Westward Ho! Part 2: Childhood Journeys

Yesterday I mentioned the idea of loading the family up for our own version of the "Great American Vacation," with a cross-country drive taking in the highlights of Americana and roadside kitsch. Although our family never made the coast-to-coast auto trek, we did manage several epic trips, including a couple of drives around the periphery of the old Confederacy, first in 1970 Dodge Dart that leaked oil on the first day home from the dealership, and later in a gargantuan 1972 Ford Gran Torino station wagon. The justification for these roadtrips was always a visit to my dad's older brother, who lived in Houston and worked for NASA. But in reality these excursions gave my history-obsessed parents an excuse to stop at every battlefield, roadside marker, Indian reservation, and restored plantation along the way. And, never in a big hurry to get there, we'd take about three weeks to complete the circle, stopping in southern burgs large and small if they met one simple requirement: they had to have a Holiday Inn.

In the era before myriad lodging franchises screamed at motorists from interstate billboards, one could rely on only a couple of national franchises or countless - and for my mother, unpredictable - "mom and pop" motels. Thanks to Memphis innovator Kemmons Wilson, Holiday Inns offered my mother predictability, cleanliness, easy advance booking, and a "kids stay free" policy, which wasn't always the case back then. Holiday Inn also provided one of the great moments in our family lore, an event still laughed about today. On our first trip to Houston in 1970, we had booked a room at a Holiday Inn in New Orleans. Remember the old Holiday Inn signs like the one pictured above on the Time cover featuring Kemmons Wilson? As we pulled into the motel we looked up to find the white message section of the sign heralding our arrival in large red letters: "Welcome Mr. and Mrs. Crowson."

For the outgoing leg of the journey we would hug the coast on old Route 17, stopping in Wilmington, Charleston, Savannah, and St. Augustine, until turning inland (for our 1975 trip) to make the necessary pilgrimage to Disney World, then in its infancy. Then we'd head for the Gulf Coast, taking in Mobile, Biloxi, and New Orleans before pushing on to Houston. Aside from trips to the Johnson Space Center, the Astrodome, and Galveston, all I remember of Houston is heat, humidity, and my cousin's vile tempered black cat.

After a week of Houston we'd backtrack to New Orleans (always one of my father's favorite cities) then turn north onto I-55, bound for Memphis. With detours to "attractions" along the Mississippi, including a full day in Vicksburg enjoying our own Civil "War-gasm" (to borrow Tony Horwitz's term from Confederates in the Attic), the drive to Memphis would take two full days. (I should point out that we never got close to the garish gates of Graceland because my parents loathed Elvis. Their disdain for "the King" doubtless influenced me: I still think he was one of the most over-rated "stars" in the pantheon of post-war pop culture. I'm convinced that his death in 1977 did more to preserve his long-term reputation and rescue his image from the self-caricaturization that was already defining his public appearances.)

From Memphis we'd turn back to the east, passing through Nashville as quickly as possible to avoid any exposure to country music, detouring through Chattanooga to "see Rock City," Lookout Mountain, and, of course, the local Civil War sites. Then on to Gatlinburg, through the Smokies to Cherokee, Asheville (still one of my favorite cities), and a final sprint across North Carolina to Rocky Mount, where we'd turn northward on I-95 briefly before staggering back into Tidewater. Oddly, I can still remember returning to knee-high grass and a hot, stale house. Isn't it funny the things that can stick with us decades later - and we can't remember what we had for lunch yesterday. But that's one of the reasons why I want our family to embark on this kind of trip next year, so when my kids are adults they'll possess the same kinds of memories that so often define one's childhood. I also think it's important for them to see as much of the country as possible. That rationale was certainly an important part of my parents' thinking and obviously influenced my development and outlook.

Echinacea - Purple Cone Flowers

Once again, Madison Square Park yields some beautiful flowers. You'll recall that the Spring had featured tulips and allium. Now wearing its midsummer colors, the Park's beds are dominated by hostas, hydrangea, and these echinacea (or purple cone flowers). I find the purple cone flowers - and the similar black-eyed susans - are among my summer favorites . . . certainly more than the ubiquitous day-lillies. It was my lucky day to spot this butterfly (a "Red Admiral"?) enjoying one of the echinacea.

I'm still hoping to see some gerbera daisies, perhaps summer-blooming roses, and poppies. I know that in Central Park and up in Riverside Park one can find Delphinium, Digitalis and Hollyhocks, all of which are favorite summer bloomers. (When I lived in the South I would venture into forests to find Jack-in-the-Pulpit, Trillium, and numerous other wildflowers. I miss those!)

Westward Ho! - Thoughts on the "Great American Vacation"

It's high summer in New York City which means tourists in Central Park, the Philharmonic in the Park, Shakespeare in the Park, and daycamp kids in the Park. But with August in view I'm starting to get that itch . . . that urge to pack the wife and kids in the car and drive westward.

