On a recent trip home to Nashville, we got up-and-out before dawn to cruise Nashville’s Lower Broad. I wanted to see the neon and what had become of my favorite old buildings along this four-block stretch that is the nation’s newest hotspot.
Hub of Nashville
This stretch of Broadway, down by the Cumberland River docks, used to be all about the business of living. Throughout the 1800s, grand bank buildings, hardware stores, grocers, clothing shops, and warehouses went up on Broadway to serve the boomtown. Ornate churches, Union Station, and Hume-Fogg High School came up too. And in the Great Depression, Federal assistance programs built the Post Office. For many years, Broadway was a hub of Nashville.
Then came music
The Grand Ole Opry moved into the Ryman Auditorium in 1943. The country music radio shows still broadcast nationwide every Friday and Saturday on WSM 650. Lower Broadway filled with honky tonks. Tootsies Orchid Lounge harbored country music legends who’d just finished performing at the Ryman and slipped through the alley into the bar’s backdoor for a night cap. Record stores, boot companies, sequined clothing shops, poster printers, restaurants, and tourist trinket shops popped up in Lower Broad’s empty warehouses and shuttered bank buildings. Music-star wannabes wandered over from the Greyhound station with their guitars to busk and be discovered along the busy Lower Broad sidewalks.
Demise: Abandoned to “Urban Renewal”
In 1974, the Grand Ole Opry moved out of the Ryman and Lower Broad began her descent. A fight raged over whether to demolish the Ryman Auditorium. Adult bookstores, smoke shops, and liquor stores filled the growing number of abandoned buildings. Lower Broad became a dirty, dangerous place to be. I remember riding with my grandfather to pick up my aunt from work at the South Central Bell building around the corner on Second Avenue. The area was creepy, dark and cave-like between the big buildings. We’d wait with the doors locked and the windows barely cracked. I wish now that I’d asked him about his memories of the area and made some photographs. It’s just vague memories now.
In the 1990s, Lower Broad began to turn around. People began to recognize the value of the area’s history. Some buildings were saved. Many were not…destroyed in fires or “urban renewal” projects. Here’s hoping their pre-country-music neon histories are remembered.
Finally, if you liked this post and would like to stay in touch, please…
Carol Fletcher is a traveling, dog-loving, coffee-addicted, Nashville born-and-raised photographer living in Chicago. To see more photo essays and projects, please visit www.carolfletcher.com.
Wandering, again. Daydreaming. Bemused by random ideas and the weight of options. Doing nothing of consequence. Wasting time. Creating little.
I’ve been trying to sort out life. What it means to be mid-50s with an all-consuming career behind me. What it means to be post my life goal of taking an extended trip around-the-world. I fret at night. We’re running through our savings like bath water. Big questions hover: What’s next? What will I do when I grow…uh…old? How will I busy my mind and hands, and feed the coffers? What will give me purpose and happiness? What will I do to fill my days?
Sara Davidson labeled this transitory phase of life “the narrows.”The name fits. I wander through it–sometimes paralyzed by indecision. Sometimes lazy. Listing with the wind. Observing. Listening. Waiting for inspiration, for energy, for some direction to show itself. Wandering until things fall into place–or the place falls apart.
Spring
I’ve been here in the narrows for awhile, with little fits and starts here and there. After our trip, I lagged in the doldrums for months. Then in March, there was an impetuous to move.
On the first day of Spring, I started work at a garden center. I work outside. I’m tan, more fit, and have fewer aches and pains. I bike to work. I’m learning and doing something I love. I feel good at the end of a day of physical labor. Office worries don’t follow me home. It’s good.
At the end of May, we adopted a little dog, a foster we fell in love with despite our efforts not to. He is eight-point-one pounds of gumption and guile. He wanders with me. Together, we watch the birds, the squirrels, the clouds. We dally on the streets talking to neighbors. It’s good.
What I haven’t done this summer is make photos or write. That’s not good.
Dog Days
These dog days unnerve me. Summer’s stagnant heat and humidity exhaust me. Restlessness sets in. I long for motion, for a fresh breeze. I wait for cool mornings and clarity. Is it just summer, or life’s road narrowing?
Time flies. My memory slips. Life is fragile. I want to photograph more, write more, create more, and do something with my ideas and vague notions. I want to wander with intention. What a paradox.
So, with this post, I commit to myself and anyone reading that I’ll go on a weekly creative outing with camera and notebook to see what I see, to record what I love, to remember what I feel emotions for, and maybe to create something that is satisfying. I invite you to walk with me.
Do you have similar feelings about transitions in life, about creative doldrums? How do you handle it? Any advice?
Finally, if you liked this post and would like to stay in touch, please…
Carol Fletcher is a traveling, dog-loving, coffee-addicted photographer living in Chicago. To see more photo essays and projects, please visit www.carolfletcher.com. Select photos are for sale on Etsy.
