Abandoned in Alvadore

Wandered around a defunct nursery this weekend, in rural Alvadore, Oregon.

Footloose in The Palouse

Wrapped up a three-week hejira with a few days in Eastern Washington.

Clyde

Washtucna

Washtucna

Nowheresville

Lowden

Lowden

Lowden

Zillah decrepitude

A few studies of building geometry in rural Zillah, eastern Washington.

Roadside attraction

Meanwhile, somewhere along Interstate 5...

Ghost farms, Richmond OR

The Lost Photograph

For Sepia Saturday #201, a collection of photos of my father's house in Elm, Michigan, and a poem of his that evokes at least the interior very well.

Lost for twenty years now that large photograph Of my father in his long room at Golden, Colorado, in 1901, surrounded By books and sunlight. The young teacher from Michigan, his forehead High and broad, his fine black hair center-parted, Rugged and hopeful as Lincoln, at his desk, Shakespeare beside him. Before he taught at Victor or Cripple Creek Or had Lowell Thomas as a start student, Or won my mother’s hand away from Ralph Carr And the music store. In one corner of the room, piled high with books, Was the slatted wood, metal and leather trunk Brought to take all his books and clothes from Detroit Clear to the Rockies. On my last night in Michigan, he and I Climbed to the spare bedroom long used for storage, Where my mother’s dress dummy stood among toys, Found the old trunk there, Unmoved since I was born, carefully removed Teddy bears, dolls, games, and three children’s clothing, And carried it with ceremonial joking Down the long staircase, Past the ceiling-high cases of well-read books, Past faded paintings of six great composers, Past the two old stoves and the battered table, Out through the kitchen, Down the back porch where all of our dogs had slept, Across the yard full of oaks, maples, and pine Where we live in photographs of forty years, Past the old red barns, And loaded it into Ramsbottom, the Dodge. My train was to leave at dawn for Seattle From the ornate red brick depot in Ann Arbor Where he had arrived In 1896. Across Middlebelt, Beyond the fragrant pastures of horses and Holsteins, Half a mile away stood Elm Woods, flower-filled, Venus above them. I could hear far off, down at the Beech crossing, A Diesel, not an old steam locomotive, Coming on the Pere Marquette. Then my father, Seventy-seven, Standing in the back door in Indian summer Twilight, his children gone, my mother long dead, But in his old aura of steadfast love, gave one Understated wave As Beth and I drove off into the future. On the way to Seattle, on the Great Northern, On the far side of the Rockies, I remembered The lost photograph.

Nelson at bat in the front yard The Bentleys at Elm The red barns Middlebelt Road, Elm Woods Dapper in the side yard The house coat and the house Mike, the house dog

Going Over Old Times

Aunt Velma schooled us we should run in the field
when we got worked up, so as not to raise dust
in the house, which somehow managed always
to be just swept. So there we were,
playing at jousting, with Petey and Mort
on their invisible steeds they didn't want
to call just horses, holding branch lances
and going for each other like they hadn't
forgotten all the doublescrosses
they'd laid for each other in the past.
The dog and me were referee.


When everyone tired of knights we turned
to the day, like a grocer's thumb
on the earth. Even the trees which burst
out in yellow every so often
(you could smell "caution" on quiet days)
were grey, no buds, like spindly clouds.
I had a dog once looked like that,
the runt; he passed away unnoticed
almost, cause he was barely there
anyway. This was a runty day.


We fooled around the barn a good deal,
swinging on the rope from the rafters.
Mom brought it from Ohio where her Ma and Pa
used to tie it to the porch railing
in winter so you wouldn't get lost walking
from the house to the barn in a blizzard.
We all used it so we wouldn't stray
from the farm into the woods like we were tempted
to do on dumb days. Mom called it
"a headiness" that came over you in there,
so you'd walk for months without flagging,
and Percy and me knew it was the jays
who called you on and on from your home.
Even jays themselves have no home,
they've called each other away, following
those raggy cries up and down
from Salinas to Winnipeg. At any rate,
we kids stayed in the barn till suppertime.


And rain, which had been listening to the arguments
of gravity all the way down, hit
the drainpipe and said "Okay yessiree,"
agreeing to try the dry old earth for a spell.
We heard it during dessert, don't you know.

Storm Brewing: The Identity Parade

I've probably been watching too many TV police procedurals, but this array of antique implements near Maltby, Wasdhington, looked like a lineup to me.

Array #1

The afterlife of a door, outside the antique shop.

Farm Fall

When I was a kid I rolled my eyes when, every year, my folks piled me into the car for a countryside drive "to look at the fall colors." I just didn't get it. Well, last weekend I visited a "U-Pick" farm near Eugene, Oregon ...and I capitulate, OK, OK, it was durn purty. But I must confess if there wasn't rusty old equipment mixed in there, I mightn't have taken out the camera.

Strata: Mossy Hieroglyphics

Had to jump out of the car and creep along the side of the busy road to get this wonderful barn roof just outside of Duvall, Washington.

Fade Away

More relics from our August roadtrip. The truth is, these ghost towns are far more interesting than most of the towns we drove through that are still bustling along.

Anatone, Oregon



Flora, Oregon



Govan, Washington


Reardan, Washington



Reardan, Washington