TAYLOR BRUCE

CNN picks up "Wide Open in West Texas"

noreply@blogger.com (Joe) — Thu, 29 Jan 2009 14:44:00 +0000

To read the full story, go here.

Southern Living: "Wide Open in West Texas" Video

noreply@blogger.com (Joe) — Mon, 12 Jan 2009 05:57:00 +0000

Southern Living's January issue went out west. Lucky for me, I got to drive. Check out the story, "Wide Open in West Texas," in the orange-cover edition; it usually sits on stands in neighborhood Piggly Wiggly checkout lines. Kroger too.

Coastal Living Story

noreply@blogger.com (Joe) — Mon, 10 Nov 2008 20:35:00 +0000

A travel feature I wrote recently ran in November's Coastal Living. I can't say enough about Grenada. Lovely place. Here's the lead to the piece.

The Little Dipper's seven patio tables overlook a twinkling Caribbean. Tonight, the chef―who's also waiter and hostess―prepares Creole fish with vegetables. Although the small restaurant is one of the best in Grenada, it's the vista that stands out. Sailboats sway at anchor on Clarkes Court Bay, and lights blink on against dark green hills. The island's hidden treasure is its views―and not just from quaint seaside cafés.

ARKANSAS BALLPARK, TWO DAYS

noreply@blogger.com (Joe) — Sat, 26 Jul 2008 16:01:00 +0000

SOUTHERN TREES

noreply@blogger.com (Joe) — Sun, 13 Jul 2008 20:35:00 +0000

(South Carolina's 1,500-year-old Angel Oak. Photo credit.)

FROM SOUTHERN LIVING.COM - When I think of trees, I think of the four spring-flowering Bradford Pears that made a square in my childhood backyard. How the trees formed a lane perfect for pitching baseballs (to my mother mostly). How I watched them, unknowingly, grow from weak treelings to wonderful, burgundy-leafed adults. And how they sort of watched me rise as well. Trees are markers of the changing seasons, givers of shade, reminders of time, and anchors to place.

Here are a few famous ones in the South that bring to mind the words of William Cullen Bryant, "The groves were God's first temples."

Texas' Big Tree
Known also as the Bishop Oak, this massive and aged tree on Goose Island is known to most as the Lone Star's largest. Its spot, 40 miles northeast of Corpus Christi, smells of sea salt on windy days.

South Carolina's majestic Angel Oak
Looking at the Johns Island, SC oak makes you feel like the world was bigger in another age. That this tree is only remnant. The branches grow in and out of the sandy soil like they have minds of their own. And the name doesn't hurt the mystique, though most are surprised to realize it was the family name of previous landowners. With 17,000 square feet of shade capabilities, the Angel is most magical of Lowcountry oaks.

Georgia's towering Gennett Poplar
If you find yourself near Ellijay, GA, stop by North GA Outfitters (706-698-4453) downtown and ask about the Bear Creek Trail off Gates Chapel Road. Twenty minutes on the trail, an easy walk for even novice trekkers, and one of the region's largest poplars stands high above the rest of the protected Chattahoochee forest. I measured its base at 5 bearhugs round.

Louisiana's Cat Island King Cypress
To see dreamy bayou cypresses in multitudes, I recommend Caddo Lake north of Shreveport. But to see the king of all cypresses in the state, venture to Cat Island National Wildlife Refuge near St. Francisville. In the beginning of settlements in Louisiana, cypress was the wood builders chose for homesteads, cabins, shotgun houses, and furniture because of its sturdiness and resistance to weather and bugs. Luckily, they never found this one, the largest in the state at 53-feet in circumference.

(Photo by John J. Young)

Washington DC and the Tidal Basin

Approximately 3,750 cherry trees dot the Tidal Basin in our capitol, most of the Yoshino Cherry variety. Other mystically named species
include Kwanzan Cherry, Akebono Cherry, Usuzumi
Cherry, Weeping Japanese Cherry, Autumn Flowering
Cherry, and Afterglow Cherry. I hear locals brave the DC winters with dreams of the Festival and the booming and bright cherry blossoms.