For years I've had this vision - doubtless romanticized and enlarged in scope by travel literature - of taking the mythic "great American vacation." We would drive across I-80 or I-40, stopping to see the remnants of the kitsch Americana once ubiquitous along our pre-interstate highways. "The World's Largest Bison," numerous fiberglass "muffler men," and Paul Bunyan statues beckon, urging us to eschew the sterile interstates for an older network of arteries that includes remnants of the old Lincoln Highway and Route 66. Devil's Tower, Mount Rushmore, Yellowstone, the Corn Palace, Little Big Horn, and the Tetons call to us from the northern plains and the approaches to the Rockies. As silly as it must seem, we need to experience "Carhenge" in Nebraska. I want my kids to walk in the ruts carved by wagons along the Oregon Trail, to see the route traveled by Lewis and Clark, and experience the vastness of the trans-Mississippi West.

It won't happen this summer, but 2008 may be the year for the "Trip." I'm especially anxious to head west because so many areas are being stripped of their timber and coal resources, or they're being paved over thanks to the homogenizing advance of "sprawl." Sure, pundits and scholars have been trumpeting the West's demise as a distinct region since Horace Greeley urged Americans to move westward in the 19th century. Historian Frederick Jackson Turner, concluding that westward migrations had provided an outlet for American energy and a lab for America's democratic experiment, proclaimed the closing of the frontier in 1893 and inspired a generation of scholars to speculate about our country's fate. Although Turner's "frontier thesis" has been largely discredited as a too simplistic means of explaining the republic's evolution, one has to wonder if a residual "pull" of the West still inspires travelers. Even with its myriad problems, for example, California still draws hordes of people trying to realize the elusive "American Dream." Even more compelling is the attraction of Las Vegas, one of the fastest growing cities in the U.S.

But this isn't the West I want my family to experience. My boys in particular need to wade into that "openness," in the way they might wade into the surf at Coney Island, while there's some of it left that hasn't been paved over or stripped bare. I'm still trying to decide if we'll spend our nights at cheap motels or do some "car camping," stopping at campsites and pitching a family tent. Several friends have tried the camping route for vacations, so I'll have to survey them for obvious do's and don'ts before setting out.

Since watching Robin Williams in the movie "RV," my kids have been suggesting that we should rent an RV and hit the road. I refuse to get one of the full-size vehicles like the ones featured in the movie, but there are some smaller, more manageable options that one can rent through CruiseAmerica.com. That might be a viable option too! In fact, there's a small part of me that would love to just drop out for about six months and drive around the country. I know, I know . . . this is the sort of thing retirees do. My parents' neighbors spent their retirement years driving a Winnebago around America until they were to old to go anymore. My father rolled his eyes over their decision. But I'd bet a pile of money that their retirement was far more rewarding and satisfying than his. So wouldn't it be even more fun to try this while we and the kids are still young enough to do it without killing ourselves? If we make any decisions, I'll let everyone know!

Perpetuating the Climate of Politicized Ignorance

From the New York Times:

WASHINGTON, July 10 — Former Surgeon General Richard H. Carmona told a Congressional panel Tuesday that top Bush administration officials repeatedly tried to weaken or suppress important public health reports because of political considerations. The administration, Dr. Carmona said, would not allow him to speak or issue reports about stem cells, emergency contraception, sex education, or prison, mental and global health issues. Top officials delayed for years and tried to “water down” a landmark report on secondhand smoke, he said. . . .

Dr. Carmona said he was ordered to mention President Bush three times on every page of his speeches. He also said he was asked to make speeches to support Republican political candidates and to attend political briefings.

And administration officials even discouraged him from attending the Special Olympics because, he said, of that charitable organization’s longtime ties to a “prominent family” that he refused to name. “I was specifically told by a senior person, ‘Why would you want to help those people?’ ” Dr. Carmona said. The Special Olympics is one of the nation’s premier charitable organizations to benefit disabled people, and the Kennedys have long been deeply involved in it. . . .

Dr. Carmona is one of a growing list of present and former administration officials to charge that politics often trumped science within what had previously been largely
nonpartisan government health and scientific agencies. . . .

In his testimony, Dr. Carmona said that at first he was so politically naïve that he
had little idea how inappropriate the administration’s actions were. He eventually consulted six previous surgeons general, Republican and Democratic, and all agreed, he said, that he faced more political interference than they had.

On issue after issue, Dr. Carmona said, the administration made decisions about important public health issues based solely on political considerations, not scientific ones. “I was told to stay away from those because we’ve already decided which way we want to go,” Dr. Carmona said. He described attending a meeting of top officials in which the subject of global warming was discussed. The officials concluded that global warming was a liberal cause and dismissed it, he said.

