The Way Back Machine

My Grandfather’s Camera

A lazy day encouraged by a bum knee. Ice and wine are required, I’m thinking. I was scrolling through my images today and some of the black and whites caught my eye. They might not do the same tomorrow so I took advantage and put them in a video…not a long video, just two minutes, 45 seconds. But still, a creative thing in an innovation desert. This link will take you to my YouTube Channel.

One of the things about most of the images I’ve found is I remember the moment I took them and who I was with on that particular walkabout. In many if not most of these, I was with my ex-pat Brit friend who gave up on color photography years ago and convinced me to try black and white. I’m still trying.

75

Sunrise at Burke Lake, 2020

My 75th birthday is today. Wow. Three quarters of a century…I am blessed…and amazed. I remember my grandmother Halvorsen at this age telling me the things that had happened in her lifetime, here’s my trip down memory lane. Just a few, I’ll probably think of more later…I forget stuff. Smile. But these things, I truly remember.

—I remember being very small waiting in the Huron Clinic to get my polio vaccination. My parents were very happy, I was not.
—I vividly remember getting the measles, the mumps and chickenpox (not at the same time). My parents were worried, I mostly itched through it. Mumps hurt and were scary.
—I remember our phone was a party line.
—I remember getting our first TV, a black & white small thing with an antennae on the roof. I watched Captain 11 and was a happy child.
—Something called Sputnik was launched by the Very Bad Soviet Union
—People were encouraged to build bomb shelters, the threat of nuclear war was real. Cuba happened and everyone was alarmed. Huron had a giant “War Siren.”
—I remember walking into the Junior High School and someone yelled, “JFK’s been shot!”
—I remember being on the road as a teenager with our rock and roll band, The Bird Dogs.
—I remember learning about racism because of the news of the riots in the south. I completely missed the racism towards Native Americans where I grew up. I remember when Martin Luther King, Jr., was assassinated.
—I remember my 18th birthday like it was yesterday…I registered for the draft.
—I remember watching the Vietnam War on TV every day. I remember the demonstrations. I remember demonstrating and taking over the Administration building at SDSU.
—I remember when Neil Armstrong walked on the moon.
—Nixon went to China, enabled by Ping Pong diplomacy
—Richard Nixon resigned.
—The Berlin Wall fell
—-The Very Bad Soviet Union morphed into the Very Bad Russia.
—I remember getting my first PC and my first cell phone. I remember logging onto AOL and sending my first email.
—I remember 9-11.
—I remember COVID.

But most of all, I remember marrying Diane, having three very awesome kids, and celebrating the wonder of this journey with them. It’s been a magic trip. I am thankful.

Four Years Ago

Diane and Sunshine, May 2020

Looking back four years, many of my memories are blurred. Or fuzzy. Perhaps because of my advanced chronological experience, perhaps because so many unusual things were happening and they were happening all at once. Sunny joined us in January. Diane finished her last round of chemo in February. The pandemic shutdown started in March. One kid a senior in university, another a senior in high school, both going to school virtually, both ready to graduate in May into an uncertain world. Hate and racism joined COVID and the world was a lonely, deadly place. There were silver linings but overall, the loss of friends to the virus and the further division of America was tragic. Our neighborhood post office was hit hard by COVID, killing our mailman, Billy. We hunkered down and adjusted. Few masks were available at first, no sanitation wipes, supply chains for many things were drying up. We felt lucky to get groceries, although toilet paper was a challenge to find. Then the finger pointing started, “anti-this” and “anti-that” and the virus became political. Science took a backseat to rhetoric and to “mine is bigger/better than yours.” And still, people were dying by the thousands.

Four years later, few seem to remember the dead, the sick, the sacrifices health care workers made, and the emotional costs of that year. Instead, we’ve taken the political issues from those days and made the dangerous rhetoric and emotions palpable. I guess this is our human condition, to battle one another in the name of religion or some other tribal righteousness. It’s too bad. I’d hoped for better after the 60s when civil rights and Vietnam protests created a dialogue across political and economic divisions with solutions made possible by compromise. Compromise is a fighting word now. My generation failed after its progress in the Days of Disco. I’m not sure how things got out of control but I’m pretty sure we shouldn’t fight our way out of this mess. We need to learn to talk. Easy to say, almost impossible to do in today’s world. I’m reading Erik Larson’s “The Demon of Unrest” and find some things have changed little since 1860.

I could go on but can already feel the hate mail building up. The moderate center, what Nixon called the “Silent Majority” is afraid. Fear and intimidation at the ballot box. Scare tactics and violence in school board meetings. Book banning. Bullying as a family value and hate as a political rallying call. I hope the younger generation has a better sense of humanity and can fix it but old white men like me are reluctant to change. No…I’m willing, certainly others, too.

