do you believe in ghosts?

As indicated previously, I do not, based on lack of personal experience. But I do have a curious photo that I took in Charleston one year ago. It was outside a historic mansion Aaron and I had just finished touring, it was about mid-October and I didn't see anything at the time. It was only looking back that I saw what you may or may not see here. I showed it to Aaron and he asked me immediately what I had done to the photo - and the honest answer is nothing. This is a camera RAW document that shows very clearly, even as you get closer and closer, something that could be the spirit of an old woman. I swear that this is not a trick of my making. It may be a trick of light and shadows, reflections of sunlight and shade. But it is a naturally ocurring indcident, one I had nothing to do with, post production.


Do you believe in ghosts?


Happy Halloween!

southern comfort

Life in the city. From the baskets sold on every street corner, meticulously woven by women native to the South to the waterfront Battery with its endless view from bridge to bridge; from the state flag flapping in the breeze to the forts guarding the entry to the port of Charleston; from the children playing in the fountains to the horses clip clopping down cobblestone streets, Charleston is lovely. The depth of the history is told by the people who live and work here, by the architectural grace of long and close set houses dating from centuries gone by, by the towering white columns, arched entry ways and church steeples rising into the hazy blue sky. This is a place of learning and pleasure, ghosts and graveyards, yesterdays and todays, with a strong undercurrent of historical significance that leaves an impression. It's a place of charm, filled with the echoes of a hundred thousand footsteps and brimming near to overflowing with the truest form of southern comfort. This is Charleston.

beyond the gates and gardens of Charleston

Behind creaky, rusting gates, within the courtyards of houses that run deep, not wide, and beyond the guarded entryways to alleys await the protected boundaries of the secret garden and silent churchyard. Tiptoe quietly, press your face against the cool metal and lean in a little closer to get a better look inside. Walk close, but don't try to disturb the privacy - you'll be thwarted by high iron spikes, formidable and wicked or locked doors that have no key. Use your imagination to configure a tale of what waits over and behind the gates and within the gardens and alleyways of Charleston.

churches, ghosts and graveyards

I do believe in spooks, I do believe in spooks, I do I do I do I do I do believe in spooks. So chants the cowardly lion in the land of OZ. Do I believe in spooks? Not really. But I believe in the ability of a tale teller to spin a story so completely enthralling that I might wake at night thinking there is something lurking in the corner, or imagining that a cold chill creeping down my neck might be more than just a passing breeze.

I was accused as a young child of having an active imagination, and though it perhaps does not extend into adult hood (being much more practical now than all that) I do love a good ghost story, and I seek out those ghost tours in haunted cities the way a crack addict seeks cocaine. I love to hear the history, see the sites and imagine that a flitting shadow does indeed have an inhuman form. It's a fascination, but not a real one. I've never seen a ghost, heard voices in my head, or otherwise encountered anything resembling the paranormal. I have, once or twice, felt strongly connected to a place based on its history (as revealed in my previous blog) but, no, sad to say, I've never come face to face with anything other than a real live person.

Do I believe in ghosts? I'm not sure how to answer that. I believe that we have a spirit, a spirit that can be tangibly detected in the body. but I don't know if the spirit can be trapped between here and eternity and so haunt the living. The tour guide for the Charleston Pub Tour Aaron and I took was a firm believer in the paranormal. An educated man, he claimed proof that ghosts did indeed exist and had succeeded in even convincing the Smithsonian (or so he said) to not eschew the idea altogether. If you ever get a chance and want to pay $25 to have someone to drink with in Charleston while learning a great deal about history and current climate, take the Charleston Pub Tour. You won't be disappointed. We weren't as we ambled back to the hotel at 2 AM. But I digress...

The point of this blog is that there is probably not another city more historically rooted in the potential for ghosts than Charleston - with its abundance of churches, graveyards and tall tales. Though you may not believe in spooks, at least walk with me as I show you some of the major landmarks of the area in this tour of churches and graveyards.

