Brittany Greeson. Journals: Warren, Muhlenberg and Ohio Counties. 2020

Sept 1st, 2020

Today, I returned to my alma mater, Western Kentucky University in Bowling Green, to photograph courses amid the global pandemic. I was curious to see how students were handling everyday protocol for mask wearing, distancing and how instructors would be using technology for those at home. I figured I’d be safest within the Chemistry department in regards to mask wearing and trust of science. The first class I attended was an Organic Chemistry II lecture with Dr. Kevin Hill in WKU’s Snell Hall. About 7 students attended in person and nearly 20 attended the lecture online using Zoom. All of the in-person students sat feet apart and kept their masks on, most of which looked to be homemade or store-bought from a cloth material. Dr. Hill started the class with some technical difficulties but was able to move forward with the lecture. The second course, in Ogden College Hall, which sits adjacent to Snell, was a biochemistry lab taught by Dr. Blairanne Williams. The students were all split into two rooms to fit social distancing protocol. Dr. Williams remarked that she’d prefer me to stay in the larger room so I could walk along the edge of the wall. All students wore masks and sat a couple feet apart. This day they were learning to separate milk proteins and the class was made up mostly of pre-med majors. I found myself chatting with the graduate student instructor named “ “ who was originally from Nigeria. Dr. Williams explained to me that “ “ father got stuck in Bowling Green with his daughter and his unable to return to his home country due to US travel bans globally.  I felt sympathy for “ “ having to pursue her graduate studies at such an unprecedented time in U.S. history. I thought about how much her father must miss her mother. We chatted about Nigeria’s weather, how she’s adjusted to her time here, but we had trouble communicating through our masks. At one point, Dr. Williams remarked that she expected the school to be shutting down within a couple of weeks. Bowling Green had been seeing an uptick in COVID-19 cases since school started back. There have been reports of frat and sorority parties and other students not following safety protocol. My best friend, with whom I’m staying and who is also a student at WKU, has told me several times how nervous she feels being around other students. Walking back to my car, I noticed how empty campus felt. It was nothing like my time in 2011–2015. I can’t imagine being a college student in this time. As I walked nearby Park Street, just a block from one of my old college apartments, I saw an electrical box tagged with “F*ck the KKK.” A symbol that spoke to me amid the ongoing Black Lives Matter protests and increasing racial tension in our country. Given how segregated the college campus felt during my time there, I felt the need to take a photo of it. 

Sept 2nd, 2020

Today, I woke up to near-constant rain and a weather forecast for thunderstorms. I had to cancel my meeting with Faron Cox, whom I’ve been documenting since 2014, a student at WKU, and was disappointed to be missing him yet another day. It’s been almost two years since I saw him last and I’m excited to see how much the boys have grown. He and his sons live out near Fordsville, Ohio, County and due to the pandemic, I feel it’s responsible to only take photos of him outside at a distance. I’m adjusting slowly. I found myself thinking about how differently my approach is to taking photos amid the pandemic. “How does one take photos outdoors,  in the rain, amid a global pandemic? Where is everyone?” 

Even though I’m constantly wearing a mask, I feel nervous approaching strangers for fear of scaring them or of getting too close when they can’t hear me. I have some leftover PTSD from documenting Detroit at its peak in cases. There’s been reports of more COVID cases on WKU’s campus. My best friend had someone in her drawing class test positive. I feel more aware than those around me, whose masks dangle from their chin. 

I ended up taking a long walk around downtown Bowling Green once the rain let up. It was nostalgic to walk around the water tower that overlooks the town – called Reservoir Hill Park Water Tower. Photojournalism students like myself would flock there every time we had a big snow in search of locals flinging themselves down the steep, jagged hill. I didn’t spot a single human being perched at the park. It sort of broke my heart to see such a good view go to waste. Once again, I find myself asking, “Where is everyone?” 

The silence is eerie in the late afternoon hours. I was relieved to see foot traffic pick up right as the sun poured out from around dark grey clouds. “Finally. A human!” 

