Dallas and Deep Ellum After Dark

I come from a lineage that fervently skews towards being at home "after dark." Nothing but trouble lurks in the streets after the sun goes down, they say. Not to mention that it is harder to see and drive at night and, while convenient for some, nothing is in the stores that cannot wait until daylight to be purchased. Be home after dark.

I contend that that Dallas has a skyline that is world class, beautiful both day and night. I had never known a city before Dallas to purposely illuminate its skyline beyond the clutch of office lights burning the midnight oil. The red Mobil Oil "Pegasus" symbol used to light the way home for weary travelers on the highways leading to town but today the massive and mesmerizing green neon Bank of America tower now ably, if, some would say, pretentiously serves that purpose. The question for me was how to develop my own photography skills and find a unique angle to capture the city at the same time.

Heaven knows Dallas has been photographed by far greater talent from virtually every conceivable angle. The trick was to keep my eye on late night traffic and drunken revelers while scouting for suitable new angles. At the same time, being alone during the witching hour I had to watch for Dallas' denizens and other run of the mill miscreants with less than honorable purposes on their minds regarding my person and property. Dallas remains one of those cities that shuts down on the weekends so it is all too easy to spot a car or body out of place in an empty parking lot or public park. Neither did I want to be questioned by Dallas' finest, either, regarding my own intentions in some quiet part of town at that hour of the night!

An empty parking lot on the outskirts of the West End entertainment district served for the shot included here. It was windy so a tripod would have been fairly useless compared to the top of my car which helped here. Moving on from here I found City Hall sitting quietly on a bluff above the lower part of downtown for the next shot. Some electric and heated battles have been waged within the chambers of this building though the structure itself is sadly more interesting than most of the "work" performed inside. From here my last stop, Deep Ellum, would surely not disappoint for color at all hours of the day and night.

Most highway overpasses are places for birds to aim hi-level doo-doo bombs at unsuspecting passers-by. Them, the stench of urine and uncollected trash along with homeless people and everyday addicts urge most people to enter and exit the area post haste. I was one of those, heading for the nightclub section of the area on the far side when, while stopped at a traffic light for some reason I looked over my shoulder and saw these. Flood lit and landscaped, with new condos and townhouses edging along the west side, these art slabs are hand painted and stand nearly six feet tall. I could not at first understand what they were doing under the over pass but quickly found a parking lot, double checked my car and headed for them, my original destination dismissed from my mind.

Who decorates fallow ground under a ten-lane overpass? Above me rumbled late night traffic at the spot where I-45 ends its run north from Houston and US-75 becomes "Central Expressway" through Dallas to the northern suburbs of Plano and McKinney towards Tulsa, Oklahoma. Tons of commerce and thousands of travelers overhead every day head to points elsewhere completely unconcerned with the attempt to beautify the land beneath their tires. Deep Ellum has long been known as the edgy art district of Dallas, where free-spirits and non-conformists have always felt right at home creating unconventional art and sound. Murals dot the buildings to rival Haight-Ashbury so this Under the Overpass Exhibit simply adds to a long tradition of local vitality and recreation.

Where Deep Ellum was a deep local secret best kept out of sight from prying eyes it blossomed in the late 80s and early 90s in to the hottest of the weekend hotspots before its edgy nature went over the edge in violence and drugs. It has never, however, been counted out. Like so many album covers waiting for music to go with them, I instantly felt the exhibit resonates better at night than in the daylight, exactly the way Deep Ellum always has.

They were, after all, under an overpass.

Gotta go.

Big Lick, the Magic City

Roanoke, Virginia was first and still sentimentally called Big Lick. The name derives from the massive salt lick that attracted local animals to the Roanoke River for which the city was later permanently named, today the home of nearly 300,000 people in the metro area.

My daddy's daddy brought six children in to the world here as a railroad porter before moving them to southern Illinois where the last four were born. My parents met in Roanoke, where my mother had moved to from her home in the country about 80 miles away. My older sister was born here while I was less than a year old my association with Roanoke began.

In a pattern already established in my family, dad was on his way to Germany with the military and moved his young family from Kansas where I was born to stay in Roanoke until he could get base housing for us to join him. Prior to leaving, however, and knowing he might not witness me taking my first steps he insisted on carrying me to the family barber for the ritual of my first haircut, which my mother says my unruly hair and tender headed self needed even if I wasn't quite a year old at the time.

Other early memories include "Mama Nell," my oldest aunt caring for me when I was about four, having just returned from our tour of Germany, and later listening to Al Green on the radio, all the rage in the early 70s and still today one of her favorite artists of all time.

