The King

The icon. The hero. The superstar. The one who is everything we desire to be, yet cannot be. Will never be. In kinder, gentler times, we allowed our heroes to scale great heights, saw in their climb some hope for our own victory. We cheered them on, their fame a mechanism for our own transcendence. It was only when we realized that their success would be of no use to us, that our redemption through their stardom was a lie, that we began to throw stones, to knock down those we had idolized only moments before. If they could not bring us up to their level, we'd bring them back down to ours. Then we went searching for a replacement. Now, humiliation is the price of admission. Paris Hilton, Ben Affleck, Jessica Simpson, The Bachelor, The Swan, The American Idol. We demand celebrities we cannot respect. It is as if we finally understand that the superstar will never free us from the mundanity of our own lives. And we hate them for it.



We still create stars, but only after the candidate has relinquished their dignity, something we, of course, would never dream of doing. Unless and until we get the opportunity to take their place. Most of these poor, unfortunate souls will be quickly discarded, their future the final degradation offered by tabloids or scandalous courtroom drama. But for those select few whose stars burn brightly and continuously in the collective consciousness, who can truly do no wrong--for it is not allowed--the price is highest. They must allow us to deify them. For, as Harry Crews has written, "Men to whom God is dead worship one another." The cost is far too steep, the lie far too big to be sustained. The price, ultimately, is death. And in that death comes the greatest fame.

In the House Where Elvis Lived

FROM GALWAY TO GRACELAND: Oh, she dressed in the dark and she whispered amen; She was pretty in pink like a young girl again; Twenty years married and she never thought twice; She sneaked out the door and walked into the night; And silver wings carried her over the sea; From the west coast of Ireland to West Tennessee; To be with her sweetheart, oh, she left everything; From Galway to Graceland to be with The King; She was humming Suspicion, that's the song she liked best; She had "Elvis I Love You" tattooed on her breast; When they landed in Memphis, well her heart beat so fast; She'd dreamed for so long, now she'd see him at last; She was down by his graveside day after day; Come closing time they would pull her away; Ah, to be with her sweetheart, oh, she'd left everything; From Galway to Graceland to be with The King; Ah, they came in their thousands from the whole human race; To pay their respects at his last resting place; But blindly she knelt there and she told him her dreams; And she thought that he answered or that's how it seemed; Then they dragged her away--it was handcuffs this time; She said, "My good man are you out of your mind?"; "Don't you know that we're married? See, I'm wearing his ring"; From Galway to Graceland to be with The King; "I come From Galway to Graceland to be with The King." Beautifully written by the one and only RICHARD THOMPSON.

The City of the Dead

"(St. Louis Cemetery #1) is the mother cemetery...the Vieux Carré of the dead; as confused and closely packed a quarter as the living metropolis." Grace King, author, 1895.

On my last evening in New Orleans I decided to go visit the oldest boneyard in New Orleans, St. Louis Cemetery #1, founded in 1789. Yes, on my last EVENING. I'm not sure why it didn't occur to me that the cemetery would be CLOSED at night. Maybe I thought I'd be able to peek through a fence or something (it's actually surrounded by a tall, white wall). In any case, the cemetery was outside the safety-circle the desk clerk had drawn for me, but I wouldn't realize this until I got back to my hotel room. So, I set off, crossed Canal St., and kept going. I soon passed a man who bid me a very hearty "Good evening!" I responded in kind, and thought, "Very friendly folks around here!" About a block later I caught the vibe. Abandoned grocery store on one side, boarded-up building on the other. Very few people on the streets. My antennae went up. Way up. But I was pretty close, so, sun going down, I pressed on. Another guy walked past, and he, too, offered a friendly "Hello!" Only, this time, I thought I detected a trace of amusement in his tone. When I made it to the cemetery it was, of course, locked up tight as a drum. I circled it, just to feel like I'd accomplished something, and found a hole someone had bashed in the wall. It was large enough to crawl through and, incredibly, I actually considered squeezing in. Luckily, I realized that other people may have recently done the same thing and I didn't want to meet them under the circumstances. So, I turned around, kept my head down, and quickly walked back to my hotel in the dark. Failure.



But, if at first you don't succeed, try, try, again. On my most recent trip to New Orleans I went to the cemetery first thing in the morning. This time it was open and there were plenty of tour groups out and about. A very different atmosphere. But I did appreciate the sign out front: "Visitors are welcome but enter these premises at their own risk." The graves are above-ground because the water table is so high that a heavy rain would have buried coffins popping up left and right. When space is needed, a coffin (at least 1 year and 1 day old) is removed, burned, and the remains pushed to the back of the tomb or set in a space below the vaults. Homer Plessy (1863-1925), a black man who sat in a "whites-only" railroad car, leading to his role as plaintiff in Plessy v. Ferguson, is buried there. Remember, Plessy lost his case and the ruling put into law the "separate but equal" doctrine in the US. Also buried in the cemetery is Marie Laveau (1794?-1881?), the Voodoo Priestess. She and her daughter reportedly haunt the cemetery, and return fully to life on St. John's Eve (i.e. Midsummer's Eve), when they lead followers in a wild celebration (i.e. orgy). People requiring a little voodoo in their lives leave coins, stuffed animals, "X"'s--ANYTHING--to get Ms. Laveau to help them. Then, those in need turn around three times, knock thrice on the tomb, and their wishes are granted. Tradition has long held that the Laveau tomb is the one in the middle shot there, but the grave itself has always been unmarked. Did I try to get a little voodoo going on? Wouldn't you like to know. The statue in the top shot is "The Weeping Woman." This last photo features the ubiquitous beads of New Orleans. Thanks to Grave Addiction for providing some info on the Voodoo Queen. They've got lots of interesting photos and facts at the site if you want more. 'Til next time.

