Jostled Memories of Ma and Pa's Farm


I've been working in East Central Mississippi for the last month. Last week I went for a long ride south on Hwy 45 and west on Hwy 14. This barn is just south of Columbus on the east side of Hwy 45. I knew when I got out to shoot that I would have to stand at the red cattle gate, blocking my entrance to full discovery of the other side of the barn. While I stood there, craning my neck, my camera sitting on the edge of the red rail, I heard a voice holler behind me, but had no idea what had been said. As I turned, there was a man on the passenger side of a pickup truck waving his hat and again said something I could not understand. As I walked toward the truck on the road, I heard him say, "Go on through the gate! Take your time." 

Man-oh-man the invitations I seem to get because of my Nikon! Anyway I opened the gate with a feeling of reverence that I always have when walking into my own shot. I kept shooting, the sky brilliant blue, rusty tin so very red, and the hay golden. As I stepped across the haphazardly scattered hay, left as though a trail for me and my worn Justin cowboy boots to tramp, the late afternoon sun was hot against my back. Walking casually around the backside of the barn, I became acutely aware of two things: the smell of fresh cut hay and the steady drone of crickets...

I was nine-years-old when my great-grandfather Pa Willis died in Tibbee, Mississippi, just a bit north from where I stood at that moment. Although a young child, my memories of the handful of times we visited the old farm remain vivid... catching lightening bugs in ball jars with my cousins at dusk; the smell of butter being churned when I woke up in the morning as I sleepily padded my way to the kitchen; the way the air moved through the breezeway; the picture of one of the eleven babies that Ma birthed, only that one little boy had died immediately after being born... it always seemed strange to me; the way the screen door squeaked every time it was opened; the way snuff juice dripped down the creases on each side of Ma's mouth, toothpick to one side, as she sat in a white-washed cane-back chair on the screened porch; the way the pigs came running when they were slopped; the way the floor creaked when I walked into the old country store where the Tom's cookie jar sat on the counter, its worn red top so inviting, the Coke box against the wall, and the field visible out the back door from the front; feeling so snug under the handmade quilts at night with the lazy ceiling fan stirring the slight breeze coming through the open window, the lull of frogs singing from the pond, and... 

... the smell of fresh cut hay as the crickets continued their lazy drone...

Think on These Things

If any of you read what I write with regularity, I hope the message communicated is one of hope, one of encouragement, and one that might leave you with a grin, if only for that moment. If you do grin, pay it forward, for you never know when it might return to you…

One of the most challenging weeks of my life just closed, as another opens. It seems there are those whose life work is to make another’s quite miserable and obsolete. It seems there are those who thrive on controversy and diminishing the life and work of another.  It seems there are those who are just miserable themselves and know no not what to do with their time, other than to tear another down.

I took sixteen years to write 96 pages a story about my personal pain and loss, a memoir entitled OUTER EDGE OF GRACE. All of us have it, that is, pain and loss. I just chose to write mine down. My challenge is in finding something, anything, in the ashes that can equate to some kind of redemption for all the pain and loss suffered. My pain has been no worse than yours, my losses, most certainly no greater. 

It is in the redemption of all pain, of all that is lost, that I speak of the loudest. It is in truth and beauty found, I hope to never lose sight of again. It is in all color, which crosses my path each day that somehow, someway, offers solace, joy, and peace.

You see, there was a time that I might not have thought so much on redemption, on beauty, on color. There was a time I was consumed with busyness. Busyness was my price tag, and I hope you know that we all have a price tag. It took me much pain and loss to figure out just what my price tag was. It took me years to find peace with all who have worked to inflict pain. It took me years to realize that it is only in the recognition of the forgiveness I have been given that I can be wholly capable of forgiving.

However, the aforementioned lesson continues to be tried and proven as I continue to breathe. I am far from being without blemish. It is in my imperfection that I realize His perfection. It is in my naiveté that I continue to always believe the best, hope the best. It is in my child-like mind of believing that each situation, each encounter with another is a new day, if you will.