Just further proof that the Bush administration has used politics to trump reason. We're already familiar with the White House's refusal to address the stem cell issue. But most infuriating here is the administration's dismissal of the Special Olympics program simply because the Kennedy family plays a prominent role in this charity. How can one's political prejudices overshadow the great work of Special Olympics?? This behavior only underscores further the climate of politicized ignorance that defines the Bush administration at every level and on every issue. Moreover, its assault on the supposed independence of the Surgeon General's position merely confirms the administration's documented disdain for the health and welfare of American citizens. "The problem with this approach is that in public health, as in a democracy, there is nothing worse than ignoring science, or marginalizing the voice of science for reasons driven by changing political winds. The job of surgeon general is to be the doctor of the nation, not the doctor of a political party," Carmona added. The revelation that administration officials even censored Carmona's speeches and ordered him to remain silent on certain issues again highlights the eery parallel between the Bush White House and the historical model of the nascent fascist state. Surveying the work of this administration, Hitler would be proud. As Americans, however, we should be outraged and ashamed.

Zzzzzzzz

I've been tired and out of sorts for several weeks now . . . just not feeling normal, which must be an oxymoron for a person diagnosed with clinical depression. No doubt the sudden death of my mother-in-law has exacerbated my mood. The heat and humidity don't help either. I also think part of my problem may be the aftermath of a visit to my parents' home in Virginia.

I enjoy visiting but the environment down there is just too depressing. The auto-crazy, mall-centric life seems so sterile now. Having been away from the land of sprawl for ten years, I can now see why critics have so thoroughly discounted suburbia as a suitable living arrangement for most humans. Moreover, the degree to which I encountered people so conservative and provincial in their outlook, as well as so out of touch with the nation's beleaguered state, is bewildering. And this doesn't even begin to address how wasteful our society has become in its attempts to maintain that "American Dream." Neither fully urban nor entirely rural, the decentralized life of exurbia also precipitates a depressive state borne of mobility issues, status anxiety, and isolation. If I had to live that way for very long, I'd shrivel up and waste away, which is essentially what my parents are doing. In the city I usually feel challenged, jostled, awake. But even that hasn't been enough of late.

Do I turn back to meds to stabilize the moods? Change my diet (unhealthy at best right now)? Exercise more? Vitamins? Sleep more? Sleep less? My preschool photo, above, pretty much sums it up. I was obviously scared and unhappy when the photo was taken in 1968.

Family Histories

Sitting with our extended family on July 4th, listening to the stories about life on the Eastern Shore going back to the 1930s, I started thinking about the ways in which families preserve their history - whether through oral tradition or written records. Historians, of course, learn to layer their analyses of the past with as much documentation as possible. For example, when I was a political historian at the University of Tennessee I had to support my work with data from myriad sources: newspapers, first-person accounts, voting records, governmental records, and a selection of secondary sources. From that mass of information one would try to distill the essence of an event or period and draw appropriate conclusions.

But unless one is the scion of a prominent family for which there are voluminous records, how does the average person interpret the often spotty family history beyond the bare-bones data provided by genealogical records? Moreover, in the case of exposure to oral histories, to what extent does one accept the veracity of that information and thereafter pass it along to children and grandchildren as family gospel? Has one's family history been cleaned up, whitewashed, or sanitized for our protection, with the uglier chapters and characters air-brushed from the picture like a doctored Soviet photograph?

Sure, these are weighty questions to ponder at a family reunion. Still, I found them intriguing given some family members' genealogical bent. My mother, for example, has used her retirement to probe the genealogical records to support her membership in the DAR, the United Daughters of the Confederacy (UDC), and, more recently, the Jamestowne Society. It turns out we're lucky enough to have a fairly colorful family history that includes a panoply of Revolutionary and Civil War soldiers, Confederate politicians, slave owners, tobacco planters, and even a few eccentrics. My father's family tended to be a more staid and bookish lot, with plenty of ministers, school teachers, and carpenters filling out the ranks. (Naturally, I'm most interested in the eccentrics, since I'll doubtless fall into that category when my behavior is recalled decades from now.)

In the end, I was heartened by the brutal honesty of some of the stories told on July 4th. Most I had heard before, but I was gladdened to hear some details corroborated by other family members. All agreed, for example, that a long-deceased Uncle Lloyd was as racist as the day is long. His claim to notorious family fame was his practice of lending money to friends and family at usurious rates of interest. Over the years my father has often told the story of a day in the 1950s when his grandfather Charles and Uncle Lloyd sat on the porch chatting. Looking across a wide expanse of fields at the comfortable cottages of some African-American residents, Lloyd turned to Charles, my great-grandfather, and remarked in disgust, "Charlie, those n-----s have houses as nice as yours and mine." To my father, who has never tolerated even the merest hint of racism, this was doubtless a cautionary tale for the rest of us. Uncle Lloyd was held up as the example of how not to conduct oneself as a member of the family.

Surveying the cast of characters in our family, Uncle Lloyd seems to be the mean-spirited anomaly, if the stories are to be believed. Sure, as a southern clan wed to the land our family carries the baggage of slavery and racism. It would be unrealistic to suggest otherwise. But given the liberal outlook of much of the family today, I'd like to believe that we've at least learned from that experience and evolved in our outlook. That's certainly the legacy I'm going to try and pass on to my sons.