The Big Easy

The first time I visited New Orleans the desk clerk at the hotel I was staying at took my map from me, then drew a thick, dark circle around the downtown area. "New Orleans isn't really a dangerous city, as long as you stay inside this circle, especially at night." I appreciated the advice, but he needn't have bothered. If there's a seedy part of town, some place where no tourist has any business being, then I will automatically, magically, find myself there. The first time I went to Chicago I got woefully lost and drove right up to the notorious Cabrini Green Housing Project. (This was before muggers on crack were replaced by joggers who've had too much frappuccino.) In Charleston, SC, I took a few wrong turns and found myself in the only place I was expressly told not to go. As darkness fell, a man trudged down the sidewalk, past burnt out buildings and overflowing trash cans, a TV hoisted on one shoulder, the power cord dragging behind him. My first night in London was spent in a basement hovel in Earl's Court, complete with pre-dawn knife fight outside the window. ("Aw, c'mon, just put that thing away before the police come," one guy finally pleaded. Surprisingly, it seemed the suggestion was taken, and I listened to their footsteps ricochet off in different directions.) And on and on. Trust me, I'm not showing off here. There's nothing particularly fun about winding up on the toughest street in town. You're grateful if all it takes is a little spare change to secure safe passage through some of these neighborhoods. I'm only relating this as a set-up for the next post. But don't get your hopes TOO high--it's probably not what you think. Anyway, the top and bottom photos are from Bourbon St., early on Easter Sunday, 2005. (The guy with the crown wants stuffed animals from the ladies in the carriage.) This middle shot is from the Garden District during a wait for the trolley.

Hotel No-Tell

Sometimes things just don't work out. The interstate is built 20 miles to the east. There's no money coming in. You can't cover your loan. Your wife says she's had enough. Anything. Disaster. Whenever I'm in an old house, particularly one that's still furnished, I can't help but wonder what happened. Death? Disease? Divorce? A litany of potential transgressions and illegalities. But, in each case, whatever occurred had to have been powerful. For this event, or sequence of events, transformed something that once must've meant everything--every hope, dream, or aspiration--and turned it into less than nothing. A rotting shell, the decaying objects inside, once cherished, now hardly the worst of it. A home become a place to flee. When I came across this motel in south Georgia, a little off I-75, I took the broken glass and shattered wood to be proof of calamity. Each room individually decorated, a children's playground out back, a laundry facility. Evidence of plans and passion. Now, nothing of use remained. To understand, to feel what might have been, you have to get close, and risk seeing something of yourself reflected back at you.

Neon Night

I don't know what it is about old neon signs that I find so romantic. Of course, neon is best late at night, in a light rain, the bright colors reflecting off wet pavement. Extra points are awarded to signs with a few burnt-out letters. Bonus-extra points go to signs that blink on and off, molded glass tubes winking ambiguously in the darkness. We're not talking about signs advertising Subway sandwiches or ATM machines. No, we're talking about signs that evoke moods, memories, and movement, somehow flashing the cracked ambitions of generations of Americans back at you. This is a shot of the Prince Murat Motel, Tallahassee, FL. They sell alcohol at the front office in 40 oz. cans. I'm reminded of the Thunderbird Inn, Savannah GA. The Thunderbird is across from the Greyhound station, where the most reasonably-priced accomodations in any town can be found. One night, I was staying at the T-bird when I heard the door to my room open. I sat bolt-upright in bed and immediately my eyes locked with those of another gentlemen, who was halfway across the threshold. He stopped dead in his tracks, whispered a hoarse apology, then quietly backed out. Did he mistake my room for his, the locks on the doors, for some strange reason, the same? After all, I was sure I'd turned the deadbolt before going to bed. Or did he pick the lock, hoping for a free room for the night? I didn't ponder these questions (nor a couple others) for too long, as I quickly fell back asleep. Hey, he seemed like a nice person. Unlike the woman in the parking lot who, later, towards dawn, screamed for a solid hour about her lost comb. Oh, and I'm not disparaging either the Thunderbird or Prince Murat. They beat a corporate chain any day. Hell, it seems everyone I know has spent at least one night at the T-Bird.

Phirebrush, an on-line magazine, has posted 5 photos of mine, which is quite nice of them. The shots are in the new issue, #28, in the photography section. All 5 are from the CSRA, including shots from the Phinizy Swamp, Sand Bar Ferry Rd., and even the spooky honky-tonk/mission. Yup, all the old haunts. Also, the other night, I caught Big Sandy and His Fly-Rite Boys at Lee's Liquor Lounge. Now, I'm no fan of nostalgia or revival, but Big Sandy brings enough personality and flair to rockabilly and swing tunes that they seem wholly contemporary. "Chalk it up to the Blues," a song off the last record, can be found here. It's a good soundtrack for neon in the night, I think. This is Walker Radiator Works, Memphis, TN. It's dark, letters are burnt out, I only regret that a fine mist wasn't falling. But, if you listen closely, you can hear heels clicking down the sidewalk and off into the night.

