For me, the time after visit home usually feels like being stuck in the cross-eyed stage of a Magic Eye puzzle. Wanting to see something raised above the crazed, loud pattern, I draw myself closer, and then beyond closer, until nose collides with surface, breath drives back into mouth, and eyes somersault against sockets in a desperate attempt to tell my brain exactly how things have changed in this new perspective. But then I still can't see it yet, the hidden transcendence, the coherent form, the purported magic. Directions say to back away (now!) but slowly, while all the time trying to maintain the same sort of focus as being upupclose. And this is what gives me a headache: in the process of drawing away, eyes and brain are battling between two different messages to try to make sense of what I see. Sometimes, after several seconds, it works: a shape rises to provide wonder and form out of chaos. But often, it doesn't, and I have to start over again, maybe many times, in an attempt to try to uncover that something beneath the surface. So it was in this cross-eyed stage leaving my parent's home Sunday afternoon to return to Athens that I found myself taking exit 25 off of 77 south which, as a brown sign had noted a few minutes earlier, was the way to Big Muskie Bucket, the largest coal dragline ever made. Located about an hour south of my hometown, the sign for Big Muskie marks the point at which I am either drawing closer or drawing away: closer in the sense that once again rusty mailboxes, memories of lost jobs, warsh and ya’ll, highwalls, Carhart overalls, pick-up trucks broken down, beaten down, torn down – or proudly taken home with the opportunity of no-down, [payment], zoom me into a blurred UNDERSTANDING that this my home; drawing away in hopes that something from this, my own confused background pattern, will rise above to provide me with a another shape by which to define my identity.
I had learned about the Big Muskie dragline about a year earlier from some class research, though vague rumors of its existence have graced the edges of family dinner conversation and a high school classroom discussion. Since then, the idea to stand by this giant earth-mover in what I imagined to be some tired cattle field has both intrigued and repelled me. Deciding that this particular indifferent Sunday afternoon was as a good a time as any to go up-close, I followed the brown sign pointing right at the bottom of the ramp (which also reassured me that the Noble County Correctional Institute was in the same direction, just in case) and so began.
In cases, such as this once, where I don’t know exactly where or how far it is I am going, landscape is consumed in rapid, undigested chunks to make a guess at distance. A single yard ornament, one of those blue glass balls perched atop a concrete pedestal, is my first clue to where I am. Later, a trailer home to my left parked on the wood line with white and orange plastic porch furniture set off nicely with a banner of plastic American Flags and rusted cars. Yellow railroad bridge with tufts of grass visible from its top. In the bend of steep right turn, Jumper’s Corner invites me as a DEER AND TURKEY WEIGH STATION, with Hot Food! Cold Beer! Lodging! but not, of course, on Sunday. On my right again, a small white shed with a tin roof off to the side of an aging white farmhouse declared the “Mayor’s Office” in snide black spay paint: I knew that I was getting closer.
Reinersville. An almost full sized ceramic cow situated in the middle of six flag poles with the flags all held at a little below half-mast: “Quick Stop”: I stop. Wanting to ask about the flags and cow, and slightly car-sick, I step carefully around gas hoses and oil patches, my heels sinking precariously into the muddy gravel, and prepare to go in. Locked – but the sign says OPEN and the lights are on? Knock again. Peering into the window, I see strings of Bud-Light foam beer holders (with a drawstring for easier carrying) strung down a pole by the counter, plastic worms and fishing tackle, and a rack of some type of cloth covers in various patterns. The air smells strongly of wood smoke and wet dirt. In the whole rack, I notice only two done with the Confederate flag- must be popular. I leave, deciding that the SPARKY’s porta-potty outside is not worth the effort.
After passing though Reinersville, the hills became increasingly steeper and more densely covered in early succession hardwoods- maple, popular, beech- along with large groves of white pine; abandoned farmhouses, silos, and sunken barns added to the conclusion that I am driving over taken land. With each bump up to the top of a hill, I scan over the horizon for the abrasive diagonal of a dragline arm, accompanied by a sudden clear burst of bluegrass music from the D28+5 Sunday afternoon program on NPR. But I see nothing- nothing more than melancholy hills, some wooded, some bald, and many left with scars from mechanical mutilation.
After what seemed to be about thirty-five minutes of windy roads with no map and a mounting headache, the thought crosses my mind that I should really just turn around and go back: I’m not seeing anything. But then, some small signs pop up and catch my interest: Welcome to AEP’s Re-CREATION Land! Forest Loop à Camp Area ^ Miner’s Memorial ^. Sure enough, at the top of the next hill to the right, I notice a cleared space with a couple of pavilions and signs – and then a very large brown-red ark shaped structure. Must be the place, I think, and pull into the parking area by the restrooms, the only car in the parking area.
