Quarantine Easter 2020

It is so strange making an Easter dinner and not being able to sit down with Mom and Cyndi.  I will be baking a ham, making mac and cheese and brocolli and cheese and leaving it at her door.  What a change that  a year and the corona virus makes . 
I got up this morning.  Watched Ray Green at Immanuel Baptist church, as he ga ve his Easter serman. Heard some awesome music all while making Easter dinner.
Yes!  This is what  quarantined  Easter is like.  But like Andy says "we will get through this together." 
Prayers going out today that this ends soon.
God bless everyone as we struggled with our new norm.

Connecting and understanding

I watched the movie "The Doors".  It was a movie  about Jim Morrison's life.  As short as his time on earth was.  He left his mark.  He was a poet, songwriter, singer and so much more.  His heartbreak was woven amongst the words that he put down on paper.  The pain and tears intertwined with each syllable.  It was as if he was speaking to me.  I felt that I understood his grief.  It was as if there was some kind of invisible connection.
When a person is haunted by things that they have seen or experienced in their lives.  Haunted by things that come out in the form of nightmares, in the wee hours of the morning. That is when the poet takes over.  That is when the only way to release the pain seems to be in the form of a heartbreaking melody.
When some people write, they hide the true meaning by mixing it up a little. With some truth and a little fiction.  Or maybe by using symbolism. I know this because I have been there.  I wrote a poem about a strangler that came out at midnight.  In reality it had nothing to do with a killer.  Not the man killer that I wrote about but about suicide.  Many times there are hidden messages and you can find them if you know where to look.
Jim seemed to be haunted by the death of the medicine man that he saw by the side of the road.  I believe he was the rider on the storm.  The ghost that was embedded in his memory.  In his darkest dreams. The one thing drugs and alcohol could not cover up or erase.
If you think about it.  Don't we all have those spectres peering into our lives from the dark recesses of our past?  The thing that we can not escape from.  Fear, hurt, betrayal, mockery, torture, belittling, bullying and much more.  If you have these things tormenting you.  Find someone to talk to.  Someone you can trust and who will listen.  This is a great start.

Seeing the world in grey

When you lose someone close to you, a friend, a lover, a family member, the world seems to look grey.  There is no color.  The bright things around you begin to fade into black. 

I look toward the heaven, for an answer.
The blue, sky is no longer there.
Replaced, only, by the darkness.
By coldness and despair.

The joy that was in my heart.
Disappeared on that day.
that day we were ripped apart.
As I begged for you to stay.

I no longer see the world in color.
Only in the tones of grey.
the rain is like tears upon my face.
Knowing that you have gone away.

Your soft, touch I long to feel.
Your sweet, smile I want to see.
What is inside, I can not conceal .
Only the loneliness, I foresee.

All the color has smeared and faded,
from the canvas of life.
Just as you have vacated.
It cuts like a knife.

Yes, the colors are only black and white.
Bright colors are not aloud.
I think it will always be night.
always full of rain and clouds.

                 ©Tammy Sullivan 3-23-18  For a friend who lost a love one.

Hanging out in the cornfield

Hanging out in a cornfield

The adventure continued.  The curvy roads were endless.  We were getting closer to our destination.  The road went from paved to unpaved.  We were traveling along the river for miles.  I still get nervous when I am on these narrow roads and river is right there.  One slip and we are in it.
The rain from previous days had washed out some of the road, and what it didn’t wash away had large ruts.  Thank God for the jeep.  It was a lot worse this trip, then it was on the previous one.  We had so much wet weather that the roads were awful.
There were a lot of empty houses and barns, that at one time was a thriving community, but now….Just a quiet, lonely river bottom full of desolate green fields, with creeks rippling through them.  A beautiful landscape.  For sure.  Up a head the road narrowed.  There had been a rock slide that had claimed  more of the road.  I hung onto the oh shoot handle, as we bounced our way to the other side of the slide.  Up ahead a man was fishing.  we stopped and ask him how he was doing?  He had caught some river cats but that was all.  We bid him farewell and went up the road a little further.
There she was!  A shell of what once was a school-house.  A stone one,  not wood.  I had wanted to see inside the building the last time we were here.  But it sat in a field of corn.  We didn’t want to trample the gentlemen crop so I just took my pics from the road.
The last pics I got here were pretty unique.  It was raining that day, so I had pics of the corn crop and the schoolhouse as the rain fell.  After the storm passed there was a lot of fog which rose off of the river, it made for an awesome pic.  Now I was back to get some photos from inside.  I got my tripod and walked over to the lonely school-house as a woodpecker made a ruckus in the distance. The wind rustled through the branches, and you could hear birds singing all around.  It was beautiful and peaceful here.  I could only imagine what it was like to have went, to this school.  I would love to have a cabin in this spot.  I am sure it would be soothing to see nature all around you, when you woke in the morning.
Well, mission accomplished.  I had seen what I had traveled this long distance to see.  The lonely, stone school-house ruins that sat in someones cornfield.  Thanks for the opportunity to capture on film.  Another one of my loves.

