Saving Mr. Charlie’s Trees, 2024 Reset
Where I’ve been for the past few months… but first a blast from the past: a much younger me on location in Grady County, Georgia, filming my uncle, Mr. Charlie, his story, how he came to plant a million trees, create wetlands and frame his 1000-acre bequest to the University of Georgia, in perpetuity.
With no film school diploma or cinema credentials, all I had was pure desire to capture this character and his accomplishment, gathering hours of video footage and trusting I’d find a way to share it somewhere down the line. With all its logistics, the experience was fun and exciting, especially because my tech-savvy honey, Lewis, came along as self-taught sound engineer and DP on equipment borrowed in France.
That younger me is on my mind constantly…
She’d gone to Paris on a Fulbright for a Masters in Russian, then swept into a music career and was now about to walk down the aisle. She couldn’t know that in a year or so she’d be expecting a baby and then swamped for decades, creating a home, shepherding kids, juggling day jobs, writing and moonlighting in music.
After the shoot in Georgia, she meticulously logged all the content, put together a synopsis and cold-called TV channels and producers, looking for a way into the documentary world, but paid work, a wedding and a baby grabbed priority. The Mr. Charlie videos slid onto a back burner and then into a drawer.
I’m glad she didn’t know beforehand that far away in the future, the university would break their promises and sell off the land, most of it to their cronies at lumber companies.
Convinced that Mr. Charlie’s trees and land were safe for the ages, she would have been deeply shocked and saddened by the betrayal, possibly too demotivated to cross the Atlantic and climb around southwest Georgia and the Florida panhandle…
As it was, she felt bad about shelving the Mr. Charlie project. It would comfort her to know that her video footage would survive for 30 years and morph into a new “digital” format that could be zapped across continents in 2020 when it could be used as evidence, that some of the main actors would still be alive to help her tell the tale and honor Mr. Charlie’s legacy.
I bet she’d marvel at her much older self, networking non-stop for years, financing and directing a film shoot at the University of Georgia in 2022 with a pro videographer and one of her children as production assistant, collaborating with filmmakers and environmental champions, completing and publicizing a polished trailer in 2023, attending documentary film conferences in North Carolina and La Rochelle, contributing an interview and reams of fact-checking to a program called a “podcast” on a global broadcast platform. (Trailer and podcast below)
She’d be heartsick over massive deforestation in the American South and everywhere, and at the extent of global warming. She’d be appalled by corporate greed and abuses by public institutions including university foundations such as the one at UGA that organized the sale of Mr. Charlie’s land.
She’d be amazed at the amount of contacts the future Aliss would make on both sides of the Atlantic and the scope of the film project, no longer just a portrait, but now an inspiring international call to action for the environment and climate justice.
I hope she’d understand where we are now, why I’ve been off the grid since mid-October 2023, when strains on my energy and health put me temporarily out of commission:
Coming back to Paris early September 2023 after a too-short break, I knew I was exhausted but thought I was doing enough self-care. A lot of new information was coming in for the film, so I was updating my Mr. Charlie synopsis while exploring strategies for co-productions and funding to complete the film, a tall order.
Then a series of extra challenges came my way. Just to name a few: we found out about a fly-by-night real estate project that threatens the structure and stability of our Paris building; someone set fire to one of the shops downstairs; we had smoke and water damage to clean up and repair in our living space before the arrival of house-guests who couldn’t reschedule.
Accident 1: my son got hit by a car coming home late from work on his scooter. Fortunately, he wasn’t seriously injured but we were all in shock and it took his young body weeks to recover.
I switched into high gear, stretching in all directions to problem solve…
Accident 2: rushing home on a crowded metro train after a dentist appointment, trying to exit before I missed my stop, I was crushed horizontally by the metal doors and only made it out thanks to other passengers pulling the doors apart. Stabbing pain in my pelvis. Unable to stand or walk, I stumbled to a bench, terrified and not thinking clearly. My husband was away. Survival instinct kicked in. Somehow I got to my feet and hobbled home, one halting step after the other.
X-rays showed no broken bones, but the prognosis was uncertain. My back felt like it was made of antique hardware and rubber bands that popped agonizingly out of place at the slightest movement. Grooming and dressing demanded cautious contortions.
Ice. Osteopath. Physical therapy. Hot water bottles. A brace. Every wellness hack in the book.
Walking got easier and I could manage stairs. Several times I thought I was better and it started again, only worse.
And that’s not all!
Two weeks later I came down with something that messed up my hearing! Rumbling and buzzing instead of sound. Normal MRI. The specialist couldn’t find a physical cause and said it was probably due to stress, which only added to my stress. (Now they’re saying it could be COVID-related.) In any case, heavy-duty meds and fatigue.
Meanwhile, I could barely move and barely hear! My world slowed down and shrank radically from transatlantic flights and high-speed trains to slomo close to home with kind souls who were willing to communicate by yelling.
If we’re connected on social media, you may have seen my short excursions around our Parisian village neighborhood. That plus phone conversations with the volume turned up, cooking, reading and Netflix with subtitles kept me connected and sane. As an act of faith, I played guitar and sang just to feel the vibrations. Would I be like this for the rest of my life?
I felt diminished and vulnerable, but refused to cancel a long-planned family trip to the US for some close friends’ wedding and a rare American Thanksgiving. Traveling in planes and cars was tough but completely worth it: a beautiful couple exchanging vows and celebrating, laughter around holiday tables, music and singing, board games, decorating for Christmas and reminiscing with my favorite people boosted me out of the hole I’d fallen into.
When I got back to Paris early December, I knew I was going to be ok…
Now it’s January. I’ve finally recovered my freedom of movement and hearing. Picking up the threads of my life. Everything feels like a miracle, especially after wondering if I would ever be myself again. Gratitude.
Thank you, family and friends, everyone who listened, hugged and surrounded me with love.
I hope this fallow time will give me new energy and perspective, a reset, a new frame of reference for a fresh start with the trust and optimism of my younger self.
Wishing everyone a refreshing new start in 2024.
To be continued…