This weekend was Chicago Open House, two days when more than 250 buildings are open to the public for a look-see.
Usually, my friend Dan and I go. We hike all over town to see a few of each of our short-listed sites. Last year it was pouring rain, and we concentrated on houses in the Prairie District. This year, Dan is in Spain (!!!) so I headed out alone with a long short-list that would take me from Edgewater to the Loop via Ukrainian Village. I managed to see six of my eight sites–sacrificing two when I dallied a bit longer than my schedule allowed.
Thankfully, the day was sunny, though cold. I laced up my shoes, dressed warm with layers and hit the road for the first of my many CTA bus / train rides of the day. First stop: That pink building along the lakefront in Edgewater…the Edgewater Beach Apartments.
Edgewater Beach Apartments
The apartments (in “sunset pink”) were built in 1928, as part of a resort hotel complex. The apartment building used to touch the beach, but lost its lake shore status when Lake Shore Drive rudely squeezed in between the complex and Lake Michigan. The hotel part of the complex was demolished in the early 70s. Today, the pink building smiles at the edge of the water, and saves an expanse of perfectly green grass for the neighbors to see–but not use.
Garfield-Clarendon Model Railroad Club
Wow. That’s about all I can say. Wow! A room filled with at least a mile of tracks, running a bunch of exact-replica trains, through miniature to-scale villages–and it takes thirty minutes for the train to run the whole track. There are blinking lights, working railroad crossings, train sounds, hills, tunnels, and a bunch of railroad guys making sure it all runs without incident. I couldn’t have been more impressed. And I could have stayed there all day finding all the tiny details–like a truck tire in the midst of being changed, water from the fire department boat, swimmers, rows of farm crops, the Metra clanging sound…wow. Just wow.
Ukrainian Village and the Holy Trinity Cathedral
I made my way to Ukrainian Village for the churches. First up was the Louis Sullivan-designed 1903 church, the Holy Trinity Cathedral. Cathedral was too heavy of a name for this small and elegant space. I loved the scale here: a pew-less church, intimate, with warm light spilling onto the floor, and a dove over the main arch of the entrance. Of course, there were the icons and the candles too. But after sitting absorbing that amazing light, having a lovely conversation about Louis Sullivan and Richard Nickel with a deacon-docent, and watching Sergei pull the rope that rang the bell for me–“in the name of Jesus”–this place found a way into my heart.
Ukrainian Village: St. Nicolas Cathedral
What Holy Trinity had in intimacy, this place had in grandness. The chandelier boasts 480 lights, the gilded altar shines in the front, the stained glass reaches in from 13 onion domes touching the rows and rows of pews. What astounding beauty. So much so that it felt untouchable, and unreachable.
Ukrainian Village: Saints Volodymyr & Olha Ukrainian Catholic Church
If Holy Trinity was too small, and St. Nicolas was too big, was this just right for Goldilocks? This church felt old on the inside, but was only from the 1970s. I was struck by the blues, the stained glass rainbows, and the 50 cent candle votives on either side of the altar…oh, and the incense spoon.
Last stop: The Cliff Dwellers
After my day of seeing out-of-the-way places, it was a bit of a shock to have to wait for 20 minutes to get to the elevators for the Cliff Dwellers site. Yes, it was a great view of the Lake, Grant Park, and the only time I think I’ve had a good idea of the Art Institute’s footprint.
Check out photos from the 2016 Open House Chicago and from the 2015 OHC. One of these days, I’ll post 2017’s Open House. Last year at this time, life was getting mobile. Stay tuned!
I got a text from Kelly the other day, asking if I could photograph some puppies and their mom. Um, yes! Of course, I said yes.
It was a good day for puppies. Some days just have a drib-drab about them, and I’ve been having a spell of those days lately. But when these five five-week old puppies showed up on my doorstep for their photo shoot, the melancholy scampered away.
Puppies!
Mama dog, Canela, had been rounded up by an animal control officer. The little chihuahua-dachshund-terrier (?) mix was close to her due date, and a call had been made to One More Dog Rescue to help. Canela ended up with a foster mom who doubled as midwife, helping her deliver six beautiful puppies a couple of days later. Two days later, Ash died–he had been the smallest and the only black puppy in the brood. The remaining five caramel and vanilla colored pups are Paprika and Safflower (girls) and Dill, Juniper, and Rue boys. By the looks of the babes, dad had a good helping of Cocker Spaniel in him. They are five-and-a half-weeks old now, and starting to come into their personalities. When they aren’t sleeping, they are chasing mom Canela for milk. Canela kept good watch on her puppies, but she was also ready to play like a puppy herself. All of these sweeties will be up for adoption soon on the One More Dog Rescue site.
And…here are the puppies!