What I continue to fall short of realizing is that in some way, we are all jaded. I used to not really know what that means. I never thought about it, for I was too busy to notice another’s pain. My only supposition can be is that it must be a secondary and tertiary reaction to pain inflicted that others become jaded, become mean, if you will. There are some things that I can recognize, but can never understand.

Although I could write for years about all disclaimers regarding myself, of which there are many, it would be a boring, yet colorful litany. However, rather than write about my foibles, I choose to write about the hope I’ve found in spite of them. I choose to capture images that remind me of the eternal hope I’ve been given. It is that Hope alone that I will awake tomorrow realizing that the new day presents opportunity to learn from my foibles of yesterday.

“If there isanything of beauty, anything of good repute, meditate on these things night and day.”

©sarah_beaugez_thinkOnTheseThings~2014

Krakow, Poland: Death Camps

Krakow, Poland

Boarding the train headed for Krakow, Joy dragged as much of

my stuff as she could, as well as, her own backpack. Climbing the

steps onto the train, we realized this would be a much different

ride. The train was packed, literally, with people. We attempted to

walk anywhere to find a place to sit. With our luggage against

the wall of the small walkway, we stood, as much out of the way

that we could. I am very claustrophobic, so this was no easy task

for me to withstand.

It wasn't long before we met a young woman returning to the

University in Krakow who spoke English. She proceeded to tell

us that the train was full of students doing the same as she was:

returning to school. The next hour was spent listening to her tell

of how the youth of Poland had aspirations of the future and

capitalism, while her parents wanted to return to Communism,

just so they could have some security with any income, regardless

of how meager it might be. Incentive and vision of opportunity

for a better quality of life, was not the issue for her parent’s

generation. It was security and the familiar. Saddened by what

she said was only heightened for me after having stood in Red

Square just ten years earlier, right after Perestroika. I saw no life

in the eyes of the Russian people, having lived under a

Communist regime for over seventy years at that time.

Recognition of that same look was reflected in the faces I had

already seen in The Czech Republic a day earlier. Now, I began

to pay attention to those around me. Many had that same blank

glare in their eyes. She made the trip bearable, intriguing, and

unforgettable.

Arriving at the train station in Krakow, we now were on a

mission to find our hotel. Within walking distance, Joy and I

headed down the main street in Krakow. Such different

architecture, beautiful, old, inspiring. I photographed the images

in my mind where they remain to this day. After settling into our

modest room, we set out to find sustenance. Asking the front desk

clerk about where we might find something to eat, he offered

several suggestions. Joy and I found ourselves sitting in a

restaurant on the square in Krakow, Poland, eating pizza. That

was a bit of comic relief, in what otherwise, had been a day filled

with drama.

Waking early enough to have toast and tea, we set out to our

ultimate destination, the infamous death camp known as

Auschwitz. It was a beautiful fall day. The sky was as blue as I

have ever seen. As we came to entrance of the camp, that moment

was as surreal as any I have experienced. Bright yellow leaves

were strewn in our path, as though inviting us to a place of

beauty. The reality of what we were about to take in was quite a

contrast to this invitation. Walking under the brick arch, the first

thing I noticed was the gallows, where people, countless people,

had hung. A shudder ran through me and it would not be the

last, but the first of many. The gentle breeze caused the yellow

leaves to flutter like butterflies, as we passed the housing for the

many Jews brought to the camp, a few for work and many for

death.

Our guide began to enter one structure at a time which had

housed the many people who were victims of the Holocaust,

carried out by Third Reich, or Hitler's ultimate plan for a "pure

race." As we entered one, and then another, of the quarters,

reverence is the only word I can use to describe those who

entered along with Joy and me. Each unit was a sublime, yet a

gruesome reminder, of just what had taken place during the

Reich's rule. The best description I can offer is that one half of

the 30 x 50 foot area of the single room, was covered with some

kind of acrylic that went from the floor to the ceiling at a 45*

angle. Behind the clear acrylic, was filled with articles taken

from those thousands, millions, who had once lived lives of

beauty and freedom. In silence, we stood viewing millions of

shoes in one building. In silence, we stood viewing millions of

locks of hair in another building. In silence, we stood viewing

millions of watches, in yet another building. In silence we stood

viewing millions of... and so it went. In silence, tears streamed

down my cheeks. One of the most sobering experiences of my

life.