(Photo info: The first photo shows a group of children in the village of Justisville, VA, circa 1935. My father, age 5, is in the front row, far left. The second photo is my mother at 16, taken in 1951. Photo #3 is me in my father's lap, with my grandfather and grandmother flanking us. This was taken about 1968, when I was 4. The final photo shows my grandmother and grandfather with my father, left, his older brother, center, and younger brother, right. Probably taken around 1938. )

More from the Family Archives

Digging through the archive of family photos I came across these gems from when I was 2 and 2 1/2. The funny thing about both photos is that 1) my mother saved both of those outfits and still has them, and 2) both the wing chair and the love seat are sitting in the same locations in my parents' home - 41 years later! Can you believe it?!

Although many things have changed in the house over the years, the formal living room, in terms of its furniture, has changed little in four decades. They've simply added oriental rugs to replace the green carpet shown in the photos. But don't fret that they might have thrown out the old rugs; they were recycled and placed in an extra second floor den where they will doubtless lie until my parents are gone and the house is sold.

My boys always get a kick out of these pictures because they just can't imagine that I could have been this young or this small. I look at them and feel really old.

A Fishy Fourth

On July 4th our family - including several cousins, an aunt and uncle, and several small boys that no one wants to claim - converges on Virginia's "Eastern Shore" for a day of visiting and over-eating. If you're not familiar with this area, think of the lower portion of the Delmarva peninsula. If that doesn't jog your memory, you might recall the story of Misty the pony, and her place in the lore of Chincoteague and Assateague Islands. Portions of our family - including Drummonds, Silverthornes, Kilmons, Rues, and Justises - have called Accomac County home since the 1630s. So for us, the annual return is also about returning to one's roots in America, a perfect raison d'etre for our July 4th reunion. (This house, built at the beginning of the 20th century by my great-grandfather, was home to my grandmother and grandfather from the 1960s to the 90s. The wide front porch had a glider at the left end and a porch swing to the right. A daybed under the left window was my father's favorite post-lunch napping spot. Behind the right window there's a parlor with french doors. I remember spending long summer nights here, sweltering in the heat as large fans circulated the humid air.)

The high point of our 4th is a visit to the little Methodist church in which my father was baptised. For about 120 years the congregation has held a seafood feast to celebrate the occasion. We dine on crab cakes, clam fritters, ham, chicken, baked beans, cornbread, and lots of iced tea. (Too enamored with the crab cakes and fritters, I always eschew the salad, dinner rolls and mac-n-cheese.) Then we retreat to the huge porch of a cousin's large, turreted Victorian home in town and spend the afternoon chatting and dozing. Sometimes we take a drive around the countryside, pointing out the various homes and burial grounds that form the tapestry of our family's history in the area.

The town of Parksley itself is quite interesting. Although there are many communities on the Shore that trace their origins to the 17th and 18th centuries, this town was founded when the railroad came through the area in the 1880s. Until the early 1960s this was the primary lifeline for the community. Numerous family members boarded trains here to seek their fortunes elsewhere . . . and some returned at the end of their days to lie in the family plot at the town cemetery. When the Shore was connected to Virginia Beach and the mainland by bridge in 1964, the railroad quickly lost its position of importance. Today the rusty tracks do little more than bisect the Shore, paralleling Rt. 13 most of the way. The little stations that once dotted the route have either been demolished or converted to other uses. The town has at least tried to capitalize on its rail-centric past by starting a railway museum complete with old cars, including some cabooses and some beautiful Pullman cars. This July 4th as we sat on the porch just across the street from the museum and rails, my father and his younger brother recounted occasions when they would walk into town from their little hamlet back on the Bay to greet family members arriving by train.

Happy 10th Internet Anniversary

Ten years ago today I was surfing on one of Match.com's sites and found a personal that sounded interesting. I sent an email to this woman . . . and ten years later we're married (for nine years) with two kids and a cat. Yes, we were one of the early Internet dating success stories! My family still find it odd that I would have chosen a website as the place to meet a potential spouse . . . they even rolled their eyes and shook their heads on July 4th as I related the story to a cousin who hadn't heard the details.

It really was an amazing story, particularly when one realizes how many of these Internet relationships break down with those first face-to-face meetings. We corresponded constantly for a week, writing long missives in which we revealed our likes and dislikes, hopes and dreams, and idiosyncrasies. At that point we figured we should take it to the next level: phone. So we started on the phone, and the chemistry that had developed through emails continued. We also exchanged photos at this point, since neither had posted a photo online. Over several weeks we ran up a ridiculous long distance bill. (I was teaching in Tennessee; she lived in New York City.)

