AUTO AWNING

(What remains of a lamppost)

I've worked at Lakeland Village since 1992. In the 15 years that I've been here, I have accidentally hit this lamppost and scratched or dented my car, on (at least) three different occasions.

You see, this lamppost WAS in the most inconvenient of locations. It was actually occupying the last parking space in the employee parking lot. Sure, this particular parking space was extra wide, leaving room for both a car and the lamppost. But, after a long, hard, day, when you are (mindlessly) headed towards retreat, you have the distinct tendency to back out (and to the left).

That same distinct tendency that makes you back out (and to the left), is the exact same distinct tendency that allows you ignore the blind spot on your right. You suddenly realize your mistake, just as you hear the lamppost start scraping along the entire right-front quarter panel of your (brand new) Jeep Grand Cherokee (Limited Edition).

scchchshhccsssccratch!

Well, as it happens, I know that I'm not the only one who has hit this thing. Last year, someone else actually knocked the whole damned thing over. They cracked the pole completely in half and sent the lamp crashing down into a million pieces on the ground. Nevertheless, this was not to be the end of this menace.

The Home Owner's Association, with their infinite "Mr. Fix-it" wisdom, simply came along, disconnected all power, sawed off the broken part, and called it fixed. Unfortunately, they left three feet of this (spiked) wooden beast still planted firmly within the tarmac. They must have thought, "This lamppost has been freakin' buried here since, well, before 1970. What?! Do you expect us to just dig it up and leave a huge, gaping hole in the parking lot for someone to fall in to?"

Huh!? It was hard enough to see this (bastard) when it stood 25 feet tall and had a giant, glowing orange, sodium-vapor street lamp attached to the top of it. Better yet, let's cut it down. Not at its lowest, closest, nearest to the ground, base-est, best-est point. Oh no, this will not do. Let's cut it just below the window-level of most cars and SUV's. Let's go ahead and leave this stump right where it is. And, let's see how much longer everyone will continue to forget that it's still there! Yeah…yeah…that's the ticket.

It took a year.

Last Tuesday, when I arrived at work, I saw the final and remaining portion of the lamppost lying on the ground. It appeared to be crawling with one arm outstretched; scratching, pulling and clinging to life. Gasping for its "Last Breath."

I had to shoot it…call it a mercy shooting.

Maintenance finally removed the dead carcass of this (car eating) lamppost a couple of days later. Though it was on display for nearly a week, only I understood the significance. This lamppost was never meant to be. Yet, I knew…somehow, I knew: THIS photograph was to be its final glory and this story, the entire reason it "was."

Ron A. Parker

Photographer
Storyteller
Humorist

…In a minute, though, she goes over to the window in her drug dealer’s room, cracking the blinds, looking outside. "How's the light out there?" she asks me. "Is there enough to get some pictures of me on Ponce de Leon—on my corner?"

"Probably so."

"You wanna try it?"

I do, of course.
. . .

"This is my corner right here."

Turning and pulling the car over, I say, "But listen, Ronda... Please...do not..."

"I wanna do it without a coat on, because this is a pretty shirt."

"But don't...don't...uh...don't take any business right now. All right?"

Ronda's corner is the corner where Kennesaw dead-ends into Ponce de Leon: three buildings up from the hotel and one building down from the Starvin' Marvin. I've parked next to Potpourri, a junk and antiques store painted so purple you can see it half a mile away.

Shucking her coat, chilly or not, Ronda crosses Kennesaw and, glancing about self-consciously, sits down on the bottom step of a flight of steps that lead up to a rambling old brick and stucco apartment house.

I crouch down in front of her, aiming my camera at her and adjusting my lens.

"Do I look okay? My complexion's clearing up."

"You look fine."

Her face comes into focus...and I see gazing at me those same sad, sensitive, beautiful eyes that so moved me when I saw my first picture of her more than two years ago.

In a daze, I squeeze the shutter…