If you are a dog lover, please ADOPT from, FOSTER for, VOLUNTEER with, or DONATE to a rescue group. Ditto for cat lovers. Support Spay/Neuter programs in your city. And please, take great care of all animals.
A few weeks ago, one of the rescue groups I photograph for texted me: “Carol! We have another puppers…PALEEEEEEEEZ…”
And of course, there was a photo.
I looked at the scared little pup behind bars.
“Honey, can we keep this little one for a week or so,” I asked my husband, out of courtesy.
The next day, a skinny puppy greeted me at my front door when the doorbell rang. Tig marched in to the house, dancing around and stumbling in that awkward puppy way. We marveled at her cement and peat moss colors, her blue-green eyes, her rat tail with the dark grey tip.
She had been dropped off at the shelter a day before because she had diarrhea. Maybe she’d only been gone from her mother and siblings a week? a month? No one will ever know. That part of her story will be her secret. But she didn’t seem to have eaten a good meal in a while. We picked her up–all of 4 or 5 pounds maybe. A sack of squirming bones. We put down food immediately. And she inhaled it.
The rescuers left a bit later–and Tig stared at us with a “Now what?” look. We took her out for a tinkle. “Good puppy!” we over-the-top exclaimed and brought her back in. Five minutes later, there was a puddle in the kitchen and a pile in the living room. Teaching a puppy to do business outside is never easy. It takes time and there will be accidents. We were determined and she looked capable, so no worries. We’d work with her for the next 10 days.
And what a 10 days…everything was all about baby Tig. Feeding her little meals 4 times a day to fatten her up. Cooking rice to mix into her food and hopefully put a stop to the diarrhea. Taking her out every 2 hours during the day, and every 3-4 hours overnight. Waking her up to “Good morning Puppy!” and watching her do her yoga stretches before sashaying out of the crate like a princess.
We laughed at her puppy-ness. At the funny way she ran and lost control on the corners. At the way she couldn’t figure out things like the doorbell, dogs barking on TV, or where we went when we stepped out of the chase and stood between furniture. We laughed when she chased us around-and-around the house, growling like a little lawnmower, and suddenly stopped and dropped on her bed for a nap. She couldn’t do stairs–up or down. We carried her. She figured out “up” later in the week, but down was still a problem for her after 10 days.
Tig was a fiesty, sassy little being. We tried avoiding her needle teeth and the tiny claws. She chewed on table legs, chair legs, people legs, shoes, toes, fingers, beds, the couch. We got her another chew toy. She added that to the repertoire–without dropping those other favorite chews. She tugged on the back of my pants. Hearing “No!” only made her bark at us and have conniptions of nipping and barking with a ridiculous high-pitched voice that only made us laugh harder. This dog was going to be a handful and a half. Timeouts happened when we picked her up. Holding her calmed her down and turned her back into sweet baby TIg again. I didn’t mind holding her–it gave me an excuse to sniff that puppy smell.
For 10 days, we played, and cleaned up accidents, and fed and fed and fed little Tig. We discovered she loved to lay in the sunshine wherever it fell on the floor or sidewalk. She liked tug-of-war, she preferred to chase versus being chased, she would sit-stay-come for a treat–but only in the kitchen, and trying to coax her down the stairs usually just made her mad. She liked to bite at a stalk of lavender that hung over the sidewalk. Falling leaves had to be chased down and chewed up. She was happy, confident, and crazy and sweet–all at once. Her personality was becoming more and more clear. I felt sad that whoever was adopting her wouldn’t get to see this part of her babyhood.
Tig left our house to go on a cross-country transport to her East Coast fosters in preparation for adoption. She will be adopted soon–if not already. I feel lucky to have spent a precious week of puppy-dom with this little sass. It wore me out, wore me down, and ran us out of paper towels. It convinced us that we may be past our puppy-raising prime. And I just want to tell the adopters…I have Tig’s baby pictures and videos for you when you’re ready. I hope you bring each other lots of joy.
Over the past few months, I’ve been catching up on photo blogs from our travels. I wish I’d made time on the road to have done these blogs real time. But I was too busy enjoying the moments and I won’t let myself regret that. I find myself rolling the question of “what is the purpose of my blog?” around in my head a lot. Why do it? In the end, I’ve come to think of it as my creative sustenance.
Blogging on a regular schedule has been good for me–I’m writing more, doing something with my photos, making videos again, trying to discipline myself by editing with an aimed machete, and self-imposing deadlines to publish. I like thinking about these projects and topics for photography. I like the practice of writing, and shooting regularly. It gives me challenges. I’m trying new things. It gets me out. And in the end, that’s the best part of all.