Finally, by the end of July we knew we had to meet. So I booked an early August flight to the Big Apple and she found a place for me to stay near her office in lower Manhattan. Thankfully I had a teaching schedule that allowed long weekends. I flew up on a Friday and she met me at LaGuardia. When I walked up the ramp and saw her waiting in a yellow floral dress, her blond hair highlighted with a bluish-green streak down one side, I knew . . . and she knew, that this was it. We came up for air on Monday and I flew back to Tennessee. For the next eight months I flew to NYC at least one weekend a month and she visited Tennessee a couple of times. We were married at the end of May 98, eleven months after those first emails.

Not surprisingly, email and the Internet have always been a focal point in our relationship. In those months before our marriage we continued to email constantly - although we were still talking on the phone each night - and we would send IM's throughout each day. Even now, we'll IM each other during the day, often taking care of important stuff that we just wouldn't have time to tackle with the kids around. My parents can roll their eyes and shake their heads in amused wonderment, but it works. And ten years on, it's a relationship that continues to evolve - with a little help from the Internet each day.

G.I. Ed

Over the years my father has created a pretty substantial archives of family photos, including old black and white snapshots from the 30s and 40s, and even some tintype images from the 19th century. Many of the oldest images he has even scanned and printed to share with widely scattered family members via email. His indexing system would make an archivist at the Library of Congress proud . . . but that's no surprise given his background as an overly anal accountant. (Although I have professional training as a historian and archivist, I'm afraid I must have skipped the line when they handed out the accountant's genes.)

While digging through some of his numerous flash drives and an external hard drive last week, I ran across some humorous photos of his time in the army. He was drafted during the Korean conflict and, thanks to high test scores, spent his entire time in the U.S. Army taking courses for the Signal Corps. He even got to work on some of the early mobile radar systems. Nevertheless, while he likes to talk about his brief stint in the army, particularly the period during which he was stationed at Fort Monmouth, NJ, close to New York City, he rarely has anything nice to say about the experience itself. Given his independent character - and a stubbornness that persists to this day - I'm not surprised! Unlike me, he never would have voluntarily chosen to attend a school like the Virginia Military Institute (VMI), which gave me four "fun-filled" years from which I'm probably still recovering twenty years later. Ed took his two years in the army and never looked back.

This second image, which I haven't seen in a few years, was always a favorite as a kid, primarily because I never could imagine my father riding a scooter. It just didn't mesh with his rather staid accountant's personality. Remember all of those Monty Python jokes about boring "chartered accountants" (the Brit equivalent of our CPA's)? I always thought my dad fit into that category. Time has revealed that he did have a slightly wild streak . . . although it's safe to say that a significant portion of my geek credentials were inherited from him! This photo gave me hope that for at least a brief moment in his early 20s my father was at least slightly cool.

Finally, here's an image of my father with his older brother, who had volunteered for Korea at the start of the war. I don't know the circumstances behind this 1952 meeting, but I'm guessing that they were both on leave and hooked up in El Paso for some fun. (My dad was stationed at Fort Bliss.) By the way, don't you just love the clothing of the 1950s!? I love the cut of the pants.

Back to the Apple

Tomorrow I drive back to New York City with my younger son and I have to say - honestly - that I'll be happy to return to the noise and faster pace. As I've said before, my biggest complaint about living/visiting in the suburbs is the necessity of getting in a car and driving somewhere to get anything! I love the "walkability" of New York and the accessibility of just about everything. Here, one couldn't walk anywhere if one wanted to. I see people walking at the mall near my parents' home and around the neighborhood in which they live . . . but they're never walking to get somewhere. As James Howard Kunstler pointed out in his seminal The Geography of Nowhere, only the poorest people walk in the land of sprawl, because they can afford neither a car nor public transportation.

I'll leave you with this photo of me at age 6, February 1970. Yes, I look pretty goofy, back in the days when little boys wore short pants with coat and tie in warm weather. When my wife looks at this picture she remarks that "it explains a lot" about my personality. How could my parents have let a photographer pose me like this?

"Just don't buy anything 'Made in China.' "

Earlier today I made the requisite visit to Wal-Mart and as usual I had mixed feelings about the trip. This time, as I wandered in the "Health and Beauty" section looking for cheap shampoo and anti-perspirant, I encountered a group of elderly customers, pawing the merchandise looking for deodorant. As they chatted, I heard one woman admonish the others, "Now remember, I don't want to buy anything 'Made in China.' " I barely suppressed a laugh and stifled the urge to reply, "Honey, you're in Wal-Mart; nearly everything in here was manufactured in China!" In the end, my son and I managed to wander the aisles and make it to the checkout lines with only four items . . . a miracle for Wal-Mart, where one is tempted by so much "stuff." You'll notice in one photo that yes, we're back in the land of NASCAR. I have never seen so much junk devoted to guys driving cars in circles. I have yet to figure out the sport's appeal.

Having covered the subject in other posts, I won't argue over the problems associated with the Wal-Mart phenomenon. I will note, however, that surveying the crowd and its purchases, one can understand the appeal of Wal-Mart. Given the diminished purchasing power of low-wage Americans, Sam Walton's empire seems a necessary evil. One just wishes that Wal-Mart didn't behave in such a monolithic fashion, particularly with regard to holding down wages, limiting access to health insurance, and preventing unionization of its workforce.