Night in the city

Ahh, the sultry south. Charleston. Where even in late October, hours after the sun has sunk below the horizon, your skin still feels damp with humidity so thick you can taste it. As you wander the streets with the last remnants of pink streaking the sky, you can feel the slow pulse of the city. The gentle breeze stirs, lifting the damp tendrils of hair from your neck and carrying with it the varied scents of seductive night blossoms, gourmet food and, yes, the tang of the horses that clip clop down the cobblestone streets carrying tourists to and fro. The windows of homes, two centuries older than you, reveal the way with the glow of electric lights, so different than the candles that once would have beckoned from the muted glass panes. The church bells toll the hour as the night grows ever more quiet. The steeples of these testaments to faith tower above, discreet beacons in the dark velvet sky. The graveyards, locked tight, glow eerily with the light of streetlamps casting shadows that might be more than they appear. And the haunting strains of what seems to be a violin ebb and flow, and are carried like butterflies through the evening air, blown away by the distant sound of a foghorn, calling it’s way into port. The moon makes an appearance now and the star studded sky is revealed, all the clouds blown away. And if you stand for just a moment and look up, you can believe you’re gazing into the same heavens as those who did the same before you, more than 200 years ago. Here, now, the past and the present blur and, for just this one moment, time will stand still.


As the sun goes down








absolutely no photoshop was used in any of these images. all it is the right exposure, the right equipment and the right kind of night sky.

history comes to life

I am not a “history person”. Though I am vaguely aware of events that shaped our country I am more often blissfully unaware of the whens, wheres, hows, and whos. Dates blend dizzily together, names disappear in alphabet soup and places are only significant in relation to the state they are in and the geographic locations of that state (north, south, west, etc). Don’t misunderstand me, I respect history, I just don’t have the brain for remembering the details. I know general time frames, important events like the wars that defined our laws and defended our borders, but I am not smarter than a fifth grader. Often I have to consult my husband, an avid history channel watcher, for some specific reference that helps me to understand things in context. And while there is certainly an element of naïveté that surrounds me regarding historical facts and dates, I am keenly aware of the tendency for historical stories to conflict and the disappointing and unfortunate truth that history does tend to repeat itself in the worst way.

There are, however, specific areas of history that do capture my interest and spark in me a love for learning, though unfortunately not affecting my ability for retention! I am fascinated by living history – learning about how people lived in ages long past. I am intrigued about life on a southern revolutionary war era plantation, life in medieval times, workings of a Scottish castle before the Rising, life at court in England during the time of such notable figures like Anne Boleyn, and many similar scenarios. And the best way these itches of curiosity can be scratched for me is by visiting the places that remain as testaments to what once was.

It was on just such a visit, during the Charleston portion of my journey, when I had a moment. I know it sounds silly, and I don’t mean for it to sound all psychic and karmic, but I was standing on the banks of a free flowing creek at the base of a Southern plantation home built in the early 1700s when I connected with the historical significance of the spot where I stood. Suddenly I felt the drawbridge between past and present come clattering down, allowing me to cross. This sort of thing doesn’t happen often – especially not to practical people like me – but it has happened once before, on the grounds of a plantation home outside Williamsburg, Virginia the summer I was 15.

In these moments I can see things as they used to be, and no, I don’t mean I’m seeing ghosts, but instead the shadows of the way life was suddenly take more shape and form. I could feel the importance of this waterway as the only means of transporting rice, indigo and cotton into cities for sale and further on to oceans for trade. I could hear the rhythm of the workers in the fields as they harvested, baled, lugged, loaded, and sent the livelihood of the farm on the way to market. I could see the path I had walked from plantation house, now hidden behind me by the moss swinging gently from the tree branches, and as I stood on the water’s edge, watching the reeds blowing in the wind and the rush of water flowing towards the sea, I could imagine that I had simply retraced the footsteps of people who had been walking there for 300 years. I felt it, saw it, knew it to be true. Nothing had changed in the intervening years except perhaps the level of the water, the breadth of the bank and the height of the trees. It wasn’t just a tale told by a tour guide anymore - it was real. And I was standing there, an observer, waiting to absorb more. History had come to life for me, for one brief moment, and it had left a lasting impression.

the unexciting and yet significant location I spoke of

images from the nearby church. I regret I had run out of camera batteries shortly after arriving an so brought out the old film camera. You'll just have to wait, as will I, for images from the very old and very cool inside of the church.