The Tree That Owns Itself calls Athens, GA home
I've heard of the wealthy and absent-minded man who wills his fortune to a mean old cat, but never this. Between Dearing and Finley Streets in the college town east of Atlanta, this white oak legally owns the land within 8 feet of its trunk. Or so says the legend and stone marker. The official deed papers burned in a fire, but were to have read something like this:

I, W. H. Jackson, of the county of Clarke, of the one part, and the oak
tree… of the county of Clarke, of the other part: Witnesseth, That the
said W. H. Jackson for and in consideration of the great affection
which he bears said tree, and his great desire to see it protected has
conveyed, and by these presents do convey unto the said oak tree entire
possession of itself and of all land within eight feet of it on all
sides.

Survivor Tree in Oklahoma City
The American Elm stands as a symbol of hope and resilience in the heart of Oklahoma City's beautiful National Memorial. Called the Survivor Tree, the elm lived through the 1995 blast. After the bombing, debris strewn in the limbs, investigators considered bringing down the tree for processing of the evidence. Better heads prevailed, and today the Elm stands in remembrance.

RACONTEURS

noreply@blogger.com (Joe) — Fri, 04 Jul 2008 13:06:00 +0000

Paste published a profile of mine this month. It was a new experience for me: Taking an assignment about something I knew almost nothing about, digging in, and writing up a piece. Lucky for me, these guys, especially Jack White, kill on-stage and make for intriguing conversationalists.

Here's the story,

Jack White - even after interviewing Jimmy Carter and Ken Griffey Jr - has been the most dynamic human I've spent time with thus far. The guy radiates something. His stature during shows reminds me of a boxer, big, menacing, powerful. And that voice. Tales from the Crypt.

Funny tidbit. So I was admittedly nervous to spend a hour with the band, who were to meet me at the Union Station Hotel downtown at 4. I had an hour to kill. During that time, I grabbed a Stella at the 12South Taproom, and proceeded to pick apart the clothes I was wearing. You look too much like a college intern whose mom still shops for him. That shirt is wrinkled. Leather shoes, really? Stupid thoughts like that.

Well, the thoughts won. I ended up swinging by the Thrift Store before the interview. Bought a sweet red plaid farmers shirt minus the silly pearl snaps. I also purchased, on a huge nonTB whim, a leather vest. Wore it in under my tan blazer. And the first thing uttered to me by Patrick the drummer: "Sweet vest man."

There is also an interview about Nashville on Paste's website. Here.

BLUE DOG ART

noreply@blogger.com (Joe) — Wed, 30 Apr 2008 20:45:00 +0000

George Rodrigue's Blue Dog paintings and silkcreen prints have nosed their way into our American visual iconography. Ask anyone anywhere if they know the Blue Dog and chances are you'll get a bright-eyed yes. In recognition of such a colorful, distinguised, and massive career, the New Orleans Museum of Art and Rodrigue gather a 40-year retrospective "Cajuns, Blue Dogs, and Beyond Katrina," showing until June 8. What visitors realize when roaming the multiple rooms and viewing the 200 plus original works: this man treasures Louisiana. And, judging by reception in NOLA, the feeling is certainly mutual.

I spent an evening with Mr. Rodrigue and his son Jacques last week in New Orleans. If you are headng to NOLA for Jazzfest, make time to see the exhibit. It's worth it.

Visit the Southern Living travel blog to see more of the Blue Dogs. Click here.

PASTE MAGAZINE, AYE

noreply@blogger.com (Joe) — Wed, 23 Apr 2008 04:47:00 +0000

"The Homebird's Chorus"
Paste, May 2008

Belfast's streets used to be war zones. Its population suffered through curfews, car bombs and religious murders. It ushered the word terrorist into the spoken lexicon. But the city has gone fairly quiet these last 10 years. It's beautiful in fact, thriving economically and drawing more tourists than ever. Even so, an aftershock lingers: three decades of havoc inflict deep wounds on a people's spirit, even when the death counts drop and the machine-gun murals are painted over. This story is about a son of Belfast who sings the city's hope tucked inside lament.

