsequent visits. He was one of the great eccentrics, but also very well-grounded. His eccentricities came through in his driftwood art. But his “well-groundedness” came through in our many conversations - primarily about living life in the swamps.

Mr. Adam Morales had spent a lifetime living in the swamps. His modest house sits at the very edge of the swamp. He had been part of the television series, Swamp People, for a while, but that never phased him. His down-to-earth demeanor never changed - not even with all of the celebrity he garnered from his driftwood sculptures.

Among the hundreds of visitors to his Driftwood Paradise, there were a few that really stood out, for Adam. One was the actress, Eva Marie Saint - who became very dear friends with Adam, and would visit him often. But his proudest moment was when he had a visit from the men of Seal Team Six, who presented him with one of their coveted “Challenge Coins”. But instead of giving him bragging rights, it seemed to humble him even more.

Mr. Adam Morales was a kid at heart. It was evident in each of our conversations, and it was blatantly apparent in the sculptures he created. In his back yard, which was actually the swamp, he had bins piled high with pieces of driftwood. he called them his "body parts", as the driftwood pieces resembled arms, legs, fingers, etc. - and each were segregated to their own bin. It was from these pieces that he would build his sculptures.

But there were other pieces as well. Each time i would walk through this massive collection of driftwood, with Adam, he would periodically stop, grab a piece - possibly turn it once or twice, then say "look!" this is a tiger, or a dog, or a dinosaur. He saw everything in the driftwood. And when he would point it out, it became evidently clear that he was on the money.

In the latter years, Mr. Adam Morales began making oversized lawn chairs out of driftwood. I always wanted to buy a couple, but I never was able to transport them home - they were far too large.

For many years, Mr. Adam Morales would make the bulk of his living from the sale of moss. He would head out into the swamp, in a small motorized boat, and with a long pole he would pull the moss hanging from the trees. He would then sell this to florists, and plant growers, to be used in their arrangements. But about four years ago the moss began to be manufactured, out of a synthetic material, and that abruptly put an end to his business. This was a dangerous business, because more times than not, snakes - very poisonous snakes, would be residing in the moss. So when the moss fell from the trees, into the tiny boat, so did the snakes. For him, it was just life in the swamp.

As a side note, you may be asking yourself, as you read through this post, why I always refer to him as "Mr. Adam Morales" - over and over again. It is because that was always how I referred to him. This was not a request, or a requirement of his - but rather, mine. It seemed to be a fitting title - as if addressing a member of royalty, or something. And to me, Mr. Adam Morales was royalty - he was Swamp Royalty; and breed of Cajun that has all but died out - and now with the passing of Mr. Adam Morales, that "royalty" has diminished even more.

I am a firm believer that, as we make our way through life - along the path of this great journey, we encounter experiences, and people that, in my way of thinking, are ingredients for our caldron of soup - which is the culmination of our journey. Each of these experiences, or people, add to the quality of our soup. But first, we must engage with them, so that they can be an ingredient. And the more we engage, and he deeper, and more genuine our engagements are, the more intense the ingredient becomes. Mr. Adam Morales added greatly - and significantly, to my soup.

I will miss him so very much. And each time that I return to south Louisianna, I will feel the longing to visit with him - and a sadness will become present in my heart. But I am ever so grateful to have known him.

_David

David Robert Farmerie 1/22/20 David Robert Farmerie 1/22/20

Helen Greyeyes - Part 1:

Helen Greyeyes, of Blue Gap, Arizona, is a traditional Navajo woman, still living in the traditional ways. At the age of 83, Helen still makes her own clothes, herds her large flock of sheep everyday, and weaves traditional Navajo woolen rugs on her loom.

Helen Greyeyes sitting in her chair outside of her Hogon.

Helen Grayeyes is of the Ta’chee'ne clan (on her Mother's side), and the Salt clan (on her Father's side). This is an important distinction in all Native cultures, and is always part of an introduction.

Helen, who is 83 years old, is a traditional Navajo woman. She lives in Blue Gap, Arizona, several miles after the paved road becomes a deep-rutted dirt road. When I visited her, yesterday, that dirt road had become thick with mud - which became challenging even to my Expedition outfitted with Mud tires on the rear. Unfortunately my Expedition is only two-wheel drive. Her younger sister, Alice, was there when I arrived, to translate. Helen only speaks Navajo.

As I walked through the front door, Helen was seated, just to the right of the door's opening. She was wearing traditional clothing, with a colorful scarf over her beautiful gray hair. The features on her face are distinct, as if carved by a master sculptor. Her eyes were of such life, and beauty, that one could not help but to stare, and be soothed.

Helen lives alone. Her days are occupied by herding her sheep, sewing, and weaving traditional rugs on a loom. Alice told me that, each morning, Helen wakes, feeds the dogs, get dressed, then goes for a run along the road, before herding her sheep.

We talked about many things, in general, before getting into specifics. Mostly it was Alice talking - relaying the information that she knows about her sister. She mentioned that there is, at times, a loneliness from living alone, and secluded. But that is not talked about, or even acknowledged to one’s self, in the Navajo culture.

When Alice relayed a question of mine, to Helen, about what it was like growing up traditionally, Helen’s response was, in part, that she regretted not having learned to speak English. She said that, if she had, it would have helped her to better understand the White Man's ways. Helen did not go to school. Instead she remained at home, tending to the sheep, and other domestic chores.

At one point I asked Helen if she was aware of the fact that Man had landed upon the moon. When she answered, yes, I asked what she thought of that. Her response, I found, was quite intriguing - and thought provoking.

Helen Greyeyes’ reaction when asked if she was aware of men landing on the moon.

She said that she disagreed with it - with landing on the moon. Helen said that we should not mess (paraphrasing) with "what is out there”. They should be left alone. The heavens are sacred to the Navajo.

And based upon her response, I made the following statement: Now mankind is attempting to return to the Moon, as well as to Mars - but not as a quest of discovery, but rather, to commercialize both for their assumed mineral wealth.

As the statement was being translated to her, the expression on her face became a very solemn one. After the translation was complete, her voice was still.

Helen, after my statement regarding the commercialization of the Moon, and Mars, was translated to her.

End Part 1…