“Take me for a ride in your Mack Truck
Take me for a ride in your truck, Mack
Take me for a ride, take me for a ride,
Take me for a ride in your Mack Truck…Mack”
From the continuing junkyard series.
While I fully realize that the mature and thoughtful response to all my old car shots would be to sort through them, organize by theme and publish accordingly…
I can’t do it.
Squirrels! Shiny things! Shiny squirrels! And then I’m off again.
If there is a theme going in this current group, I’d have to say “Strong.” These might be wrecks or junkers, but by golly, they are still radiating a feeling of solidness. And, while they’re certainly not pretty, I personally find them ruggedly handsome.
But, then… I’ve always liked the bad boys.
Edgar G. Robinson, anyone? All we are lacking here is a big cigar and it’s gangster movie time. Rico? Is that you?
Not easy to maintain grace under pressure.
And, while this next guy is currently taking a break, it is not difficult to imagine those same taillights racing away down the highway, leaving all the workaday suckers in his rear view mirror.
My current personal favorite shot. I keep staring at it and thinking “Yeah…”
Subtitled: Wabi Sabi Finds Her Bliss in Northern Georgia
Four thousand-plus junked cars spread out over 34 acres. No car newer than a 1972.
Seven miles of trails winding back and forth through those 34 acres. And trees. Trees growing up in and around the car bodies. Piles of leaves and brown pine needles on everything.
It was a brilliantly sunny day and I was worried that I’d be fighting glare and harsh shadows, but the tree cover not only filtered the light, in many cases it provided beautifully soft and dappled patterns. It didn’t interfere with my shots. It enhanced them.
Mood lighting for old cars. Who knew there was a setting for that?
I spent four hours shooting, took several hundred shots and only covered maybe 20% of the grounds.
Still to come: hood ornaments, broken windshields, taillights, and rust. Lots of rust.
Long may you run.
Junkyard, northern Georgia, late October.
Behind the Gateway Lodge in Land ‘O Lakes, Wisconsin.
The Gateway was quite the swanky place back when it was built in the 1930’s. Heavy timbers, a massive fireplace in the main lobby, trophy heads all over the walls–the quintessential hunting lodge in Wisconsin’s north woods. The dining room was huge, with high timbered ceilings and room for a band at one end, the bar dark with leather-upholstered booths. A long list of B-level celebrities stayed there over the years and their autographed black and white photos line the walls. (Trophy heads of a different sort, I think.)
I worked here as a waitress, summers and holidays, from the time I was 16 until I was 21. The Gateway was already in steep decline from its glory days but it was still an adventure and an education for me.
Like Kellerman’s from Dirty Dancing, there was an alternate universe at the resort where the help existed, especially the summer help.
In the kitchen, wait staff quickly learned to fear the chef–a cruel and moody ass. His assistant had a serious speech impediment, so often you could only smile and nod and hope that you had somehow not agreed to bear his love child. Do not piss off Sylvia, the salad dominatrix, or your life could be a living hell.
I will spare you the rest of the stories: how to stack a tray and carry it above your shoulder on one hand, how to smile at rude and boozy patrons, fold napkins into boats and chip candle wax out of the table lights. It was both an adventure and an education.
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Taking a week or so off for adventures of other sorts: a houseboat trip on the Mississippi is next on the Wabi Sabi agenda. Packing all my camera gear for this one.
And meclizine. Lots of meclizine. It is only just now occurring to me that I am not a big on-the-water kind of gal.