Stu Jenks: Fezziwig Photography, Music, and Writing

"TTT" (c) 2007

"TTT" (c) 2007 Stu Jenks

[If I hadn't of thrown a belt on the Pathfinder, I won't have stopped at the TTT Truckstop and taken this shot. Bad belt. Good shot.]

"The Saddletramps" (c) 2007

"The Saddletramps" (c) 2007 Stu Jenks

These portraits were taken at Trail Dust Town, here in Tucson, Arizona. These are the Saddletramps, Tucson's All-Star Roller Derby Team. They are going to Austin, Texas in a month, to compete in the National Championship. Easily, Tucson is ranked second or third in the country, depending on who you talk to. I didn't included all the portraits I took last Sunday in this blog entry, only because some of the images, due to my lack of creativity and experience, just were kind of average and boring. Believe you me, NONE of these talented women-athletes are average or boring. Just my shooting, sometimes. Wish them well as they travel to Texas to hopefully bring home the championship trophy.

[From top to bottom: Metal Maiden, Saddletramps on the Carousel, Deadlock Doe Holliday, Barbicide, Kali Ishnikov, Liberty Valancezula, Cheap Ore, Flo On The Range, Sassy Sue, and Whiskey Mick.]

 

"El Tiradito, Tucson, Arizona" (c) 1996, 2007

"El Tiradito, Tucson, Arizona" (c) 1996, 2007 Stu Jenks

        Lot's happened since I took this image in 1996. Too much to say. Went to school, got a job, started my little Art business. Lost money, made money, spend some more. Loved and lost and found love too. Never did digitize El Tiradito though, nor even thought about making a giclee of it, until I got a email the other day, that said my image got selected for inclusion into a book of a friend, whose book is being published by a very prestigious house in New York City. Found an old 8 x 10, scanned, cleaned and color-corrected it, and I just now sent it off, via a file sending service, to the editor of my friend's book. (I'm leaving out the specifics for I don't want to screw up the deal.)
       El Tiradito is one of the first images I ever took with the old Rollei I bought from Sterling, for $45. (I talked him up from $25.) My first nocturnal image to get into a show or hung in a gallery. Even won a blue ribbon at the Pima County Fair. Now, it's going to New York City. Think of that.
       If you want to read more about the taking of this photo and the legend behind El Tiradito, click on the below link. http://www.stujenks.com/stories/tiradito.html And wish it well on its digital journey to New York.

"Inside of the Oval of a Roller Derby Track" (c) 2007

"Inside of the Oval of a Roller Derby Track" (c) 2007 Stu Jenks.

       The bout's getting ready to start. Vice vs. I.C. I'm at my position, right next to Monica the Timekeeper who blows the whistle that starts and stops the jams. I'm inside of the Oval of a Roller Derby track. Holy Ground if you ask me.

       Why Sacred? Because few humans get to ever be here. Two refs on skates, a couple of scorekeepers, a timekeeper and me. And it's a small space too, made even smaller by the refs skating on the inside of the track who match the derby girls in speed while they call the game. I only step close to the girls in the few seconds between jams to get a close up shot, then I hurry back to my spot. Otherwise I'd get run over by the refs and interfere with the bout. My goal is to get the shots, stay out of the way, and be as invisible as I possibly can.

       My spot. That's too proprietary I suppose, but it is a wonderful place. I'm standing in what I think are one of the two best spots to shot the action from inside the rink. I could shoot by turns three and four but that's where the two scorekeepers stand, and Stu would make three and that's just too many people in that space, at least I think so. By turns one and two, it's just me and Monica the Timekeeper.

       The announcers at getting the crowd up for the bout. The jammers, blockers and pivots leave their benches and find their marks. I find my mark too, just to the left of Monica the Timekeeper. I plant my feet close together, facing turns one and two and then I twist my torso hard to the right, toward the starting line of the jammers just east of turn four. I discovered last time I shot in the circle, that I can get about 270 degrees of smooth panning if I torque my body like this. (By the end of the bout tonight, my abs feel like I've be doing crunches for an hour on my living room floor.) The skaters are still waiting for the first whistle of the night. The timekeeper blasts her whistle once, signaling the pack to take off. A few seconds later she blows the whistle twice more, sending the jammers away. I take my first six images of the night, machine gunning the jammers as they go by.