The sun popped out eventually and lit the square. I eagerly ran after a husband and wife, Alana and David Yon, with their 2-year-old son Nico and a friend, Seane Thomas. Seane was walking her dog and David drug Nico behind him in a plastic wagon. The group seemed a bit taken aback by my greeting but eventually warmed up to me. David took Nico inside a chocolate shop on the square where he emerged with nothing but Pez toys instead of chocolate. While outside, Alana, who was without a mask, remarked to me how ready she was for the mandates and the pandemic to be over. She said she doesn’t support mandatory instructions from the government and wants her autonomy. 

Moments later after their departure, I found myself over by the fountain in the center of town. Trying to make the most out of the available light when I saw three young people intentionally staring into the dark waters. When I approached they told me they were just trying to figure out if there were fish in the fountain. The water had been recently dyed blue (something they figured was to cover up how dirty it was) but the young man was certain he saw movement. All three turned out to be from my hometown of Owensboro,  Ky. Dylan Greene was 18 and attending Kentucky Wesleyan back in his home. I gathered he was dating the girl named Savannah Yaber who was 18 and a freshman at WKU. I took a photo of them embracing nearby the fountain moments before. With them was Cassandra Bishop, 18. Cassandra was a social work major. She had previously been prepared to study Criminology but said that changed after she gathered an understanding of how policing works. They immediately put on their mask when they spoke to me. Cassandra said she was glad she wasn’t a partier – hinting at the COVID outbreaks that had been reported at recent social gatherings. 

Later, I found Michael Garcia, slumped on one of the park benches with what appeared to be a bag of laundry, smoking a cigarette. He looked serious, like he was processing his whole life story on that bench. I asked him if I could take his photo and he immediately said yes, as if it happened all the time. I left him alone rather quickly keeping in mind that he didn’t have a mask on. But wish I would have stayed longer and asked him more about why he was on that bench and why he looked so alone.  

Eventually, curious about how social gatherings might be spiking cases, I made my way up the street to Hilligans, a college staple, and took photos of some young men drinking on the patio. They were incredibly friendly and curious about what I was doing. Once I explained my work, they still wanted to pose for the camera. Our time got wrapped short when it started to rain again. I roamed around before making a few images of the architecture, of diners outside of Mickey’s on Main. I then stumbled into some older folks taking photos with their iPhone. They turned out to be in town for the Corvette Museum anniversary from Ohio. They visit almost every year and said they were shocked by how alive the city still felt. Considering the pandemic, I suppose they were right. I didn’t see many buildings without tenants.  Most businesses downtown seem to still be operating. 

Lastly, just as I was preparing to leave, a young couple appeared out of nowhere and began serenading the whole town. The Ohio couple and I ventured over to take photos. The man, Aaron McDowell, 30, was singing a beautiful acoustic rendition of “Riptide” by Vance Joy alongside his partner Holly Shelton, 28. They said they had walked from Owensboro and to keep in touch to stay updated with their music. 

Driving that night I noticed more homeless people than I ever have before in this town. Two folks were sleeping outside of the CVS on 31W.  I’m concerned the economic repercussions of the pandemic are already hitting this town.

September 3rd, 2020

Partly cloudy and on and off rain again today. I reached out to the Corvette Museum excited by the prospect of documenting their 26th anniversary. The woman in charge of marketing said she’d rather not have me come. She feared they’d face criticism or folks would be made fun of for not wearing their masks. I was concerned why they weren’t enforcing such policies in the first place but didn’t ask. She also seemed embarrassed that since the pandemic is ongoing, they have considerably low numbers for event turnout. I decided to visit the historic Shake Rag district of Bowling Green, which houses the State Street Baptist Church, one of the first Black churches in the city. Like we’ve seen nationwide with older Black communities, a lot of the businesses have been pushed out. I walked by the former location of the Shake Rag salon which I photographed in college. It’s now a commercial loan office. It seems only the memory, a few residents and historical markers remain and define this place as the Shake Rag district. 