Boone Hall

The life of the slave at Boone Hall

http://www.wildernet.com/pages/area.cfm?areaID=SCHPHS&CU_ID=1 for info on Hampton plantation

http://www.boonehallplantation.com/cms_pages/ for more info on Boone Hall

http://www.jmadden.info/StJames.htm for more on St James Parish Church

Chosen family

One of the stops on my journey was Columbia, SC. As an alumna of the USC MPH program, I decided it was high time I spent an hour taking pictures of the campus (though, despite the early hour of my session, it was extraordinarily over-bright in the way only a Carolina day can be and I wasn’t really pleased with any of the shots). And I also spent some time reminiscing about days gone by – long gone, as it happens, since I finished the masters in 2002! But, the impression lasts - especially because I took far more than book learning with me when I graduated.

When I left Columbia, I took with me the beginnings of what have become lasting friendships that transcend any distance and taught, and continue to teach, me more about life than any degree ever could.

Segue to Rebecca. Rebecca and I met in my first year and her last in the MPH program and we’ve been friends ever since. Though she is in a different stage of life than me in that she is a mother of five year old Hanna and slightly more than a decade older than I am, she has the wisdom of ages that knows no age in years and she has willingly been a guide and sounding board for me since I’ve known her. I won’t go into all the details of all the years and all the conversations, but I will reflect now on one of the most interesting concepts we have discussed at length - that of chosen family.

A chosen family is composed of sisters of the heart, brothers of the soul, and stand-in mothers and fathers who are companions and guides through the rollercoaster of ups and downs in life. They are the people who we choose to spend time with, not necessairly those we are born into. Our chosen family members are not just capable but also willing to be constants in an ever-shifting world, assisting us in that which we cannot do alone, or at least that which we would prefer not to do alone. These are the people in our lives who we choose to love and who can give us that love and support we desire in return, without all the mess and guilt that comes (for me anyway) with blood ties and birthrights. I’m not talking about romantic love here - I’m talking about connection, shared circumstances and intersecting life-journeys.

As a military wife, chosen family is so very important. These are the people we spend holidays with, the people we share moments with – births and deaths, dinners and wine, conversation and coffee. Some of them come, some of them remain, and some of them move on. But these are the people who, no matter the length of time between visits, you can call and feel like no time has passed or who you can visit and blend right into their world. We lean on these people in ways we cannot lean on our parents and siblings and we share with them things our blood families might never understand.

We cannot choose the family we are born into – not really. Though we are perhaps born into the exact family we are supposed to, for whatever lessons we’re supposed to learn, we cannot be expected to get everything we need in terms of support and love from those bloodlines. And though we should not stop loving our blood family, we can also seek out the people who are the family we wish we had and give and receive all that there is to offer, growing ever-wiser in the process.

Rebecca is a member of my chosen family. I stay with her whenever I visit Columbia and you’ll see pictures of my room and her daughter below.


Who is a member of your chosen family?

USC campus












Columbia Zoo

my Columbia chosen family

Pumpkin the cat

me and hanna

me working in my "space" at Rebecca's house

Hanna

A break in the scenery

After weeks of non stop travel it was time for a little vacation, hence the “silence” that fell for four days on the blog. But I certainly have been taking pictures. The next few blogs are going to be a break in the scenery a bit with a lean towards the more urban areas of South Carolina – mainly Greenville, Columbia and Charleston. So open a window and listen to the street noise, put on some coffee and smell the aroma, and imagine for a moment that you can enjoy the sights, sounds, tastes and scents of the city from the comfort of your own home.