Yesterday, my friend Debbie and I attended Filter Photo Festival’s Sony Photo Walk workshop. This was a two-hour, free event to sample the newest Sony mirror-less cameras. We checked in early, and checked out our cameras–I had the Sony a7-III, with the 55mm 1.8 Zeiss lens. And a few minutes later, we hit Chicago’s Magnificent Mile on a blustering Fall day.
Now, I’m not a reviewer of cameras. So, you’ll not be hearing any detailed techie stuff. What I can say is this: the camera is crazy lightweight, the focus zones and super high ISO were impressive, it shoots video too, and I loved the pop-out screen and shutter silencer. Net: If I had a few grand laying around, I’d get one, with a couple of those sweet Zeiss prime lenses. Of course, then I’d have to buy a new Mac to fully update Adobe Creative Cloud to read the Sony A7-III cards…and well, this little hobby gets expensive. But I digress.
The point of this was to say that it is good to get out and try something new. I didn’t take any photos that light up my switchboard, but I spent time with a long-time friend, had celery in ceviche, accepted a broken pink rose from a friendly florist, and walked among tourists on a blustery Chicago day. Good stuff. Creative sustenance. I feel energized today.
Thank you Debbie for asking me to go, and thank you Filter and Sony for setting up photo walks to sample cameras!
I’d love to hear how others get creatively nourished. Any tips?
Do you ever feel cooped up? Frustrated by the same old-same old? Restricted, not in control, with zero spontaneity in your life? Furious with boredom? Restless with ennui? Well, this is a little story for those of us who feel that way.
Well actually, it’s a little story about a little soul who lives in a 1 x 3 foot tank–and has lived in those glass walls for at least 32 years. This is about Forrest, an Eastern Box Turtle.
Forrest lives next door. He’s lived there for eight years, belonging to a teenage boy. Prior to there, he lived with another kid for about 20 years. And it is likely he came from another aging kid before that. Lucky or not, Eastern Box Turtles can live to be 100-years-old. By current estimates, Forrest is in his thirties, if not older.
In any case, for eleven days this summer, we dog and turtle-sat for our neighbors. As I put fresh lettuce down for Forest that first day, I noticed the quiet in the room, the isolation in that tank. He sat staring into a corner. It was as if boredom had an odor that I recognized. I decided to take Forrest out to the backyard for a walk. Maybe it was a little bit risky–what if something happened to him? And maybe it would take a little too much time–I had a million other things to do. But, a little walk in the grass and some fresh air to add some spice and variety to his life seemed like a good thing to do. Give him something he could ruminate on in his memories for days yet to come.
And so, for the next eleven days, Forrest got to stretch his legs in his backyard. He got to smell the grass, the mulch, feel the dew and the sprinkler rain, and lift his head into the morning sun. I enjoyed those days very much. These photos are from those days.
Forrest kicked me into action. Or maybe it was that he saved me from action. There was something about his situation, about his life, that settled on me. Something that nudged me to try different things, to add new things to my routine.
I did some research to learn what else I could feed him to liven up his life. I brought him a grape, apple bits, arugula, spinach, romaine, carrots. I also learned that box turtles are slow crawlers, slow growers, give birth to few offspring, and are extremely long lived–yet the species is vulnerable due to death by agricultural machinery and cars. I learned a new word: ANTHROPOGENIC or human-induced mortality, as in what’s happening to the world’s species and environments because of human overpopulation.
I can sometimes see Forrest in his tank next door when I take our stairs, but the light has to be right and he can’t be hiding under his bridge or astroturf. I hope he enjoyed those eleven days. I did.
Otto was a boxer. A long-legged, calm, quiet old man. He came to stay with us on Friday, 8/17 around 3:30 p.m.
Otto had been dropped off at a Chicago shelter two weeks before. Rescuers pulled him and took him to a veterinarian for an isolation period necessary because of the presence of contagious kennel cough and dog flu in the shelter. The plan now was for Otto to stay with us for about 10 days for more healing, then move permanently into a home with other boxers where he’d live out his life. But Otto had lymphoma. And after only six days at our house, his two rescuers and I sat surrounding him at a veterinary clinic on the south side of Chicago, and brushed his thin body as he peacefully passed over to the other side.
At the moment I wrote the following, it was Thursday evening. I was back home and it was within two hours of Otto’s passing. I wanted to remember him, to honor him with stories to carry, and to mark the place in my heart where he’d eased into and curled up to stay after only six days. I sat down with a glass of wine and wrote:
On Friday afternoon, 8/17, an emaciated dog stepped out of Kelly and G’s car and walked up my front steps. Otto the Boxer came with a small bag of medications, several cans of dog food, and a rotisserie chicken. He stepped in to my house and walked slowly around, taking polite looks…like a human guest.
He was coming from a clinic, where he’d been for almost two weeks to heal from kennel cough and crud picked up during his time at the shelter before being rescued. Poor old Otto didn’t do well there. He was sick. He was heartbroken. He was missing meals. He lost a lot of weight. Our goal was to feed this boy and make him comfortable so he’d eat and feel better again.
