On Death, Existence and Dry Cleaning

The lady behind the counter at the dry cleaner compliments Oskar on his name and we have a little conversation about how so many old time names seem to be making a comeback. Henry, Hazel, Mabel . . . the list goes on. Oskar tells her how he’s going to be a big brother and I find myself telling yet another stranger about my October due date. The lady offers him a candy from the bowl on the counter, and I’m reminded how much I love businesses that offer these little incentives, making mom’s boring errands a little easier for a four-year-old to stomach.

I carry the newly cleaned, cat fur free drapes out of the shop and help Oskar get into his booster seat. I step around the back of my car and just before stepping out into the street to get to the driver’s side door, a car speeds by so fast and so close to the parked cars lining the street that I’m fairly certain I narrowly avoided grave injury or death by a mere second. I’m parked near an intersection and all I can figure is some asshole in a hurry zipped past a car turning left with very little regard for anyone but himself. As I sit behind the wheel and catch my breath, I find myself lecturing Oskar on safe driving and reflecting upon my own recklessness behind the wheel. I’ve kind of been known to be a bit of a hot head myself and have never been very patient behind the wheel. Oskar and I go on with our day, running errands, going to the park and I quickly forget about my brush with death.

Later that night, as I’m trying to fall asleep, I it creeps back into my thoughts. Next, my mind moves on to the day before, when Oskar was running around outside before his soccer practice and came dangerously close to getting hit in the head with a swinging baseball bat. Two older kids were hanging around outside the community building and one was practicing his swing as Oskar haphazardly ran around in circles like a typical four-year-old. Whoosh, he ran by the older kid just as he was swinging his bat and it came within inches of his blonde little head.

A matter of inches, a matter of seconds. An instant is all it takes for your life to change forever. Of course, these are not the kind of things you should be thinking about if you want to peacefully fall asleep at night, but it seems this is when they most often circulate in my brain. As I try to sleep, I realize the nature of my fear of death has changed since having Oskar. In the past, I simply feared the unknown, the idea of not existing, the all-around permanence of death. Now, when I can’t sleep and think too much about the inevitable end, I’m most sad about leaving Oskar without a mommy. I want to be in his life as long as humanly possible — to guide him, to love him, to watch him grow up. In a way, this change makes me happy. It makes me feel like maybe there’s a bit more meaning in my life.

Of course, we can’t live life in constant fear of dangers lurking around every corner. As much as I’d love to be able to protect Oskar from every kind of physical harm and from every mean word or action of a friend, it’s impossible. Part of what makes our lives interesting, what makes us grow and learn, are all the bumps and bruises we collect through the years. I find I’m  grateful for all the everyday minutiae that exists - the trips to the dry cleaners, grocery store, cleaning the bathroom. I don’t have time to worry about everything that can go wrong in life. It’s very easy to take our good fortune for granted, that’s just human nature. Maybe close-calls exist for a reason. They make us pause for a second and take a moment to be grateful for what we have, even if it’s only for a short time. They make us appreciate the time we have with the ones we love.

Lately, Oskar has been on a big hugging and love kick. He often gives me a big hug and says, “Mommy, I love you and everything you do for me.” I’m not sure where he picked this up — maybe preschool brought up appreciating those you love, maybe he came up with it on his own. I’ll admit that I enjoy hearing these words from him. However, he’s also been saying, “Thanks for nothing,” quite often. I love the dichotomy of these two sentiments. It gets to the heart of the dilemma of not wanting to take everything for granted, yet being unable to constantly be grateful for your good fortune.

I love you, thanks for nothing, amen!

The Long Drive Home — Houghton or Bust!

I don’t know if there’s something about turning 40, but I seem to be getting more and more nostalgic for seemingly random things. Most recently I’ve been thinking about the long drive between Houghton, Michigan, where I grew-up, and Ann Arbor, Michigan — home of the University of Michigan, where I went to college. A span of 538 miles separate the cities, so needless to say I didn’t go home every weekend to visit mom and dad. The journey home usually took about nine solid hours, with the last four hours consisting of two-lane state highways with 55 mph speed limits.

My best friend and college roommate Kristin and I made this trip together so many times that we developed a set of traditions we would strive to keep with each jaunt home. Our first stop was always the same gas station on Interstate 75. I can’t recall what town it was in, but it was a large station with an extensive selection of junk food, cheesy trinkets, camo beer koozies and hunter orange mesh trucker hats. The bathroom was the highlight of this particular stop on the trip. It was indoors, which was a bit of a luxury as many gas stations required customers get a key then walk outside to get to the bathrooms. This wasn’t a big deal in the summer, but come December, it was a pain. The large indoor bathroom was not only one of the cleanest I’ve experienced at a gas station, but it also featured fresh cut flowers. Every time, without question, we would find a nice arrangement of flowers in a vase by the sinks. And, every time in accordance with our trip traditions, I would pick a flower, hide it in my pocket and sneak it out of there. Such devious behavior. Indeed I was a rebel.