I bring you Greenville – a chic, trendy southern city complete with a main street alive with cafes, businesses, people going about their work, and a very unique urban waterfall.

having a moment


street art


street scenes



scenes from a greenville restaurant


business downtown

street smarts

urban waterfall

Free to stop where I want

When driving on this trip I am always actively looking for something worth photographing – lakes, tree-lined streets, old barns and old buildings, atmosphere and environment, all whizzing by at 75 mph or perhaps strolling by at 45. And often I am inspired to stop, rather suddenly, at an unexpected and uncharted location. This, to me, is one of the most liberating things about traveling solo - the ability to stop wherever, whenever, and with as little planning as possible.

This is such a change from the way I usually do things - with intention to reach my end point as quickly as possible. No more. My new approach is to embrace the freedom to change direction, discover new things, be unplanned and allow anything to happen.

Below is the result of just such a moment. It was very near to sunset when I came upon a lake, quite unexpectedly. I made the instant decision to find a place to pull off and, after several passes, I found what I needed. And so it happened that I was there to watch and capture as the sun sank low and deep in the sky.

So try it some time. Try stopping once or twice when you’re on your way somewhere rather than being in a hurry to get where you’re going. You never know what you might discover if you live the journey rather than the destination.

















Before Sunset, facing away from the sun

a legacy of the south

Sleepy, small towns tucked off main thoroughfares, blue skies, puffy clouds, church steeples and barns that time forgot. These are the lines of the legacy that is the south as I’ve known it. And these are the things that are part of the remembering for me - the heart pictures (to borrow a phrase from an old friend), the moments, the snapshots that are inside me, written on my soul, buried deep and surfacing only when I need to pull out a memory to remind me of the way things used to be. Of course the south has its share of larger cities, urban areas and trendy people, but the south for me is as it is written above, as it is written on my heart and soul. In the bleak, cold, gray winters of Dayton, in the days when the sun never shines, these are the remembrances I pull out – the ones that comfort me, that suggest that sometimes the best things in life have to be discovered, cherished, but then tucked away for later. We don’t always know how or when, but we are meant to use everything we gather along the way to realize that for which we are intended.

these next images were taken several years ago and are some of the best I captured of the south as I remember it. This is the first, and probably the only, time I'll share images with you that were not taken on this particular journey, in this here and now. But I got to thinking about how important these memories were to me and I had to share some of the best that were made as I grew into my interpretations.

For more images of barns of the south (and I will tell you every one of these, with the exception of the one with snow, was taken in the south, primarly north carolina and a few in tennessee) click here http://www.jacquelynnbuck.com/new%20barn%20images%20feb%209%202007/album/index.html

The joy is in the journey

In my descent down the mountain towards Asheville, and perhaps it can be said, towards civilization, it occurred to me that there is more joy in the journey than the destination. I know this has been said a thousand times over by people far more important than me, but there’s a difference between saying it, hearing it and knowing it to be true. The Blue Ridge Parkway is, to me, one of the most fascinating, indirect and winding roads one can take leading down, across, over and under the mountains. I took the Parkway for about half the time on the drive from Boone to Asheville. Every few miles there were turnoff signs, heralding another great short hike to another overlook of another mountain. And I wanted to see them all. There were some amusing signs, such as the ones proclaiming “high collision zones” on particularly treacherous stretches of the road (and showing a comical stick figure falling off his motorcycle and waving his arms in the air – I know I shouldn’t laugh, but I can’t help it!). And there were some tempting signs for apple orchards, waterfalls and rest stops. In other words, the signs were everywhere pointing me towards the simple fact that sometimes it’s more important to discover what’s along the way rather than what is waiting at the destination.

