North Carolina || Hickory Nut Falls

Hickory Nut Falls flows over the edge of Exclamation Point down 404 feet into the knobbled gorge of the Blue Ridge Escarpment, which separates the Blue Ridge Mountains from the Piedmont.

In former years, this line was more poetically known as the World’s Edge, and served as the territorial line between the Cherokee and the Catawba.

Half a billion years ago, the swift-moving falls cut through the mountains’ geologic faults, exposing large swaths of gneiss with a curious feature—a great number of elliptical, white mineral grains. 
These markings are hardly visible in the direct sunlight that floods the outcroppings popular with hikers. 

But in the shady confines of the gorge, where the oak and basswood trees light up like bronze as the sun retreats, the washed rock faces glow like the aurora borealis, and these markings seem to be thousands of tiny, glittering eyes peering out from the mist of the falls.

This may be the reason for, or else the result of, the ancient belief that the gorge was home to the Yunwi Tsundsdi--the Little People. Believing that this area was watched by thousands of supernatural beings whose main desire was to keep the peace, the Cherokee and Catawba strictly refrained from attacking each other when they met within this gorge. 

Arizona || The Circus Farm

Neon hoops, circus farm, mesa arizona

Jacob lives in a fairly unremarkable 50s-era ranch house in Mesa, an even less remarkable satellite community of Phoenix, Az.

But Jacob is remarkable enough in his own right, that he doesn't need to stunt with a fancy house.

While eating nachos after a late night of swing dancing, we watched him defuse an awkward conversation by magically making the beer bottle caps first disappear, then retrieving them from behind his ear.

It came out then that he was a magician. That he has, in fact, made his living no other way since he was of legal working age.

Jacob Spinney, circus farm, mesa arizona

(Except maybe for the time he sued Criss Angel for ripping off his Levitation Chair design. Which I must remember to ask him about, next time I see him.)

Circus farm, mesa arizona

His no-frontin' digs, like his unassuming demeanor, are the portal to a fantastic world if you venture just a little farther. Just past said unremarkable front gate lies an acre of trapeze rings, aerial silks, juggling equipment, trampolines, and neon-lit hula hoops, together with a pool, a parkour park and a dance studio.

This is the Circus Farm.

Last night, I saw it for myself.

Girl at circus farm, mesa arizona

Fire spinner, circus farm, mesa arizona

Hammock, circus farm, mesa arizona

Every second Friday, the Circus Farm invites the public to come and play.

Parkour, circus farm, mesa arizona

Along with offering their acreage of performance props for civilians to mess with and amateurs to practice, they host a variety show (emcee'd by Jacob himself). Last night's included performances by a singing comedian, my friend Laurel's solo jazz troupe, and a burlesque tap dancer called Dilly Dally.

Fire spinner, circus farm, mesa arizona

And fire spinning.

Fire spinner, circus farm, mesa arizona

Lots of fire spinning.

Fire spinner, circus farm, mesa arizona

Fire couple, circus farm, mesa arizona

Fire spinner, circus farm, mesa arizona

Fire spinner

It was... do I need to say it? ...magical.

Hooper, circus farm, mesa arizona

 

Kaleidoscope glasses, circus farm, mesa arizona

Dancing, circus farm, mesa arizona

Peanut, circus farm, mesa arizona

Fire portrait, circus farm, mesa arizona

Neon hoops, circus farm, mesa arizona

Learn more about the Circus Farm and its performers 

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Photobook || July 2014

Roman candle, Hudson, New York April may indeed be the cruellest, August may in fact be wicked, and I know no reason why November shouldn't be sweet. While we're making these general assertions about months, then I nominate July as the longest.

I think it's only localized fun that makes time fly. Such miles as we covered, and the stories we amassed, stretched it out again far longer than any 28-day span so far this year.

From Tucson, Az. to Hudson, Ny. to New Orleans, La. did we circumnavigate this great nation, in what amounts to a summer tour of all the most sweltering states.

In fact, had a heavy rainstorm not preceded us from Maryland to Alabama, causing everyone we met to marvel almost apologetically, "It's never like this, this time of year!", I would have called July the hottest month of 2014. Depending on what criteria you use, I still might.

Coconut Glen's, hana, hawaii

Will, Fairmount, Philadelphia pennsylvania

Scott and Josh's wedding, Hudson, New York

Hutton Hotel swag, nashville, tennessee

Scott and Josh's wedding, Hudson, New York

Morning, hudson, new york

Blowhole at Nakalele Point, maui, hawaii

Manhattan skyline, New York City

Laurel, Youngstown, Ohio

Ms. Winelle, Lone Star Court, Austin, Texas

Processed with VSCOcam with m3 preset

House on Emily Street, pittsburgh, pennsylvania

Warren Street, Hudson, New York

Walker + Sydney, new orleans, louisiana

Hutton Hotel, Nashville, tennessee

Cross carrier, Baldwin avenue, maui, hawaii

Hudson Police Department, warren street, hudson, new york

Wedding singer, Hudson, New York

Kahukuloa, maui, hawaii

Lone Star Court, austin, texas

Smoking Time Jazz Club, New Orleans, Louisiana

Barlow Hotel, Hudson, New York

Train in Bywater, New Orleans, Louisiana

Highway 9W, coxsackie, new york

Missouri || The Automotive Mausoleum of Lyle Van Houtem

On an unobtrusive exit off US-36, in the town of Clarence, Mo. (population 813 as of last census)... Oil station, clarence, missouri

...lost travelers seeking a gas station will certainly find one.