One time I went to the bathroom to collect our souvenir flower and found a small, yellow laminated sign next to the flower arrangement which read, “Please leave flowers for all to enjoy.” For a few seconds, I was awash in classic Catholic guilt for all the flowers I had taken throughout the years and was convinced that my habitual flower snatching had lead to the very existence of this sign. It only took a few seconds for that feeling to pass, for me to pick my flower and slip it in my pocket along with the sign itself. Take that establishment!

The best thing about the Lower Peninsula Interstate 75 part of the drive was the ability to speed. I loved passing slow drivers on the interstate, which is something you just don’t get to do on the majority of the roads in the U.P. The landscape along Interstate 75 is pretty flat and boring, but gets slightly more interesting as you drive north, away from the farm fields and into the woodlands. More often than not we were making the drive home in the fall, winter or early spring, when everything was either some dismal shade of brown or bright white as you got into snow country. This boring factor of the Lower Peninsula was yet another reason I could not wait to get to the U.P.  

Mile by mile, as we neared the Mackinac Bridge, my excitement and anticipation would grow. I couldn’t wait to see the towers of the bridge on the horizon, followed by the the blue waters of Lake Michigan and Lake Huron. Once at the bridge, it was a mere five miles and a small toll to gain entrance to the best and most beautiful part of Michigan. The drive over the bridge, which rises more than 500 feet over the Straits of Mackinac, always made me a bit nervous, especially after the Yugo incident of 1989. That was the first time a vehicle ever went off the bridge, an accident which occurred during high winds. Years later a Ford Explorer would meet the same fate, but it was later determined to be a suicide. The Yugo, however, was a terrifying accident, one that I’d always think about while I white knuckled it across the bridge. Luckily, I never had to drive across the bridge in really bad weather and always managed to calm myself by taking in some of the beautiful views. Crossing the Big Mac was always a highlight of the trip home, even if the toll collectors never let me over the bridge for free when I showed them my U.P. tattoo.

By the time we’d get to St. Ignace, at the northern terminus of the bridge, we would always make a stop at the McDonald’s and adjacent gas station on U.S. 2. St. Ignace marked the halfway point of the trip. The McDonald’s featured a lot of U.P. centric decor, with mounted fish and fishing poles on the walls. There was one painting in particular that became the subject of an elaborate story we’d build upon each time we returned to the McDonald’s. The painting featured two men standing in front of a secluded cabin with a canoe sitting upon the shore of a lake. One man stared out over the lake, while the other stood with his back turned away. We constructed a narrative around the painting describing how the men were secret lovers who would meet once a year at the cabin for a week of fishing and love — unbeknownst to their wives. It was all very Brokeback Mountain, before there was ever a Brokeback Mountain. I like to think of it as the cabin of shame — you can just feel the tension between the men. If only they lived in a world where they could both accept themselves and be accepted by society for who they truly are . . . but alas, I imagine the painting was from the 1950’s.

I’m happy to say I took a picture of the painting one time while visiting the McDonald’s. After sifting through some of my old black and white prints, I was able to track it down. I would love to find the original painting itself, but I learned the McDonald’s was recently renovated and all the cool U.P. decor is gone. Maybe someday I’ll hit the garage sale circuit of St. Ignace and get lucky. St. Ignace McDonald’s — I can’t quit you!

Upon leaving McDonald’s, we’d begin one of the most scenic portions of our journey along U.S. 2, which follows the Lake Michigan coastline. During the summer you’ll often find tourists stopped on the side of the road to take advantage of the sandy beaches. The roadside features touristy signs advertising fudge and pasties — less fudge and more pasties as you travel further west and get away from the straits. I credit my friend Michelle for discovering the perfect music for this portion of the drive. If you start listening to the Doors album, “The Soft Parade” as you leave St. Ignace, the music will last exactly to the point of your next big turn-off, Michigan highway 117 at Engadine. The timing is quite something and to this day I can’t listen to that album without seeing U.S. 2 in my mind’s eye.

As much as I love the Upper Peninsula, I will admit there are areas in its interior that are as boring to drive through as the Lower Peninsula. Once you hit M-117, you enter the most tedious part of the trip. It is very flat, roads are super straight and you better hope you have a good traveling companion to keep you entertained and awake, or loud music, caffeine and cigarettes. To make matters worse, by this point of the trip, it’s most likely starting to get dark and somebody needs to be keeping an eye out for deer.