       Before I know it, the first period is coming to an end. I've barely moved from my spot. I love being in the center of the rink, in the center of the Circle. I smile. I can see the emotions of the women so clearly, more than when I was watching and shooting from the crowd. Then again, they are just a few feet away from me at any given time. I take a moment before this last jam of the period to simply take it all in. I'm so lucky to be able to shoot for the Tucson Roller Derby, so grateful that they can tell I'm an OK guy, not some creep who just wants to take pictures of cute girls, or some arrogant pro who has no respect for the game. No, I'm a fan but I'm also a pro who wants to give them the best product I can. And I 'get' this thing called Flat Track Roller Derby. Or I at least think I do. This ain't the Bay City Bombers of my youth, those women back them being exploited by others. This is the true Feminist/Humanist success story. Created by women, run by women, played by women, for the entertainment of men, women and children. An honest and true sport, with a minimum of screaming egos. Smart, sexy, tough and competitive. And wholesome too. Really. It is. As pure a sport as piece of Fresh Hot Apple Pie. And more ink per square inch then you'll see this side of the Bashful Bandit. A healthy world of paradoxes. My kind of place.

       Some pros used to tease me as being a photographer who never took pictures of people, that I only shot flame spirals in the desert at night, or danced with Christmas lights in the nocturnal forest, that I was just about the Circle, the Spiral and making a bit of Mystery in the full moon light. Just about that, as if that wasn't enough. The final minute of the first period ticks down. The whistle goes off. The pack leave the line. Tweek Tweek blows Monica. Jammers right behind. Well, I'm shooting people now, I would say to those pros. But I still shooting from inside of a Circle. But instead of hoops of lights surrounding me, I have a dozen attractive female athletes skating in a circle, playing the game they love. Really doesn't get much better than this. The Sacred and the Profane, all at the same time. Feels a bit like Christmas.

[Images from Top to Bottom: "Olive with a Lead Jammer", "Zoe on her Marks", "Two Pivot and Aristhrottle", "Aristhrottle", "Vice Huddle", "Penny having a Career Night", "Polly and an I.C. Jammer", "Flash Curtain", "Two Iron Curtain Blockers", "Iron Curtain Jammer", "Great Barrier Ref", "Zoe Making a Circle", "Love Your Motherland", "Kassi Nova Flash", and "Amy with a Celebratory Donut"]

"A Very Large God: A Show at Unity of Tucson" (c) 2007

"A Very Large God" by Stu Jenks

[I've been asked to show my work, this September, in the lobby outside the sanctuary at Unity of Tucson. Right now, they have the work of a nature photographer in that space. A lot of smallish images, around twenty plus photographs. I'm taking another approach. Less is more. A few very large images, five, seven tops. Last night, I looked at the space again, peeking through the windows at dusk, the air thick with humidity after a monsoon storm. Horny toad lizards were literally at my feet, like desert house cats. I said hello to tell in baby talk. They just slowly walked back to the bushes, to sleep under the bougainvilleas near the front doors. Sweet.

       Below is a revised vision statement from 2003. A few things have been added but not that much. My artistic worldview and my thoughts on the Sacred hasn't change that much in four years. Only the specifics joys, pains and worries have.

       I know that the vast majority of my friends, family, patrons and fans won't be able to visit Unity of Tucson to see the show, but you all can visit it here, virtually, any time you like. If you want to see the show in person, it will be up, at Unity of Tucson, 3617 N. Camino Blanco, Tucson, Arizona, from September 2nd to September 30. The church is open during regular business hours and during Sunday Services. I'll be there between services from 10 a.m. to 11 a.m. on September 2nd, to answer any questions as well.