MFA oil station, clarence, missouri

Just not the kind they were probably looking for.

Paraders, clarence, missouri

At the edge of Maplewood Cemetery, a perfectly preserved MPA filling station is home to a collection of 1950s-era vehicles:

Auto mausoleum, clarence, missouri

Two Ford-O-Matic Crestlines, a F100 custom cab pickup truck, a Galaxie 500, and an anachronistic Mercury Grand Marquis.

Sheriff car, clarence, missouri

All are staffed by mannequins costumed in various states of fancy dress (including three dressed as teddy bears in marching band uniforms.)

Auto mausoleum, clarence, missouri

Said to be the collection of one Lyle Van Houten, who in his youth pumped gas at this very filling station, the sphinx-faced mannequins are the closest thing to a sign of life visible for miles along this road.

Ford Crestline, clarence, missouri

...and that is about all I can think to say about it. (Besides, of course, the obvious.)

Mercury, clarence, missouri

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Photobook || Multnomah Falls

Bridal Veil, multnomah falls, oregon

They all told me I had to come here. ("They" meaning David and Travis, mainly...but there were many others along the way.)

The recommendation of two adventure photographers should have been sufficient motivation, right?

But after the last couple weeks of rain and French fries, I was feeling so down and lazy, I was just going to stay home.

Multnomah falls, oregon

But then something changed. I met up with my college friend Dave and discovered that he needed cheering up...maybe even more than I did.

And since Dave is the kind of guy who perks up at the opportunity to help somebody or fix something, I asked him if he knew a scenic back route to get to Multnomah.

I was still planning not to go. But next thing I knew, we were planning an expedition for the morning.

Dave even got me to agree to pick him up early, so he could make me breakfast.

I don't even like breakfast.

Multnomah falls, oregon

Multnomah Falls is a two-tier waterfall, fed by the springs that flow under Larch Mountain, the extinct volcano with the deceptive name. (Lumberjacks sold the Noble firs on the mountain as larchwood.)

Record books and tourist boards have argued over the claim that Multnomah is the US' fourth tallest waterfall. When you see it in person, this seems like a dumb question. A 611-foot drop--and, at this time of year, a five-foot-tall ice pack--is nature's effective "Who cares?" to the quibbling of statisticians.

Ferns, multnomah falls, oregon

The falls are Oregon's most-visited natural attraction; they get about 2.5 million visitors a year, and being as it was a clear Saturday in Portland, it was only to be expected that they should be sharing the trail with us.

In situations like these, I usually find myself soothing the indignation of natives, who resent the presence of so many other people on the day they chose to highlight their favorite local attraction.

Dave, however, was distinctly unbothered by the crowds.

Dave, multnomah falls, oregon

Lewis and Clark, et. al, were the first white folks to view the falls, during a cool-down excursion on the Columbia River after their 1805 cross-country expedition.

Clark made a note in his diary of a village called Nematlnomaq, which seems to mean "downriver" in an Upper-Chinook dialect. This village was on Oregon's Sauvie Island, but apparently they liked saying the name (as best they could), because they denoted pretty much every tribe in the surrounding area as being "Multnomah."

Multnomah falls, oregon

While the Multnomah people didn't name the falls themselves (they didn't even name themselves, themselves), they did bequeath the falls with a bunch of legends, most involving beautiful native princesses and peculiar marriage rites.

One says that the waterfall was built by Coyote, leader of the animal people, as a place for his princess bride to bathe in secret.

Another says that the Multnomah chief's newly married daughter threw herself over the falls to relieve her people of a plague.

A third story, corroborated by eyewitnesses and The Oregonian, tells of a boulder dislodged from the face of the gorge in 1995. The rock fell 225 feet, resulting in a splash that threw a shower of water and rocks 70 feet in the air, and down onto the Benson footbridge, where a wedding party was taking pictures. The groom, it was reported, suffered injury such as no man ought to; however, the bride reported the next day "that, despite his injuries, he had still been able to bravely perform his conjugal duties.

Multnomah falls, oregon

Nobody, in fact, really knows when it was decided to call the falls Multnomah. Typical practice would have been to call them after the neighboring stream...which, at the time, was known as Coon Creek.

I think all Oregonians would agree that was a bullet dodged.

The reigning belief is that the falls were named by S.G. Reed, bankroller of the Oregon Railway and Navigation Company and known to history books as a "tycoon." Clever man that he was, Reed gave the falls a name with a little more local cachet--presumably for the benefit of passengers on the steamboat tours he ran along the Columbia Gorge.

Multnomah falls, oregon

Samuel Lancaster, an engineer and landscape architect who built the Columbia River Highway in 1913, wrote this valentine to the falls:

"It is pleasing to look upon; and in every mood, it charms like magic, it woos like an ardent lover; it refreshes the soul; and invites to loftier, purer things."

Bridal Veil, multnomah falls, oregon

Or, in Dave's words,

"It reminds me that Portland is actually a pretty good place to live."

Crown Point Promontory, multnomah falls, oregon

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Photobook || Portland Farmers' Market

It's hard to explain how happy this shit makes me.

portland farmers market, oregonYou all know how thoroughly I eschew foodstagramming. Not that food photography can't be great. Of course it can.