I met 71-year-old Grace Burton, just a couple houses down from the church, as she sat on the front porch with her cousin and great-granddaughters. They’ve lived in Bowling Green all their lives. The oldest granddaughter, Mesiah, was happy to have her portrait taken and we tried to treat it as her own personal photo shoot. The 6-year-old, Rickaria, was far too shy and would watch us from a distance. Next I found a 2020 census worker, Rick Osborne, as he interviewed 73-year-old Albert Hayes. Both Osborne and Hayes have lived in the area their entire lives and found themselves chatting about the schools they attended and the neighborhoods where they once lived. I followed Osborne as he finished his route on the block. He stopped at an empty lot noting that it was important to update it for the census as his record said a house still stood there. He finished before driving off with knocking on the door of an empty house. He said he knew the home was empty but they’re still required to do so and even leave a census note in case for the landlord to fill out. I finished my walk and headed toward the skate park just blocks away. I was instantly drawn to a woman practicing skateboarding over on a basketball court. It turned out she was 32 years old and a student at WKU. I admired her for picking up a new hobby as I myself had tried skateboarding in recent years and epically failed. She said skateboarding was her new pandemic hobby alongside collecting vinyl records. We took portraits together and her laugh was infectious. When I asked her to pose naturally, she said she was always a “smiley” person. I hadn’t spoken with a stranger around my age in a while and found myself lingering. 

The skate park itself was decently populated. Most of the attendees looked to be under the age of 21 and there was a range of kids riding bikes, scooters and their skateboards. Bowling Green’s park seems to be very well constructed. 

September 4th, 2020 

Today I attended Friday prayer at the Islamic Center of Bowling Green. The Imam, Sedin Agic is originally from Bosnia and has been in his current leadership role since 2017. Bowling Green has a fairly large immigrant and refugee community, many of whom are Bosnian. He was incredibly warm and friendly and worked hard to make space for me at the mosque. Prayer would be in their annex auditorium so folks could spread out. We took chairs and lined them up in a corner so I could stand off to the side. As with my previous experiences in a mosque, as a woman, I’m not to be in front of the men during prayer.  It was a very hot day, I wore jeans, a long-sleeved shirt and a short dress over the shirt. A friend of mine had a scarf I fashioned into a hijab and with my mask, I got a better sense of what it was to be completely covered. All the men slowly filtered into the room minutes before prayer, with the bulk of arrivals showing up right as the service began. It reminded me of growing up in the Evangelical church. My mom and I were almost always on time or late – never early. Everyone sat a couple of feet apart and had their masks on. A few of the men showed up in what seemed to be work uniforms. During the sermon, or message, Sedin spoke of God providing everything we need in this world. It was an uplifting and positive message, one that I had heard before in my many years in the church. I often wonder about the daily discomfort these men may feel practicing their faith in a region so heavily Christian. A real shame when the message is fundamentally the same. At the end of prayer Sedin took me on a tour of the main mosque. The prayer room more closely resembled the kind of mosques I had experienced in the past. Beautifully ornate and rich in texture with a wooden arena for the Imam to stand. He pointed me toward the library and conference room explaining what would normally occur in these spaces had it not been for the pandemic. I asked him about Ramadan and how that must have been especially difficult this year. When we departed he thanked me and told me to come by anytime. It’s comforting to know this kind of hospitality exists in the community. 

September 5th, 2020

Today was a scheduled tour of Lost River Cave in Bowling Green. However, instead I received an email stating “ATTENTION: An employee who was not in direct contact with visitors has possible symptoms of COVID-19. For that reason we are temporarily suspending all tour operations. Your tour will be fully refunded at no cost to you. Please allow 5-10 business days for your refund to be processed.” Bummer.

It was bright out and I knew people would at least flock to the parks. There’s a large dog park, the “Bark Park” at H.P. Thomss Park nearby Lost River. Most folks gathered under an awning at the entrance to avoid the harsh rays of the sun. Nearby some shaded trees William Cotton and his girlfriend Brittany Bishop played with their dogs Rosie and Chibi. Once the couple began ignoring me they chatted with a young man named Telan Halsell and his pitbull Mykko. We talked about the bad reputation pitbulls have. Mykko was yet a year old and incredibly friendly. 

I eventually found myself roaming the trails of Lost River Cave where I frequented during my time as a WKU student. Before, you could walk right up to the entrance of the cave, it hadn’t quite become as popular of a tourist destination. Now, the trails are outfitted with new signs, a ziplining setup fashioned to old tall trees, and signs asking that you not go up to the cave without a tour guide. Obviously, my curiosity got the best of me and I proceeded to the mouth of the cave unaided. It was a hot and humid day and being in the trees felt like breathing for the first time. There’s a small river and a sectioned-off area to look over it. The water looked high and a bit murky. Vines and other forms of greenery cascade up a steep cliff, enclosing you in the space.