I feel like I'm cheating a little bit, since this shot was taken right next door to the radiator works. Yup, Sun Studio, Memphis, TN. But, it goes well with the shot from Snaps Magazine, which was taken from inside (during the day, of course). So, yeah, sure, this post was written under the influence of too much Dashiell Hammett, too many Veronica Lake movies, and my apparently unquenchable desire to hop in a car and drive to a city--any city--with no regard for what happens once I get there. I don't know about where you live, but if it's not pouring with rain and you aren't subject to extended power outages, you're better off than I.

Waiting and Watching

Somewhere along a barren stretch of US Highway, between Tallahassee and the Panhandle Coast, a phalanx of battered trucks waits. Wounded sentries standing guard over the hot Florida blacktop, these relics hope patiently for a call to return to service, though the call will never come. One foggy morning this spring, as the mist lifted into the trees with the rising sun, I stopped to pay my respects. We may return in a later post, as I was much impressed by the austere display of rust, torn rubber, and cracked glass.

I'd also like to mention Snaps Magazine, an on-line 'zine featuring a new topic each issue. This edition is dedicated to music, and I was pleased to get a photo of mine included. Yeah, I actually DO have some music-related shots, and they aren't of broken guitars and smashed drums. Although, I would like some pictures like that! My photo is of Sun Studio, Memphis, TN. You know, the place where Elvis Presley was discovered by Sam Phillip's secretary, Marion Keisker. At first, Sam didn't think the kid had anything. But Marion pestered her boss for a year to bring him back in. And the rest, as they say, is history. The shot is of the room where Elvis, Howlin' Wolf, B.B. King, Johnny Cash, Jerry Lee Lewis, Roy Orbison, and so many others first did their thing. This is where Rocket 88, the original rock and roll song, was recorded by Jackie Brentson, with Ike Turner playing a mean piano. I won't tell you which page my shot is on--you should flip through and see for yourself. Yup, flip. The format is pretty cool, so take a look at Snaps Magazine.

Minneapolis, Minnesota

I first went downtown sometime early in junior high school. For years I'd peered out the car window as my mom drove down Hennepin Avenue on the way to my grandmother's, fascinated and frightened by the assortment of misfits shuffling down the sidewalk. I was especially struck by Block E, on Hennepin between 6th and 7th, which, for some reason, I took to be the center of downtown. I wasn't entirely wrong. Anchored by Moby Dick's bar, Shinder's bookstore, and the Rifle Sport Art Gallery, with the 1st Avenue nightclub (riding high on the fame brought by Purple Rain) and Northern Lights record store across the street, I sensed an importance to this area that I couldn't yet understand. When I finally did get out on the streets to see things for myself, within 5 minutes of walking down 7th St. I was asked if I wanted to buy some weed ("Uh, no thanks.") and if I could spare some change. I told the guy I only had a nickel (minus the dime for bus fare back to the suburbs). He laughed and said, "Aw, man, I'm not gonna take your last nickel!" It felt like I'd found a home.

My friends and I started going downtown a lot, just roaming the streets on foot or bike. Sundays usually ended at the 7th St. Entry, 1st Avenue's small annex, where all ages punk rock shows were held. But Block E was considered a blight, and shortly after my first visit the whole thing was torn down. In one of those moves that is utterly baffling, yet so common it hardly elicits response, a parking lot was put in. Oddly, the parking lot sorta worked. It kept the area open and provided a handy meeting place. This was not what the city wanted, so some dumb-cluck got the bright idea to pipe classical music into the lot as a way to discourage the riff-raff from loitering. Naturally, it failed. The music only served to add an interesting contrast to the urban life happening all around.

That's the way things stayed until a few years ago, when the much-ballyhooed Block E Development Project finally got underway. Now, instead of a parking lot, there's blight of another sort. Featuring a Border's bookstore, an umpteen-screen megaplex, and a video arcade for adults (?!), this new monstrosity is a sight to behold. Oh yeah, did I mention the 21-story Le Meridien Hotel? The complex is bright and loud and makes the surrounding streets feel small and claustrophobic. When I first saw it, during a visit back from Georgia, I actually became disoriented and found myself walking away from where I wanted to go. And, of course, new bars have opened to serve the crowds that had previously viewed Hennepin Ave. as "too dangerous." Interestingly, police have said that downtown has become HARDER to patrol, as drunken suburbanites beat the crap out of each other every weekend. Girls in cocktail dresses now line the sidewalks at bar close, crying, "Oh my God, I'm so drunk!" before falling to the curb and throwing up. This is probably not the legacy of Moby Dick's, which offered its down-at-the-heel customers only a "whale of a drink", not a popularity contest.