Getting out, I questioned the wisdom in ignoring my parents’ time-honored routine of church-change-lunch-nap in the interests of gaining a few more minutes for myself when my heels once again began to sink down into the gravel and my pantyhose lost its wind-breaking capacity in about 2.2 seconds. It was now after 2:00 in the afternoon, and, feeling hungry, I ripped open the TO-GO version of the Quaker breakfast classic and walked as daintily as possible towards the hunk of metal. Feeling a bit conspicuous, I hear a diesel truck approach, slow down, and then finally pass, satisfied that I was not up to any harm. Hurriedly, I swallowed the last bite of my bar, sticking the wrapper in my pocket, and continue walking.
NO CAMPING - NO CLIMBING ON ROCKS - NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR ACCIDENTS AEP. This was it? There was no dragline, no mammoth machine, nothing besides an ugly, rusting discard perched rather awkwardly on a bed of rocks, it’s hulking attachment chains spread around it like a gaudy piece of costume jewelry hung on an elderly woman’s neck, setting off the worst attributes of both. Walking around from side to side, my heel clicks echoing back to me in the interior pit of the bucket, I tried to determine the best angle from which to experience it’s size. And so with this, I stepped inside. The size of a bedroom with high ceilings, Big Muskie’s most important part had been frequented by dozens of those who felt that the best way to leave their mark on this, the former pride of the area, was to inscribe initials, years, and attempts at wit or general crudeness. Four or so signatures in small, white paint, middle-school lettering on each side caught my attention first: Karen Waller (beside Russ and J.P.P forever 2002), Tyler Winkleman, Kevin Waller –n- Heather Winkleman August 17, 2006, Kobe Waller, and Trevor Allen Winkleman. Cousins, most likely, I thought, tracing Kobe’s signature. Pinning my hair back behind my ears against the wind, I imagined a scene similar to ones in my own childhood where all day could be spent scrambling over and around the huge piece of equipment, imagining that is was something bigger and better than it was, and that I too, was better with it.
Stepping out and down the Muskie’s claws, I walked over to the Miner’s Memorial, a plaque of names commemorating those individuals who contributed to the growth of the coal industry in the area. There were several panels of names in which I could see a mirror image of myself, similar to the effect of the names inscribed on the Vietnam Wall. Starting with C, I scrolled down to find a Cook, but none were listed; general workers didn’t make the list. Remembering the child-scrawl in the bucket, I moved on to the Ws, and not surprisingly, found several Winkleman’s listed. I smiled to think how Grandfather, or Uncle, or Dad would react if they knew their children were decorating with poster paint the machine that brought their industry (and the region) one of its greatest measures of respect.
Before I left, I stood for awhile in front of the bucket, taking in the view of all the now “reclaimed” land Big Muskie had stripped in 325 ton bites; in total, more than twice the amount of earth moved for the construction of the Panama Canal. And though there were many trees, and though the air was clear, and though I could hear the rumble of heavy trucks hauling things, hauling something up and down the road behind me, what rose out to me from this was a great sphere of emptiness. And it stayed with me, this image, as I turned with muddied heels to walk back to my car and to leave.
I had learned about the Big Muskie dragline about a year earlier from some class research, though vague rumors of its existence have graced the edges of family dinner conversation and a high school classroom discussion. Since then, the idea to stand by this giant earth-mover in what I imagined to be some tired cattle field has both intrigued and repelled me. Deciding that this particular indifferent Sunday afternoon was as a good a time as any to go up-close, I followed the brown sign pointing right at the bottom of the ramp (which also reassured me that the Noble County Correctional Institute was in the same direction, just in case) and so began.
In cases, such as this once, where I don’t know exactly where or how far it is I am going, landscape is consumed in rapid, undigested chunks to make a guess at distance. A single yard ornament, one of those blue glass balls perched atop a concrete pedestal, is my first clue to where I am. Later, a trailer home to my left parked on the wood line with white and orange plastic porch furniture set off nicely with a banner of plastic American Flags and rusted cars. Yellow railroad bridge with tufts of grass visible from its top. In the bend of steep right turn, Jumper’s Corner invites me as a DEER AND TURKEY WEIGH STATION, with Hot Food! Cold Beer! Lodging! but not, of course, on Sunday. On my right again, a small white shed with a tin roof off to the side of an aging white farmhouse declared the “Mayor’s Office” in snide black spay paint: I knew that I was getting closer.
