Fish At The End Of The Tunnel

Only then will you begin to see the colors, the detail in the shadow and the subtle transitions that distinguish the extraordinary from the ordinary.

Life in a small town is a delicate balance between the past and the future. Any movement of the metaphorical fulcrum on that balance has an equal and opposite affect on its inhabitants in the other direction.

So, what happens when one of the major employers of a small northern Wisconsin town, a pulp mill, decides to shut its doors after nearly a century of existence as a significant employer?

In this case, after fifteen years, the abandoned mill continues to stand as an off-white and rust-trimmed guardian on the shores of a vibrant blue river…slowly collapsing, like a failed parent, on itself and the unmet expectations of those wanting and needing its constancy.

In the beginning, life was good as dairy men from the surrounding countryside poured twenty, thirty or even forty years into the mill. Their families and their town prospered.

Sons and daughters conceived of college-educated lives beyond the large smoke stack peering down on the town from impossible heights.

But as the years progressed life in and around the mill changed. Unions formed, out-of-town ownership bought and sold the mill and the country became more environmentally aware.

Inexorably, like a patient on life support, the Pulp Mill let out a final, great breath in the mid-1990s leaving its dependents alone.

Today, like a morning-after memory, seen but unseen by its inhabitants, the body of the Mill still presses itself up against the horizon even as its insides rot and decay.

Step inside, ignore the graffiti and the peeling paint, and the drink in the memories and the industry of the Mill’s former workforce as they cling to the visitor like a noxious sulfur dioxide cloud.

It’s 1995 again. Grab your cup of coffee. Use Old Roy Fritz’ locker and fire up the boiler because a load of poplar is coming in on the morning train.

KK

Dog sledding along the Lake Michigan shoreline

Click Here for my January 2009 Slide Show

Even for the winter purists (count me out), one of the greatest joys of living in the upper Midwest has to be thrill of waking up on February 1st — metaphorically turning the page on the coldest and most unpleasant part of the calendar year.

Pacing in houses and offices like zoo animals in cages and running from front door to car door we bide our time. Waiting, as January, in its arrogance takes 31 calendar days. Why should a new year always be greeted so rudely?

Nonpartisan, this relentless and intrusive visitor, saps the spirit like a chill wind snaking its way in under a poorly sealed door.

After January, perception and reality change. Windshield scrapers, road salt and snow days are still a part of everyday conversational exchanges for a few more weeks. But, everything points up from here. Daylight and temperature make their inexorable march upward toward July lifting the hopes and mood of those that bear witness to their indelible stamp.

So here’s to you January … I toast your mind-numbing boldness and your desolate landscapes. But most importantly, I toast you as I watch you disappear in the rearview mirror of 2009.

Click on the link above for my January 2009 slide show. Music by Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Armstrong. 

KK

Life, Events & Work Experience as Art 

Work.  Office.  Meeting.  Event.  They’re all a part of the daily story we weave that defines a great many of the hours that make up our day. Quite simply, these experiences, make up the essential fabric of our lives. 

Most often, however, these experiences remain undocumented and unquantifiable as we rush on to new opportunities, higher quotas and the next deadline. We look elsewhere for meaning in our lives, but these daily tasks define us.

What do you see when you’re just doing … the monotonous, the sublime, the ridiculous, the dreamed?

PhotoTelling is devoted to the capture, preservation and telling of these stories.

You’re welcome to share in the experience.

KK