After exiting the last of the units, we headed for the berm, which

housed the gas chamber and the ovens. Covered with green grass

and daisies, once again, the surrealistic picture was quickly

interrupted as we abruptly entered the gas chamber, where

millions had been gassed. Again, silence was the only sound.

Reverence and homage was the only palpable sense among those

who had ventured into the Chamber. Standing for a few, or many

minutes, we then proceeded into where the ovens were located.

Chills run down my spine as I recall the brick that had burned

those precious bodies of many. There are no words in the

English language to describe what I saw, and how I felt. Horror

is the single word that comes to mind. The extermination camp

known as Auschwitz, had revealed itself to this one person, with a

lasting impression of what bigotry, hatred, scorn and loathing is

capable of producing. Death. Tortuous death, after having their

last days lived under a tortuous regime.

As if that scene was not enough, we boarded the bus that took us

to Birkenau. Stark in contrast to the brilliance of the yellowleafed

path that lead us into the camp at Auschwitz, the guard

tower, built to represent the one that stood in the same position at

the time of the heinous rule of the Third Reich, symbolized power

and control. Walking under a simple wooden beam, the most

striking image forever embedded in my mind was the shear

vastness of landmass that was, the death camp of Birkenau.

Historically, the Germans, learning that the Russians were

quickly making their way towards the camp, began to burn what

they could of the evidence of their crimes. Unable to finish their

attempt to cover what had taken place, in a place and space in

time, reserved only for the torture and murder of millions of

Jews, the Russians proceeded to burn what was remaining of

Birkenau.

The only structure on the hundreds of acres of land known as

Birkenau, was a replica of what the housing had been for the

prisoners. Stark, cold, devoid of color, is the image I recall as I

entered the unit. Unlike Auschwitz, these units were very large,

capable of housing hundreds of people at a time. I would not be

so pretentious to act as any kind of historian, but I know enough

in regard as to the conditions the prisoners "lived" in day to day.

Filth, disease, and hunger were but a few of the adjectives I've

read that describe what that building represented.

Lastly, before boarding the bus back to Krakow, we stood in the

guard tower, looking over the immensity and emptiness that, had

once, been a bigger version of what we had seen at Auschwitz.

"They" say the skies were always raining soot from the ovens

that burned every hour of every day for years. Heaviness and

weight were what I felt, inside, and an oppressiveness was

lingering in the fall air on the outside. The memory has had as

much impact on me as any memory of a moment in my life.

Sobering the thought of the depravity of man at its worst.

Leaving was a relief. The next day, we boarded the train that

would traverse from Poland, The Czech Republic, Austria and

back to Switzerland. Joy returned to the safety net of

L'Abri, filled with her young, but astute, observations made of

our journey across four countries, each filled with their own

unique flavor and memories. As I drove away, she waved from

her tiny chalet. I knew she had grown as a woman, making this

mother proud for what she was doing at such a young age:

Searching for Truth.

The drive around Lake Lucerne, seemed much more beautiful

this time. I felt lighter and heavier at the same time, full of the

knowledge of good and evil, the very thing God attempted to

shield us from in the Garden of Eden. Enriched with the

experience of the journey and the destination, had been a small

chapter in what I now know as my life.

sarah beaugez_krakow, poland_(c)2013

Traveling to Krakow, Poland

Traveling to Krakow, Poland

In 2002, my oldest daughter, Joy, decided she would spend a

semester in Switzerland at L'Abri. Small chalet's situated in the

Swiss Alps overlooking the French Alps and Evian, France, she

went to search her soul and spend time in a, somewhat,

commune situation. Her living conditions were confined to

sharing a small room with someone that showed up in Huemoz,

just as she had decided to do. Her dad escorted her to her

destination, and the plan was that I would meet her for fall

break. At eighteen, she expressed a desire to go to Rome to just

play and see the sites.