I met Charlie on a sunny June night in Belfast. I’d been roaming around, passing the long-light hours before a small, unlisted show by a local-done-good songwriter named Foy Vance, about whom I knew almost nothing. I hadn’t even confirmed the location of his oddly hush-hush concert. I knew he’d performed with The Ulster Orchestra in Belfast a month prior, jamming with the 70-piece company on the river. I knew locals pronounced his name “Five Ants,” but I’d only heard a couple songs. I had a hunch, though, that the guy mattered here. His voice had Solomon Burke’s expressiveness, and his melodies unfolded methodically. I figured this city and that sound could be like the blues.

For more, go here.

SALT

noreply@blogger.com (Joe) — Tue, 22 Apr 2008 03:33:00 +0000

Johnnie B. Griggs, 1919-2008

Nature never sends a great man into the planet without confiding the secret to another soul. -Emerson

NASHVILLE COFFEE

noreply@blogger.com (Joe) — Thu, 17 Apr 2008 15:30:00 +0000

Coffeehouses in Nashville go by many names. Breakfast spot. Reading place. Study corner. Freelance headquarters. Depending on the time of day, you'll see bed-head musician, traveling salesperson, and college student all standing in line at various beaneries in every pocket of the Tennessee capitol. As a former resident, I took some time to pass out some faux hardware for what makes each shop pretty special.

Best counter display
In honor of the Pope's stateside trip, we begin these inaugural awards at the holy of holies in Nashville - Bongo Java near Belmont. Yesterday, around 11 a.m., the line ran 10 deep for lattes and espressos. So, I put my bag down to save a window table (I do this after getting someone nearby - usually a woman for some reason - to agree to watch my stuff) and stood my turn. While waiting, I set my eyes on what's known at Bongo as the "Nun Bun," a 1996 cinnamon roll that looks - no kidding - like Mother Teresa. The folks at Bongo display the once-stolen saintly sweetthing in a makeshift shrine. Media like the Washington Post, CNN, BBC, Paul Harvey, and David Letterman have covered this bakery miracle.
You're having...an apple pie (drink). Ciderific hot stuff on the porch.

Best previous life
I don't believe the website when it tells me they named the place after the sixth century goat herder's dog who discovered coffee. Oh. They were kidding. Ah. Fido though, no joke, is a serious gathering spot in Hillsboro Village.

A former pet shop (just see the neon sign out front), the two rooms stay full pretty much all day every day. Fido is the intersection of Vandy, music row, and normal Nash folk. I once sat outside studying for an exam around 9 pm and Dolly Parton walked by me. She's even prettier in person. Seriously.
You're having..."simply eggs" and cheese grits with straight coffee. Breakfast here is incredible. Great alternative to long lines at famous Pancake Pantry down the block.

Best disguise
Portland Brew, the location on 12th Ave S, does a good job of looking like a hurtin' coffeeshop. Cinderblock simplicity, sometimes questionable art work, construction on-going. But, the place is nearly always full. And loyalty is not something you can buy. Friendliness and seriously good coffee makes PB my go-to spot for on-the-road emailing and writing. Those sheeny yellow chairs are heaven. And their cubbies (currently closed off for some renovations) make for excellent secret meeting spots and deal-making, so it seems.
You're having...an Irish Creme brew if it's available. And a scone.

Best bungalow-ness
Sam and Zoe's near 100 Oaks sits back off Thompson Lane (which is the same thing as Woodmont eastbound) right next to the best burrito place in Nashville (Baja). If I could live upstairs in the little coffeehouse bungalow S&Z's, I would, because I could have granola and coffee for breakfast at home and a fantastic burrito for lunch. Then, I'd go grab an iced coffee and sit on my sweet front porch and watch all the cars drive up to my side-window for a to-go cup of joe. All while I check email on free WiFi. Doesn't that sound perfect? (Though I do close at 7 p.m.)

You're having...an apple-berry tea.