       May God, be it a personal Saviour, a cosmic Muffin, and an undefinable force of Love, always be with you.]

       A VERY LARGE GOD: A STATEMENT OF FAITH.

       For many of us now at the start of the Third Millennium, The Sacred is everywhere yet not necessarily in the traditional Places and Spaces we or others might expect. Some of us experience the power of the Sacred in the sanctuary of a church, while others experience Sacred moments in coffee shops, artist studios, or around kitchen tables, sharing our joys, fears, hopes, and sorrows with family and friends. Many in the world find comfort and community in churches, synagogues, temples and mosques -- but there are also many of us for whom organized religion is not the answer, yet we still strive to live our lives as spiritual and human beings and to try and make the world a better place. I believe there is a Soul and a Spirit within each of us, a carrier of a loving yet human Godliness, that wishes to connect with the Souls and Spirits in others, and with the Sacredness in Spaces and Places in the world.
       I find the Sacred all around me. I find peace within the Sacred Space of a church, without believing in the risen Christ. I find beauty in the petroglyphs of the ancient Anasazi. I feel a connection to my ancestors when I hear the Highland pipes or when I walk among the Standing Stones of Clava or Callanish. I find answers in the Sacred texts of many holy men and women, from Pema Chodron and His Holiness The Fourteenth Dalai Lama to T.S. Eliot and Black Elk. I hear hope in the songs of Bruce Cockburn, Peter Gabriel, and Buddy and Julie Miller. I see a Sacred playfulness in the sculptures of Alexander Calder. I find painful grace in the paintings of Modigliani. I find humor, honesty, and a lessening of my loneliness in the the work of David Milch, in "John of Cincinnati" and in the "Deadwood" series. I see Sacred mystery in the photography of Bill Lesch. I find harmony in the Spiritual structures of Mike Cindric. I feel warm wrapped in a Pueblo Gothic weaving of Crane Day. I feel happy watching Sloppy Flo of the Furious Truckstop Waitresses, rack up the points as a lead jammer, during a Tucson Roller Derby bout.
       I feel a sense of the magical when I create a flame spiral, in the Full Moon light. I feel a healing in the making of a pine needle spiral in a forest planted by my now deceased father. I feel wonder in the placing of a circle of Christmas lights in the remote high desert near home. I feel a childlike awe at the sight of the Very Large Array in New Mexico. I find comfort in driving on a tree canopied rural road in Virginia. I feel humbled walking on the edge of the sandstone cliffs of Coalmine Canyon in Arizona. I feel pleasantly small, photographing the night sky in the Sonoran Desert. I feel acceptance in the morning eyes of a lover. I feel love from the kind words of a friend.
       But more than anything else, in these Sacred Spaces, inside and outside of me, I find something that is larger than me, greater than my Self. A Universal Spirit. A World Soul. A Very Large God. A Something-That-Has-No-Name.
       It is my hope that in the viewing of my images, they may assist you in the deepening of your own Soul's Well, that they might help expand the edges of your own Spirit, and that perhaps, they may further your finding of some new, wondrous, personal yet universal experiences with the Sacred. Jump in on. The water's fine. It'll just hurt a little.

       Stu Jenks, August 2007, BR-549 Studios, Tucson, Arizona.

List of Images: [All images are priced, framed and matted. These are large framed images, the largest being "Resurrection Falls" at roughly 4 by 6 feet, the smallest, "Topawa, Arizona", being 1 1/2 by 4 feet there abouts, and the rest fall somewhere in between. If you are interested in purchasing them and want to know more specifics, feel free and contact me at stujenks@gmail.com. Also, email me just to chat as well.]

"Topawa, Arizona", 2005, Crystal Archive Print, $395. (Top of this post)

"Abajo Mountain Hoop Dance, Utah", 2004, Crystal Archive Print, $695.

"Resurrection Falls and The Three Surrender Trees", 2005 Crystal Archive Print, $895.

"Catalina State Park, Arizona", 2005, Crystal Archive Print, $695.