After a month or so studying all manor of philosophers and

different religions of the world, her Christianity soon was

becoming more of a focal point. Her fall break was in October

and she had arrived at L'Abri in August. By September, her

focus had completely changed and she decided that rather than

to go to Rome, she wanted to make the trip to Poland to visit the

concentration camps that were Auschwitz and Birkenau, located

just outside of Krakow.

Flying into Lucerne, Switzerland, I rented a car and drove from

the East side to the West side of Lake Lucerne, into the small

village of Huemoz to pick her up for our journey. Leaving the

comfort of, what had become her very small world, we began to

drive through the Swiss Alps. For any of you that might know me

at all, this was quite an adventure, as I may be the single most

directionally challenged person on the face of the planet. The

vistas were expansive and breathtaking, to say the least. Having

lived in Colorado and driven in the High Country, I was used to

switch backs and rocky cliffs on either side of the road. Without a

doubt, these cliffs were much more dramatic than any I had

driven in Colorado.

Our goal was to drive across Switzerland, into Lichtenstein, into

the Austrian countryside, ending up in Salzburg. Between the

two of us and my not-so-expert skills at navigation, we finally

found ourselves in the beautiful city of Salzburg. We stayed at a

quaint hotel in the downtown area called The Goldener Hirsch.

We ate at the hotel restaurant and walked the streets the next

day. 

No matter where I have been around the globe, I have

managed to collect a fair amount of street art for no more than

$35.00 for a signed and numbered print. This was no different.

As we strolled across a small bridge that spanned a stream

running through Salzburg, I found a common watercolor image

of cobblestone streets, lined on either side with brick flats. People

were walking those cobblestones in the print. Just as I paid the

artist, it began to sprinkle rain. It was time to head back to the

hotel.

The next day, we boarded a train that would take us to Prague,

Czech Republic. Interesting would not be a descriptive enough

term for that train ride. We spent a day walking the streets of

Prague, and again, found the street artists lining the famous

bridge that spans the River. I was drawn to a particular piece of

work that showed the bridge and the surrounding buildings that

were centuries old. I didn't buy anything that day, but decided to

wait until the following day to make a final decision. As we

walked the bridge, looking at dozens of artists attempting to sell

their work, I returned to the place where the one piece I had been

drawn to the day before had been located. He wasn't there.

Amazingly, I located him in a different place and bought the

same thing that had spoken to me initially. As the day began to

close, we got on a bus in order to return to our hotel, thinking we

would hear our stop as it was called. After driving around the

rehabbed side of Prague post-Communism and the non-rehabbed

side about four or five times, we finally realized that whatever

was being announced, we could not understand what was being

said. Finally recognizing the hotel, with great relief, we got off

the bus and headed to the hotel.

The next night, we boarded a train that would take us into

Poland. Neither of us had ever been on a sleeper train, especially

sharing a tiny birth with eight strangers. At this juncture, it

would be appropriate to mention that Joy had only her backpack

to carry. I, on the other hand, had brought way too many shoes

and who knows what else, all to say I did not travel lightly. All

night long, the guards banged on the door, entering with guns

and requiring we show our passports. Having been to Russia just

after Perestroika in 1993, I wondered if Communism was really

eradicated or not. It was a bizarre night with no sleep.

As the train chugged into Poland, once again, Joy and I thought

we would hear our stop announced to change trains, boarding

another that would take us into Krakow. Pulling to a stop, again,

we didn't understand the sound of the town we were in and didn't

get off of the train. At the last second, I realized we should have

gotten off and hurriedly attempted to get Joy and all of my

luggage off of the train. It was too late. The train began to move

and I got back on. 