Best Starbucks
Starbucks, the great demise of the Mom&Pop. Actually, I kind of like the 'buck, as my friend Abby who worked there called it. I love Starbucks because they give health coverage to part-time employees (honorable) and they rock a solid jukebox (cool). Plus, I always feel comfortable when I go to an out-of-town Starbucks. I recognize the lay. Nashville's best is on West End Ave, near Belle Meade, where White Bridge crosses. This 'buck is spacious, offers a covered patio, and seems free of college-kid overflow.

You're having...a grande 180 degree 1 centimeter foam 1% soy latte in a venti cup. Or just a coffee.

On the map...

View Larger Map

CNN DOT COM

noreply@blogger.com (Joe) — Tue, 15 Apr 2008 05:21:00 +0000

First story to be picked up on CNN.COM happened sometime in the last 24 hours. "They" don't tell you these things. You just happen upon it. The story, "Quiet on the Set", talks about Wilmington NC, film capital of the South. Remember Joey and Dawson? I do. Turns out, the town is an absolute dream. ON a big river, near the sea, historic cobblestoney streets, little blue bungalows, and a big battleship anchored down. Who knew?

I originally called the story "Carolina Picture Show," but once again "they" changed it. Though this time, the "they" is a pretty cool editor and I like his title and edits too. Give it a whirl. A money photographer Josh Gibson shot the piece, on newstands now.

CNN.COM/TRAVEL then scroll down to the COASTAL LIVING spot.

OREGON

noreply@blogger.com (Joe) — Sun, 06 Apr 2008 03:49:00 +0000

On a travel assignment for Coastal Living in Oregon. Driving the two hours from Portland to Cannon, the hemlocks and fir, absolutely giant trees, carried a coat of snow. Not my idea of a weekend at the beach. But it turned out pretty gorgeous, refreshing for sure. The 101 goes from Astoria (The Goonies) past Haystack Rock and several lighthouses, towns like Tillamook, Manzanita, and Lincoln City, and the sea punishes the coast.

Tillamook Bay and Pier's End

Roadside seafood stand with fresh Dungeness crabs

Ecola State Park

Morning on Cannon Beach

NATIONAL GEOGRAPHIC TRAVELER

noreply@blogger.com (Joe) — Sun, 30 Mar 2008 01:02:00 +0000

Grab an April 08 Traveler for two things: one, a killer story about NYC, and two, my first story with them. It's about an small town homemade radio show in Mississippi. The "Long Weekend" section. First five words: "Once upon a Mississippi moon."

Anyone reading this, feel free to drop me a line via the CONTACT button to your left on the taylorbrucestory dot com homepage.

PASTE: Belfast

noreply@blogger.com (Joe) — Mon, 17 Mar 2008 14:31:00 +0000

Started some writing for PASTE, the coolest culture magazine ever to be published in Decatur, Georgia - hands down. Turns out, people in San Fran, Brooklyn, and Houston dig it too. It wins the mag-o-year Plug award, indie-media's Oscars, like Hilary Swank. Anyways, I wrote two stories in April's issue (not the Michael Jackson sequine glove cover). One is a short essay on an old book. The other gives an inside look into the Belfast music scene, something, surprisingly, I actually know about. I love that city. A preview of the Five Things piece:

****Best Hollywood DJ who spins at a dockside divebar: You know his licks from the Soderbergh films (those caperific Ocean’s soundtracks are his) but locals in the know find David Holmes on one-in-four Friday nights at the Lifeboat Bar near Lagan Weir. It’s a bar’s kind of bar, pleasantly dingy, genuinely-haphazard, full of red heads. They might even be mean to you. But a Holmes’ surprise spin of the Supremes will gladden your heart.**** (The wording likely changed when going through the meat-grinder of editing. This is the realthing.)

Also, check out the best musician from Belfast NOT mentioned in this list in May's issue (cover: ben Gibbard from Death Cab.) More to come.

PASTE: Book Review

noreply@blogger.com (Joe) — Mon, 17 Mar 2008 14:17:00 +0000

Check out the "Dusted Off" book review in April's Paste Magazine. I wrote a personal account of reading a 1960's bullfighter biography called OR I'LL DRESS YOU IN MOURNING - perhaps the greatest title of this half century - while on a month-long stay in Madrid. Here's the lede to tip the scales on buying the issue (Come on, free cd with the mag).