I had to choose my battles (turnoffs) and manage my time (dwindling) and in the end it was too bright for any really stellar and successful photography. I finally reached Asheville near sunset after exiting the Parkway via the dizzying plunge down to more populated roads with higher speed limits and less opportunities for getting distracted. And though I didn’t have much in the way of photos to share (I made up for it with some cool ones when I got to Asheville) I did take home with me a revelation about this trip. Every place I’ve stopped and stayed has felt like a temporary resting ground on a greater journey, not a final destination in itself. And so these seven weeks have become for me truly what I had hoped - a constant journey with no real destination other than to come full circle and reach home again. There is a deeper message in that than I can explore right now. But suffice it to say that I like having no ending right now, and also no purpose - a huge and welcome change from my typical lifestyle that came at just the right time. And while I certainly have places I need to be, the time in the early mornings and late evenings, the weekends and the odd hour or two are mine to explore, to sit, to relax, to work, to be. Just to be.

for more pictures of Asheville, click on http://www.jacquelynnbuck.com/asheville/index.html

city in the heart of the mountains

Sunday at the Biltmore

Admission ticket with additional behind the scenes tour: fifty five dollars

Lunch at the winery plus three must-have bottles of wine to go: one hundred dollars

Spontaneous picnic dinner at the lake at the bottom of the estate as I waited for the sun to go down: sixteen dollars

Getting to spend Sunday walking on the roof of the Biltmore and then staying on the grounds until sunset: priceless

And yes, I used my MasterCard.




For more images from this trip to the Biltmore check out my link http://www.jacquelynnbuck.com/biltmore/index.html




For a quick look, check out my Top Ten Reasons to Visit the Biltmore

ONE: the gargoyles

TWO: the view



THREE: the gardens during the day



FOUR: the gardens at twilight



FIVE: the view



SIX: the winery



SEVEN: the view



EIGHT: the statues



NINE: the statues at sunset



TEN: the view

Beauty in repetition

So, I’m going to contradict myself. I’ve been going on and on about forging new paths and taking the road less traveled and facing away from the sun etcetera etcetera. But even on the days when being different is the flavor of the hour, I recognize and embrace the beauty that exists in the familiar and the routine. Take, for example, the sunrise. In the moments just before dawn the sky turns from black to dusky blue to pink to purple, the birds start their song and the world begins to come alive. On cloudy days the sun may be obscured but light still enters, making the way less murky. Yes, without fail, every day, the sun rises. I find a peace in this familiar and blessed routine, this simple yet amazing feat. For in every sunrise is the promise of a new opportunity to more forward into areas unexplored and yet do so not alone, never alone, but joined by this old familiar friend, the sun, as a consistent and reliable companion. When I am feeling like the journey is coated in shadow or that I am standing perched on the edge of a dark abyss, all I have to do is face east and wait. It may not always be bright, it may not always be direct, it will at times be sheltered by the clouds and blocked out by the rain, but it will, with unfailing predictability, rise and bring light to the day.


Before sunrise on my last morning in the mountains of Boone.







Once the sun rose fully, the shadows were banished and all the hills and valleys were revealed






planes leave their mark in the sky on their morning flight




another opportunity to turn and face away from the sun.

down the mountain

To every beginning there is an end. We fortunate (or perhaps unfortunate and tainted) few see the end before we start. Sometimes we choose to ignore it temporarily, enjoying the moments while they last. Sometimes we live in anticipation of the end and don’t enjoy anything. And sometimes we hope the end never comes because then we must face what we knew all along, that every open door must be closed again in order to move ahead through the next. This is how I feel when I come to the end of my time in the mountains. I felt a peace there, a peace that was akin to a child wrapped in a mother’s arms, like being cocooned in the warmth of something beautiful and serene. The realization that it was time to go back down the mountain, back to cities, back to reality, back to a world where you have to look harder for quiet moments and the time and inclination for photos is not as strong was like breaking free of that cocoon – in some ways liberating, and in other ways imposing a feeling akin to loss. Not great loss, because I have known great losses. But a small loss, like you’re leaving something behind that you may not ever get to see again, but God willing, you shall. Here are some images from the last full day I spent in the heart of the mountains before coming back to reality and heading to Asheville.