With folks far spread out, I felt safe to take off my mask and soak in the sunshine peeking from beneath the large swath of tree branches overhead. The sound of the water rushing from the cave entrance echoes from meters away. It’s the kind of sound that would warn someone against exploring the cave’s entrance unguided. I saw an older couple, who seemed to be tourists, nearby. They pushed past the fence and stood in the darkness of the entryway. I imagined it had to be 10 degrees cooler in there and was tempted to go myself. But feeling anxious to be near humans once again, I masked up and walked away.

Later that evening, I attended a food truck and wine event at Traveller’s Cellar Winery out in the countryside of Warren County. Rows of vines dotted the hillside as I pulled up in a gravel parking lot. There sat a big black barn to my right, the modest-sized, traditional American-style home to my left. Walking up the gravel driveway I could see a stage, picnic tables and a big beautiful tree with more seating underneath. The property looked like something out of a movie. Walking up to the wine tasting room sits a deck, a gazebo-looking structure with a John Deere tractor nearby, and more rows of vines. If you go right up to the edge of the property you can overlook a shallow hillside reminiscent of an Andrew Wyeth painting. I was greeted by the owners who were roaming busily back and forth from the house to set up outdoors. I toured the small cellar in the basement, filled to the ceiling with their wines. I was early and found myself chatting with a middle-aged couple about the Midwest, politics and family histories. The woman Beth Boyington, was originally from Ohio and her husband, Jim, was from Canada. 

Attendees began shuffling onto the property as the light turned to golden, lawn chairs in tow, masks unknown. A man and a woman began performing a set of contemporary folk songs. Smoke billowed from the back of the food truck, Cotton BBQ. The owners moved customers from inside their small tasting room out to the large gravel drive. Before sunset, I estimated over 50 people in attendance. It was like stepping out of time into another era, untouched by the global pandemic, untouched by a care in the world. 

September 6th, 2020

I had the honor and privilege of documenting the 200th year celebration and historical dedication of the Greenville United Methodist Church today. A man by the name of Stewart Wade also needed an official photographer for the event and I guess I answered his prayers. Upon a (somewhat rushed) arrival I was warmly greeted, entered from behind the main stage, and was taken aback by at least 100 attendees already spaced out in the pews, custom church masks across their faces. The sanctuary felt familiar and was lined with stained glass windows along each aisle. Pastors from past and present sat in the front row and in the Methodist tradition, the service opened with an old school hymn by way of piano. Most of the people appeared to be middle-aged and seniors. They swayed to the hymn, their words softened by the coverage of the cloth masks. A member pulled me aside and pointed out one of the oldest, longest-attending parishioners in the group,  Richard Countzler, who is 91. The GUMC Men’s Quartet erupted in song mid-service and then there was a short children’s service on the front steps. Bishop Leanord Fairley of the United Methodist Church’s Kentucky Annual Conference was then asked to the stage to begin the sermon. He spoke of continued faith and hope through the church’s 200-year-old history. Fairley was the only African-American in attendance and his preaching style, the rift of his voice, reminded me of the Southern Baptists. His passion was uplifting and toward the end of his sermon he walked down the pulpit to the center aisle lifting his hands to god. I then noticed he was just in his socks. A navy blue with polka dots that contrasted against the bright red carpet.

Eventually, I was asked to take the group photo from the pulpit. There were so many folks in attendance we had to negate some of the social distancing guidelines and push toward the center aisle. Then the whole church flooded the front steps, outward onto the main street for the historical dedication, led by Stewart. Melissa Gibbons Prunty, a Republican Kentucky State Rep. spoke to the crowd before the unveiling of the plaque to the right of the church. A boy in his youth, a young girl, Mr. Countzler from before and another senior woman sat behind the plaque and helped with its unveiling. Their ages, we were told, totaled 200 years. Stewart thanked the woman behind all the efforts. 