The drive north on M-117 is a quick straight shot to M-28, near Newberry. Driving west on M-28 brings you to the little town of Seney and the official beginning of the dreaded Seney Stretch. It amuses me that the Seney Stretch is so notorious it gets special mentioned in the Wikipedia entry about M-28.

The portion of M-28 between Seney and Shingleton, called the Seney Stretch, is 25 miles (40 km)[15] of "straight-as-an-arrow highway"[16] across the Great Manistique Swamp, "though others claim it's 50 miles [80 km], only because it seems longer."[17] The Seney Stretch is the longest such section of highway in the state, and "one of the longest stretches of curveless highway east of the Mississippi."[18] The highway is often cited as the "state's most boring route" according to the Michigan Economic Development Corporation (MEDC) and Hunts' Guide.[19][20] The straightness and flatness over a great distance are given as reasons for the reputation of this stretch as boring.

The timing of this bit of boredom is unfortunate, as it’s usually dark and you’re feeling the fatigue of the long drive home. As luck would have it, you have traveling companions that are skilled in conversation and imaging silly stories about the various random businesses that are scatter along the dull, sparse landscape.

From the cleverly named Enga Diner in Engadine to the mystery restaurant with the giant EAT sign near Newberry, there are a number of interesting businesses to wonder about. Curiosity about the EAT restaurant finally prompted us to stop during one of our trips. This is how we learned the actual name of the restaurant. For some reason, it is called the Triangle Restaurant, but good luck figuring that out from the road.

One of our favorite businesses to speculate about along the Seney Stretch was Rashid’s Market. Rashid’s Market is a small, red shack like structure topped with a big white sign with red lettering that reads — Rashid’s Market “Eggs & Cheese.” I’m not quite sure why Eggs & Cheese are in quotes. Even with the power of Google, I wasn’t able to find out much more than the following about Rashid’s —

Categorized under Independent Grocery Stores. Our records show it was established in 1984 and incorporated in Michigan. Current estimates show this company has an annual revenue of 140000 and employs a staff of approximately 2.

We always had a hard time believing that someone of Middle Eastern descent named Rashid would be living in the absolute middle of nowhere U.P. running this tiny market on the side of M-28. My friend Jeff had a theory that Rashid was more likely an old grizzled Yooper guy dressed in a flannel who went by the nickname Ratchet but didn’t know how to spell. Still, I’m a bit amazed that that place has an annual revenue of “140000.” 140000 what? If it’s dollars, I really have to wonder what Rashid is selling.

Rashid's Market Photo by Tim Kamppinen Photography - http://www.timkphotography.com/

As the Seney Stretch comes to an end, you hit the town of Shingleton. From there, it’s another 25 miles into Munising, where once again you’re treated to beautiful scenery, this time in the form of the Lake Superior shoreline. We made it a habit to stop and buy a $2 scratch off bingo lottery ticket from the same gas station when we hit Munising.

Christmas, Michigan — a kind of suburb of Munising — was always a bit of a let down. There’s a definite Christmas theme in the tiny town, with motels named for Santa and giant signs featuring yuletide scenes. The first time I drove through Christmas in December I was utterly disappointed. Nothing special was done in the town to commemorate the fact that it was actually the Christmas season. Come on, your town is named Christmas for Christ’s sake!

The drive between Munising and Marquette is quite pretty as the road hugs the shore of Superior. However, it’s also the area of some of the worst winter weather I’ve ever had the displeasure of driving through. The lake effect snow that comes blowing off of Lake Superior along M-28 in this area can be treacherous. I can recall one trip that I made by myself when the white out conditions were so bad that I didn’t think I would make it to Marquette, let alone home.

As we drive into Marquette we make it to U.S. 41, the final road on our journey to Houghton. At this point we’re so close we can taste it, though we still have another two hours to go. With their fancy pants four-lane highways, Marquette and  suburbs Negaunee and Ishpeming are your last chance to get around some of the slower drivers — the logging trucks and the old ladies driving giant sedans — before being locked into two-lane roadway for the rest of the trip. The drive between Marquette and Houghton is one I’ve done so many times while growing up that the road feels familiar to me. It’s mostly woodland and lakes, and is curvy enough to require your full attention. One notable business we’ve always enjoyed driving past and speculating about was Stump’s Tavern in Michigamme. Kristin and I made up a story about how the shack like dive bar was run by an old Vietnam veteran who had lost a leg in the war.

As we’d drive into the L’anse and Baraga area we’d be greeted once again by Lake Superior and Keweenaw Bay. This is when I’d begin to feel like I was home. After all, L’anse and Baraga were both towns we’d team up against in high school sports. Next up was the small town of Chassell, which I always found to be a pain because of their ridiculous slow speed limit. So close to home, yet you’re stuck driving 25 mph on a major U.S. highway. But Chassell marked the time to start our final road home tradition — the prediction of the exact time we would reach the Houghton city limits sign. Using the digital clock in the car we would make our guesses and we’d follow Price Is Right rules, so the person who was closest to the time without going over was the winner. More often than not, Kristin won. But who are we kidding, we made it home safe and sound. Everybody’s a winner!