We were in the last car and had no idea that, late on a Sunday 
afternoon, this was the end of the line. After moving several hundred yards, 
a few cleaning women showed up in the doorway to our car, excitedly
motioning for us to get off, speaking rapidly in Polish. They weren't
kidding and we, literally, got off the train dragging my suitcase across tracks that

were overgrown with all manner of weeds, not knowing whether

to laugh or cry. About the time that I was going to panic,

miraculously, a little engine that shifted train cars around,

manned by an engineer, saw our plight and stopped. He

motioned for us to climb into his tiny car and took us back to the

platform. We got on the train headed for Krakow just in time.

To be continued...

Moscow: Red Square

One night while in Moscow we went to the Moscow circus. It wasn’t like any circus I had ever been to before. There were several rings with different things going on, but the one I remember the most was the one with the elephants.

We had had two interpreters while we were in Moscow. Both were beautiful people and very engaging. While we sat in front of the elephants, one of the interpreters, Svetlana had a spiral notebook of drawing paper. She drew what the elephants did as they did it. I was as spellbound by her ability to draw as I was by the elephants themselves. Never before or since have I seen anyone do what she did. It was almost like animation.

The next day we went to Red Square. Quite a moment to remember as we got off the bus in front of St. Basil’s Cathedral. It was extremely colorful, just as in the pictures I had seen and quite an architectural wonder. It was not a structure that did not demand attention. Awe-inspiring would be the catchword of the day.

Walking across the large square on bricks, so many bricks it seemed never-ending, we made our way to the Kremlin. Such history those walls held and continue to hold; the place where Communist leaders dictated a hard life for the Russian people; disallowing the Russian people freedom in all things. I felt more than one shudder run down my spine. Stalin and Lenon had been inside these walls as dictators to the people of Russia; a dictatorship that crushed the will of the people leaving them devoid of hope.

After Perestroika the Russian people had no point of reference as to how to employ capitalism or any kind of free market enterprise. This was demonstrated upon exiting the Kremlin we walked across the vast brick square to a few retail shops attempting to make money. The shops were eerily devoid of merchandise. It was as though it were a ghost town.

I remember walking out of those shops and just stopping in the middle of the square knowing I could only photograph this scene in my mind’s eye; so many people around me with blank stares seemingly going nowhere. With the Kremlin on one side of the square, St. Basil’s was on the adjacent side. So beautiful was the structure built on the order of Ivan the Terrible in 1555-61; its beauty very telling of the beauty of the Russian people themselves.

Making my way back to the bus, there were several street artists selling their work just outside of St. Basil’s. As I made my way to look at each one’s work, I was in a very somber mood. The contrast of the many faces I had seen was great when I looked at all the color in St. Basil’s. As much as color has pulled me in, I was drawn to a black and white rendering which fit my mood. For ten dollars I bought a beautiful drawing of the Cathedral.

  

Once on the bus, I began to talk to Svetlana about her artwork. I suggested that she send it to me in the States, I would sell it and send the money back to her. She burst into tears and ran off of the bus. I stood with my mouth hanging open wondering what I had said to illicit such a response.

Later, after she had calmed down a bit, I asked her what I had said that upset her so badly. She began to tell me that the government would never allow her to receive any money. They would intercept anything of value. My spirit sank as I realized the iron fist these people were continuing to be under. Although Communism was supposed to be dead, it was not.

My mind went back to the ghost-like terminal and the armed guards. Communism had officially been taken down, but the hearts and the minds of the people were still held captive by reality. Seventy years is a long time and several generations. It would take more than a few years to change the hearts and the minds of the people, but it could not change those who were in a position of power. They would continue to hold onto their ideology, sacrificing the will of the people.

It would be a decade later until I learned just how incredibly artistic the common peasant was in Russia. It was when I purchased a crystal chandelier that I bought in Jackson, Mississippi. I asked the shop owner about the history of the chandelier. Supposedly, a local Russian artist, who made one-of-a-kind pieces for the aristocracy, created it. Appreciating the cut of the glass by the hands of artisan, I learned a lot about glass.

I also learned about how a repressed people survived by appreciating simplistic beauty in all that surrounded them. I learned how very fortunate I am to be an American.