He was silent. He never barked or whined, not even in his sleep. I heard him deep breathing–when you could see his skin pull in between his ribs. A few times I heard him trying to vomit something that never came out. I heard his feet sliding on the hardwood floors as he stood up. I heard him shake off sleep, and I heard him shake off the water whenever he walked under the sprinkler. I heard his toenails drag a little on the sidewalk when we strolled ever so slowly around the block. I heard his stomach churning, and I heard his explosive diarrhea one day. I heard him drink water, and thankfully–finally–I got to hear him EAT. But I never heard him speak.
That first day, he refused most food. Saturday, I walked him to an evening concert in the park just around the corner. He wasn’t supposed to “canoodle” with other dogs, so we stood on the sideline. I asked him if he liked jazz, if he knew what canoodling was, if he liked the smell of grass, if the sound of locust made him love summer. And he wagged his stubby tail and smiled.
Otto followed me. Upstairs, downstairs, room to room, and even to the bathroom. He walked around the back yard with me when I fed the birds. He looked for me, watched for me. He was curious. He stood watch at the door when I set the sprinklers to water the front yard’s new sod. He looked at the back gate when the trash men were in the alley. Always silent. It made him seem strong and protective. He made me feel loved and cared for.
Still, he didn’t really eat–just a bite here or there. We stopped his medications, maybe they were making his stomach hurt too much to eat. On Sunday morning, his rescuers came to see him with tempting foods that other sick dogs give up their hunger-strikes for. Liverwurst and cheese worked that day, but only after Judy put a little in his jowls to give him the taste.
By Monday, he was refusing food again. Kelly and G came over with a different set of pain medications and we began giving him an appetite stimulant–3 tiny syringes of thick liquid squirted into his mouth. He never fought it, or ran away. His pills were hidden in spoonfuls of peanut butter. We started giving him all meat, it’s all he would eat. No more rice mixed in for binding his stools. He just spit rice out anyway–little grains are here, there, and everywhere.
On Tuesday morning, he started eating while on the front porch watching Bryan water the yard. I’d put a little bowl beside him filled with steaming rotisserie chicken–and he leaned over and cleaned that bowl. We always raced around when he started eating–putting more, more, more down, adding variety like hamburger, liverwurst, cheese, McDonald’s sausage patties and burgers. We’d fill dishes up until he was full or tired of the options. At the end of the day, so many bowls were dirty on the counter.
His right leg was swollen when he arrived. On Tuesday, his left leg began to look bigger. It was confirmed he had Lymphoma. G brought cancer meds for him that night.
Lymphoma acts quickly. Rapid weight loss. Otto had been rescued 8/3. Kelly showed us pictures from that day. He was a different dog. Normal looking. Not a sack of bones. He was eating now, because of the appetite stimulant. He slept more on Wednesday. Groggy from the medicines maybe. Wednesday, Bryan made him bacon…which he woke up for, and loved.
It was a hard night Wednesday. He and I had been sleeping downstairs, closer to outdoors and the food in case he woke up hungry. He couldn’t seem to get comfortable. I woke up to hear him heaving to vomit, again without any result. Hardly drinking overnight, and in the morning, looking even more emaciated…though he was eating.
This morning, it seemed this was coming to an end. We spent a couple of hours outside. He fell asleep in the grass next to me when I was pulling weeds. He made a fast two steps towards a squirrel high on the fence, and then turned to look at me when the squirrel ran away. “Yes, Otto. I saw that.”
A couple of hours later, I sat on the floor with him. Trying to coax him with chicken. He was so sleepy, he only looked with one barely-open eye. So I sat and brushed him for a long, perfectly silent time.
As the conversations and texts started this afternoon about his continued weight loss, possible suffering, diminishing quality of life, and dignity, he woke up and came to sit beside me. Arrangements were made for tonight. I cried. I brushed him again, his head turning into the brush at his neck. He stepped away, and stood for a moment, before walking over to a squeaky toy–and pawing it. The only time he’d seemed interested in play. My heart lifted so hard. He didn’t play, though he did tilt his head when I made the toy squeak and patted it on the floor around his feet. I helped him get on the couch when he asked. But he crawled down when I went to another room to get the camera.
Such a sweet old soul. He followed me around. He looked for me. He adopted me. He stood with me when I made him more bacon this afternoon. As soon as it was ready, he ate some chicken and six pieces of bacon. He refused the seventh piece. He followed me around the house as I got my shoes on and locked up. And then G came. It was six days–to the hour–since Otto had arrived here in our home. Otto and I sat in the backseat, he staring out the open window, and every so often, glancing around at me with a smile.