 

 

 

Sleater-Kinney - June 2005 First Avenue, Minneapolis

It’s been nearly ten years since I was lucky enough to see Sleater-Kinney live at First Avenue in Minneapolis. At the time I was working on my master’s degree in journalism at the University of Missouri, specializing in photojournalism. That summer I had landed an internship at the Duluth News Tribune, but was spending a lot of time in the Twin Cities, distracted by a boyfriend, who would eventually become my husband, and a vibrant cultural scene. 

I was developing my graduate professional project, which would eventually have the unwieldy title, “Women in Rock: Experiences of Female Music Photographers and Photographing the All-female Rock Band ‘Coach Said Not To.’ The project, which relied on critical feminist theory, required a research component and a professional work component. For the professional work component, my dream was to photographically document an all female rock band as they toured the country — think “Almost Famous,” but as a photographer. Naturally, I was interested in photographing Sleater-Kinney, but realized a band that big would most likely laugh at my proposal to follow them on tour with my camera. However, I figured it couldn’t hurt to ask. I wish I could find the email I sent to their management, but it’s been ten years and I assume it was sent from my old university account. Alas, no surprise, I was not granted access to shoot Sleater-Kinney on tour, but was given a press pass to photograph the First Avenue show, proving that it is always worth asking.

A lot has happened in the ten years since photographing the First Avenue show. I finally grew up. I successfully completed my master’s degree, producing a multimedia story on the all-female Minneapolis band Coach Said Not To for the professional work component of my project. I got married, bought a house and had a kid all in a single year. I worked as a staff photographer for the Rochester Post-Bulletin for five years. Exhaustion, brought on by an 80-mile daily commute, eventually led me to quit my job and become a stay-at-home mom, and for the past two years I’ve been building a freelance photography business, focused on wedding and family photography. Sadly, I don’t get a chance to photograph musical acts very often these days. Although I’m a night owl, once my son goes to bed, I’m usually relaxing with a glass of wine, a good book, some mindless t.v. or wasting time on the internet. My grown up life is dramatically lacking in rock and roll.

Waking up one morning in October to the news of Sleater-Kinney reuniting, putting out a new album and touring, I felt as excited as my four-year-old son Oskar when he’s allowed to watch an episode of Transformers Rescue Bots. The next day, dressed in my Sleater-Kinney concert t-shirt, I drop Oskar off at preschool a little early so I can get online to order pre-sale tickets for the February 14th First Avenue show the instant they go on sale at 9 a.m. I hit a near-by coffee shop, knowing their internet connection is faster than our wireless at home. I feel like a giddy teenager nerd as I open my laptop and get set to order tickets. However, I soon find the coffee shop has changed their wi-fi password and I’m having problems connecting. My ticket ordering is in peril and I’m freaking out. When I’m finally able to log on and order my tickets, my sense of relief and excitement is absolute and immediate. I will be spending my Valentine’s Day rocking out to one of the best punk bands ever. As long  as I can find a babysitter. Later that day I send out text messages to my two most reliable babysitters — nearly four months before the show.

I recently re-edited the photographs I shot of the June 2005 First Avenue show and was reminded of how amazing a show it truly was. The band’s high energy performance was incredibly entertaining and I think the photographs I shot capture that. I have photographed many bands while working for newspapers, including some fairly big acts like Elvis Costello, Mary J. Blige, Nine Inch Nails, Tim McGraw and Faith Hill. Most of these acts enforced the dreaded three-song rule, which allows photographers to only shoot during the first three songs of the performance. The rule is pretty common these days, as management fights to have complete control over their act’s image. If you’d like to know everything that is wrong with this rule, please feel free to read “Women in Rock: Experiences of Female Music Photographers and Photographing the All-female Rock Band ‘Coach Said Not To.”

I was not limited by the three-song rule when I photographed Sleater-Kinney and I’m grateful for this. I’m also grateful for the experience of photographing a band whose music I know and love. Feeling the music in your soul as you’re shooting and composing your images is pretty fantastic. Editing the photos and reliving the show as you do so is pretty damn cool, too. Looking at these images ten years later, my only regret is my own inexperience as a photographer and the limitations of my equipment. Digital SLR’s have come a long way in dealing with low light in the past ten years and I have certainly grown as a photographer. It would be great to have another shot at photographing the band, pun fully intended. Maybe I ought to take my own advice from ten years ago, and just ask.