Yesterday’s Old Newspapers
Now entering the shotgun house from previous post. If this place was closer to a more inhabited area, I probably would have not entered. The city of Shreveport has a large population of homeless for its size and I’ve already stumbled into some areas I thought to be completely abandoned or forgotten to only encounter a person(s). This house was was a few miles into deep farmland and several hundred yards from the road. But as I stepped in from the door depicted above, immediately on the left (picture’s right) were the first news clipping wallpaper I encountered and my eye quickly read a headline about a missing woman. My stomach dropped for a second thinking I might have just stepped into the den of serial killer’s house. As I read on, though, I quickly noticed this was all random at least from what I could see. This place has apparently had a ghostly afterlife since it moved into a condemned state, a state I’m guessing happened a long time ago. Judging from both exterior and interior, no electricity has ever been ran to this place. As I left, several narratives gathered. There is one of more normalcy, one where a sharecropper likely built this by hand several decades ago. The family was likely large because the more hands in the field made the hard work of those days somewhat easier and bearable. The family sleeps together in a big room without any creature comforts of modernity. Members of the family were likely born there, somewhere near that beached mattress. The fields were worked and fires were made from the center chimney to both warm and cook. Then there is the other narrative, the one where that starts after the family dissipates by relocatoin, by force, or by death. The other narrative bends in opposition, a narrative of nomads. The house becomes a drop in for travelers, hobos, etc. (there is a train track about two football fields over). Hunters have obviously made their stops and teenage vandals. And one point, someone who was strongly compelled to paper the walls in yesterday’s old newspapers. Then there is the latest visitor, a wayfaring photographer, out enjoying a unseasonably warm winter morning.