So, for that matter, can keytar music.

But like the keytar's ubiquity in 1980s pop music, food photography suffers from accessibility and mistaken egalitarianism.

I have a camera and I have this food; ergo, I am a food photographer.

Let me just tell you--food photography is hard work, for the simple reason that it combines the already difficult craft of photography with another difficult craft. Google "food styling" and you'll see. Any restaurant chef will tell you there's a difference between plopping a lot of comestibles on a plate and constructing the kind of thing that makes people half-orgasm when it arrives at their table.

Portland Sunday market, oregon

Which brings me to another issue--the orgasm issue. "Foodgasm," as it's known, gives me the willies. I'm old-fashioned--I prefer sexual thrills to remain, well, sexual. Put another way, you'd think it was a bit off, wouldn't you, to see someone convulsing in erotic ecstasy at the sight of a cow grazing in a field, no matter how Vermeer-esque the light that fell upon him? What makes it not weird to have that sort of reaction to the dead cow upon your plate?

Fried egg, portland, oregon

I digress. (But that's why you love me…isn't it?) The point I'm trying to make is that I'm not professing to be an ace food photographer; I don't have the natural skill and I certainly don't have the, er, drive.

But a market photographer…now that ambition I can get behind.

Mushrooms, portland sunday market, oregon

The colors (some so brilliant that I had to Photoshop some of the saturation out of them), the meditative expressions of people who buy, the beatific expressions of people who sell, the vibration of thriving local commerce that you can practically see rising from the market square like life force radiating from a qi-gong master's hair…  All o' dat. I love it. It thrills me, in a Norman Rockwell Christmas-multiplied-by-Van Gogh's irises kind of way.

Sometimes so much that it lasts until I get home.

And that's when you get my attempts at food photography.

Sorry/you're welcome.

Two Tarts bakery, portland farmers market, oregon

The day after I arrived in Portland, I had lunch with the inimitable Allison Jones, who I met over the social medias a few years ago when she was just slightly less of a big deal. She is now an inarguably big deal, running the world from her editor's desk at Portland Monthly as arbiter of all things in Rose City that are, in her words, "so tasty and real."

(Isn't that the best descriptive couplet you ever heard? Come on, it is.)

Winter Greens farm stand, portland farmers market, oregon

We ate that day at Clyde Common and, over fried egg sandwiches and duck confit, she regaled me with proof of Portland's preeminence when it comes to food. The Saturday market, she declared, is the best in the country. It may have been the influence of French fry-induced serotonin, but I believed her, right there and then.

And still more, when I actually visited the market.

Denoble Farms, portland farmers market, oregon

The thing that really singles Portland farmers out--and possibly is the clinching feature in their bid for first place--is how uncondescending they are about their excellence. They don't assert their superiority through disparaging other regions of the country; still less do they assert their products' worth by shaming those who come only to sample but not to buy.

Busker, portland farmers market, oregon

Having worked at farmers' markets for a couple of years, I harbor what I think is a healthy sense of guilt about taking samples when you've no intention of buying.

But the PDX people practically push them on you--if they're not standing out front of their stall with a tray in their hand, they're calling to you from their booth like a street corner psychic.

"You should try this!" wheedled one elderly gentleman. "It's really good!"

Or, like Packer Orchards and Bakery, set up what practically amounts to a Thanksgiving buffet, with an obliging outdoor space heater next to it.

And when they find out you're not from that area…well, all I can say is, native PDXers ought to use that ruse as long as they can, because people are so eager to engage with you and tell you about why their town is the best ever and their food is primary proof of that.

Portland farmers market, oregon

Bacon, portland farmers market, oregon

Portland farmers market, oregon

Enchanted Sun burritos, portland farmers market, oregon

Spoils of portland farmers market, oregon

Cappuccino macaron from Two Tarts Bakery (NW Kearney Street) Taylor's Gold pear and Winesap apple from Kiyokawa Family Orchards Winter greens from Winter Green Farm Eggs from the Dancing Chicken Farm Vintage Remington typewriter from my friend Joy's apartment.

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Follow Allison Jones on Twitter and on her highly worthwhile blog.

See more.

How To || take a not-lame family portrait

A photographer tells how to defuse the process of taking a family portrait(as well as big-box-store confrontations)

© Jami Baker Nato

Jami is a wifey-mommy-photographer-blogger...not one of the annoying ones. Really, I promise, she's not.

(Not that she cares what you think.)

She decorates like Martha Stewart would if she got the stick out her ass.

She wears polka dots like a boss, and rocks a pixie cut better than anyone I've ever seen that wasn't Meg Ryan in a movie.

And one time, she accosted an abusive mother in a Wal-Mart and when things got heated, got the best of her antagonist by making weird faces until the woman backed off. (Watching her act this out is even funnier than the story itself.)

And this is her family Christmas photo...

Jami Nato photography

Recognize those jodhpurs? This year, the Nato family Xmas card is an homage to Ralph Lauren.

Last year, the honoree was Wes Anderson.

© Jami Baker Nato

The year before it was...I don't even know.

Hyannis Port, perhaps? Mad Men? Grey Gardens?