One frigid night this winter I decided to brave the crowds and check out a gig. Only, because it was so cold, there was hardly anyone out. Late that night, after the show, a guy stopped me to tell an old story: His car had broken down and was now at the gas station. Could I give him a ride over there? For old time's sake, I agreed, telling him that with my car's badly leaking radiator we'd be lucky to make it. On the drive over, he proceeded to tell me how I should fix the radiator leak. The advice wasn't going to help me, but I appreciated the effort. As we neared the station he pulled another familiar trick: Could I go just one more block down? It was then that I realized he really wanted to go to Palmer's, a tough bar infamous for an incident years ago during which a patron killed the bouncer. (Further confirmation of the previous paragraph: This just happened again, but at Nye's Polonaise Room, a formerly quiet place that was famous for the elderly woman that played the piano.) After the guy thanked me and got out of the car, he walked over and started shaking hands with his friends out front, a fascinating and frightening assortment of misfits. As I turned around and drove away, I was glad that some things, at least, never change. By the way, these photos were taken in the Warehouse District, soon to be the Lofts-and-Sushi-Bars District. I don't take many photographs in Minneapolis, so this has been a rare post. Whoa.

(Sittin' on) The Dock of the Bay

(Sittin' on) The Dock of the Bay was written by Otis Redding and guitarist Steve Cropper. Otis wrote the first verse on a houseboat in Sausalito, CA after playing the Monterey Pop Festival. The song was recorded December 7, 1967, three days before Otis died in a plane crash near Madison, Wisconsin at the age of 26. Cropper, devastated, began mixing the song even as divers searched a lake for Redding's body. A final verse had yet to be written, and Cropper retained Otis's scratch-whistling at the end of the tune. Upon release in January 1968, the record spent 12 weeks on the charts, four of those at the top position, Billboard's first posthumous #1. It's 2:38 of bittersweet moanin' and pleadin' brilliance by the man from Dawson, GA. You can listen here.

(Sittin' on) The Dock of the Bay: Sittin' in the mornin' sun; I'll be sittin' when the evenin' come; Watching the ships roll in; And then I watch 'em roll away again, yeah; I'm sittin' on the dock of the bay; Watching the tide roll away; Ooo, I'm just sittin' on the dock of the bay; Wastin' time; I left my home in Georgia; Headed for the 'Frisco bay; 'Cause I've had nothing to live for; And look like nothin's gonna come my way; So I'm just gonna sit on the dock of the bay; Watching the tide roll away; Ooo, I'm sittin' on the dock of the bay; Wastin' time; Look like nothing's gonna change; Everything still remains the same; I can't do what ten people tell me to do; So I guess I'll remain the same, yes; Sittin' here resting my bones; And this loneliness won't leave me alone; It's two thousand miles I roamed; Just to make this dock my home; Now, I'm just gonna sit at the dock of the bay; Watching the tide roll away; Oooo-wee, sittin' on the dock of the bay; Wastin' time (whistle).

Goodbye C.S.R.A.

This is a conclusion. It's also a test. Today's post is the VERY LAST from the Central Savannah River Area, USA. It also marks the beginning of a format change. In the future, each post will include three photos that are somehow related and, although I will write something or other, text will be kept to a minimum. Don't worry, I haven't got a notebook full of poems I've been waiting to spring on you. I promise the text will be relevant, at least as relevant as it ever is. Also, in the last couple days, I've received comments fleshing out the details regarding the fire at the Hampton Terrace Hotel and verifying that the window the Galt sisters scratched their names into with Emily's engagement ring (before Emily's fiancee was killed in the Civil War and she leaped to her death) still exists. This is in addition to fact-filled comments on the brick factory, brick manufacturing, and the haunted honky-tonk (the main character from 3 Faces of Eve actually danced on tables there!). Man, I love this stuff. If you have info related to anything you read here, please leave a note. In fact, if you have a CSRA story that fits with City of Dust's style (sure, just a wee bit dark), then let me know and I'll post it. Hell, if you've got a good story from somewhere ELSE lemme know. Yes, YOU can now be a part of CoD. And thanks to everyone that's commented so far. This is also a good time to mention that James Brown, "the most famous person to come out of Augusta," according to Mayor Bob Young, got his statue. Awhile back I did a bit on why the James Brown festival was cancelled last year (domestic assault) and speculated about the status of the life-size bronze statue that went with it (gathering dust in a warehouse). Well, on May 6th, 3 days after the Godfather of Soul turned 72 years old, the statue was unveiled in Augusta Common. What the hell, they already had the thing made! Actually, regardless of his personal problems, I'd say the guy deserves a statue in his hometown. James attended the ceremony, but did not perform, a change from the original event. Rev. Al Sharpton, Brown's former road manager, was also present, and offered a prayer of dedication. At least he was supposed to. Nobody I know actually attended the event! No, I don't consider golf a valid excuse. (You know who you are!) So, if anyone can offer an eyewitness account, please do. A great picture of James at the edge of The Terry during the unveiling of JB Blvd. in 1993 can be found at the Augusta Chronicle. The shot is about 1/3 of the way down the page. The next post will be dedicated to Otis Redding. Check back to find out why. Oh, and the pictures are a last look at the Woolworth's that runs between Broad and Ellis. We've seen it before. Rumor is the building is soon to be renovated. G'night.

