American Backstory

In September of 2006 I stepped out of my house and into my car on a three-month, 15,000-mile journey to no.where.in.particular.

I wanted to see America, the real America. The heart-and-soul America you hear about here and there when people talk of the “good ol’ days,” in wistful tones, as if they’d ever known such an America themselves.

But it was out there, somewhere. I’d read of folks who’d seen it first hand, people like William Least Heat-Moon,who toured the county in a broke down van and wrote a classic “on the road” book about this travels called “Blue Highways.”I was about half way through Blue Highways when I hit the road in 2006 and attempted to trace many of Moon’s own adventures. As Moon did, I set out to expressly stay off the interstate highways and travel the back roads and byways of the country. I carried no map; had no particular compass point in mind. I was just going “to there and back again.”

“Be home by Thanksgiving,” my wife said to me as I left. And indeed, I would be, the very day before Thanksgiving.

My only companions on that trip were my camera, a digital audio recorder, a sleeping bag (I slept in the back of my car most nights, a Ford Escape Hybrid), and my tattered copy of “Blue Highways.” I shot thousands of pictures and interviewed some of the most interesting characters I’ve ever talked to.

And I’ve never told a single, solitary soul the entire story of that trip. Not one.

Nor has anyone seen the entirety of the multitude of pictures I took; they are a panorama of the backbone of America, creating a true American backstory. I have never had the courage to put the package together, to write the book or create the website. Some day, perhaps, I’ll be able to tell the story of why that is…

For now, for whatever reason, a small glimpse has escaped my computer and landed here. I can’t promise more will come.

The pictures in this set were taken in West Virginia. I was just a day into my journey when, after sweeping around a wide bend in the road, flat farmland on one side of me and blue tinted mountains on the other, I was suddenly staring across an acre of “old iron” — the term used to describe the skeletons of rusting and rotting old, classic cars. Old iron is a gold mine find for classic car restorers. Suddenly, it seemed like I’d hit the mother lode.

I remember smiling and thinking what a hell of thing and that it must be a good omen for the rest of my trip.

I rolled a couple windows down and accelerated through the curve. Two miles down the road I hit my brakes and turned my car around. That “old iron farm” was exactly the type of thing I set out to find on this trip and so I had to go back and investigate.

I swung my car onto a gravel-covered road with pot holes the size of full grown Labrador Retrievers. About 3/4 of mile down the road I pulled up to a ramshackle house of no particular distinction. I hopped out — no snarling dogs advanced on me, always a good sign (I was accosted by packs of such dogs several times during the rest of my trip… ) — and gingerly knocked on the door. A big, burly guy with fists the size of Virginia hams stood before me. “Yeah?” <gulp>

I hadn’t yet had to explain why I was at a stranger’s doorstep or what I was doing on this cross-country adventure, so I completely winged it. I don’t even remember what I said, how fast I talked, I just remember that my mouth went instantly cotton dry and that I probably sounded like an idiot.

“So…I’d like to know the story about all the cars and a little about yourself and then wondered if I could take some pictures of them,” finally managed to conclude.

“Sure.”

Silence. It was probably 3.7 seconds of it but it felt like 15 minutes before I regained composure and started asking questions.

His name was Brian Duke. He’d lived in West Virginia all his life; he worked, though, in Virginia, in construction. “Dat’s where all the jobs are at,” he said matter-of-factly. He stayed in Virginia during the week and came here, “to home,” during the weekends. He said he hated Virginia, but that’s where the work was. I asked him what why he hated Virginia so much, fully expecting I already knew the answer, he was going to say “too many people,” particularly in Northern Virginia where he worked. I couldn’t have been more wrong.

“Too many roads,” he said in the same matter-of-fact tone he’d spoken since his first word. I would have laughed but I was too stunned. I just stood there with a dumbass grin on my face. “Great story, great story,” I thought to myself and then I said, “can I shoot the cars now?”

“Sure.”

Turns out his hobby is rebuilding old cars. That sleek black one you see was his latest pride and joy, the rest of the old iron was just waiting its turn…