PBP 2007 Fini

I find a house labeled GESSER where folks are actually home—ma, grandma and a couple kids, mostly speaking German but not recognizing the picture I've brought of Byron GESSER. Grandma flags down a tractor driven by an ancient farmer, who reminds me of the old Cajun farmers of French Louisiana. He shuts off the tractor to hear grandma while studying the picture. The motor is off, but the tractor is facing down a steep hill, grandma standing below the cab door just in front of the giant tractor wheel which is ever so slowly creeping forward. Um, what's German for…um…hey…uh. I brace my legs against the hill and grab the treads on the big tractor tire in a futile attempt to resist the forward motion. Grandma and the farmer remain oblivious, but ma sees, gets the farmer's attention and he reluctantly reached down and gave a big yank to the emergency brake.

Riding up the hill to the southwest—the culture seems different on this side of town, people are washing cars—maybe more car-focused and less home-and-garden-focused? An old man sits just in the woods at the side of the road weaving a basket. His neighbor comes out to see what I'm up to. I ask if I can photograph. "Sure, of course." When I approach the old man he tries to led me to some workshop, but I hold up the camera and he shakes his head "no." I should've gone with him to the workshop—I find out later that this area was once famous for the quality of woven baskets.