Of course, there were cameras everywhere, no doubt monitoring both customers and "associates." There's probably a "no photos in the store" rule, so I snapped these clandestinely, keeping the camera hidden and snapping only when employees weren't obviously close. Knowing Wal-Mart and its notorious security division (in the news over the last year for its practice of investigating employees, including executives) I would probably be escorted from the store if discovered taking pictures.

Bacon's Castle, Virginia

Yesterday we visited Bacon's Castle, a short drive from my family's house and across the James River from Jamestowne and other early American settlements. A favorite destination for the Sunday drives of my childhood, the "Castle," constructed in 1665, represents one of my first encounters with history and doubtless played a role in my path to becoming a historian. I remember as a child hearing stories about how the house was haunted . . . for example, by the ghost of Nathaniel Bacon, leader of Bacon's Rebellion (1676). The estate is now owned by the Association for the Preservation of Virginia Antiquities and includes beautiful - albeit simple - gardens that are based on print and archaeological evidence. In an area full of colonial-era structures, including those at Jamestowne and Williamsburg and numerous plantation houses, Bacon's Castle is unique architecturally. The chimney's, for example, reflect the influence of Elizabethan-era styles. I don't recall the details behind its construction, but one wonders how a 1665 building ended up looking like a structure built in 1565. Today we're off to Jamestowne to see what's been done to celebrate the 400th anniversary of the founding of Virginia. (By the way, the flowers are hollyhocks, among my favorites.)

Thursday Meme: Has American Culture Ruined You?

No surprise here! I'm off to Virginia and the Red States tomorrow. Pray for my soul in case I'm ambushed by either a right wing militia or wandering band of pentecostals.

You Have Not Been Ruined by American Culture

You're nothing like the typical American. In fact, you may not be American at all. You have a broad view of the world, and you're very well informed. And while you certainly have been influenced by American culture (who hasn't?), it's not your primary influence. You take a more global philosophy with your politics, taste, and life. And you're always expanding and revising what you believe.

Has American Culture Ruined You?

"Nixonian Stonewalling"

From The New York Times today:

WASHINGTON (AP) -- President Bush, moving toward a constitutional showdown with Congress, asserted executive privilege Thursday and rejected lawmakers' demands for documents that could shed light on the firings of federal prosecutors. Bush's attorney told Congress the White House would not turn over subpoenaed documents for former presidential counsel Harriet Miers and former political director Sara Taylor. In reaction, Senate Judiciary Chairman Patrick Leahy accused the administration of shifting "into Nixonian stonewalling" and revealing "disdain for our system of checks and balances."

The Bush administration's refusal to turn over documents or allow Harriet Miers to testify is tantamount to an admission of guilt. Moreover, Senator Leahy is entirely correct when he suggests that the Bush administration's actions are analogous to the tactics of Nixon during the Watergate scandal. The doctrine of "executive privilege," which has always rested on a shaky legal foundation, is merely a tool employed by the Bush White House to avoid revealing potentially damning evidence. And as for the "disdain for our system of checks and balances," Bush and his cronies have long been explicit in their contempt for Constitutionally-defined limitations on executive power.

With no issues of national security at stake in the fight over federal prosecutors, the Bush administration simply must allow some degree of transparency to preserve Americans' faith in the morality of their government. Unfortunately, Bush and his lap dogs have given the nation a thoroughly amoral government in which the only principle to which there is signal loyalty is the doctrine of power and its aggrandizement. The decisions yielding the fraudulent war in Iraq notwithstanding, the conduct of the White House and attorney general in this case are worthy of the most thorough investigation and articles of impeachment for the president and vice president. (And to think we almost had Harriet Miers as a member of the U.S. Supreme Court. I think we really dodged a bullet on that one!)

Building Restorations

Yesterday I mentioned that in Manhattan - unlike many areas in suburbia - buildings are more often refurbished and restored than torn down. This is particularly true when one is working in an architecturally significant section of the city in which razing a landmark structure in favor of a glass and steel tower would only invite controversy and public outrage. More sensitive developers have realized that by gutting an existing but blighted architectural gem, especially one that has been under-utilized or semi-derelict for years, they can preserve the aesthetic continuity of a neighborhood while banking some goodwill among residents and potential patrons.

On 6th Avenue, for example, from about 18th to 23rd Street, there's an old retail district defined by some architectural beauties that date to the late 19th century. When new they often housed large, multi-floored department stores, one of the mercantile innovations of an era that gave us Montgomery Ward and Sears & Roebuck. Now quite a few have been rescued and redeveloped. Who cares if a model of Victorian design now houses an Old Navy, Bed Bath & Beyond, and a Marshall's? They were constructed originally to house stores and they're certainly preferable to the characterless boxes of the strip mall or bland storefronts of the average mall! (There's a section of Broadway from approximately Ninth Street to Madison Square and the Flatiron Building that is very similar to this part of 6th Avenue. Often referred to as the "Ladies" Mile" because of its retail focus, this area was a focal point of Gilded Age New York . . . the city seen in the works of Edith Wharton, for example.)