The closest I came to a bullfight during my month in Spain was a
book, the 1968 nonfiction work Or I'll Dress You in Mourning by Larry
Collins and Dominique Lapierre. Those two Sundays, the Plaza del Toros
advertised corridas, but something else won my time. I was alone in
Madrid, a single American man, a single American man who'd grown up on
a cattle farm in fact, but the closest I came to the aficionados and
the shiny 25-pound suits of light and the five-euro cheap seats in the
sun was a beat-up biography of a torero named El Cordobes. I still feel somewhat guilty about this oversight. It feels faux pas. What would Hemingway say?

LE COURIR DE MARDI GRAS

noreply@blogger.com (Joe) — Wed, 06 Feb 2008 14:55:00 +0000

OXFORD AMERICAN

noreply@blogger.com (Joe) — Sat, 29 Dec 2007 23:19:00 +0000

The Oxford American, a Southern literary magazine printed four times a year, published "Death of a Prospect" this month. It's the story of Dernell Stenson, one-time minor league phenom and the best baseball player my hometown's ever seen. If you'd like to read the full piece, visit www.oxfordamericanmag.com.

SOUTH AS I SAW

noreply@blogger.com (Joe) — Fri, 09 Nov 2007 01:46:00 +0000

Been traveling for stories all over the South this fall. Here are a couple images. Too may anecdotes to even start. Yellow Rock in Ozarks, Lucy the Louisiana Leoparddog in Marfa, Burger Boy in Arkansas, Guitarmaker in Big Bend, The Spotted Cat in east New Orleans.

SWAMP

noreply@blogger.com (Joe) — Wed, 12 Sep 2007 21:31:00 +0000

I spent last week in the Everglades, mostly Big Cypress National Preserve, with a photographer Daniel Barry. We spent several days driving the Tamiami Trail, the long mostly uninhabited stretch of highway between Miami and Naples. In the process, Dan and I met a thoughtful Miccosukee alligator wrestler, a panther expert with a pack of hounds, a swamp buggy RVer, a hilarious fishing guru, and the maker of the finest blackened grouper sandwich this side of the sun.

The final morning in Big Cypress, two artists in Ochopee took us on a "swamp walk" for a few hours. It was a surprisingly serene experience. Mark Goodenough, pictured above, is a metal worker. See his swamp-inspired works at www.markgoodenough.com. And check out some of Dan's stuff in newspapers around the country.

noreply@blogger.com (Joe) — Tue, 28 Aug 2007 03:35:00 +0000

THE DELUGE
G.K. Chesterton

Though giant rains put out the sun,
Here stand I for a sign.
Though earth be filled with waters dark,
My cup is filled with wine.
Tell to the trembling priests that here
Under the deluge rod,
One nameless, tattered, broken man
Stood up, and drank to God.

Sun has been where the rain is now,
Bees in the heat to hum,
Haply a humming maiden came,
Now let the deluge come:
Brown of aureole, green of garb,
Straight as a golden rod,
Drink to the throne of thunder now!
Drink to the wrath of God.

High in the wreck I held the cup,
I clutched my rusty sword,
I cocked my tattered feather
To the glory of the Lord.
Not undone were the heaven and earth,
This hollow world thrown up,
Before one man had stood up straight,
And drained it like a cup.

Ninety Days

noreply@blogger.com (Joe) — Wed, 22 Aug 2007 19:24:00 +0000

Ninety days does not seem like much. Ninety days is a season, less really, or the perfect average of such. A couple years ago, I took some time, left my job, and flew to Latin America, for 90 days. Today I found a picture and my old journal. Here's the last entry.

"It is my ninetieth day since the beginning of this trip. Ninety days since February 1, when I landed in Guatemala, very wide-eyed, a bit overwhelmed. Weary of staring faces, uncomfortable among beggars with unsitely, mangled bodies. Lost in the speech. I'm 90 days past then, and I'm on my way home. I dont know exactly the things I've learned on this trip down the isthmus, busing among cities and smalltowns, beach and forests, poorest of poor and the wealthy. I dont have a set list, an ordered group of aphorisms, proverbs, wisdom bottled. I hope my heart carries away something, some truth, some good. I just dont know what. At least not now. I hope I am humbled, that I'll give more quickly, love easier, see. "

Then on the adjacent page of the linen colored book, I wrote down names.