Seneca Quarry Ruins, June 2020

Loren Boone

My friend and fraternity brother Loren Boone passed away yesterday after battling bone cancer. The two of us enjoyed university days and the birth of a new chapter of Sigma Alpha Epsilon at South Dakota State University more than fifty years ago. He continued working with the young men of that chapter as well as the national offices of SAE. He brought so much positive energy to everyone and everything he touched. Over the years and expanding geography we’d lost continuity of our relationship but still corresponded every year or so…thanks to email. The last we corresponded was three years ago…about the Chapter’s $1/Year Club. I last saw him in 1980.

I so admired his ability to share his leadership, his positive vision, his confidence in the people around him and the core principles of humanity and SAE. SAE has a vision statement called “The True Gentleman,” written by John Walter Wayland quite a long time ago. Loren was a True Gentleman, he lived this ideal and radiated all the tenets of the vision to those around him, he genuinely cared. Rest In Peace, Loren, you’ve given so much and we are thankful.

The True Gentleman is the man whose conduct proceeds from good will and an acute sense of propriety, and whose self-control is equal to all emergencies; who does not make the poor man conscious of his poverty, the obscure man of his obscurity, or any man of his inferiority or deformity; who is himself humbled if necessity compels him to humble another; who does not flatter wealth, cringe before power, or boast of his own possessions or achievements; who speaks with frankness but always with sincerity and sympathy; whose deed follows his word; who thinks of the rights and feelings of others, rather than his own; and who appears well in any company, a man with whom honor is sacred and virtue safe.

Remembering The Kent State Students

Power and Protests

Image from Arlington National Cemetery

Brother against brother, power against youth, “stay the same” against change. When I was in university our issues are remembered as about the now forgotten Vietnam War, but they really weren’t, they were about something larger, something more important…they were about listening. The universities, the government, the system, the “institutions” didn’t listen to my age group, they gave my generation no credibility, no time and not even the right to vote. I watch the student demonstrations today and am taken back almost 60 years to the days of the 1968 Democratic Convention, the Chicago 7 trial, and demonstrations everywhere in the country. And me back then? A small town kid, in an isolated university, in a deeply conservative state becoming aware of how I was being treated more than I understood the national and international issues the demonstrations were about. Never trust anyone over 30. That was our mantra. My little sliver of the world was not on fire with demonstrations, in fact, I can count on one hand how many we had at South Dakota State University when I attended. We student demonstrators were ignored, not shunned, just ignored. Fulfilling the prophecy of “you don’t count.”

But then, on May 4, 1970, American troops opened fire on American students, kids my age, at Ohio’s Kent State University. Allison Krause, 19, Jeffrey Miller, 20, Sandra Schemer, 20, and William Schroeder, 19, all unarmed, some not even in the protest march, were gunned down by soldiers. Unarmed students. The governor of Ohio had called the demonstrators “Un-American.” But he hadn’t listened to them, he didn’t talk with them. No one did. Kent State University’s reaction was to ban all demonstrations. Yes. There were crowds and loud chanting and the ROTC building was on fire. But students weren’t attacking the soldiers or the police…they were demanding to be heard.

And four were killed. Nine wounded. “Ohio” is a song by Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young, this YouTube link has the song with images. Some of the images are disturbing, they should be, so viewer discretion is advised.

My generation didn’t learn any lessons, now we’re the ones not listening. Fifty-four years ago, almost to the day. Time to listen and learn.

Dunnington Mansion

Upstairs Hallway in the Mansion

This was my first real outing in…well, quite a long time. Some friends from Northern Virginia invited me to join them at the Mansion for an afternoon of shooting and I happily accepted. I didn’t get much of a chance to visit since each one of us headed for the grounds and fired up our cameras. This old place is a poster child for “If these walls could talk.” The house was built in its grand style in 1897 and lived in until 20 or so years ago. I’m guessing the roof failed and that started the march of deterioration and rot. Fortunately for the house and for fans of history, some folks got together and formed a non-profit foundation with the goal of preserving and eventually restoring the mansion. They’ve installed a new roof which should stop the damage caused by rain but they still have a long way to go to reverse the impact of twenty years of neglect.

I’m still learning video although my wife thinks I may have one or two more hobbies than I need. Nonetheless, if you’re interested in more images and some video of Dunnington, head on over to my YouTube channel for a four minute video. Please consider donating to the foundation at the link in the first paragraph!!

#dunningtonm

Springtime

Ginter Garden Flower

I did a quick trip to Ginter Garden yesterday. The trees are filling out with their green, oxygen-giving leaves and the tulips were in full bloom. I put the day’s news behind me and sat on a bench in the woods to watch the leaves grow; a gentle breeze, waving branches with the sound of quiet voices as passersby walked by my bench. I thought of the times when I was “young,” well, younger and asked myself why older folks sat on benches a lot. Ha. Now I’m one of them and I finally get it.