My mother's family are country people, tobacco farmers while my father's family were city people, children of the railroad which Roanoke was famous up and down the coast for as a major center connecting Pennsylvania and Ohio with the Carolinas and Tennessee.

As I was driving to the area for a family visit with my mother I pondered Roanoke the same as I do many towns across the country: What is it that keeps people in the area after the original industry has gone?

Built around wood furniture, textiles and coal mining from nearby West Virginia, each of these industries have faded since the 1960s, gradually reducing the rail volume to the point of not even passenger service after 1979. Why, then, are so many people still here?

Roanoke was named the "Magic City" in 1884 shortly after being incorporated because it seemingly sprang up overnight. Today the main employers are in health care and education although most jump ship for Washington, DC, Charlotte and Atlanta for much of the upper end careers. Where Eastern Airlines and Piedmont once controlled the skies over the city it is now UPS that has picked up where both airlines and the railroads have left off.

On a recent tour with my mother she showed me the areas of town that were thriving and central to her life while she was just starting out on her own, including the house where she stayed and those of her friends and relatives in the area. She pointed out where the good clubs were, including the old Dumas Hotel along old Henry Street, literally across the tracks from "proper" society and how the tracks divided the city between white and black neighborhoods. The Dumas saw Count Basie, Ethel Waters, Satchmo and Nat King Cole back in the day.

Today all is hidden away from the larger nation as Interstate 81 carries trade and traffic about five miles outside of town to the west, a handful of exits pointing to the proud history and culture of the area, a part of the country where evangelists rule Sunday morning programming and pre-paying for gasoline is not quite the norm it is elsewhere. Few people stop in Roanoke on their way to parts elsewhere as other towns that straddle I-81 have captured much of the transient traffic. History, culture and pride nonetheless keep the city alive, vital and hopeful.

Roanoke is not quite a place where only the locals tend to go but it deserves to be more than a place few other than locals know exists.

Gotta go.

Oriole Optimism

Oriole Park at Camden Yards opened in 1992 as part of a master plan for Baltimore and set a new standard in baseball stadiums across the country, most flatteringly imitated brick by brick in Arlington, Texas. Camden Yards, the original and still the best of the bunch, features a glorious promenade at the edge of right field boasting concessions of local foods and team merchandise the likes of which had never been seen before. Out in the open air, wide walkways contribute to a party atmosphere that blends in with the environment of the game itself.

Where football games are most often best viewed at home baseball games are the ones to watch at the stadium itself under gorgeous skies, mild temperatures and relaxed energy all around. Baltimore delivered with a spring day right out of central casting. Not a cloud in the sky, maybe 72 degrees and the early season hopes of a city in love with its team, win or lose. Hope springs eternal and this April day was charged with drink and dreams as the O's and rival RedSox took the field.

There was reason for the O's faithful to be filled with hope and desire this day. The Orioles typically come out swinging early in the season, at or near the top of the division standings but not this year. Sadly, the 2010 season is thus far dead on arrival, the team in last place and standing double digits in games out of the lead. We were going nowhere fast and facing a season barely started but already over. In to this heady mixture of cheerful weather, pride and trepidation comes Boston, not too far removed from their first world championship but also not doing much better in this season's scheme of things. We wanted blood.

Up two to nothing in only the first inning we wanted to scream and shout but nine innings can take a long, long time to play. Like our cousins the Chicago Cubs we sat back and waited for the inevitable lead to fritter away in bad defense and generous pitching. Two to one, then three to one, the O's teased the Red Sox until the 8th inning when, tied at 3-3, Boston slammed a go ahead home run to make it 4-3. Some but not all started heading for the exits after the count was two outs and the first two strikes coming in quick order.

Third Baseman MiguelTejada was at bat, however, and everyone, including a stadium uncomfortably full of traveling "BoSox" fans were on their feet waiting for the last pitch. Crack! ROAR! A single homer to tie the game. Oh heaven above please let the defense hold through the ninth. Both sides had been praying because the ninth went scoreless and in to the tenth we went.

Only Boston forgot to keep praying. They went three and out, then allowed two Orioles on first and second base before Tejada came to the plate again. A single up the middle past the second baseman, the winning run flies around the bases and the entire city blew up in cries of elation, tears of absolution and just plain exhaustion. The O's had just dealt Boston its first losing April in recent memory and would go on to sweep the series, their first of the season. The only downside was the hour and a half it took the light rail to get us back to our car that night, a trip that normally takes less than half an hour.

It was good to be at home, at that game, in that weather and in that moment, 15 rows behind home plate, with my dad.

Gotta go.