Hollywood, South Carolina

And with a new day comes...a change in film stock! The photos for this post were shot this winter with Kodak TX 400 film that expired in 1996. None of that refrigerator storage either. I've never paid attention to expiration dates anyway. While shooting a roll of toasted film would be very annoying, it wouldn't make me throw up for two days like some other things I can think of. Anyway, this post is all about the North Augusta that was and then, overnight, was not. It's also about the North Augusta that ALMOST was and the one that soon will be. Confused? Anyway, if the stars had aligned just a little bit differently many years ago the entire world might know all about North Augusta, SC. These first few photos mark a last return to the bath house on Buena Vista, by Crystal Lake. We've seen this place before in technicolor.



The story starts in the late 1800's with James U. Jackson, whose dream was to build a city on the bluffs across the river from Augusta and get rich doing it. In 1890, with the help of the Mealing family (of Getzen's Pond "fame"), Mr. Jackson began acquiring land. Eventually Jackson found himself with over 5,000 acres (about $100,000 worth), comprising an area that ran along the river's edge and up present-day Georgia Avenue. With some decent acreage under his belt, James U. hired a design firm out of New York and entrusted them with the layout of the new town. He also built a bridge across the river at 13th St., surely making enemies of the folks running the suddenly-obsolete ferry service, but ensuring that people could get in and out of his new town of North Augusta with supreme ease. By 1897, Jackson had bought Augusta's trolley system out from under them (via previous owner W.B. Dyer) and immediately ran a line across the new bridge to N.A. Service was soon extended to Aiken, and the longest inter-urban trolley system in the world was in full operation.

By the turn of the century things were looking pretty good for N.A. and James Jackson figured that all that remained was to build one of the largest luxury hotels in the nation on a hill above the town. And so it was that in April of 1902 construction of the Hampton Terrace Hotel was completed at a cost of $536,000. In those days, half-a-mil got you a five-story castle with 600 rooms and a full-sized eighteen-hole golf course that was literally right outside the front door. The building itself was longer than two football fields and contained enough glass to put windows into 70 standard residential homes. In fact, the Hampton Terrace was so big that people have said it essentially WAS North Augusta and, though the hotel was built in the spring of 1902, it took until December 1903 to get the place furnished and ready for business.



The Hampton Terrace was an immediate success. Wealthy folks who'd been flocking to Aiken to escape spending cold winters in their northern mansions were delighted that such a luxurious pad had gone up just down the road. James U. didn't need a winter retreat himself; he'd just finished his own mansion, Rosemary Hall, up on Carolina Avenue. In North Augusta, the hotel was the most profitable industry bar-none, out-earning both cotton production and the entirety of the town's banking operations. In fact, the hotel was often booked-solid far in advance and other lodges and hotels were built nearby to take up the overflow. One smaller joint was the Sesame Lodge, which didn't mind catering to sub-millionaires, tagging itself as a place where "less formal folk can feel more comfortable."



Through the first decade of the century the Hampton Terrace Hotel was really swinging, attracting the richest of the rich and the most famous of the famous. It was around this time that movie moguls, scouting the country for a good location to establish the nascent motion picture industry, wandered into North Augusta. It seemed perfect: the weather was warm, the sun shone a lot, there was this big hotel, and rich people were coming to visit anyway. To that point, the CSRA had not been a hotbed of movie making activity, although at least portions of some early features had been filmed nearby. These included silent movies such as The Littlest Rebel (1914), From the Valley of the Missing (1915), The New Governor (1915), and Charity (1916). (The New Governor, incidentally, was a notorious film. Originally titled The Nigger, the NAACP launched the first media protests in its history against the movie and D.W. Griffith's wildly racist Birth of a Nation, released the same year.) Yet, by the time The Great Moment (1918) and The Arizona Bandit (1920 & filmed entirely in N.A.) were in theaters, North Augusta's shot at becoming Hollywood was long gone. There are really two reasons why Paris Hilton and Ozzy Osbourne don't live in North Augusta. While the first was probably more important, the second was certainly more disastrous.



When the citizens of North Augusta heard that the town was on the verge of becoming Sin City, every man, woman, and child must've imagined their sleepy burg suddenly being transformed into a modern-day Sodom presided over by Satan himself. Um, actually, you know, they may have been right! Anyhow, there was an immediate call to let the moguls know that while their vacation money was one thing, North Augustans would appreciate it if the heaving bosoms and debauched dandies were filmed elsewhere, thank-you-very-much! And so the moguls left: Hello Hollywood, CA! That was effectively the end of that. But worse was to come. Above is yet ANOTHER shot of Hammond's Ferry. Soon to be subdivided.