We closed with prayer led by the Rev. Scott Smith, a Pennyrile District Superintendent, the bright noon sun beating down on his forehead. Attendees lingered in the parking lot and Stewart  called me to the main office where he handed me a historical dedication gift bag. Of which, had an embroidered mask with the church’s logo. Afterward, I just roamed the downtown where country music blasted from speakers overhead. It was like being in a movie with a soundtrack, except there were few other characters. I reflected on the service before. How odd that such important, moving events go on amid such chaos in the world. 

September 7th, 2020

It was Labor Day today and I seemed to smell BBQ all over the place but couldn’t find the source. I ended up using the evening light to my advantage roaming Hartford, Ohio County and Beaver Dam. It was near silence in the downtown of Hartford. Walking around I saw a few small businesses along the main drag, closed for the occasion.  I passed a church with crosses in the back lawn, a man mowing with one hand up a small embankment in the distance. Eventually, I came across some folks sitting on the top and bottom corner balcony of an apartment building where they lived. We chatted briefly about the project and they continued about their business, the man upstairs staring out over the neighborhood. The woman, Cathy Tindle, I had learned, had only been in Hartford for three weeks. She moved here from Breckinridge County to take care of her elderly mother. It’s a position I’m likely to find myself in one day.

Moving along toward Beaver Dam, I saw tables of produce sitting abandoned in the evening light. A large, oversized teddy bear acting almost as a scarecrow sat on a chair nearby. I hoped someone would catch me, burst out the door of the building and explain why all these fresh vegetables were left out. But, living in a place like Ohio County, I imagined there wasn’t much concern for petty theft.

I eventually found myself in Beaver Dam at the local park and downtown where I wandered around for a bit. I saw a couple patrons in the local Beef O’Brady’s, all seeming suspicious of the camera’s gaze. The waitresses seemed to be hurried. TVs above gave sports highlights and national news.

Once the sun finally set, I stumbled upon nearly 50 teenagers hanging out at Oldham Park. I tried conversing with a few of them to gain more information but was trying to be cautious as not a single person had a mask on. Boys in sweatshorts played basketball as girls mingled on the sidelines. Music, something that sounded like hip-hop, blast from an unknown source. They wanted nothing to do with me and this drove home how old I must be getting. 

September 8th, 2020 

Today, I attended New Beginnings, a therapeutic horse riding farm just a 20-minute drive outside of Bowling Green. The organization has always been based in Bowling Green for 23 years. Though recently, they moved to the location I visited because the owner was willing to rent out the space for just $1. New Beginnings is a non-profit organization that offers private lessons and is the only PATH-accredited institution west of Lexington. They’re able to offer services to students with behavioral, emotional and/or physical disabilities and both workers and volunteers go through specialized training. On site were a few large horses as well as a small white miniature horse named Princess, of whom I had the pleasure of photographing. Princess was the partner of choice for a girl named Aly that has autism. She and volunteer Becca Filiatreau worked on her focus and coordination by walking in and out of a row of cones. Aly kept trying to pose for the camera thus breaking her focus but I like to think that our work made her feel special that day.

At closing, volunteers brushed and bridled the horses. I learned that one of them, Anna Ward, was only 15 years old and had a few years of volunteering under her belt. She said she was considering becoming a vet but had a lot more thinking to do. 

Departing via the windy country back roads, I decided to venture over to Richardsville. There I found a lone store clerk as she waited for customers to visit her. It was an old country store called Koles Kountry Store. She asked me if I had ever seen a country store before. It seemed they specialized in fried catfish and there sat a few lunch tables in the main entry. Her name was Angie Thorn. She was 48 years old and commuted to Richardsville when she’s needed from Scottsville. She told me how working there was more of a favor  to the owner, whom she had worked for a “long, long time.” Angie seemed lonely and found it easy to talk to a stranger. She told me of how her husband had passed away and they never had children. Today, she’s taking care of her elderly parents and older brother all in one house. She doesn’t make a lot of money but she feels it’s the right thing to do.

September 10th, 2020

I found myself unlucky with a few attempts to make images in the earlier hours today, then suddenly hit the jackpot when I passed by the Bard Distillery of Graham, Muhlenberg County, Kentucky. Just as I was passing I was able to catch the owner, Thomas, outside pulling up in his truck. He had an interest in the project and I scheduled a time to come back in the afternoon.