I find it interesting how many of these buildings exist as organic structures: they evolve, enjoy good times, fall into disrepair and neglect, are rescued, restored, and rejoin the vibrant life of the city in life cycle that in some cases spans well over 100 years. All too often, buildings in suburbia are bulldozed within less than 20 years of their construction. But this harsh reality isn't surprising when one considers how little thought went into their design. In contrast, this building on 6th Avenue has been used for retail pursuits for more than a century. Most recently its ground floor held shoe and clothing stores, while its rather sad looking upper floors apparently housed a rabbit warren of odd offices and apartments. A couple of years ago a board went up outside the building displaying a developer's plans to return the structure to its Victorian splendor, including restoration of two gold domes that anchored the north and south corners of the facade. Who knew the building had gold domes? I guess at some point several decades ago they had fallen into such a derelict state that they had been removed altogether. Now the restoration is nearly complete. And like so many New York buildings, this will be used for a combination of retail and residential interests. (I suspect that the condos will be astronomically priced, given the skyrocketing prices for housing stock in Chelsea. I think a duplex that includes one of the turreted rooms under the domes would make a nice home studio!)

"Affluenza" and My Red State Adventure

"Dissatisfaction itself becomes a commodity as soon as the economy of affluence develops the capacity to process boredom." Guy Debord, Society of the Spectacle

This Friday I drive down to Virginia for an eight-day visit with the parents and other family members, the first time I've been South since last Thanksgiving. Living in the petri dish that is New York City, I'm always struck by the rapidity of change in the landscape once one enters suburbia.

Sure, New York City changes quickly too: Business start and fail in rapid fire order and slowly but surely some of the institutions most often associated with the exurban milieu creep into the Manhattan landscape. We finally have Olive Garden, Hooters, Red Lobster, Outback and, I believe, Applebee's. Mind you, Manhattanites don't actually patronize these establishments; they were imported for the tourist trade. When scores of waddling visitors from Ohio or Texas are disgorged from their air-conditioned buses, they want to be pleasantly surprised by the realization that there will be no surprises. Rather than take a chance on New York's innumerable non-chain restaurants, tourists prefer the predictable. And after a full day of wandering around no more than a 10-block area from Times Square to Rockefeller Center, taking in the Empire State Building and Madame Tussuad's Wax Museum, they crave the homogeneity that defines their non-vacation lives.

Frankly, it's this homogeneity that scares me a little when I leave New York. Between the cretinization of the media and the paralyzing sameness of our consumer culture, it's not surprising that so many Americans, experiencing something of an existential meltdown, have either run shrieking into the arms of the religious right or immersed themselves fully in the orgiastic worship of the commodity.

Affluenza: The All-Consuming Epidemic defines the condition of "affluenza" in almost medical terms, as "a painful, contagious, socially-transmitted condition of overload, debt, anxiety, and waste resulting from the dogged pursuit of more." And 99.99% of Americans, myself included, suffer from this disease. My weird perspective on this problem is doubtless skewed by the often surreal nature of living in New York City. But when I drive into Virginia - indeed, when I confront the prospect of having to drive everywhere for everything - I just find the obsession with material gain altogether more tangible.

And this brings me back to that theme of rapid change, because I'm invariably shocked at the degree to which our farms, forests, and wetlands are bulldozed to make way for yet more "big box" retailers and strip malls. At least in New York City developers largely recycle and reuse the extant building stock. All too often in suburbia, this is not the case. For example, near my parents' home, there's a vacant Lowe's sitting not more than a mile from a brand new Lowe's, the newer site having been secured because it promised a bigger parking lot and greater square footage. The vacant Lowe's has been sitting for at least three years, and it's just one example among many in that area.

I love visiting my family . . . but I don't think I could live in that landscape of exit ramps, feeder roads and vast parking lots again. Conversely, my family - and most Americans - would never consent to live in Manhattan. Nevertheless, New York City has been cited as one of the "greenest" cities in the U.S., in part because of the "mixed use" of land by retail and residential entities and the propensity of residents to walk or take public transportation.

One of my plans for this visit to Virginia is a day of snapping photos of the worst examples of sprawl. Given the economic growth around my parents' home, examples will not be hard to find. I'll share the results here!

"The loudest sound in the land was the oink and grunt of private hoggishness;
this was the age of the slob." William V. Shannon, on life in the Eisenhower years

Fire Escape Redux

I know, I know . . . I've painted fire escapes before and posted them to this blog. Like water towers and roof gardens, they're ubiquitous features of New York City architectural landscape and I do enjoy photographing and painting them. Particularly in older buildings like this example on Bond Street at Broadway, they add a nice angular geometry to an already interesting structure. And, in another reflection of "first principles" in my artistic mind, the fire escape acts as a great filter for the light, changing the nature of the image entirely. The carved faces which frame all of the windows on this very large building - probably 1870s or 1880s given the history of development along this section of Broadway - lend it extra character in an area often defined architecturally by neo-classical facades.