Somewhere where the ladies wear furs and the men smoke pipes around the children that both of them pretend to adore even though they farm out the rearing of them to kindly ethnic help.

(Incidentally, Jami's appraisal of the fur coat situation is funny stuff. Read it.)

© Jami Baker Nato

Jami's whole take on the family picture thing is that it's kind of ridiculous. I mean, how many families actually dress in coordinating colors and serenely stand in close proximity, smiling beatifically at each other?

Zero families, that's how many.

© Jami Baker Nato

It's pretty much Jami's style  to take the obvious by the balls and turn it into a joke. Everybody hates making the annual Christmas card out of brags, lies and a grueling photo sesh. Everybody hates reading each other's Christmas cards and comparing their internal truth with other people's lies.

So each year, she and her family protest this absurd tradition with a pointed send-up of that artifice.

And send it to everybody.

And a good time is had by all.

For those who'd like to achieve the disarming authenticity and cheeky charm of a Nato Xmas photo, with or without fancy dress, here are Jami's helpful tips:

© Jami Baker Nato

  • Don't just stand there.

Play on a playground. Interact with each other over something--toys, flowers, furniture. Tell each other jokes or stories.

Without movement, Jami says,

"you don't get any emotion. The kids are fake smiles, the mom is the stress smile, the dad is the annoying smile.
"If I can get real movement, I can get real smiles."

© Jami Baker Nato

One of Jami's favorite behind-the-camera techniques is to get people walking toward her.

"Have them do it the way they would do it. Some will hold hands, some will look at each other."

Another proven success for smiles is making fun of posed pictures.

"Look! You LOVE each other!" she'll say in a cloyingly sweet voice. "I've gotten a lot of good pictures by making fun of family pictures."

© Jami Baker Nato

  • Give it a time limit.
"Kids are tortured by having to sit there and pose," she says. "I tell them, 'If you guys will sit here and really smile five times, then we're going to have a race.'"

Another thing that works, to break the stress of trying to look all perfect and pleasant, is to take a few with everyone looking as serious (or mean, or sad) as they can. It's hard work, after all, looking like you're having a great time.

  • Reassure the mom.

The only reason this picture is happening, after all, is because Mom wanted it to. Everyone else is likely there under duress. And rest assured, Mom feels it--not only that it's on her to get a good picture, but to not annoy the photographer.

"I tell moms, 'I'm not stressed out. I'm going to capture your family's personality.'"

And those photos--with everyone going different directions, making crazy faces, looking away from the camera--are the ones they pick over the posey-matchy ones.

"Usually their favorites are of the kids being themselves. That sheepish grin, that snaggle-tooth smile--those are the things you'll look back on and say, 'That was so our kid.'"

© Jami Baker Nato

  • Know what you're getting...and giving.

If you're getting hired, make sure you know what style these people are looking for...and make sure it matches the kind of photos you are best at taking.

"If you're really traditional, I'm not your photographer. I will turn down a client when I know they want a super-posey studio situation."
  • Think about the end destination.

What do these people want to look at on their mantel all year?

"Painters paint, and photographers stylize. I think about what would be fun to be on someone's mantel. People will be like, 'What are these people up to?'"

© Jami Baker Nato

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I know these photos are intimidatingly great. But don't be a hater. Read Jami's blog...you'll be really glad you did...and follow her Instas and Tweets.

---

P.S. Here are a few shots from a portrait session I did in Lancaster, Pa. This was before I received Jami's advice, but I feel now as if her spirit must have been hovering over me.

Frese family portrait, Lancaster, pennsylvania

North Carolina || The Greenway

Asheville's sort-of-secret nature park

The Greenway, Asheville, North Carolina

The Greenway is what folks call the rambling property of John Cram, Asheville's patron-capitalist, who bought up local real estate in the early 90s and began the area's transformation from bombed-out mountain mill town into the vibrant Appalachian art mecca it is today.

The Greenway, Asheville, North Carolina

Mr. Cram lives in a fairly modest home on a few acres of wooded property, in a venerable section of Asheville. As part of his beneficence to the community, he keeps his grounds well-maintained and quietly open to the public.

The Greenway, Asheville, North Carolina

Those who know come to roam the wooded paths, down to where the property backs up against a lake (whose name I can't divulge because that would be telling).

The Greenway, Asheville, North Carolina

Matt tells me that kids who play there call it "Narnia."

The Greenway, Asheville, North Carolina

The Greenway, Asheville, North Carolina

The Greenway, Asheville, North Carolina

The Greenway, Asheville, North Carolina

The Greenway, Asheville, North Carolina

Matt apologized on the day he took me there--in the spring and summer, he says, the place explodes with color.

I found it pretty satisfyingly explosive, even in late fall.

The Greenway, Asheville, North Carolina

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Les Loriots de Cap Rouge // Ville de Québec, QC

les loriots, quebec I know a lot of folks who love music.

My uncle Tim loves it more than any of them.

les loriots, quebec

His love is a fiery, weepy, decidedly uncool kind. Videos like this will choke him up, just as easily as music like this.

Music takes him straight to God.

les loriots, quebec

He directed music for several years at the Baptist church where my parents met. He's been through all the "worship wars" you could ask for, and risen above them. His love for music, for itself, transcends all preferences, his own and anybody else's.