In the winter of 1916, the Hampton Terrace Hotel closed briefly for improvements and modernizations. It's a good thing this is the last post of CSRA history, 'cause my memory is fading. I used to actually know what the improvements were. I THINK a major part of the process was the installation of electric lights or some-such. Anyway, the re-opening was going to be huge and the hotel was totally booked. Then, on New Year's Eve, just before the grand unveiling, the hotel burnt to the ground. And I mean, COMPLETELY. There was nothing left. A total loss. However, there actually IS a little left. If you go by the old site, you can still see some of the old brick stairs. Also, I've heard that one of the greens from the golf course can still be identified. Of course, I don't have pictures of these things. You'll have to make do with this doomed field, probably being plowed under as I type. What do you expect? I can't even remember what the CAUSE of the fire was! The new (?) electrical system? A cow tipping over a lantern? Wait, that was Chicago, wasn't it? Anyone? Help?! No, Google had nothing on the subject and there's only one (very rare) book that I've seen with the info.

Well, everyone expected James U. to immediately get on with the business of rebuilding. But, shockingly, he didn't. Not ever. As a consequence, many people mark New Year's Eve, 1916 as the night that North Augusta's dreams burnt down around her. In recent years, even the Palmetto Lodge (AKA Seven Gables Inn), a grand hunting lodge built for Hampton Terrace guests and a witness to the great fire, had found itself empty and forgotten. But, again, no, I have no pictures. I didn't even make an effort to visit the lodge, despite thinking about it on several occasions. Word was that it was not wise to try to get inside. In my defense, one of the owners was recently convicted of narco-trafficking and boasted of refusing to serve members of the NAACP and James Brown when the place was open! So, you'll just have to pretend this piece of grass, now probably crushed by a dozen bulldozers, represents the forlorn Palmetto Lodge. Or, um, maybe not. Geez, this final CSRA post is making me a little addle-brained, apparently. Anyway, yeah, N. Augusta is now in the throes of big change, including riverfront development (N.A.: "South Carolina's Riverfront") and even a supposed rehabilitation of the Palmetto, possibly by the city itself (if there's an extra $900,000 lying around). Hey, it might not be Hollywood, but at least Sandra Bullock won't steal your parking space. (IMPORTANT NOTE: As of 2008, the Palmetto House is back up and running under new, law-abiding ownership. Go pay a visit if you're hungry or looking for a nice, historic meeting hall!)



Thanks to P. Hughes over at the Henry Shultz/Hamburg site and Ramblin' D. Rhodes for bits of movie info. More on the NAACP's reaction to Birth of a Nation, in particular, has been written by Dr. Susan Zeiger. Also, Augusta Magazine, the North Augusta History Page, and the Aiken Chamber of Commerce helped out. Now, someone please remind me: How DID the hotel burn down?

Adultery, Graverobbing, and Apple Pie

Once again, City of Dust is going on a brief hiatus. I'll be out in the Northwest for the next 11 days, so things will be a little quiet around here. Also, for those of you keeping score, this is the penultimate post from the CSRA to be done in the usual style. In one respect, City of Dust WILL NOT END since I'll still be posting photos and adding commentary of one sort or another. But, in another way, it does feel a bit like the end since I will have completed what I set out to do. And that, of course, was to document the forgotten corners, vacant streets, and abandoned buildings of the Central Savannah River Area, USA via stories and photos. Following the next post, everything is gravy, really, and I make no promises as to what it will be like or how long it will continue. In the meantime, I'm really stretching things out here as that last CSRA post won't be posted 'til late May. For now, we're taking one last walk through the Phinizy Swamp.

Since time is tight today, I'm going to relate a few final tales from Sean Joiner's "Haunted Augusta and Local Legends." I swear, if Mr. Joiner ever reads this website he's going to demand compensation. On the other hand, I'm certain the little book he wrote is out-of-print and impossible to find, despite being published in 2002. It's a shame not to get these tales out there, so, Sean, thanks for your understanding! And I do put my own spin on 'em, y'know, adding additional info when I can. This first story is the companion piece to The Belle, Her Soldier, and Their Ghosts, and also takes place on what is now the campus of Augusta State University (ASU). Remember that prior to the Civil War the Augusta Arsenal was moved from near the river to the Hill so that soldiers could escape the rampant malaria? Well, it's said that, very shortly after the Civil War, the commander at the Arsenal hired his nephew on for the princely sum of $2 a day. None of the other soldiers at the Arsenal were making that much money and they were not happy at such an open display of nepotism. As if that wasn't bad enough, one day the nephew left work to get a piece of APPLE PIE! This was too much for poor, malnourished soldiers to bear, and so, as the nephew came down the steps of the Benet Mansion (now the ASU admissions office), belly full of delicious apple pie, he was gunned down by a jealous fellow-soldier. The assassin, it seems, was never caught, probably protected by others that hated this pie-eating nephew. At night, employees and students working late have reported hearing noises coming from the kitchen of the Benet House as the commander's nephew rummages around, desperately looking for one last piece of pie. Below is a shot of a trough in a very dark barn, suitable for the ghosts of horses to visit for one last feed.



Augusta has long been known as one of the major center's of medical research and training in the country. The Medical Academy of Georgia (AKA Medical College of Georgia) was founded in 1829 by three doctors with the aim of training students in the medical arts. In 1852, the College bought a Gullah slave, Gradison Harris, and prompty taught him reading, writing, and basic anatomy. This was, of course, highly unusual. It should be borne in mind that it was ILLEGAL for slaves to know how to read and write, which is why the lines of poetry written on pottery made in nearby Edgefield, SC by Dave the Slave are so astonishing. Eventually Gradison Harris was told his responsibilities: Each day he would read the obituaries, then, at night, go to Cedar Grove Cemetery to dig up a fresh corpse for use by the medical students in their classes. Isn't it nice that they turned the lights off before vacating this shack?