Of course, I always wonder if anyone has actually had to use them as an escape route or, in the days before air-conditioning, slept on them to escape the oppressive heat of a stifling apartment. (In this context, I'm always reminded of the 1938 "Heatspell" picture, shown left, by noted photographer Weegee.)

As always, I'm unhappy with the quality of the scan in terms of accurate color reproduction. Still don't know what to do about that issue.

And to think that I was worried about getting a paltry PG rating!

Mingle² - Online Dating

Gay Pride

The largest Gay Pride parade in the world ends about a block from my doorstep here in Greenwich Village, and we're just around the corner from Sheridan Square and the site of the famous June 1969 Stonewall Riots, considered a watershed event in the gay rights movement. To observe that there is a "gay presence" in our neighborhood would be an understatement. Gay and lesbian residents in the West Village are as much a part of the heterogeneous fabric of our community as anyone else . . . African Americans, Hispanics, Asians, or fat WASPs like me. Nearly 40 years after Stonewall, "gay pride" is a daily cause célèbre in our neighborhood, woven into the very fabric of our lives. Life in the West Village - albeit not without its tensions and hot button political issues - reveals just how far our society has come since Stonewall.

Still, for most of America, this is an exception rather than the rule. The popularity of "Will and Grace" or other gay media figures notwithstanding, gay pride in many communities remains a clandestine affair because of the fear of persecution borne of bigotry and intolerance. Religious conservatives in particular still love to rail against the homosexual community, scapegoating it for society's promiscuity, AIDS, alcoholism, violent crime, and just about any other "ill" one can identify in the U.S. When Jerry Falwell suggested that 9/11 was God's punishment for a "sinful" America, he included homosexuals in an enumeration of our sins. Although the front lines in the gay rights movement currently focus on the issues of gay marriage and domestic partnerships with their attendant legal ramifications, for many gay and lesbian Americans, life hasn't progressed much beyond 1969 . . . which brings me back to the issue of the annual Pride Parade in New York City.

Officially the parade is a celebration of Stonewall and the significant gains made since that example of civil disobedience. Unfortunately, the parade itself has degenerated into a Mardis Gras-like orgy of irresponsible behavior. The vast majority of groups marching to Christopher Street take the Pride Parade as an opportunity to participate in the public life of the community, celebrate the significance of Stonewall, and/or support friends and family affected by the gay rights movement and its issues. Unfortunately, there are also numerous participants who assume the occasion gives them a license to be rude or engage in behaviors just not acceptable on city streets, whether the day is about gay, straight, or whatever. Although parade organizers doubtless want to allow participants to express themselves and their "pride" as openly as possible, I don't think my 7 and 8-year old boys need to see a phalanx of scantily clad men dressed to look like penises and hairy scrotums . . . or the drag queen dressed like Marie Antoinette sporting a towering 18th-century French-like wig constructed from tampons.

It's this kind of behavior that has prompted many of our gay and lesbian neighbors - people who have been "out" and "proud" for decades and understand the historic significance of Stonewall - to pack up and leave for the weekend. One friend derisively refers to the parade as "amateur night" because it attracts revelers who are "gay for a day" but have no understanding of the context of the gay rights movement in a post-Stonewall society.

As an outside observer familiar with the movement's issues - and the charges leveled against it by conservatives - I have to conclude that the Pride Parade is detrimental to the success of the larger movement. Film crews from some of the hate-mongering groups in this country attend the parade just so they can "confirm" what they've been preaching from their pulpits for decades. They select the most controversial elements of the spectacle, pull them from the context of the larger event, and use these vignettes in their propaganda campaign to incite homophobia in those media markets that have not experienced the effects of Stonewall and the mainstreaming of gay and lesbian society.

Since the 1960s spokespersons for the gay rights movement have justifiably drawn parallels between their cause and that of African Americans in the civil rights movement. Yet what if some of those marching with Dr. King in Alabama had donned minstrel costumes or pantomimed the Hollywood stereotypes of the day in an effort to draw attention to their actions? Would so many Americans have recognized the justness of their cause or accepted the moral leadership of Dr. King? One suspects that civil rights leaders would have very quickly recognized the disconnect in such tactics and moved to preserve the dignity of their marches. Organizers of the Pride Parade in New York City need to do the same, recognizing the seriousness of their cause while still celebrating the progress made since 1969. And, by toning down some of the more sexually overt behavior of the occasion, they'll likely succeed in restoring the support of those older members of the gay and lesbian community who can actually remember Stonewall (or even participated in the event) but feel alienated by the current "Carnivale" character of the parade.