"In The Mustang Mountains, Arizona", 2006, Giclee Print, $395.

"See God, Kai", 2007, Giclee Print, $395.

"Just Pray: Tumamoc Hill, Arizona" (c) 2007

"Tumamoc Hill, Tucson, Arizona" (c) 2007 Stu Jenks

[At the base of Tumamoc Hill, there is a house. Outside of the house is a shrine. Crosses and Mary. Jesus and Elvis. And a duck too. Pray before you walk up the hill, pray after you get down, but just pray. To something, for something, for someone. Just pray.]

"Stu at The Cup" (c) 2007 Cathy Spann

"Stu at The Cup Cafe, Hotel Congress, Tucson, Arizona" (c) 2007 Cathy Spann

[I'm as vain, if not more so, than anyone else. But when I first saw this photograph, I thought it was one the truest ever taken of me. It looks and feels like how I see myself. By the way, my shirt came from Safehouse Coffeehouse, here in Tucson. It says 'Art hurts, Coffee helps.' And, yes, that is a picture of John Dillinger on The Cup's menu.]

"The Road to Fronteras" (c) 2007

"The Road to Fronteras, Sonora, Mexico" (c) 2007 Stu Jenks

[Images: "Cabullona Sofa", "Rio Nacozari at Cabullona", & "Crossing the Nacozari"]