And so it was that I went with him to the vet tonight, toting the rest of his bacon and a brush for those final moments. I brushed him to sleep, and then they administered the drugs that took him away. At 6:44 p.m., I texted Bryan at work. “He’s gone.”
Now I’m having a glass of wine in honor of Otto. Just like we’ve done for all of our dogs at their passing. A cork with his name on it will go into the bowl and a photo will go on the heaven shelf in my closet. After only six days, he was mine–or I was his.
Tonight, the vet had said he couldn’t even hear Otto’s heart because of the fluids built up. I never heard his voice, but I did hear his heart. Now, I’m listening to a deafening silence. No tags jingling, or feet sliding or bony hips plopping onto hardwood floors, no heavy breathing, no lapping water. No dog follows me to the bathroom, or relocates to sit near me when I move across the room.
Before we left our house tonight, I talked to him about how many people loved him. Otto was surrounded by new friends tonight–people he didn’t even know 20 days ago. But people who cared enough to be with him until the very end. I think he understood.
Those of you who know me, know that I believe with all my heart that dogs are angels. Until we all meet again, please watch over us my pups.
Please visit One More Dog Rescue to learn more, to foster (if you are in the Chicagoland area or in Connecticut), or to make a donation to help other dogs in need. Thank you.
When the cloud cleared, we were already low over the green and red earth of Cuba. The plane tilted left into a turn that positioned us to land in Havana’s Jose Martí airport in about three minutes. I could see that the streets were wet, rain drops now skittered across the plane window. Like a dream window to the past, I could see a few of those old cars moving down a road in the distance, and as we neared our landing, I saw two dogs drinking from a puddle on a dirt road. It’s been three years since I last visited Cuba. Many things have changed, and many have not.
When I last saw Cuba
When I last saw Cuba, I was not part of The Aniplant Project (TAP), a non-profit dedicated to helping the animals of Cuba. I had yet to publish the photo essay and article that TAP’s Les and Charlene Inglis read, that gave them the idea to contact me to join them. The last time I visited Cuba, Fidel was alive, Raul was President, and Obama had not yet visited. The place had been mobbed with USA visitors after Obama’s trip, and now, not as many. The last time I walked in Havana in March 2015, veterinary clinics were open. Many pets were receiving at least basic care, and were being spayed/neutered and vaccinated in proper clinics.
Fast forward to 2018
Since 2015, some big things have changed. But let’s skip the politics and talk about the ugly change that impacted the animals.
Veterinary clinics across Havana were closed in Spring 2017. Some people say it was because of improper medical waste disposal, others say it was because medicines were disappearing from people hospitals. Regardless of the reason, it has had a negative impact on the health of animals. Keep in mind, there are still no animal shelters in Cuba.
Animals are turned out to the streets when people can’t or won’t care for them. Street cat populations have swelled. Every corner in Havana that has a trash dumpster will also have at least 2-3 cats and maybe a litter of kittens living there. More visitors to Cuba are writing us to report the sad, sick state of the animals on the streets, more tourists have seen the cruel treatment of animals in Santeria rituals, and Zoonosis round-ups. Without veterinary clinics, fewer animals have been sterilized, vaccinated, and treated for fleas/ticks, mange, or parasites. And as a result of fewer sterilizations in the last year, more animals are going hungry and suffering on the streets. It is overwhelming to see.
Cuba is working on reopening veterinary clinics in Havana. It is taking a lot of time, and paperwork. It is frustrating for many and requires patience from all.
On-going care for the animals
Despite the setbacks, Aniplant continues to do sterilization campaigns around Havana. While the clinic was closed like all the others (and because ~20 dogs are sheltered there), it does not prevent Aniplant from going into neighborhoods to spay/neuter pets and area strays. Sterilization work continues because of Nora Garcia, President of Aniplant and because of the resources supplied by TAP Animal Project (formerly The Aniplant Project).
TAP Animal Project believes that the number one way to end the suffering of animals on the streets is through mass sterilization campaigns. Why? Consider this:
Female cats can breed three times a year, and have on average 4 kittens per litter. That’s another 12 cats in just one year from just one cat. Multiply that by the kittens having babies who have babies, etc…and in just seven years, that’s more than 400,000 new cats. Where will they go?
Maybe you are a dog person? Female dogs can breed twice a year and have 6-10 puppies per litter. In seven years, that’s about 97,000 new dogs. Where will they go?
Without sterilization campaigns, the population of animals will multiply and multiply and multiply, ad nauseam. More and more innocent dogs and cats will be left to fend for themselves and to suffer harsh lives and cruel deaths. The best long-term solution is spay/neuter, and Cuba needs more of it.