It's infectious. He can even make me love the pedantic hymnody of said Baptist church. And everyone should be so lucky as to hear him sing, with my aunt and cousin, their patently complex three-part harmony of "Happy Birthday."

les loriots, quebec

One of the first things he and my aunt did, when they moved to Ville de Québec, was join the community choir, Les Loriots de Cap Rouge. It's an institution of venerable age, and not just any old body can get into it.

When the director they sang under finally retired, Uncle Tim was surprised to find himself nominated as the replacement. Despite having pinch-hit a couple of times, when the director was in absentia, he assumed that his outsider status was a necessary obstacle to leading the historic choir.

les loriots, quebec

Not so. Not only do they love his quirky québécois, they're also exceedingly grateful for his help in pronunciation of English, which seems to be the language they prefer to sing in.

les loriots, quebec

Much like those latter-day Baptist hymns, this kind of music in itself isn't my personal bag. In fact, all week, I've been giggling about the choral arrangement of Sting's "Every Step You Take" that my aunt has been playing, in an effort to memorize her part.

Preferences are, however, entirely beside the point, when you watch Les Loriots sing.

Their joy, their camaraderie their concentrated intensity--it's as winning as watching a child bathe a cat.

les loriots, quebec

And none more so than mon oncle Tim, whose face is like a Fourth of July fireworks show.

les loriots, quebec

 

Seriously--it's the most adorable thing. (Le chose plus adorable, if you prefer.)

les loriots, quebec

uncle tim, les loriots, quebec

les loriots, quebec

les loriots, quebec

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Basilique Sainte-Anne-de-Beaupré // Sainte-Anne-de-Beaupré, QC

qwuThe perseverance of the saints in La Côte-de-Beaupré, Québec

Basilique Sainte Anne de Beaupre, quebec

"The richest man in the world," my aunt murmurs, turning away from a photograph of Pope John Paul II kneeling at the miraculous shrine of Saint Anne.

Among my many aunts, she's the most easy-going--her disgust is rendered more acute. It surprises me. I follow her eyes toward the altar; the crucifix within it is barred by a thin brass gate and a sign that reads "Privé," brandishing a red hand.

That, she explains, is what bothers her--that a few men interpose themselves between people and the thing they believe, compelling them to conduct business with the church, rather than have a relationship with God.

Basilique Sainte Anne de Beaupre, quebec

I went to my first Catholic mass a few weeks ago. It struck me also as a great fabrication, but not in a bad way. There was something so earnest in the elaborateness--all man's art and device trying to describe something that reason can't quite reach.

That's how I feel as we walk into Saint Anne's basilica. Like any Catholic church, my eyes are immediately drawn upward--first to the stained glass window over the stairs, a piece that looks more folk-arty than church, then to the mosaics illustrating the life of Saint Anne and her blessed daughter, and higher still into the vaults of the ceiling over the nave, where the gilt and pastels are swallowed by their own shadows.

My uncle points out the flowers chiseled in the cornice stones of the niches that surround the apse, and the carvings of animals into the pews' shoulders; each one is different, meant to represent the timeline of creation. The wood carvers in this part of the province, he tells me, are legendary, and their donation is part of what makes this church a national showpiece.

I put my fingers into the ripples of the lion's mane, and the grooves in the ram's horn. The craftsman had it good--how close to God a person must feel, during the hours spent making something for His house. This is the kind of thing I would do, if I knew how, and it seems like that must connect me to those who did.

Basilique Sainte Anne de Beaupre, quebec

When my aunt and uncle first came to Québec, people were suspicious of them. But the climate has changed significantly in the last twenty-five years. People are now intrigued, they tell me, even eager to listen. "What kind of church?" they ask, when my uncle tells them he is a pastor. And they don't let it fall when he says "Protestant"--they want to know which variety, and how it's different from the others.

It's kind of astonishing, a turn-the-other-cheek reversal, because no one has ever much listened to the québecois themselves. English Canada controlled their national identity, while provincial government was in bed with the church.

Basilique Sainte Anne de Beaupre, quebec

In those days, the priest would make the rounds of homes in his parish, seeing that the lady of the house was pregnant and the children were going to school. Most families had anywhere between eight and twelve children, at least one of whom would be sent to a church school specifically for grooming as a future member of the clergy. That was their reasonable service; going beyond it wasn't encouraged.

In the 1960s, the Revolution Tranquille began making changes, but by virtue of its tranquility, those changes were slow. The onset of Vatican II began to shake things up within the church, but the real seismic shift began with the revelation of the priesthood's sexual abuse. (My aunt tells me they found out about it in Canada way before it hit the US.)

Combined with the increasing agitation of the Separatist party, the new generation of québecois has become dismissive of religion and defensive of patrimoine. At the same time, their better established identity makes them more disposed to listen to outsiders.

It makes a missionary's job at once easier and more difficult.

Basilique Sainte Anne de Beaupre, quebec

It's not only the field that's changing, for my aunt and uncle; it's the structure of how they follow their call. Mission fundraising has shifted from corporate church support to individual donations--something they feel very uncomfortable soliciting. It was one thing to make a pitch and give a slideshow on Sunday morning, and wait for the collective to decide on a number. The individual model, my aunt says, makes her feel like she's selling vacuum cleaners.