       This land hasn’t been over-grazed, and over-developed like up North. Not enough cattle, not enough money, I suppose. I’d be hard pressed to even try walking through that thick emerald-green jumble of Mesquite, Creosote and those bushes I don’t know the names of. But I’m not walking here, not like the bushwhack through the bramble south of St. David a couple hours ago, to watch a flash flood rise. No, this afternoon, I’m driving to Fronteras, to see the ancient village where Cochise used to steal cattle from, and to maybe take a picture or two for “The Apache Wars” book.
       Not raining here now. Can tell it did, not long ago, from the fresh puddles in the road. Can’t tell if that black cloud is moving away from me or coming toward me. Already had to take one detour today when they closed the route to Bisbee due to water on the road. Went only a few miles on Davis Road, east of Tombstone, when the water stopped me. A fire engine was there, with two firemen and one firewoman. I got out of my truck and as I walked toward the fireman with the handlebar moustache, he looked at me, then looked at my four by four, then without speaking gave me this look. The look said “Ah, don’t worry. You can easily make it through this. Go on through, my good man.” I smiled and said only “OK”. Two minutes later, I’m plowing through two feet of water, passing a stalled Mercedes, and having a hell of a time pushing hundreds of pounds of water out of my way. But lo and behold, he was right. Got through just fine. Only harm was that my pulse was up to about 120 or,and that's good for me. At least in spurts it is. Anxiety-produced Cardio workout.
       Crossed into Mexico at Agua Prieta. Easy to get into Mexico, hard to get out. Just had three Federales in uniform look at my truck and then looked away as I drove by. No more need for a visa to enter this part of Mexico but I’ll need a passport to get out, when the new law goes in effect in a few months. Don’t need it today, but I have it with me anyways.
       Got lost almost immediately. Well, not lost really. I knew if I kept going south I would eventually hit Mexico Route Two. More worried that I’m miss the road to Fronteras. Not many traffic signs in Mexico. Everyone who lives there knows where they are and where they're going. Not a whole lot of gringo traffic here. Couple young men smiled and waved at me just a while ago, as I slowly drove down a steep muddy street in a poor Agua Prieta neighborhood. I smiled and waved back. It was as if they were saying, “Cool. An American who isn’t scared to come down and see us!” or they could have been smiling out of a fearful respect for a White Man in the Black SUV. May be a man from the Juarez cartel heading west. I prefer to think the former.
       Found the road to Fronteras after all. There was a sign. I’ve been on Route 17 about twenty minutes now. According to my map, I cross the Rio Nacozari at Cabullona, and then just another half hour to Fronteras. I crest a hill and see traffic stopped up ahead. A sign say ‘Construction Ahead” in Spanish. Maybe they are working on the road, but on a Saturday? I stop just shy of a railroad crossing, get out of my truck and casually light a smoke. I can’t see much except that cars, buses and trucks are stopped and that there is a little town that is on either side of the road. Maybe it is just construction. But time passes and nothing is moving and people have that relaxed look, as they lean on their cars, like we are going to be in for a while. I finish my smoke, grab my Canon, leave the bag and begin to walk into the village of Cabullona.
       Now I’m a little nervous being in Mexico, not for the usual paranoid false reasons that most Americans have (I’ll get robbed, I’ll get mugged, I’ll be shunned). Sure, there is some intrinsic danger just being a very poor country, but mostly the white northerners are simply projecting their dislike of the Other onto the natives, figuring they hate me as much as I hate them. No, for me, I’m anxious because I can’t speak the language. I’ve tried to learn Spanish but I have no gene for foreign language. I misprounce words horrible, due to taking French in High School, and I can’t remember anything these days. But I do know how to be polite in Spanish and I just pray my vehicle doesn’t break down and I have to pantomime my way in and out of car repair.
       I quickly see that I stick out like a sore thumb. I’m the only American within fifty miles, and people are looking at me, but then, after seeing me smile, they smile. We all smile.
       “Buenos Tardes,” I say to a couple of guys getting out of a truck.
       “Tardes,” say the shorter of the two.
       All is well.
       Within minutes I see why we are stopped. The Rio Nacozari is flooded and there is no bridge. Well, there is the beginning of a bridge; the concrete supports have been poured, looking like tall gray megaliths of cement, walking across the stream. Looks like they were constructed a while ago. Takes a while to build a bridge, a road, in Frontier Mexico. I look toward the river and its banks and it’s a party of sorts. The tan-brown muddy water is rushing fast, looks to be about four or five feet of water. Standing waves appear and disappear, and along both banks, a good fifty to hundred people, are out of their cars and trucks, staring at the river, like it was a TV showing a movie. Kids play here and there. Folks wander over to a cantina to get a taco and a beer. Teenagers flirt with each other, like they do everywhere on a Saturday afternoon. No hurry. No worries. The river will subside when it does and there is nothing I can do about. Might as well stretch my legs and get something to drink.
       I have my camera but I don’t take a lot of pics, even though the faces and the clothes are wondrous. But the Mexicans aren’t here to be my entertainment. There are just waiting for the waters to recede. I take a couple of shots of the river and try and get some people in the shot without them knowing. If space aliens came down from Andromeda and started taking pictures of me, walking down Congress Street on my way to The Cup, I would find it irritating. I don’t want to piss off the locals.
       I’m standing on a tall hill look at the river, mesmerized like everyone else. Then I hear and see a pickup, on the other side, inching his way toward the rushing water. Everyone, man, woman and child on both sides of the river, watches this unfold. It just a Ford pickup, nothing special, might be a four by four, might not. No big lift package on it. He reaches the water's edge, puts two wheels in, revs the engine, and pops the clutch. He explodes into the water but rather than going straight across to the other side, he take a hard right and hugs the east bank. Muddy water flies up from either side of the truck. The water is easily up to his doors, but he isn’t bogging down. He’s making progress. The engine sounds like a dozen angry dogs growling loud. He continues downstream, then disappears behind some trees and none of us know where he is, but we still hear the engine, those dogs. He hasn’t stalled. The growl continues for a while and then the engine is quieter but not dead and then we see him coming down a one-line dirt path on our side of the river. The driver’s trying to act cool, like he does this everyday, but his wide eyes and big smile betray his enthusiasm. He hits the pavement, doesn’t even stop and head north toward Agua Prieta.
       No one applauds, even though I felt like it. But many men did do the slow-nod-of-the-head, denoting respect for what the man did.
       Then men start getting in their trucks, trucks of similar size and bigger. I know what they are thinking. ‘If he can get across, so can I.’ I look and yea-boy, another truck is going for it, from the other side of the river. I head down the hill I’ve been standing on, and then walk down the dirt track where the first truck materialized. I hear someone else pushing their truck into the high rpms. I take the lens cap off my Canon and process quickly toward the river.
       By the time I get there, Truck # 2 has already crossed and Truck # 3 is make the trek. God, I wish I had a longer lens. # 4 is poised on the bank. Only one truck at a time. Only one underwater track to drive on. Too much one way or the other and you are in deep. #3 makes it. #4 is in the water. Now, we have a #5 on my side of the river, going to school on what he can see from the path that #4 is taking. #5 hits the surf. This is the easy part, this side of the river. He's doing good, shooting across the channel, then hugging the bank, then into the hellhole of swirling riverwater near the end. He almost stalls. He hits the accelerator hard. No water flies now. He’s barely moving. But then it pops like a cork and out he comes, onto dry land.
       A few minutes and a half a dozen trucks later, I see a Chevy with Arizona tags coming across the river toward me. Vanity plates read “Cienega”. Spanish for marsh. Probably the name of his company. He sees me taking his picture. He looks Hispanic. I lower my camera. I’m grinning from ear to ear. He powers out of the water, is on the dirt track now, but he slows and through his open window, he yells to me, in perfect English.
       “Now that was a lot of fun, eh?”
       “Yes it is,” I yell back.