"Luis, Marta, and Ana Marcela Cuellar; the brother who read Ecclesiates; Gladis; her sister Flor; Buzz; Grupo Bongo, the wedding band; Brady and Gil; the blinking boy; Svetka, red-head dread-head; Lolita and Juanita of Santiago; Maria del Mar, Aidi, and Gianina; Halle; Leonardo el vigilante; the Bocas; and the Ngobe man from the comarca (seen above) Vicente." Panama City.

noreply@blogger.com (Joe) — Mon, 13 Aug 2007 17:29:00 +0000

New York City
Aug 7, 2007

To Mr. R. Gibson Harp,

If it weren’t for the heat, the swelter of hopping the C 36 blocks from the Hell’s Kitchen apartment, after two avenues of walking and five flights of stairs, I’d start every day with a few hours at Jack’s Stir Brew Coffee in West Village. Little, and intended that way, Jack’s sells as good a cup of coffee as I’ve ever bought. I sit in the front window on bench seats that cats should curl up on. The four wooden tables, each with two chairs, are no larger than a milk crate, and they seem to be cut from the deck of an old man’s sailing ship, stained and re-stained and buckling under time. The baristas, who'd shudder at that corporate plastic marker, aren’t so friendly, but the coffee is fine, as in the old sense of the word.

I order a large cup. The girl, in a black-and-white tight-fitting shirt and holey jeans, goes ahead and makes it with milk and sugar. As it brews, Jack's trademark works, a rigged machine to stir the grinds in process. They attest the invention accounts for the smooth taste. The behind-the-counter milk and sugar saves them and I from the hassle of a station, where people clutter and drip cream and reach over one another for the right sweetener and pine-scrap stirrers. It all seems a waste once you get away from the option.

I’d spend, like I said, any morning at Jack’s had the Village been my summer home instead of Hell’s Kitchen. And had heat not fallen like fog.

It’s the warmest week thus far in New York. The sky, the last two days, has been grey and swallowing. It’s foreboding. Motionless. No matter, I’ve been out today, Tuesday, spending the afternoon hours in the midtown library, the one with the grand, concrete lions. In the upper room, halved into vast rows of brightly varnished reading tables, adorned with classic green glass lamps, I put in at the information desk for three books: a history of Grenada put out just four years ago; the 1968 nonfiction biography of a bullfighter, El Cordobes, with the most wonderful title, Or I’ll Dress You in Mourning; and, a book about street busking called Passing the Hat by Patricia Campbell. Each came up in about fifteen minutes – my number was 168 for the Grenada and bullfighter books, 029 for PTH. I knew this by a square screen discreetly inlaid into the wood-walled divider, its matrix of dotted points-of-light simple like a older basketball scoreboard. The screen sticks out seamlessly in a room that makes me think of a Carnegie brother hiring a fresco painter for the Cumberland Island place or some hotel lobby. These ceilings are like Michelangelo’s, only empty of Beings, just heavy white clouds and the bluest sky that make me think of the farm.

I browse through the street busking book, which read a bit dated, but did its job, telling me about Will the Juggler and the guitar player at Trolley’s turn, describing a mime’s bit about an apple and a arrow gone astray, all acted out on the Met’s steps. It reminded me of Key West years ago, sailing in and out, stopping for two evenings. The best of the best streetmen winter there, spending the hour before and the hour after sunset on Mallory Square. I see swords in the air and a magician on a sturdy blue fruit box and the tumblers and tappers all along the seaside pier. It’s a magic thing to witness. How I bet my Vermont friend that those traveling showmen must pull in two hundred dollars a night.