I hadn’t completely noticed before, but the distillery was fashioned in an old school building. Which, I would later find out, was the old Graham School, which had sat vacant when the schools in the county consolidated. They purchased the property 5 years ago and have been renovating since, setting up the actual distillery in the main gymnasium. In December, they officially began opening their doors for tastings, but COVID-19 hit the region months later. Thomas said that because they had spent so much time preparing the space while running the business, they were more prepared than other organizations to handle the impact of the pandemic. Upon entering, he took me for a brief tour explaining the history. You enter heavy double doors at the center of the structure. You’re immediately in a small decorated foyer with a small room that features a large cut out window, reminiscent of a coat check. There their signature bottle of 13-year-old bourbon sits for tasting. The shelves are lined with merch as well as hand sanitizer  they began producing at the height of the pandemic.

There, Thomas and I discussed the origins of the business and some of his family’s history. The running joke is that with Bardstown, Kentucky being a major producer of bourbon, and his fourth great-grandfather being a founder of that town, the family name had been on millions of bottles of bourbon, yet they had yet to produce a single drop themselves. Members of his own family had gone to Graham school and even graduated from there. He had a background in engineering and his wife, Kim Crosby, was a school teacher, school principal, and even a NASCAR driver at one point. Although the distillery is their full-time business, she still drives monster trucks in Australia. We laughed at their diversified histories and how they had each dabbled in a bit of everything, going against the stereotypes of the region. 

Eventually, they hope to produce 6,000–7,000 barrels of their high-end bourbon, Cinder and Smoke. A bottle retails for roughly $100. They said they saw a hole in the market for that price point and have even won awards alongside top bourbon producers. The gymnasium, which is currently used for production, has an elevated stage. They were able to salvage the original floors, bleachers and even the stage curtain. One day, Thomas said, they’ll use this space to host events and concerts for some of their favorite artists. Music was incredibly important to them both and they showed me John Prine’s signature tattooed on their arm. It was his actual signature from when they had met him and before his death he was supposed to come by the distillery. I took photos of them bottling, all done by hand, down to the signature on the label. It looked to be a laborious process but they spoke of it with love. The pair seemed to want visitors to be able to have an authentic experience, in person and in their glass. This included a plan to restore the lake out back, to work with tourism organizations, and give tours all in hopes of bringing some glory to Muhlenberg County.

September 11th, 2020

The Rosine Barn Jamboree is housed in an old, historic barn in the hometown of the founder of Bluegrass, Bill Monroe, in Rosine, Kentucky. Right next door sits Slick Back BBQ and clouds waft from the meat smoker that sits in a small adjacent carport. The barn hosts concerts every Friday night from mid-March to December and despite the ongoing pandemic, this night seemed to be particularly busy. While standing outside the restaurant I met and chatted with the Whitely family. Sean, who was 41 years old and lives in Grayson County, said he had been coming since he was much younger and wished they’d play more bluegrass like they used to. I was then  introduced to Kenneth Kirk, a 97-year-old WWII Veteran. His wife Shirley, who was 77, was quick to tell me that they recently celebrated their wedding anniversary in June. 

Before sundown I saw two young boys and a younger man unpacking instrument cases from an SUV parked on a lawn in the distance. Approaching them, I realized they were dressed up in suits and wearing traditional ties in the Western style. They introduced themselves as 10-year-old Cash Singleton, 14-year-old Cutter Singleton, and their neighbor 29-year-old Brennan Cruce. The Singleton’s mother Shelley acted as their manager and I learned they were called Classy and  Grassy, a bluegrass band from Marion County and traveled around the state for various gigs. The crowd became illuminated when they went on stage. The youngest boys spoke as though they had the confidence of Johnny Cash. Several attendees kept themselves outdoors but the seats inside the barn were still kept warm, mostly by seniors. One man outdoors wore a mask tucked under his nose. Before I left, I noticed how familiar everyone seemed. Folks spoke to one another as old friends, the warm lights illuminating their faces. Kids played in the background in the darkness behind the covered patio. More patrons poured out of Slick Back’s doorway even an hour before closing. Time had no real meaning.