It's said that one evening some medical students saw Gradison Harris at work, then followed him to a local bar where the reluctant graverobber had stopped for a moment to imbibe some liquid fortification. Hey, wouldn't you need a drink? Anyway, Gradison carefully stashed the sack in which that evening's body had been placed before he grabbed a glass of courage. Seeing this, the students decided to play a joke on Gradison and removed the body. Then one of them climbed into the sack. When Harris returned from the bar, the student in the sack moaned that he, too, badly needed a drink. Gradison went running down the street in terror, apparently in no mood to deal with a thirsty corpse.



Gradison Harris left the Medical Institute of Georgia, as it was called by then, following abolition. However, he returned later to take a position as a porter. He died in 1911 at the age of 95 and is now buried in, fittingly enough, Cedar Grove Cemetery. During renovation of the College in 1989, the remains of 154 bodies, including vats filled with bones and jars of preserved body parts, were found under the old building. These remains were re-buried in Cedar Grove Cemetery on November 7, 1998. If, in City of Dust's absence over the next couple of weeks, you find yourself bored (as you no doubt will!) I recommend checking out PostSecret, where people send handmade postcards to an anonymous blog, each inscribed with a secret. Some of these secrets are funny, some heartbreaking, some just weird. Nothing like finding comfort in blatant voyeurism. Isn't that the new American way? Seriously, though, PostSecret is pretty amazing and lots of people write in to say they've received some real relief from getting their secrets published. If you don't like to read other people's secrets (what, do you have standards?), then have I mentioned City of Dust's extensive archives?! Yes, I have.

Speaking of secrets, how about one more tale, this from the Sibley Mill, the site of the Confederate Powderworks. On October 20, 1906, workers were just beginning their long day of weaving in the stifling mill. Maude Williams was feeling especially agitated that morning as she'd just broken off an affair she'd been having with a married man, Arthur Glover. Arthur had taken the news very badly and Maude was terribly worried indeed. However, at the Sibley Mill, adultery was no excuse for not reporting for work and so Maude tended carefully to her weaving. Suddenly a shot rang through the building and Maude Williams slumped over, killed by a single bullet. Soon after, Arthur Glover was hanged for murder. In subsequent years, workers reported seeing a woman weaving, intent on her work and oblivious to all around her. Early on, some of these people recognized the woman as Maude and fled in fear. Later, others tried to speak with this new employee but received no answer. Over time, however, sightings diminished, and it now appears that Maude Williams has moved on, her weaving done. See you in a couple weeks.

Swamp Thing

I'm very pleased to report that City of Dust has a feature in the May issue of Photoblogs Magazine, which was just released on-line yesterday. Right off, I'd like to thank Matt, the founder of Photoblogs Magazine, and Charles, the managing editor, for providing such a great forum and giving me the opportunity to take unsuspecting readers on a tour of the City of Dust. I'm really thrilled to be included. Also, I'd like to thank Jeff for doing a bang-up job on the layout and putting up with my nit-picky grammatical revisions. So, go check out the magazine, which you can access by the button on the right there, or just click here. And I'm not asking you to go just 'cause CoD is featured; you should check out the other stories and photos, which are really exceptional. I'm kind of a hack, so I can only hope that I've managed to hold my own to some small degree. Also, there's photo critiques, discussions, and all kinds of other interesting things going on at the magazine, so surf on over right now and come back and read the rest of this post later. You've probably seen the Phinizy Swamp before anyway, and I'll leave the front door open.

While I'm thinking about it, I'd also recommend checking out Photoblogs.org which, if I'm not mistaken, provided some of the initial inspiration for Photoblogs Magazine. It's sort of a photoblog clearinghouse, and every photoblog I've ever mentioned on this site can be found through Photoblogs.org, including the Snowsuit Effort, which I recently came across. Previously, I've talked about the difficulties of photographing not just run-down neighborhoods, but also the people that live in them. Taking pictures of homeless men and women is hard to do with sensitivity-minus-exploitation, but Ryan does an excellent job of documenting those who, for a variety of reasons, have found themselves living on the streets of Detroit. Sometimes I'd go into the Phinizy Swamp around midnight and wait for the devil to appear, hoping to make a deal with him. Okay, not really. I like my soul and, besides, despite Charlie Daniel's words to the contrary, it's well known that most of Satan's deal-making takes place on the backroads of Mississippi, not Georgia. Still, the shot below illustrates just how dark it can be in the swamp even at noon. Kill your television!