I read up then set off to find a Barnes and Noble, where I looked over three food magazines - Gourmet, Bon Appetit, and Food&Wine - trying to find a spot for a essay about Oil Down, Grenada’s national dish. (I spent a week there in June. And haven’t stopped thinking about the kindly cops in the rain ever since.) Afterwards I walked up from 44th and Fifth to 51st, and along that stretch, I found myself among the fancy clothiers I’ve always heard of. Saks, Cole Haan, Kenneth Cole, Banana Republic, Sephora, Gucci and Cartier. Most are housed in buildings with ornate golden facades of angels wound in ivy and birds’ nests and such. It’s quite Roman. Even the grates over the trees shine like polished bronze. They may be bronze. St. Patrick’s Cathedral sits among all this glamour and wideness, a thoroughfare girls with money dream about, and the spired place pokes at my conscience, like the men with the cardboard signs, the one who’d written 100 words about his plight near the duck pond last afternoon, the one I’d hurried by, so I turned after the store with ITALIA carved into the stone and headed west straight towards Radio City.

Some British rock group Deep Purple plays the Hall that night. Odd-looking groupies wait by the side door.

Such are the walk-around thoughts in New York in the summertime.

Tell Ruth to count me in for Labor Day. And that I suspect Arthur has an answer to my question.

So far is good,
TB

THE CARIBBEAN DETECTIVES AND THE OIL DOWN

noreply@blogger.com (Joe) — Tue, 07 Aug 2007 20:13:00 +0000

I returned a few weeks ago from Grenada, the southeastern Caribbean island 90 miles off Venezuela. The rains of mid-summer began our final day on the tiny isle, known for its lush forests and bounty of spices. My second-to-last day I took a cab from my enclave getaway ten minutes into Town, the hilly collection of plaster-walled buildings laid out like uneven layers on a cake. Boats bobbed noiselessly in St. Georges bay.

It was eerie quiet wandering past closed shops and boarded-up office buildings. Between the firehouse and English phone booths to the high point, colonial Fort that overlooks the city across the lagoon, I passed three people. It was a holiday of sorts, officially Corpus Christi Day, but locally dubbed Planter’s Holiday. Two men I met by a rusted gate outside a crumbling building on the southern hill told me so.

“People are planting before the rains,” they said.

Looking over their shoulders, I saw about a dozen men huddled under an open-air portacache. A couple small fires glowed under two primitive-looking pots. Huge breadfruit trees stretched into the opening and a sweet smell caught my attention. They smiled and stared, and, honestly, something like nervousness started coiling in my stomach. The Southernboy in me spoke up.

“What you cooking over there?” I said.

The men lit up. “Ah, Ohl Duum,” they said. Oil drum, I asked. “No, Oil Down. The island stew. Would you like some?”

These men were on holiday as well, choosing to cookout minus their wives and families. The twelve of them befriended me with Jack Iron, an over-proofed local rum, and a bowl of Oil Down, Grenada’s national dish. Cooked over exposed flame in two blackened iron cauldrons, which looked to be made from halved oil barrels, Oil Down’s main ingredients simmered. According to the detectives, rich coconut milk, chunks of the potato-like breadfruit, pig’s feet, or trotters, and callalou leaves were ready. I told them it reminded me of something from Alabama, a dirt road, Mobile Bay soup with collards and catfish I once had at a crossroads cafe.

These men, dressed in oversized tee shirts, khaki shorts, and flimsy Caribbean flip-flops, told me all about the dish. The one who spoke most held a stature over the others, and they called him Detective Gill. As he sliced open a breadfruit from the nearest branch, I asked him why.

“We are police officers,” he kindly said.

A younger officer poured me another Jack Iron. One wafted the sugary steam towards my leaned-in face. Another pulled up a few large leaves of callalou to show me.

The deserted building that covered our meal was the old police station. It took major blows in 2004 when Hurricane Ivan pummeled Grenada, the smallest independent nation in the western hemisphere. As hiking guide and amateur naturalist Denis Henry lamented to me the previous day, the storm destroyed the upper canopy of giant gommier, penny piece, and chataignier trees. More than 50% of the island lost homes. And downtown St. Georges, even three years later, remained battered still.