Basilique Sainte Anne de Beaupre, quebec Their parent organization, historically very conservative, is trying to maintain its footing; the new evangelical missionary is more avid than ever, but a lot less concerned about things like drinking and cussing. Pastors and missionaries walk a treacherous line between offending the old guard and alienating the younger generations; it doesn't leave much room for being honest with their own convictions.

This presents a problem in Québec, where hospitality starts with a cork getting popped. My aunt and uncle were both raised in families that regarded drinking as a sin; their organization required them to sign a charter that guaranteed against it and all other dissolution. But as my uncle's fellow pastor says, a belief in Jesus is a big enough barrier to relationship...why make another one out of taking wine when a friend offers it?

But things are changing, even within the organization. My uncle tells that their organization president, accosted by another missionary distraught over this issue, answered succinctly, "Not everything has to go into prayer letters."

Basilique Sainte Anne de Beaupre, quebec

Saint Anne was enjoying a vogue in France when the early colonists crossed the Atlantic. In 1650, a group of Bretagne sailors built her a shrine in thanks for their safe passage through a storm. Eight years later, while the chapel was being built, a man laid three stones on the foundation and was instantly cured of either rheumatism or kidney disease--accounts differ. Word spread, and they soon had to build a bigger church.

In 1892, a piece of Saint Anne's forearm was sent by ship from the Vatican. It cured an epileptic when it reached New York City, and the trend of pilgrimage spiked again.

Basilique Sainte Anne de Beaupre, quebec

A fire destroyed the basilica in 1922; the subsequent rebuilding combines the dizzying loftiness of Gothic architecture, the iconic details of the Roman tradition, and startlingly modern Art Deco interior details created by Auguste Labouret.

Half a million pilgrims visit Saint Anne's shrine every year. The columns at the entrance of the church are stacked with canes, crutches and orthopedic shoes that healed pilgrims have left behind. Masses are held throughout the day, all week long. As they end, two of the priests hold out a little box containing a fragment of Saint Anne's body, wiping the surface of the box before and after each devotee makes contact.

Basilique Sainte Anne de Beaupre, quebec

Downstairs from the sanctuary is the Immaculate Conception chapel. The pearlescent ceiling encroaches like the shell of a giant oyster. A statue of Mary anchors the room, arrayed round by organ pipes that look like gleaming rows of teeth.

Basilique Sainte Anne de Beaupre, quebec

The wall frescoes here are disturbingly modern--begun in the 1980s by one artist and finished less than a decade ago by another. One seems to have undergone an even more recent change--I wonder, looking at it, whose head used to be there and what he did to get it pasted over.

Behind the pipe organ is a recess for the luminaries, where they are brought to burn out when there are too many upstairs. The room radiates heat like a sauna. At the back is the tomb of Venerable Father Alfred Pampalon, who has been the favorite of supplicant addicts ever since he offered his life in exchange for an alcoholic man's conversion.

In this room, people move through in closer proximity to each other, less devoutly isolated. They take pictures of each other as tourists, smiling. Those who pray begin almost involuntarily--I watch as a woman doubles back with moth-like quickness as she passes a shrine, her knee buckling onto the hassock as if someone knocked it out from under her. She remains for a moment, tucking her head tightly between her sternum and her fists. When she gets up, she averts her eyes resentfully, fixing them on the ground.

Basilique Sainte Anne de Beaupre, quebec

When I tell people I have family who are missionaries in Canada, they look at me quizzically. "Aren't there lots of churches in Canada?" they ask. In spite of my aunt and uncle's having been here for 25 years, the question still sometimes gives me pause. Even more so, since I've turned against my youthful indoctrination that you can't a real Christian if you're Catholic.

It's the new Catholics I've met, that changed my mind--many of them expats from mainline Protestant churches, where they grew up playing foosball and learning guitar over three repetitive chords. They struggled to find a personal relationship with something entirely immaterial--the rich symbology of the Catholic church finally gives them something to hold onto.

Basilique Sainte Anne de Beaupre, quebec

The priest swipes the last devotee's kiss from the surface of the box as I approach, and holds it out to me. Inside it is an even tinier recess, inscribed in Latin around its perimeter, cradling a flat and waxy fragment of bone, about the length of my first knuckle.

I want to bend forward and look closer, but I'm afraid he'll think I want to kiss it and Saint Anne will end up giving me a bloody lip. Instead, I put my fingers against the glass and wait.

The priest looks a little bit like a slighter version of Tony Hale; I want to look at into his eyes and ask if anything's happened, and if I don't feel it because I wasn't worthy or because it's beyond gross sensation. Instead, I drop my hand and move to the side. People are moving with somber deliberation from one locus to another, except for a few elderly, who lodge in the pews like rocks in a current.

The last people in line were an Asian couple with a baby and an eight-year-old boy. The husband touched the relic, the wife kissed it, and the priest bent forward to offer it to the little boy. Even across the room, I could see his father's hand prodded him forward, but he stiffened against it.

Basilique Sainte Anne de Beaupre, quebec

It's not so much Catholicism that my aunt and uncle are fighting here. It's the unthinkingness that it represents--if they stay another fifteen years, as they plan to, they'll be fighting unthinkingness in the form of irreligion, instead.

There's something in us that wants something to fall back on, something that offers the comfort of truth and belonging, when we've reached the limits of where thinking can take us. My friend Diane, who grew up Catholic, said she feels that way in nature.