There's a lot of great swamps around Augusta in addition to the Phinizy. There's the Hell Hole Swamp in South Carolina, nestled in the Francis Marion National Forest, near Charleston. It's said that the swamp was named by British soldiers during the Revolutionary War who, after watching General Francis Marion ("The Swamp Fox") and his troops disappear into the darkness, were obliged to go in after him. At some point in the search one redcoat reportedly exclaimed, "That's a hell of a hole!" And Hell Hole it was. They never found Marion and his men. Later, the Hell Hole was the stomping ground of serious bootleggers, who riddled the swamp with stills and rough dirt roads. Such purveyors of "liquid corn" needed fast cars to make quick getaways, and would race each other to test their newest modifications. A few years later, they sanctioned this activity under the banner NASCAR. It's even rumored that Al Capone went to the Hell Hole Swamp to see how the southern wing of his bootleg empire was getting along. Rival bootleggers went after each other with firearms in the Hell Hole, and liquor from Cuba came up the Santee River for storage in the swamp until it could be moved out to Chicago. SC produce has a high iodine content (license plate mottos boldly read "Iodine" in 1930), and still operators jumped on the health bandwagon. "Not a Goiter in a Gallon" was the slogan of Hell Hole 'shine shipped out of the Iodine State (AKA the Swamp State). Recently, a new high school in the area was almost called Hell Hole High. I'm very disappointed it was not. There's a Hell Hole Swamp Festival each year, where you can enter a tobacco-spitting contest, and test your greased-pole climbing skills. That's in Jamestown, SC, May 7, so make your plans now. Photo caption brought to you by the LA-based rock band X: "We slept for a week, cinders on the sheets." Apparently cinders on the box spring, as well.

Of course, there's the Okefenokee Swamp, down in southern Georgia, on the Florida border. A 680-sq.-mi. national wildlife refuge, much of the "land" is actually floating peat mat. The Seminole Indians referred to this mat as "ecunnau finocau." That didn't make much sense to settlers in the area, who just called it "Okefenokee." Out of the swamp flows the St. Mary's River, considered to be one of the most crooked, meandering rivers in the world, winding its way east along the GA/FL border to the Atlantic Ocean. The distance as-the-crow-flies is 65 mi., but the river, being in no hurry, does it in a leisurely 175. Another river flows to the Gulf of Mexico from the swamp. You may have heard of it: "Way down upon the Suwanee River." Only, it was misspelled in the song and needs another "n". Anyway, the Okefenokee Swamp is pretty cool, with dark, black water that looks like tea (but doesn't taste like it), and more gators than you can shake a canoe paddle at. That's about 10,000 gators, and still many fewer than there were, say, 250 years ago. You'd think I'd have some photos but, of course, I don't. Instead, here's hearth and home, Phinizy Swamp style.

Near Harleyville, SC, between Columbia and Charleston, there's the Four Hole Swamp. I don't know much about Four Hole Swamp, but the ol' Swamp Fox, General Francis Marion, hid out there for awhile, using the position to make quick raids on British troops. He wasn't called The Swamp Fox for nuthin'. Four Hole is located within the Francis Biedler National Forest, and near the Congaree National Park, another great swamp. (It used to be Congaree Swamp National Monument, but only a crazy person would go to a swamp for vacation, so they changed the name and the tourists have come running.) The Congaree NP contains some of the largest trees on the east coast, including the SC record bald cypress. That's Taxodium distichum, the tree with the large buttress at the base. I spent a HUGE amount of time in the Congaree measuring trees and, as a reward one hot and miserable day, actually went looking for this record tree, which is in an area that's not easy to access. We eventually found the mammoth cypress, near some nearly-as-mammoth neighbors. Probably the better part of 1,000 years-old, they were really something to see. The biggest bald cypress in the Southeast, I believe, is a 1,400 year-old bruiser in North Carolina. I'd love to say I had a photo of these trees, but, again, no. I didn't bring a camera with me to the Congaree Swamp. I had enough to carry already and, besides, have you ever tried to photograph a 131' tall tree with a 26' circumference? So, you'll have to content yourself with another picture of this shack. Although this was a very inspirational shack. It was one of the first places I shot in Augusta because I REALLY wanted to get a record of its existence.



When they first started to cut down cypress trees, they quickly discovered that the trees sank, making them kinda tough to move through water. So, the trees had to be killed with a girdle, then left standing for at least 6 months so they'd dry out and float. By the early 1900's, most large cypress trees in the Southeast were gone. The Swamp Fox himself had said, "I look at the venerable trees around me and know that I must not dishonor them." But I think by "dishonor" he meant not shooting more redcoats. Of course, there are downsides to slogging through swamps. In the Congaree, particularly when walking through stands of cane, you're liable to get a bad case of chiggers. Having received a bad case of chiggers (60+ bites) from just such an activity, I can say it pretty much flat-out sucks. Unless you don't like being able to sleep. On the other hand, there is a certain sensation, which a field technician of mine called "exquisite," that occurs when you wait and wait and wait and then FINALLY give in to a vigorous itch. Or two. Or fifty. There's some cane grass growing in this photo, right under the window. Probably rife with chiggers, too. But, overall, I've spent a couple thousand hours of my life in swamps and am none the worse for it. At least, I don't think I am. If you don't know what a cypress tree looks like, there's a few here. About as far from state records as you can get. I'd also like to mention the Great Dismal Swamp in VA/NC because it has a lovely name, but the swamp itself is out of my jurisdiction. Thanks to Mike Sigalas for writing the South Carolina Moon Handbook and unwittingly helping me out today. Happy May Day! Oh, and did I mention you should check out Photoblogs Magazine?!