Reinersville. An almost full sized ceramic cow situated in the middle of six flag poles with the flags all held at a little below half-mast: “Quick Stop”: I stop. Wanting to ask about the flags and cow, and slightly car-sick, I step carefully around gas hoses and oil patches, my heels sinking precariously into the muddy gravel, and prepare to go in. Locked – but the sign says OPEN and the lights are on? Knock again. Peering into the window, I see strings of Bud-Light foam beer holders (with a drawstring for easier carrying) strung down a pole by the counter, plastic worms and fishing tackle, and a rack of some type of cloth covers in various patterns. The air smells strongly of wood smoke and wet dirt. In the whole rack, I notice only two done with the Confederate flag- must be popular. I leave, deciding that the SPARKY’s porta-potty outside is not worth the effort.
After passing though Reinersville, the hills became increasingly steeper and more densely covered in early succession hardwoods- maple, popular, beech- along with large groves of white pine; abandoned farmhouses, silos, and sunken barns added to the conclusion that I am driving over taken land. With each bump up to the top of a hill, I scan over the horizon for the abrasive diagonal of a dragline arm, accompanied by a sudden clear burst of bluegrass music from the D28+5 Sunday afternoon program on NPR. But I see nothing- nothing more than melancholy hills, some wooded, some bald, and many left with scars from mechanical mutilation.
After what seemed to be about thirty-five minutes of windy roads with no map and a mounting headache, the thought crosses my mind that I should really just turn around and go back: I’m not seeing anything. But then, some small signs pop up and catch my interest: Welcome to AEP’s Re-CREATION Land! Forest Loop à Camp Area ^ Miner’s Memorial ^. Sure enough, at the top of the next hill to the right, I notice a cleared space with a couple of pavilions and signs – and then a very large brown-red ark shaped structure. Must be the place, I think, and pull into the parking area by the restrooms, the only car in the parking area.
Getting out, I questioned the wisdom in ignoring my parents’ time-honored routine of church-change-lunch-nap in the interests of gaining a few more minutes for myself when my heels once again began to sink down into the gravel and my pantyhose lost its wind-breaking capacity in about 2.2 seconds. It was now after 2:00 in the afternoon, and, feeling hungry, I ripped open the TO-GO version of the Quaker breakfast classic and walked as daintily as possible towards the hunk of metal. Feeling a bit conspicuous, I hear a diesel truck approach, slow down, and then finally pass, satisfied that I was not up to any harm. Hurriedly, I swallowed the last bite of my bar, sticking the wrapper in my pocket, and continue walking.
NO CAMPING - NO CLIMBING ON ROCKS - NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR ACCIDENTS AEP. This was it? There was no dragline, no mammoth machine, nothing besides an ugly, rusting discard perched rather awkwardly on a bed of rocks, it’s hulking attachment chains spread around it like a gaudy piece of costume jewelry hung on an elderly woman’s neck, setting off the worst attributes of both. Walking around from side to side, my heel clicks echoing back to me in the interior pit of the bucket, I tried to determine the best angle from which to experience it’s size. And so with this, I stepped inside. The size of a bedroom with high ceilings, Big Muskie’s most important part had been frequented by dozens of those who felt that the best way to leave their mark on this, the former pride of the area, was to inscribe initials, years, and attempts at wit or general crudeness. Four or so signatures in small, white paint, middle-school lettering on each side caught my attention first: Karen Waller (beside Russ and J.P.P forever 2002), Tyler Winkleman, Kevin Waller –n- Heather Winkleman August 17, 2006, Kobe Waller, and Trevor Allen Winkleman. Cousins, most likely, I thought, tracing Kobe’s signature. Pinning my hair back behind my ears against the wind, I imagined a scene similar to ones in my own childhood where all day could be spent scrambling over and around the huge piece of equipment, imagining that is was something bigger and better than it was, and that I too, was better with it.
Stepping out and down the Muskie’s claws, I walked over to the Miner’s Memorial, a plaque of names commemorating those individuals who contributed to the growth of the coal industry in the area. There were several panels of names in which I could see a mirror image of myself, similar to the effect of the names inscribed on the Vietnam Wall. Starting with C, I scrolled down to find a Cook, but none were listed; general workers didn’t make the list. Remembering the child-scrawl in the bucket, I moved on to the Ws, and not surprisingly, found several Winkleman’s listed. I smiled to think how Grandfather, or Uncle, or Dad would react if they knew their children were decorating with poster paint the machine that brought their industry (and the region) one of its greatest measures of respect.Before I left, I stood for awhile in front of the bucket, taking in the view of all the now “reclaimed” land Big Muskie had stripped in 325 ton bites; in total, more than twice the amount of earth moved for the construction of the Panama Canal. And though there were many trees, and though the air was clear, and though I could hear the rumble of heavy trucks hauling things, hauling something up and down the road behind me, what rose out to me from this was a great sphere of emptiness. And it stayed with me, this image, as I turned with muddied heels to walk back to my car and to leave.
