Spaghetti Junction
The conference in Atlanta wrapped up, and I was cruising back to the sweet embrace of Mississippi, but not before making a detour to the legendary Spaghetti Junction. I'd been drooling over the prospect of this visit for ages, with Google Maps promising easy access and suggesting that 'No Trespassing' signs were just for the buildings. "Perfect," I thought, "I'll just snap some cool exterior shots."
But oh, how the world loves to laugh at our plans! When I finally rolled up, expecting a casual photo op, I was greeted by a fortress. And I'm not talking about your average "keep out" kind of deal; this place was wrapped tighter than a Christmas present with razor wire along every inch of the fence, both top and bottom. The wire was so shiny it could've doubled as a disco ball – clearly a recent addition. To top it off, cameras were everywhere, like a flock of mechanical birds perched on every corner.
With a sigh that could've deflated a balloon, I managed to sneak a few shots with my phone, feeling less like a photographer and more like a spy in a bad action movie. Defeated but not discouraged, I tucked tail and returned to the highway, leaving Spaghetti Junction to its own mysterious, camera-laden solitude.
Next time, I'll stick to photographing spaghetti on my plate. At least that won't get me arrested!
Booker T. Washington's Home
Along the way, I swung by Booker T. Washington’s home to see how it was holding up. Luck was on my side—a park ranger was there, and she whisked me through a quick tour. I was so starstruck, I barely remembered to breathe, let alone snap photos. I managed just one: his study, where a jaw-dropping desk and chair—gifts from the prestigious Tuskegee benefactors—stole the show. The ranger mentioned they’re in the midst of renovations, which is a relief; last time, I’d chronicled some serious wear and tear that tugged at my heartstrings. Standing in the home of a hero I’d idolized since I was a kid felt like stepping into a living legend’s world—pure magic. https://www.lykinsfilms.com/booker
Old Timey Town
After the high-security escapade at Spaghetti Junction, I made my way to Castleberry, Alabama, a town I'd heard whispers about but never really explored until now. This time, I had the luxury of time, and boy, did this place look like it stepped right out of a time capsule.
The main drag was lined with businesses that hadn't seen a modern update since, well, ever. Picture this: old-style shops, one after the other, like soldiers standing guard over the past. The crown jewel was the old bank on the corner, right next to the railroad tracks - a relic that seemed to challenge you to guess its original purpose. Was it a drive-through or just a fortress of solitude for tellers? Either way, transactions were done through thick glass and a sliding drawer, making you feel like you were at a drive-thru confessional rather than a bank.
Peeking inside was like peering into an archaeological site - the lobby floor had given up the ghost, now home to more ferns than any bank should ever see. Across the street, what once might have been a store now stood as a skeleton of its former self. No door, half a roof, and a collection of books titled 'Teenage Favorites' by Singspiration, published by Zondervan Corp., volumes one through three, sitting in an abandoned box like artifacts from a bygone era.
I wandered down the road, each step a journey through time, until I stumbled upon the town's pride - a mural celebrating the Strawberry Festival. It was as if the town was saying, "We might look old, but we're still sweet as strawberries." I snapped a photo, capturing the essence of Castleberry in its nostalgic glory, and left with a sense of having peeked into history's diary.
Next time I pass through, maybe I'll bring some strawberries - or at least check if that old bank still does withdrawals... for ferns.
Dream Deferred
Driving through Castleberry, Alabama, I stumbled upon a baseball park that looked like it had just been built yesterday but had the eerie silence of a ghost town. This place was supposed to be the town's pride, boasting two youth baseball fields, a playground, a fishing lake, walking trails, and a basketball court. However, what I found was a modern marvel turned mystery, half-finished and completely deserted.
The story behind this forgotten park is as intriguing as its eerie vibe. Castleberry Parks and Recreation, Inc., the organization behind this ambitious project, hit a financial home run into the stands of bankruptcy. Their chairman, Karl Kast, got caught in a scandal, arrested for theft by deception. He'd promised a community gem but delivered a financial fiasco, soliciting funds under false pretenses and leaving contractors and suppliers unpaid.
Now, this park stands as a shiny, silent testament to what could have been - a place where kids should've been playing, but instead, it's just a modern relic of a dream that crashed and burned in the heart of Alabama. As the sun set, I couldn't help but wonder about the games that never happened and the laughter that was never heard, all while snapping a few photos of this curious, abandoned slice of potential.
After days away at a work conference, I was itching to hightail it back home. Darkness was creeping in, and navigating those twisty rural roads at night felt like a game of dodgeball with curves, deer, and drivers who treat speed limits like mere suggestions. So, with the headlights on and adventure in the rearview, I’m signing off ‘til next time—stay safe, stay sharp, and never let the road ahead go unexplored!
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