My Sunday with Owengene Blackwood

by Michael Zukerman of of Journalistic Style Photography

On a little stretch just outside Cleburne, there's an airport with a grass runway, a church, and Owengene Blackwood. You don't notice the airport from the road and that's just fine with Mr. Blackwood. But you'll miss more than you might expect. Owengene got his name 87 years ago from two uncles -- Owen and Gene. His mother wanted to name him after one or the other and couldn't decide which, so she just went with Owengene.

Rumor has it that the Blackwoods, who owned a lot of land in that area, had stolen it from the indians who had been there long before. I got this story from a man who owned the flea market across the street whose daddy before him had bought their land from the Blackwoods some 60 years ago. I was on my Sunday road trip and I wanted to get a look at this grass runway, so I drove over to the little airport and the photos here help tell the story of the Fly In Church, and a very small part of Owengene Blackwood's life.

As I drove up I noticed in front of the tin-roofed hangers, where old, dusty, once-proud motor birds sit idle, was a little building with a sign by the window that read: "The Fly In Church." There's a light on in the other window just above a podium with a cross on the front. An open Bible sits on top the bright red painted podium. No one is inside but it's clear at some point God's business had been going on in there. The windows were dusty, the door was padlocked. On a table just inside the door were four more Bibles. I begin to shoot. From a road leading back to the runway, along comes a red pickup with Owengene Blackwood at the wheel. I told him I was a photographer on a road trip and I quickly learned Owengene doesn't hear so good. He wears a hearing aid, but it's of little use.

Owengene talks really loud -- I mean really, really loud -- because he can't hear himself. So I had to show him what I was doing. As he talked a little about his hand he burned on some grease a few weeks ago, I shot a couple images of him in his pickup and then turned and shot one of his reflection in his side mirror and showed it to him. He got a big grin on his face, even laughed a little and said he thought that photo was the darnedest thing he'd ever seen. I'm proud he said that to me and that it made him smile. I asked if we could go inside the little church so I could shoot a few images and he told me, "Oh no can't do that. It's dirty in there" and "I got my income tax papers laying around. Can't let you shoot that." I promised I wouldn't shoot his income tax papers and he said, "Well I guess it'll be alright," so we went in.

Owengene told me about his friend Elvis (real name) who had not too long ago died of a heart attack. Manny died too. Not too many of the guys left anymore who used to come on Sundays 9 a.m. sharp to hear Elvis do some preachin'. Said Elvis wasn't a real preacher -- "He just knew the Bible real good." Elvis had his own parking space outside, the only one who ever did. The sign still there but rusted over like so many things in Owengene's life now reads: "Elvis Only Reserved Parking Elvis Only." Owengene showed me what he called a juke box where they put in the music for the services. Said someone must have taken the music with them, because he couldn't find it and wanted me to hear it. Then Owengene sat down in a chair and told me some Sundays every chair was filled. Must have been 10 chairs in there altogether. Then Owengene got quiet while I was shooting. He talks so loud and when you look his way he talks even louder because he wants you to hear what he has to say. Owengene, I think, was remembering his friends... the Sundays... his flying buddies... the music wasn't playing and he wanted it to. It had been a while since the last service and I think Owengene hadn't been inside the little church since then.

I shot a few more images then we walked outside and Owengene locked the door. He told me "you can do whatever you want here young feller." I laughed -- I haven't been a young feller in so long it just struck me funny. Owengene Blackwood was warmin' up to me I think. So I drove back towards the runway, Owengene in tow, and got out of the car and went over to thank Mr. Blackwood for letting me do some shooting there and the talks we had about his life and the church. He got out of his truck and left the keys inside. I said let me get those for you, he said, "Oh, I don't take the keys out, I'll forget where I put em." Made perfect sense to me. He told me, "Just do whatever you want but watch out for those planes comin' in." I doubt there has been a plane come in there for a long time, but I said I sure would and I shook his good hand one more time and he went inside his house that sits right there on the property of his airport.

Wasn't two minutes went by and here he comes yelling, "Mike, I need to tell you my wife's name is Helen. That's the most important thing," he said. I got it, I really got it. Owengene has probably always had his priorities right. He has a half dozen goats that don't have names, a guard dog named Sandy that will lick you to death, and a stray dog just named Dog. He wanted me to know the elevation there at his airport is 830 feet -- told me that several times. "It's important to know the wind speed and the elevation when you're flying," he said. Then he went back inside. I shot my images and I had a good day with a man who made me laugh, and made me think about what's really important in life.

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