Though still gorgeous, ribboned by white sands and jewel water, the island sobered me up with its slow rebuilding stories outside the bungalow retreats. And my afternoon with the policemen instilled a new sense of what it is to endure.

What did not get taken by the worst storm to hit Grenada in 50 years, what I saw with my own eyes, and tasted in two helpings, was the simple blessing of fraternity among men. Food cooking over an open fire on a rainy holiday by the sea.

SHELLSHOCK ROCK

noreply@blogger.com (Joe) — Thu, 05 Jul 2007 23:41:00 +0000

Returned a couple days ago from Belfast. The conversations I had there, on the docks of the Lagan, down in the Spaniard Bar, up in a loft recroding studio, in a black cab near Shankill Road, left me somewhat spinning at this city known mostly for its Troubles. I sensed great hope while there, but also decades of deep wounds too complicated to try and figure out over a long weekend.

In a couple days I am going to post some audio clips with a songwriter, Foy Vance, and a retired BBC crime journalist, Charlie Warmington.

Above is a cool old map rendering of the city center. Queens College is in the southern end, and the murals you may have heard about would be west. The Titanic was built up in the upper eastside where Sampson and Goliath now hover as giant yellow cranes should.

DIXIE NEON

noreply@blogger.com (Joe) — Mon, 25 Jun 2007 14:05:00 +0000

Friday morning I interviewed Ernest Langner, a 92-year-old man who built most of the neon signs in Birmingham, Alabama. His first job, he told me, was replacing the light bulbs outside the famous Alabama Theater on 3rd Avenue. That was 1934. A few years later, he helped start the company Dixie Neon. Clients included drive-ins, donut shops, bar-b-que joints, motels, bakeries, hardware stores, car lots, coffee companies, pancake houses, jewelers, and this one place called the Shoe Tree. The Shoe Tree's neon sign had a palm tree curving up and around the name of the store. It sat on the same block as City Federal, a 27-story building in downtown Birmingham built in 1913. In 1941, or thereabouts, Langner and his Dixie Neon crew erected one of the more well-seen sights of the city, the six foot tall red neonlit letters CITY FEDERAL, channeled lettering made from porcelin enamel and neon tubing, and glowing on all four sides of the southern skyscraper's upper rim.

Above, Langner's crew on the City Federal roof.

Langner and I sat in his unfinished basement for a couple hours. One half of the cinderblock space had tools neatly arranged on the wall and ballcaps pinned in a square like checkerboard pieces. Langer's grey metal desk sat in a the opposite corner, four old radios and several walkie-talkie looking things cluttering the surface. I sat and looked at his two thick scrapbooks of colored photographs taken by the signmaker of work done around the city. There was a fish diner called King's Catfish King, where the sign stated "No Alcoholic Beverages Allowed." The sign had a big blue catfish wearing a golden crown. The fish shot upwards like he'd seen a ghost on the bottom of a pond.

Langner showed me the Thunderbird Drive-In, Roebuck Lanes, the Holiday Inn on Bessemer Super Highway, Kiddieland Fun Park, The Camera Shop, the Carraway blue star, Teddy Bear Foods, and the Dixie Pig. He talked about fixing up the Vulcan's torch, back when it turned red or green depending on traffic deaths that day. He tried explaining how the "cross fire" and "ribbon burner" heated up the ruby red or yellow glass tubes, four feet long, and bent them to form figure eights or half-moons. He mentioned asbestos in one step and dug around in a pile of stuff to find a piece of the poisonous stuff.

Just before I left, Langner opened a plastic drawer marked "1940 & UP" on masking tape. Black and white 3 by 5 photographs filled the small drawer. All the shots, taken by the signmaker, showed the earliest of Dixie Neon jobs. The flatbed truck, Rosatos, the filling station attendants in white caps and aprons, the Coca-Cola corner. One showed his boy Gene, now a preacher in Phenix City, hanging from a lift. Another showed Chicken In The Rough, a 50 cent lunch spot in Homewood, before the bungalows covered the hills and young mothers with strollers covered the sidewalks all hours of daylight.

A story will appear about the old signs of Birmingham in an upcoming PORTICO.