The Eclipse

Columbus, MS

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On May 30, 1984 there was a solar eclipse in Columbus, Mississippi. Pinhole viewers were made to safely see the moon gradually block the sun. Yes the daylight got dimmer, but what I remember most was the shadows.

Any light that filtered through the leaves landed as arcs on ground or wall. No longer were shadows shaped like the objects that blocked sunlight. Millions of arcs that perfectly presented the amount sun left uncovered by the moon replaced them. I’ve never forgotten that.

On August 21, 2017 there was a solar eclipse in Baltimore, Maryland. I couldn’t wait to see the shadow phenomenon again. A pinhole viewer was made, but the star of the day was going to be the shadows again. But a volatile line of thunderstorms blew up above. Beyond dimmer daylight, the eclipse hardly appeared to happen.

There are a lot of places I remember from when I was a kid. Much of my work as a photographer has been re-seeing those memories. Soon I’ll be returning to the sources of many of these moments. I’m excited to see what has changed, or never really existed in the first place.

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I remember the path through the woods behind our house. There was a main one and some side routes. It was wide enough for the occasional utility truck or for walking three wide. It led to all the spots I enjoyed being alone in the woods; places with good vantage points or places completely hidden. The path connected our house to two others at each end.

Kudzu can grow a foot a day (or so I believed). Anything left next to a patch would be engulfed by week’s end. I believed I could see it growing if I watched it long enough. It was terrifying. We have other vines that are equally prolific where I live now. I am still scared of being overtaken by them as well as what I might find under them.

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Six of us rode in a VW camper for three days en route to see the Rocky Mountains. We camped every night. A few years ago I returned to Rocky Mountain National Park and was startled to see a valley look exactly as I remembered. I experience déjà vu frequently when I travel. Mostly its an uncanny feeling where I can’t identify what I specifically am reminded of. This was different.

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We stopped for the night at a state park in Kansas. I vividly remember the treeless rolling plains and a snaking man-made lake. The landscape looked like unmade covers pillowing on top of a bed. It was magical.

I have no idea where this place is. I’ve never found it on a map. I like to think it never was real; Myth and memory in cahoots.

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I didn’t float when I was young. I always thought it was because I had too little body fat . Swimming tests at camp terrified me. I learned the dead man’s float which allowed me to rest while trying to swim. Speed was my enemy.

Being surrounded by water while sailing, however, wasn’t scary. I didn’t fear the water like I did everywhere else. I watched the horizon a lot. They could be razor sharp, disappear completely in a fog, and everything in between. Horizons look different on every body of water. Shore, water, and sky combine uniquely. I never get tired of seeing them.

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The only ghost I irrefutably experienced was at a country house outside Columbus, Mississippi. The house was antebellum and sited in a large yard dotted with ancient trees. This home was a favorite place to visit and play. There was a private pond we swam and rowed in. The setting was magical and sublime. Time moved slowly whenever we were there. This place is what I think about when I think of the South.

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I will soon be returning to sites of my childhood and exploring how or if I now relate to the South. Is it battle fields and pastures? Is it slow pace and gentility? Is it a part of who I am?

It’s hard to say where I am from. I’ve lived a lot of places, but none is exactly where I am from. Remembering is a way to root your past and interpret your present. I hope my travels helps me do both.

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