TAP Animal Project supports ANIPLANT’s spay/neuter mission
TAP recently changed names in order to expand sterilization campaigns beyond Aniplant. The Aniplant Project became TAP Animal Project in May 2018, and continues to be a 501(c)(3) non-profit, incorporated in Florida, and operating from Chicago. TAP believes that with supporters’ continued help, there is capacity to do more mass sterilizations in Cuba. It’s not going to be easy. There are many regulations around the importation of anesthesia and who in Cuba can receive it. There are issues of facilities, of veterinarians, of certifications, and of access to other needs like TNR traps, transportation, antibiotics, etc. It’s Cuba. It’s complicated. Change is rarely easy. But for healthy pets, healthy people, and the happiness of our animal-loving souls, it’s worth it.
Carol Fletcher is a traveling, dog-loving, coffee-addicted, tree-hugging, Nashville born-and-raised photographer living in Chicago. To see more photo essays and projects, please visit www.carolfletcher.com.Select Cuba photos are available for purchase on Etsy.
The day had come. We were heading home. This was the final leg of our around-the-world trip.
We took a nearly-five-hour, non-stop Blue Star Ferry from Paros back to Athens at 10:45 a.m. We spent the time on the ferry reading, downloading photos, writing, and staring out the window. Our long-dreamed-about trip around-the-world was coming to an end. And we wondered, what’s next?
Back in Athens
We arrived in Athens on time, and checked into the same hotel, the Acropolis View Hotel. After freshening up, we went for an evening walk around the Acropolis and to find some dinner. We said “hey” to Boss the dog, sleeping inside the closed gates of the Acropolis. We dined at “God’s”—high expectations with a name like that–and filled up on delicious risotto-stuffed tomatoes, fava, and wine.
On the morning we left, we used the last of our traveling coffee packets, and sat out on our balcony, soaking up the sun and staring at the Parthenon. It’s tenacity seemed a fitting ending to our trip, and a reminder of home for us Nashvillians.
And then, we flew home: ATH – LHR – ORD
First, we had a taxi ride with Michael to the airport. The car windows were down and open to the sunny sea air, and the Foo Fighters, ACDC, Supertramp blared from the stereo. Everlong will forever remind me of flying through foreign streets: “…If everything could ever feel this real forever, If anything could ever be this good again…”
The four-hour British Airways flight left Athens at 1:30 p.m. BA ran out of vegetarian meals by the time they got to my seat. And because one passenger on board had a peanut allergy, no snacks with nuts were being sold and we were asked not to eat the peanut M&Ms we’d brought onboard either. BA also charged for water, payable by credit card only. And with that, British Airways officially became the least favorite of all the airlines we’d flown around the world.
It was a brief stop in London, and as we got to the gate on this dark, rainy night, we were asked some strange U.S. immigration questions before boarding the American Airlines flight. It was nine hours to ORD–plenty of time for a meal, a movie (the tearjerker, “Coco”), some reading, and some quiet time to reflect on our trip. We landed at O’Hare around 7:30 p.m., and were back at home by 9 p.m. We’d gone all the way around this big old world! It was good to be home. And yet, I’d go again in a heartbeat.
Around the world
28,000+ miles
6 countries, plus 4 more touched in transit
Our 7th (and 8th!) continent
Big planes, little planes, scenic rails, overnight trains, taxis, buses, bicycle rickshaws, remorks, tuk-tuks, small boats, big ferries, and miles of walking. From glaciers on the 8th Continent to the Great Barrier Reef, to the Taj Mahal and Angkor Wat, to Mt. Everest and the Parthenon…here’s to all the sunrises and sunsets, smiles, laughs, beautiful animals, crazy sights, tasty meals, and Nescafe along the way.
Thank you for reading
Select photos from our trip are available on Etsy.
Finally, if you liked this post and would like to stay in touch, please…
Carol Fletcher is a traveling, dog-loving, coffee-addicted photographer and blogger living in Chicago. To see more photo essays and projects, please visit www.carolfletcher.com.
I can’t stop thinking about the little village of Lefkes, and the old dog who found us there. Even now, I check the weather for the village two or three times a day, wondering where the old dog is and how she’s faring in the rain, the sun, the cold nights. Has she eaten? Does she have water? Is she comfortable?
Lefkes, Paros
The village is on the Greek Island of Paros. It’s a traditional place with bright whitewashed buildings, Aegean blue shutters and doors, and narrow lanes that could be public paths or private spaces. There is an organic feel to the architecture here–like the old buildings have germinated from the hillside, squeezing in next to each other, into any empty spits of land. No two are the same shape. The village is a warren of stone paths climbing up and winding down the hillside, each lane hugged tight by these cottages. Stairs and doorsteps rise off of the lanes, varying in width from top to bottom, making wise use of their space. Trees and vines rise up out of tiny bits of open ground.
