The union of time and timelessness

Last Saturday afternoon, TG and I set out for the tiny town of Union, about an hour's drive northwest of Columbia.

Union is the map dot infamous for being the birthplace and hometown of Susan Smith, who drowned her two sons, aged three and fourteen months, by sending them, strapped into their car seats in the family vehicle, into nearby John D. Long Lake.

Mrs. Smith accused a nonexistent black man of car jacking and kidnap, but the police were onto her from the beginning.

That was in October, 1994. Susan is currently incarcerated. The little boys are buried in nearby Jonesville, South Carolina.

We didn't visit the graves; there wasn't time this trip. After taking advantage of the gorgeous weather we've been enjoying to indulge in a mini photo shoot last week to Ridge Spring, South Carolina (tale to be told later), I was inspired to see and photograph Union.

I almost went on Friday, alone. I'm glad I didn't. Union is many miles off Interstate 26 and when you've used all of the light to take your pictures, that leaves the dark to drive home in, much of the way on a winding two-lane.

 My TG is happy to drive me, and I'm thrilled to ride shotgun. I regrouped, working smarter instead of harder.

So it was that the mid-to-late afternoon of fall-back Saturday, which was warm but blustery with spates of light rain here and there, found us riding the Raven north-northwest on US Route 176, enjoying finally-here autumn color and silvery light with a mist on the windshield, with no particular schedule.

Basically, perfection. 

Click on this one:

We weren't to Union yet when I saw it. On our left -- an abandoned small farmhouse, weathered gray and still standing, but with more stubbornness than substance. It stood alone in a field studded with round hay bales.

Whoa, I said as we passed a photographer's dream of a country scene. Go back go back go back.

TG -- who if you haven't yet guessed, is a prince of a man -- obediently found the first available turnaround spot, and went back. We parked in what used to be a sort of short driveway.

There was nothing and no one for miles, unless you count country dwellings spaced acres apart, and the occasional car or truck on 176. It was the kind of quiet you don't get within city limits. 

I got out of the car, wearing my camera. Holding my breath lest the dreamy beauty of the whole thing simply dissolve if I blinked, I crept gingerly on unmown grass and uneven ground, toward the house.

I began taking its picture, moving slowly around it, going in close, moving back out, pausing to look around and identify leading lines and frame up better compositions, then taking a few more.

 I even took a handful of shots with my phone. Don't ask me why; I don't know. Considering my recent record, it's like cheap insurance, I guess.

Fifteen minutes or so had elapsed when I noticed an SUV slowing to a stop on State Route 176 in front of the falling-down house. My intuition told me exactly what was about to happen.

Because as you know, I also have a record of being asked or told to cease and desist, when taking pictures out in public. 

It happens to me with frightening regularity.

 A minute or so later, I noticed that the SUV's driver (a middle-aged woman) had pulled up in the long grass in front of the house. TG went to chat with her, buying me extra time. I kept shooting.

After a brief convo with TG, the woman pulled her SUV around to the side of the house where I was standing.

TG said: We've got to go.

I looked at the lady. It's just a hobby, I said. Therapeutic.

She nodded in sympathy and mumbled something about the owners, but her meaning was clear: Clear out.

Here's where I, two days later, am struck with a powerful case of what the French call esprit de l'escalier -- or staircase wit. It's when you think of the pertinent rejoinder, too late to deliver it.

Why didn't I say (politely): Are you the owner?

The answer would have been no; she had already alluded to the owner, so it couldn't be her.

Then why didn't I say: Are you the legal representative of the owner?

I'm pretty sure the answer would have been no to that as well.

(I think she was merely a nosy neighbor with more time than she knew what to do with. If she'd been a family member, she would have said so.)

At which time I would have politely affirmed my intention to leave as soon as I was good and ready.

After all, as TG pointed out: There was not one single no trespassing sign posted anywhere on the property.

The unposted, unwritten message was clear, however: City slickers from down in Columbia are not welcome to traipse around our neighbor's abandoned and crumbling ancestral home.

We tooled into Union, where I spent the golden hour walking and taking pictures of rooflines and street perspectives and scarred spaces between buildings, strung with fairy lights -- and anything else that caught my fancy.

The sky had turned gorgeous as sunset approached. There was nobody to tell me to stop.

A fantastic surprise was a mural by Columbia artist Blue Sky, whose work I've talked about and shown you before. 

I was walking down a side street toward some interesting black-and-white stripes painted at one end of the side of a building. As I rounded the corner, I saw the spectacular mural, an homage to Union Cotton Mills.

Click to embiggen:

On the way out of town, the light all but gone, I spotted something I look for as much as I do for angels' wings in cemeteries: vintage signage -- neon, all the better.

This particular one, a battered beacon for defunct Heart's Family Restaurant, was never neon but once had little bulbs outlining its snazzy inviting shape. Alas all that's left are holes in the metal, where the lights once twinkled into humid southern nights.

The sign loomed over a series of parking spaces complete with menus and talkie-boxes to place your burger and malt order, back in the Heart's heyday. The whole thing was covered by a corrugated metal zig-zag roof that once protected drive-in diners from rain.

It was a spectacular find. I live for times when I have the time -- and am there at the right time -- to see and capture images of a South and an America that has all but vanished. It's all there; you only have to go looking for it.

Everything is all about time. And with a camera in your hand, you're always in your prime. Age and infirmity, even failures and triumphs, mean nothing. 

Wandering back roads with no pressing time limit and the only objective to find and capture something that evokes a truth with no explanation necessary -- that is, for me, a profoundly satisfying experience.

We journey toward a destination. We don't know how far we'll go, how long it will take, or what we'll find. We arrive at a place which seems pleasant to sojourn. There we linger, trying to understand and even memorialize in some way, so as to make a contribution.

One that we hope will be lasting.

Then the light fades to deepening dusk, and we go home.

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Happy Monday :: Happy New Week

Comments

[Mari]

Ooooohhh! What a perfect day! And yes, TG is a prince. I went to the gallery and enjoyed all your photos. Union is charming. I also loved the barn you found. But that little house! It is just heartwarming, and in that setting with the hay bales it is even better.
I don't understand why people have such a problem with people taking pictures. If it was mine, I would be happy that others enjoyed it. Thanks to you and TG for getting these and sharing them!

[Cheryl]

The picture of the inside of the house is stunning. Your camera really picks up the details in the wood. I had never seen those kind of bales up close and personal before.......very interesting! Thank you for sharing the photos.

[Barb]

These photos are wonderful - I studied each one. My favorites are the falling-down house's side view with the round bale and the red tree way in the distance. I also love that Heart's sign.The lady who felt the need to ask you to move on is related to the neighbor who didn't want you photographing her blossoming tree. I think the gene that ties them is being what my mother called "a busybody." I love days of wandering with my camera with no particular agenda. (I also always take a few phone shots - just in case.)

[Jennifer]

@Barb .... haaaaahaha blest be the busybody ties that bind. I hear you. YES, the tree aflame in the distance! I had to get it, and I do love that shot. It may be my favorite too. Happy Thanksgiving! xoxo