       After a half hour, and a few dozen shots, I head back to my truck. Still sitting by the tracks, a few more cars behind me now. I stow the camera, take a pull off my soda and start the truck. Not going to Fronteras today. I'm not going to try fording this river, even though I bet I could. I couldn't have asked for this much fun, even if I had prayed specifically for it. Watching stock trucks challenging a roaring river? Yea, man. And not your spare truck but your work truck, your only truck. Not that's courage. Talledega has nothing on these guys.
       I do a three-point turn and head back toward the U. S. of A.

       An old sofa sits under the shade of a Mesquite tree. This is the image of my feelings of Mexico: Poor yet relaxed; desperate at a slow pace; religious, yet on the verge of a loss of faith; accepting of death, but wishing there was less of it. All I need is a roadside cross next to the couch and the symbolism would be complete. The Cross is implied, in my mind only. I take the shot, and know I have gold in my camera.

       An hour and a half later, I’m at the border, two cars back from talking to Mr. Border Patrol Man. Been in line for a half hour. No hurry, no worries.  A tan mutt, not dirty, not clean, walks between the cars. He looks toward the north, toward America, thinks about and then turns back toward Mexico. If dogs run free, why can we?, as Dylan once said.
       My time comes and I pull up to the officer. White guy, short, pudgy. I open my door and hand him my driver’s license and my passport.
       “Do you have anything to declare?”
       “Nope.”
       “What is your purpose in Mexico?”
       “I went down to take some photographs for a project I’m working on.”
       “Photographs?” say Mr. Border Patrol Man, with puzzled look on his face.
       “Yea, I was heading down to Fronteras but the river was too high, so I couldn't get across, so I just came back,” I say, with a little grin on my face.
       Mr. Border Patrol Man lets out a big laugh.
       “You are one brave man,” he says.
       I shrug. I don’t think so. Nothing to be afraid of, if you ask me.
       “Well, I guess if you ain’t looking for trouble, you won’t get into trouble,” say Mr. Border Patrol Man.
       “That’s the way I see,” I say.
       He goes back in his booth, looks at his screens. Probably looking to see if the license plate registration he’s got on his screens, from the images taken by the four cameras that surround me, matches my passport. It should.
       He walks back over to me and hand me my passport and my license.
       “I tell you, those better be some award winning photographs, that’s all I’ve got to say.”
       He laughs again. I reach over to my wallet, put my license back in it and pull out one of my business card. I hand it to Mr. Border Patrol Man.
       “If you’re interested, check out my website.”
       We both laugh now.