For me, nature can be overwhelming; it's too much like how I think of God--beautiful, strange, and other.  I'm more comforted by high, shadowy ceilings that turn footsteps into echoes and vault an old man's warbling into ethereal plainsong.

They're very firm, the Protestants, that the church isn't a building. But the building has the most powerful to make me feel like I belong. You understand how it got there; it gives you a place to put your effort, a way to mark time. It unites you with a lot of different people who, for one hour, are all doing the same thing together, for all their different reasons and from all their different motivations.

Tradition is good for that; it protects you from being entirely alone. But that's also the bad side--tradition can rob you of your individuality. It can silence those screams of overwhelm when they ought to be voiced. It will often tell you who you are without asking any questions.

Basilique Sainte Anne de Beaupre, quebec

See more pictures of Basilique Sainte-Anne-de-Beaupré.

Also, here's more on the folks who helped build Saint Anne's...because I'm a nerd like that:

Manchester, New Hampshire // Sunday, 1.58pm

It seems Sunday is laundry day in Manchester, New Hampshire. hanging flowers, wayne street [4]

Walking past Sainte Marie's church on Manchester's west side, just as the bells are letting people out of morning mass, I see a wink of color between the leaves of the maple tree on the corner. The tired sweaters, towels and bedsheets glow jewel-deep against the blinding white of the lapped shingles.

A man comes out on the lower floor as I frame the image in my lens. His hands are on his hips, his elbows cocked as if hitching up a gun holster. I lower my camera and find him on the other side of the crack in the sidewalk, poised against the fence post.

"Hi, there," I say.

"What are you taking pictures of?" he demands.

"The laundry," I say, pointing over his head.

He looks round slowly, maybe thinking this is a ruse. But he sees what I'm looking at, and gives a sigh like a creaking gate.

bill [2b]His name is Bill. He's lived here most of his life. It's changed a lot though, he says. All these people--his voice drops, his arm motions like tracing a wheel--coming in, all up and down this street.

"I don't know what Obama's doing," he says.

I smile. "I don't know, either," I say.

He laughs.

When Bill first came to the neighborhood--well before that, in fact--this side of the river was all French and Irish. On the other side, it was the Germans and the Belgians.

"Which are you?" I ask him.

"Me? I'm Irish. Scottish and English, too."

He says it with something that goes deeper than pride.

"That's a good camera," he says. "A good brand." He pokes his chest. "I take pictures, too."

I ask if he uses a Nikon.

"Me? No. I'm from the old school. I use film," he says. Then, ducking his head like a turtle about to pull in, he admits, "I take different kind of pictures.

"So," he continues, "what are you? A traveling photographer?"

Why not, I think. "That's right," I say.

Bill says he's done some traveling--to the Great Smoky Mountains, to Lake George, to Canada. It's great up there, he tells me. People are friendlier than here, they'll let you live your life without interfering. He advises me to visit the Queen Elizabeth hotel in Montreal, where they have a great bar. If you go down below the lobby, he tells me, you can find a subterranean passageway that will take you all around the city underground.

"Have a good afternoon taking pictures," he says, shaking my hand. "Maybe I'll see you around here again."

amory street

I walk down Amory Street as far as the bridge, then loop back on Bremer, up the hill again into Rimmon Heights.

The streets have the deserted look that Sunday afternoon gives to everything. When the odd car appears, the people get out, look at me funny, and disappear again into buildings after I walk past.

Their looks bother me, though I suppose they're only curious about me for the same reason I'm curious about them.

I stop in front of the French-American meetinghouse to take a picture of their iconoclastic advertisement for Twisted Tea...what, I wonder, would Manchester founding French think of that?

 

I telescope my lens into someone's backyard, focusing it on a shrine that consists of an orange tarp and a statue of the Blessed Virgin.

People emerge onto their second and third floor porches, laughing, arguing, drinking beers, hanging up more of their bright-colored laundry. They fall quiet again as they stop to watch me.

I have a camera and I'm holding it up into an alley on their street. They walk by that alley every day, and they never saw anything worth taking a picture of.

shrine [1]

I suppose we're all like that, when we're being looked at and don't know why. Why do we assume that people are looking because there's something wrong with how we look?

It's curious, and it's also annoying, because it makes me afraid to take pictures of what I really want to capture.

Like the Indian woman in a blouse studded with rhinestones, her hair following behind in a long plait, who folds her arms across her chest while crossing the street in front of a low-rider that's blasting Wu-Tang Clan.

Like the woman with pink hair who comes out of the adjacent building, carrying a crying baby.

I want to take pictures of the boy who rides a BMX past me, with the elongated limbs and neck of a Maori warrior, and of the two men with sepia shadows under their eyes, who come out to smoke cigarettes just as I stop to take a picture in front of the laundromat.

etc [2a]

One of them is muttering to the other in a voice like Steve Buscemi's. After I get my picture, I realize he's talking about me.

"What are you taking pictures of?" he asks me.

I point to the sign on the brick wall above us.

"E T C?" he says inquiringly. "Oh. Okay."

"It's interesting," I said. "And there's a cool lens flare." I show him the screen on my Nikon.

"Oh. Okay." He drags on his cigarette. "You get a picture of Saint Marie's? There's a good view from here. Even better views on the roof."

"Really? What's on the roof?"