Pollen is a challenge. Taking a deep breath was a dare to my lungs to not cough! Maybe I should have worn a mask. I was going to change lenses until I saw my camera was coated with pollen and changing lenses would expose the innards to the springtime storm of yellow dust. I decided to just enjoy the moment. I’ve been waiting for the trees to bloom, I’ve missed my time with them and look forward to more bench time in the future.

Time in the woods is more difficult here in Richmond than in DC and the surrounding suburbs. DC is a city of trees and parks and that theme is continued in the ‘burbs. Trees and fields and water are here in the Richmond area, in abundance, but most are private. We don’t have parks close to where I live (15 miles west of Richmond), in fact, there are no parks, schools or libraries in the eastern half of my county. We have a small stream in my community and the stream has thin strips of trees but not many benches. Still, I’m thankful for them.

The pollen will lessen in a few weeks and I’ll be able to change lenses without pollen worries. I’m determined to spend more time enjoying the trees. I’m reminded of J.R.R. Tolkein’s Ents, the shepherds of trees who became more and more like the trees they cared for. Hmmm, not a bad thing.

A walker and a bench in Ginter Garden

“The Daily Plainsman”

Linotype in Industrial Museum, Baltimore, MD

The Plainsman was my town’s newspaper when I was growing up…it still is. The newspaper’s name was different then, the “Huronite” but changed to The Huron Daily Plainsman. Not sure why. Economics, no doubt. My grandfather Ed Halvorsen worked there for several decades as a Linotype operator. I don’t remember the entire printing process…it was a long time ago. They’d mostly let me walk around whenever an adult could watch me. To an elementary student, the newspaper’s processes were magic and I loved the place, although, it could be a bit intimidating…loud machinery, intense people always on a deadline, the smell of ink and paper and molten lead, the sense of mission. Oh, and the words, they were everywhere. The language, the style, the content.

My grandfather married when he was 20 and his bride was 19. There was no work in small town South Dakota in 1909…the newlyweds got on a train and went to Medicine Hat, Alberta, Canada where he became a journeyman Linotype operator. The Linotype was a machine that revolutionized the print industry, no longer would type have to be set one letter at a time, one slug at a time and then each letter had to be returned to its proper drawer. No, the Linotype changed all that. The letters could be typed, like magic a matrix would fall down from a magazine into a row, the operator would put spaces between words, when the “line of type” (Linotype) was done, the operator would move a lever or pedal and the stack would go into a pressure mold where hot, molten metal was pressed onto the matrices and voilé, a line of type was cast. The area where the linotypes were was dark and hot and LOUD. The machines made a lot of noise but it was a very organized noise with whirs, ticks, whooshes, and bangs, and clacks and more…a veritable symphony of flowing words and thought. I loved it.

Somehow, I don’t remember how, the columns were changed into sticks, then galleys (pages), then type drums. Once a “page” was formed, they were “proofed” on galley proofs. Back in the day, the Huronite had quite a few proof readers because sometimes the Linotype operators or the reporters made mistakes, but seldom the proofreaders. The drums were put on several rollers and the paper would roll over them and somehow the ink, the drums, and the paper met, were sorted and cut or cut and sorted. For a little kid, this was high drama.

My grandfather retired from the Huronite and went to work for FH Brown Printing located under the National Bank at 3rd & Wisconsin. They had a Linotype. I often visited the print shop but it wasn’t the same as the Huronite…I missed it. So did he.

Appomattox

Appomattox Court House Grave

Yesterday I drove to Appomattox for a quick walkabout. This was my first outing in months and the weather was perfect. The light was a bit “harsh” because midday is, well, middle of the day…not at all the “golden hour.” But in spite of the noon sky, the light was wonderful…large, puffy clouds flying rapidly through the sky while their shadows raced with one another along the ground. I’ll have a more detailed post in a few days but wanted to highlight this unusual cedar tree next to the grave of a 19-year-old soldier who died of typhoid without ever seeing combat. The unusual lighting highlighted the orphan like quality of the tree and grave in the middle of a meadow.

The drive to the Park was just over an hour, mostly on two lane roads running through farmlands dotted with large confederate flags. Few people were visiting the park, I assume because it’s March and a Monday. The Park is a semi-reconstruction of the village, called a Court House, at Appomattox, some of the buildings are original, some are reconstructions, some are gone. The surrender was signed in the McClean House which is a reconstruction. I tried to imagine the tensions, the emotions, and the personalities at the surrender, all taking place in a relatively small room.

The tree and grave were fascinating. I’ve included a color version of the B&W and another angle of the scene. Just another example of what hate can do in an “Us versus Them” kinda world.

Appomattox Court House Grave

Appomattox Court House Grave