An Ocean of Souls: A Letter to the Editor of the Tucson Weekly

An Ocean of Souls by Stu Jenks

[A Letter to the Editor responding to Jim McEylea's letter in last week's Tucson Weekly, regarding a story about a church in Tucson. Below are the links to Jim's Letter and the original story]

http://www.tucsonweekly.com/gbase/Opinion/Content?oid=oid:98630

http://www.tucsonweekly.com/gbase/Currents/Content?oid=98212

Not known for being brief, I will be here:

I'm a Liberal, a heterosexual Progressive who has gay and straight friends.

I believe in God, a loving, forgiving, powerful God. Probably got that belief from my mother and my Christian upbringing.

Hell is not full of Homosexuals. Hell is empty. To quote my Episcopalian mother, "Hell is here on Earth. It is a state of mind." Sounds like you, Jim, are in Hell.

Everyone is going to Heaven. A big Ocean of Souls, all together, no Separation, all Love. The Light and Love of God ever burning above the Ocean and from within the Ocean. That's image is mine, not Mom's.

I read somewhere that the vast majority of Americans, 90 plus % of them, believe in God. I believe only a 1/3 of them believe in your God, Jim. Truly, I thank God for that.


Stu Jenks
Photographer/ Musician
BR-549 Studios
Tucson, Arizona

[Postscript from 8/2/07: The Tucson Weekly called to verify I wrote the above. Looked like they were going to published my letter, but alas no. It appears that I got bumped by the president of a Christian Radio Station, who talk about God is Love out of one side of his mouth, and Jesus didn't approve of homosexual marriage, out of the other. Well, no matter. I do have a blog after all.]

[Postscript from 8/8/07: Lo and behold, I'm printed my letter in this week's Letters to the Editor. To visit the Tucson Weekly's Letters webpage, click on the below link:] http://www.tucsonweekly.com/gbase/Opinion/Content?oid=oid:99084

"Albert 'Daddy' Saum" (c) 2007

"Albert Fountain 'Daddy' Saum" (c) 2007 Stu Jenks Jr. and Mary Jenks

       [Image: "Daddy Saum and his daughter Courtney" (Detail from the photograph "The Saums having a Picnic in Fairfax County, Virginia") (c) 1907 Unknown Photographer]

       "Everything I know, I learned from Daddy Saum," Mary said last week on the phone.

       Daddy Saum was my mother's grandfather, my great-grandfather. Never met the man. Never met his son or his daughter either. Long gone by the time I was born. Earl, my mother's father, and Albert's son, was a brute. A violent man. He was never talked about. Only found out his name was Earl when I went and visited his wife's grave, when I was 30. But Daddy Saum was another story. Mom often talked about him, about his horsemanship, about his kindness, about his courage, and his adventuresome nature.

       Last Friday, she told me again the story of Daddy Saum and the Trip to Texas. She's told this story a lot, and with each telling, I get a few more details. Here is the story as of July, 2007.

       Around 1880, Earl lived with his family in the Valley of Virginia, an area East of the Appalachians. The Saums were farmers and ranchers. Moderately successful. (Later in Earl's life, the Saums became rich. Mary's mother, Nannie, lost all the Saum money and all the Saum land after WWII. Story goes that she was taken. Badly. By bad men). Earl was seventeen and had a dream: Of walking from Virginia to Texas. In the Spring, he left his home in Virginia with only two pair of socks, two extra handkerchiefs, and a toothbrush. He also carried with him his skills as a furrier. He picked up jobs shoeing horses along the way.  He made a little money for room and board, and a little extra too. About halfway to Texas, he almost bought a horse but right before the money changed hands, he saw that the horse could only see out of one eye. He passed on the deal. He continued walking and working his way to Texas. He got to Texas in the late Fall, after more than six months on the road. He then took some of his money and bought himself a good horse and rode back to Virginia. He got home just as the Winter snows were falling. Again, he was only seventeen years old.

       In his late sixties, Daddy Saum decided to go to Texas again. This time he had four pairs of socks, and four spare handkerchiefs. He didn't walk. He didn't ride a horse. He took the train instead.