"Oh." He gestures. "You can see all the way down to Manchester. I can see it from my window--I live right up there." He points to the third and fourth floor windows on the corner. "That big moon a couple weeks ago? It was right against the steeple at Saint Marie's."

"I did see that!" I nod. "That was really something. I hope you took a picture."

"Oh, just my phone. That's all. But you should go up there if you want some good pictures." He pauses, his head falling to the side. "You want to? I can take you up there."

I hear the other guy snort.

I walk away, telling them, "Have a great day." Inside, I'm thinking, "Do I look like a fucking idiot to you?"

But that would be a stupid question. I'm wandering around a deserted neighborhood of Manchester, taking pictures of clothes and backyards and broken signs. Of course I look like an idiot...or, at least, like someone who might go anywhere.

rimmon club

dubuque and amory

amory street

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Lake Winnipesaukee // Gilford, Nh.

Sailing on a Sunday afternoon

Map, lake winnipesaukee, new hampshire

The boat is moored at Gilford, at the southeast perimeter of the lake. There's a sign over the ship chandlery that says--no joke--Fay's Boat Yard.

(If you know, then you know.)

Marina, lake winnipesaukee, new hampshire

Mark says the local sport is to hang out and watch divorces happen from the dock, as couples freak out at each other while bumping and scraping their way into the slips.

Buzz + Diane, lake winnipesaukee, new hampshire

The boat is a 35-footer, a lot roomier than it sounds, both above and below deck. It's a good size, they say, for sailing inshore--not too heavy, nor too big--but it has enough storage space to accommodate long trips, while still keeping a draft that can accommodate the shallow waters around West Indian islands.

lake winnipesaukee, new hampshire

The lake is full of tiny islands, some of them with barely enough surface area to accommodate the vacation palaces built there. We speculate, as middle-class types will, on the inconveniences of having such a place--for example, what do you do if a light bulb goes out, or you run out of toilet paper?

lake winnipesaukee, new hampshire

Mark reasonably speculates that if you can afford a house like that, you can probably afford the gas needed to powerboat back to the mainland for an errand run. And it's not unknown to see things lifted in and out by helicopter.

Chelsea, lake winnipesaukee, new hampshire

I seem to recall rumors of vicious feuds between sailboat and powerboat factions; Mark and Vicky say that it's more of a friendly contempt.

As an example, he points out a powerboat that passes us--"You'd need about $800 to pay for the fuel that thing uses up in an afternoon," he says, and looks up to where the billowing mainsail speaks for itself. 

lake winnipesaukee, new hampshire

"The wobble choke is open!" "It's a two-speed winch!"

The only thing better than the impressed expression on the face of a gulled daytripper, they say, is hearing a noob repeat this made-up terminology to someone else.

Boat, lake winnipesaukee, new hampshire

It's altogether evident that Mark grew up sailing. He has neither the novice's smiling tension, nor the new master's bombast. He moves across the deck like an unobtrusive breeze, conversing, laughing, pointing out the vacation homes, his easy manner breaking only into a stern clip when tacking in the passages between islands. Booms have to swing, after all, which means people need to be out of their way.

Mark, lake winnipesaukee, new hampshire

As soon as the moment of urgency passes, and he swings serenely from a line.

"This," he declares to no one in particular, "is heaven, to me."

lake winnipesaukee, new hampshire

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Domestic Bliss // Allied Gardens, Ca.

bill and donna's house, san diego, california

They greet me at the door saying, "Is this the General?"

That's about the finest opening line possible from folks I've known this long. I was expecting "You look so much like your mother" or at least "Remind me--how old are you now?"

powerlines, san diego, california

Bill and Donna have known me since I was knee high to a pig's eye. Their daughter Bethy and I used to write each other letters between Palawan to San Diego. She had an older sister and a pet monkey; I'm sure I had something that made her jealous, but lord knows what it could have been.

Now she builds houses with Habitat for Humanity in Torrance, I roam around the country looking for things to write about, and her parents are headed back to the Philippines for two months.

beck [2], san diego, california

Which now means I have a house for two months.

And a cat.

His name is Beck.

flowers + stella, san diego, California

I love waking up in the morning to a whole slew of rooms that only I will stand in.

I love waiting in the square of sunlight while my tea water brews.

I love the windowseat (you can't know what joy a windowseat gives me) and the view of the street I have, that hides me from view of everyone except the neighbor when he's working on his '66 Mustang. (Which seems like a fair trade.)

I love filling the fridge with groceries and the other rooms with flowers.

I love the Stella Artois glass that has become my designated kombucha vessel.

I love having a house that isn't mine.

bill and donna's kitchen, san diego, california

In the morning, I make tea and settle into the patch of sunlight on the windowseat. I spend the rest of the day chasing it across the kitchen until it hits the carpet just after noon.

Beck isn't always sure that he wants to share it with me. It largely depends on how generous I was with the canned mackerel, the night before.

beck [1], san diego, california

In the evenings, I run down the hill, over the freeway, past the stadium and all the way up the ridiculous hill that is Mission Village Drive. You should be impressed--I am pretty impressed with myself. Even more so, when I time it and discover that it only takes about ten minutes from foot to crest. I'm not sure if that says a lot for my strength, or very little for my perception.

sunset, san diego, california

I worried, in taking this gig for two months, that I'd suffer loneliness.

In fact, a house can be its own company.