I DREAMED OF A GREAT BEAR

Giving thanks, with my back to the ground

The week before I slept in a palace in New Orleans. The bed was surrounded by yards of rich fabric the color of of California sunset, and when I took a picture of the chandelier over the bathtub, glimmers of light splashed over the walls like they were lit by a disco ball.

New Orleans, Polaroid SX-70 (all photographs made November 2022)

But this morning I was at the foothills of Appalachia, and when I woke at dawn my hoody had been pulled down over my toboggan, and I was curled as much as one could be in a sleeping bag. My sleep was restless; it was colder than I thought it would be, and a little wet on the banks of the lake where I had camped.

But it was a great spot, silent as possible except for the burble from a creek down the way, which had been dammed by small trees chewed down by beavers. I had pitched the tent to the East, towards the great rocks in the park, so it would catch the sun. My Alabama hoody smelled like smoke from the fire from the night before.

I had dreamed of a great bear.

Tupelo, Mississippi, SX-70

I was deep on a trail cut 90 years before by children, children who had carved a sanctuary out of the wilderness, when I gave thanks. It was a day set aside for giving thanks; I had grilled some Pop-Tarts over a fire before setting out.

Thank you, God, that my body still works. Thank you that I have film in my cameras. Thank you that I knew most of my grandparents. There were many trees that had fallen over the trails, and I did my best to clamber over them. The bark of some of the pines had slid off, and they looked like great telephone poles, dyed green by the organisms of the forest. Thank you that I have food in my pack, and thick socks. Even though I had shivered the night before, by the time I made it to the swinging bridge I was just wearing a t-shirt, and it was soaked.

In the dream, the bear was running. We were in a field, and the bear was moving fast, muscles rippling beneath brown fur, as it sped towards the forestline.

Houston, Mississippi, Polaroid SX-70

I’m in a hotel room in Tupelo watching the Egg Bowl. My calves still ached from hiking, but my belly was full from one of the two restaurants that were open—I chose IHOP over Waffle House, because I thought pancakes seemed more festive. Ole Miss looked like a mess, as their season had collapsed down the stretch. Everybody thought Lane was going to Auburn and was distracted. I didn’t really care but liked the chaos. It felt good to be warm and clean.

I ate some of the potato chips I had bought at the Sunflower in Tishomingo while State ran all over the Rebels. That night I didn’t dream about the bear, or anything that I could remember, even though I thought about living in the woods and hauling rocks to build steps leading up the sides of mountains.

Tupelo, Mississippi, Polaroid 600

The next morning I was at the house Vernon Presley had built. I like to go there every now and again but it is hard to make a photo. At this point it has to have been scraped down more than a palimpsest, if anything original even remains; there was new wood, painted chalk white, at the bottom of the Southern side. It was early, and the museum wasn’t open yet, so I walked around it carefully, quietly, and I suppose, reverently. Elvis was born in this little building, I said to myself, as if giving thanks.

Then I sat in the swing on the porch and just rocked a little bit, and saw a plump spider under the eaves, and listened to the swing’s chains creak. I was patient. Lace peeked through a rip in the screen of the lone front window. Okay, there you are, I thought to myself, talking to the photograph I hoped to make. Thank you for showing yourself to me.

Fmr. Home of Vernon and Gladys Presley, Tupelo, Miss., Polaroid 600

I didn’t look at the Polaroid for a long while. I knew what it looked like, anyway. It looked like what it was like to grow up in Alabama when I did, in the 1970s and 80s. It just looked like the porch on a little old house.

Clarence Carter was on the stereo. I wished the Dairy Kream were open so I could get a chocolate malt. What I would give, Clarence sang, for just a few moments. I thought of the bear from my dream as it ran towards the woods, galloping really. I believed the bear was chasing something.

What, I do not know.

“I DREAMED OF A GREAT BEAR” is this week’s installment of GORJUS, a newsletter devoted to art and life in the South on instant film. If you like it, consider sending it to a pal. Just like anything, some weeks are better than others. I’m gorjusjxn on Instagram, and you can see more Polaroids at McCartyPolaroids.

Tishomingo State Park is a beautiful place and only $2 to explore, and a primitive campsite is $18. Corinth is only about 45 minutes away and you can go up there to go see a movie if the feeling hits you (I went and saw Wakanda Forever).