An Old Soul Finds Us
We arrived by bus one morning. It was pre-tourist season, on a less-traveled-to island, in a village that doesn’t get many tourists anyway. Quiet, but for the buzzing of bees and the wind in the lanes. Fresh with the scent of orange blossoms, wisteria, and the crisp air of a cool spring morning.
After admiring a peaceful cemetery that carried down the hill behind the Church of Agia Triada, I returned to the front courtyard to see that a dog had found Bryan.
She appeared ancient–black and bony, with a proud, gray face and hunchbacked hips. She allowed us to pet her, and then started walking away down the lane, stopping to look back at us with an expression that asked, “aren’t you coming?”. We followed.
Walking through Lefkes
She teetered a bit when she walked, maybe from arthritis or from some ailment that made her shaky and restless. When I stopped to take a photograph, she came back for me. We stopped at a tavern, thinking to buy her some food. The dog watched for a minute, then lurched on without us. I saw a woman make a nasty face and go out of her way in the narrow lane to avoid even brushing against the old dog. Though the tavern door was open, the shop was not serving any food. As Bryan sorted that out, I went to catch up with the dog, and to see if there were any restaurants up ahead. But the dog was gone. Not a trace.
Bells rang. Elderly people stepped out of their little houses, arm-in-arm, heading to a little church in a little lane. I returned to the tavern for Bryan. We sat there, sipping a Fanta and a Coke and talking about that old dog…her pitiful condition and the flagrant contempt we’d witnessed for the old soul. What’s wrong with people? Where’s the empathy for the old, the sick? It tainted the beauty of the place. And I felt sick that we’d given the dog nothing to eat. She was a bag of crippled bones, and we had done nothing to help.
Feeding the Soul
But within the hour, we saw the dog again, up a lane near the center of the village. Bryan ran into a shop and bought what he could find–which was a bag of pizza-flavored bagel bites. I called to the dog and she wobbled towards me. The rattle of the bagel-bites bag got her undivided attention. At first, I worried she might not have the teeth to chew them. But chew she did–crunching one after another. Two mousy cats crept a little closer on the wall where we sat, and called out to us. Of course, we fed them too. Within minutes, the bag was empty and three sets of eyes stared at us, at the bag, at our hands. The dog licked the stones for crumbs. The cats meowed and sniffed around their feet.
Bryan went down the lane to an open shop. He came back a few minutes later with a bread-plate-sized hot pepperoni pie. We tore off small, very hot bites, blew on them, and fed the old dog and the two cats, right there in the middle of Lefkes. They were gentle eaters, and patient. A few passing townspeople looked, but said nothing. We all had to flatten ourselves to the wall several times to avoid the cars on that narrow lane.
After the pie was gone, the cats retreated and the dog stared at us for a long few minutes. I offered her water. She drank from the lip of the bottle as water poured into my palm. And then she walked away, turning again to ask “aren’t you coming?”
Saying Goodbye
We walked with her to the end of town, to a place near our bus stop. I worried that she was too near the busy road, too far from where she’d found us. Could she get back to her safe place? I tried to get her to follow me down the pedestrian lanes back to the church. She turned and walked away, in the direction back to the center, where there were cars. Nothing I did got her attention, and she disappeared down the lane. I cried. Bryan said, “She knows these roads. She’s lived a long time here without you watching out for her. She’ll be ok.”
Since we had a little time before our bus, I wandered again through the town looking again for her. And, somehow I found myself back at the church. And guess who was laying in the courtyard?
There she was–alone in the sun, washing her feet. She looked comfortable, content. I did not want to disturb her, to have her get up in greeting or to walk me back to the busy road. So I did not enter the courtyard. I stood staring at her for a few minutes–wishing for her to have food, water, love and comfort for all the days of her life.
If you go
So, if you go to Lefkes, look for this old lady. If you find her, give her my regards and feed her a pie. I’ve thought of her a thousand times. And I’m quite certain she is an angel in disguise.
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One day on Paros, we took a bus up into the heart center of the island, to the little town of Lefkes. This is the place where we ran into the thin old dog living in the hillside cemetery behind the Church Agia Triada.
I returned to Lefkes another day to feed the dog, and to wander the quiet streets. Space here is not wasted. Lanes are narrow, houses fit into small corners at odd angles, and wisteria vines grow in tiny garden plots. It is a lovely little town of whitewashed houses, stone walls and terraces, blue doors, windmills, about 500 residents, and a few dear dogs and cats.
Our trip was nearly over. I was sad, a little tired, and starting to worry about things at home. I wandered around in a river of thoughts, not one of which I could grab hold of.
Thank you for reading
Select photos from Greece and other places on our around the world trip are available on Etsy.
Finally, if you liked this post and would like to stay in touch, please…
Carol Fletcher is a traveling, dog-loving, coffee-addicted photographer and blogger living in Chicago. To see more photo essays and projects, please visit www.carolfletcher.com.