it was probably too bright to take great pictures of Linville falls, but here they are anyway.







though there was a fee to get onto grandfather mountain, it was worth it. The park attendant gave me a military discount and about 50 pieces of literature on the park to take back to the base. Very inudstrious of her to spread the word through me!
Grandfather mountain was a bit of a tourist haven with a museum, restuarant and a zoo of sorts. But they had some really cool rescued animals and a mile high swinging bridge which was a bit scary considering the wicked wind that day, but worth crossing all the same. Here are some images of the animals and the view from the top of Grandfather Mountain.

even though you can't really see who this is (um, yeah, it's me), I think it's a pretty cool pic, taken graciously by a random stranger I aproached.

that's why they call it the mile high bridge. duh.

cup of memories

I have this thing for mugs. My husband thinks I have a problem and repeatedly tells me not to buy any more coffee cups. But he doesn’t really understand that every one of this mismatched collection resting comfortably in our kitchen cabinet has a story and I choose one each morning based on my mood and the memory I want to embrace. Sometimes I pick one for color - I have several in calming blues and greens that help start the day. Sometimes I want to remember my grandmother, my Baba, and so I choose one that was hers. Sometimes I just want a really big mug of caffeine and so I choose something suitable for the kick. And sometimes I want to feel the warmth of the coffee seeping into my hands through something crafted by an artist, made from clay and unique as nothing mass produced can be. But regardless of what I choose or why, I know the tale that can be told as the steam rises and the scent of coffee fills my world.

And so on this journey I bought another mug.

The opportunity came about by chance. I was photographing shortly after sunrise at Bass Lake in Blowing Rock, NC (a charming and beautiful town nestled in the mountains) and I noticed an imposing white house high on the hill above me, prestigiously gazing out over the serenity of the morning. A helpful park ranger told me that this house was Cone Manor, housing the Parkway Crafts Center where every item for sale is made by local Southern Appalachian artisans. As part of the Moses Cone Memorial Park on the Blue Ridge Parkway, and only a short drive from the lake, the decision to pack up my gear and head up that way was easy as visions of pottery danced in my head.

Half an hour later I left with a lovely turquoise mug created by Hank Goodman of Arden, NC. This one fit perfectly between my palms and had called rather loudly to me from the moment I walked in. It cost more than I normally would spend on kitchenware, but I paid for the moment. Now I have another piece to add to my shelf of memories. And every time I need to recall the cool, sweet smell of the mountains and the wind in my hair as I cruise the Blue Ridge parkway, I know just which mug I’ll choose.



Read more about the manor and craft center in this article from the Mountain Times http://www.mountaintimes.com/summer/mosescone.php3

Pictures of and from Cone Manor that morning

a change in the weather

One of the most important things I learned about photographing sunrises and sunsets was to pay attention to the weather. This may seem like a no-brainer, but it’s more than just “today will be rainy” or “tomorrow will be sunny”. It’s more about the movement of fronts into and out of an area. It seems that whenever the weather changes drastically, when a cold snap occurs or a warm front moves in, the sky responds with some amazing clouds. And nothing makes a drab sunrise more interesting than the shifting shapes and trails of clouds across the sky.

Of course, there’s only so many photos of a sunrise you can look at before you think, “yeah, yeah, same old thing” but I think it’s fascinating that these images below were all taken in the same day in the space of one hour. You can track the progress of the sun rising and the clouds blowing quickly across the sky. Each moment was different and unique and held an opportunity for a photograph. The life lesson here is that weather, like many opportunities, blow across our paths very quickly. We must pay attention to our surroundings, waiting for the weather to change. And then we have to seize the moment, which will likely never be repeated, or miss the chance altogether.

before the sun rose



As the sun was rising



the sun begins its ascent into the clouds








the sun hides, but look at this light!

look at the God rays - amazing!

now the sun is up, but the photo opps aren't over!