Death Hootenanny/ Soiree/Luau, etc.
The Missile Park at White Sands looks as if Bob’s Big Boy came to play and forgot to take his toys with him when he left. At the gate, the man in the hi-viz vest informed Miss K. that we could take as many pictures of the park’s hardware as we wanted — as long as we shot toward the mountains. Apparently, the barren expanse of the rocket range holds secrets that we can’t have the Russkies getting their hands on via flickr and/or Wikipedia.
The day before, we’d started the day by shooting down Texas State Highway 118 from Alpine to Terlingua. And while the ghost town seemed to have been retaken by residents and businesses, the one fantastic find was the old graveyard. It was like no cemetery I’d ever been in — and was possibly more affecting to me than any of them. Simple mounds of rock covered the graves. Rough-hewn wooden crosses marked the sites. Some of the more ornate resting places featured stones with beautiful, uncomplicated typography. The whole place was messy and final and alive, despite the fact that the latest burial I noticed took place in 1945.
Yet people still pay tribute. Faded Virgin of Guadalupe candles long since burned down and filled with stagnant rainwater litter the place. Stars made of soda cans hang from the crosses.
On the flipside, die-cut tribal bro-ham iconography now passes muster with the United States Air Force. Given the fact that they built a Challenger with Lambo doors to attract new recruits, this comes as no surprise.
Wait ‘til the rubout, wait ‘til the purge, indeed. If anyone’s left, please bury me in a place like Terlingua. -DGJ