Lost history

A Piece of Lost history hidden along the creek

We took a wrong turn but what a great wrong turn!   We ended up coming upon this long, lost, beauty.  I am guessing it was a grist mill at one time.  The strange thing is that I can’t find any info on it.  I tried to research it when I got home to no avail.
It set back off the road, along a quiet creek, perched upon the hillside.  I was surprised, I was even able to see it.   It had the stone structure underneath which is common for the old mills.  It looked to be in great shape considering the age of it.  I wanted to ask someone to walk up and shoot it but there was a gate with no trespassing signs and private property signs.  I wasn’t able to get access to it.  If I had I would have shared the photos.
I thought this was a true, treasure to find.  A piece of lost history, perched along a quiet creek in the solitude of the woods of Kentucky.  I can not explain, in words, my emotional connections to these relics of the past.  They don’t make structures like this anymore.  The detail is superb.  Lots of blood sweat and tears went into making this structures in the day.
I hope you can sense the peacefulness of this place, through my words.  I could sit here all day and listen to the birds sing and the water kiss the rocks as it passed over them.  Taking time to reflect on the moment and to hang onto, one more memory.  A memory of beautiful Kentucky countryside.
©Tammy Sullivan 2015

Heading deeper into the countryside, we passed what used to be an old gas station.  There was still a gas pump there as well as an old garage.  Stuff has a tendency to build up over the years, as you can see here, there were many relics from the past.
I remember as a child, riding with my grandpa to a local gas station which was similar to this one.  The attendant would fill up the car, clean the windows, check oil and catch up on the small town gossip.  Those were the days when there were things more important than rushing to the local Wal-Mart.  A time when you knew your neighbors and a handshake sealed many a bargain.  I know those days are gone forever.  Maybe that is why I have to stop when I see a place like this.  I didn’t know the people who owned this station but I remember people who owned places similar to this one.  Passing on my Lost in the attic pics.

Old school

The old school house Lost and forgotten

I came upon, what I thought was an old abandoned farm-house.  It was surrounded by bales of hay,  and stood 50 feet or so, off of the road, and was tilted a bit to toward the lane.  The metal roof still looked to be in good shape, but the sides, close to the ground were starting to rot away. The front foyer was just about to remove itself from the rest of the structure.  It had weathered many a storm, for sure.  Not too many more years, will this one, be able to hold on.
The old house was at a cross roads.  I went through the four-way stop and parked at a church that sat across from it.
This was such a beautiful, small town.  There was a church across the road from the house and one to the left of it. There was an old country store a hop and skip  away from the church. I stopped to take photos of the quaint town.  I was snapping away when a mature women passed near me.  I shouted out a good afternoon to her as  she approached me, and I stopped taking pictures.   I explained to her my desire to shoot old buildings and country scenes.  I then walked a little closer, toward her and asked her about the house across the way.  “My husband and I  are 79 years old and that building use to be a school, back in the day.” she informed me.  “ When my husband was young he visited there.”  She also told me about the country store beside her home.  It had been owned by two separate families and was now used for yard sales.  The one two-story church building across the road was now a lodge.  At one time it was a Baptist church.  “About a 100 or so years ago” she said , “The  Baptist and the masons jointly built the church.  They shared it.  The congregation had church there and the Masons had meetings there.  It worked out great.  Never any problems.  Then a few years ago there were hardly any members of the church  left.  People had died off and others had moved away.  That is when the church allowed the Masons to buy out their half of the building.  Now it is just a lodge.” 
By stopping by this little Mayberry town,  I had learned so much about its past and the present.  This is what my photos are all about.  Saving a bit of the past and sharing it with the now.  I am thankful for Ms. Triptons Info.  I was blessed to meet her.


Now I look at what I thought was a beautiful farm-house, in a different perspective.  It once housed children learning to read and write and learn the facts of life.  I could see the old desks and blackboard.  Yes, history paused for a moment to say hello to a humble soul like me.  Thank you.
The old school ©Tammy Sullivan
The students are gone, the teachers no more.
The windows are broken, so are the doors.
There is no laughter, within these dark walls.
Only the silence, echo in these halls.
The chalkboard is erased,  nothing there.
The bell is silent, no one who cares.
The story of the old schoolhouse
up on the hill, beside the old outhouse. ©Tammy Sullivan2015.

Dear Elizabeth

My Dear Elizabeth

Had more great adventures this weekend.  Saw so many beautiful places, that have been left to their own elements.  There was one place that I went to that had so much history.  It had been owned by a flint-lock maker.  Him and his family had moved into the town and even named the town.
He was born in 1790 and died Feb. 1808.  He was 38 years old.  Small pox is what claimed his life, yet spared his wife and 10 children.  It is really a sad story, even though his wife carried on and kept up the beautiful farm, losing her husband had to be a great loss to the family.  Ten children are a lot to take care of.
I stopped by to ask who owned the house, I wanted to take pics of the place before it is gone.  As usual, I wanted to just shoot the place and record its beauty and not steal a thing.  My love for these places are to save and preserving her elegant beauty.  They would not approve the shoot.  I was heart-broken.  Another beauty that is going to fade into a memory.
I envision what you look like, your inner beauty, a stairway on each side.
I picture Elizabeth, in the moonlight, down the stairs she glides.
The moonbeams are bouncing off of her lovely, soft , white skin.
Illuminating her body’s motion, as the long, stairway, she descends.
The windows open wide, allowing the. light to penetrate the  blackness
Your statuette, like a Greek Goddess, moonbeams show your womanliness.
Her spirit will always linger here, she is the Mother of this house.
She walks the halls, through all the doors, quiet as a mouse.
I would love to feel her spirit, as I travel through these halls.
To here the silent whisper of the house, as to me, it calls.
So sad this is not to be, The inside I will not be able to see.
But in my dreams, as the long, stairway I climb, I become thee.
I am you, my sweet, dear, Elizabeth if only in the hallows of my dreams. @Tammy Sullivan 2015