"Every Picture Tells a Story. Flunk Day"

“Flunk Day” at Knox College…Located in Galesburg, IL, the private, liberal arts college sanctions a day when students play and enjoy, rather than study and fret. It’s usually late in the school year ( late April or early May), and is never announced in advance. Only a tiny group of staff and administration know the date for planning reasons.

Many try and guess the date but it’s “top secret,” students are kept in the dark until the campus-wide announcement is made early the day of the event, as early as 5 a.m. I’m not sure how the word gets out, but the news spreads fast. Classes and normal activities are cancelled for the day, allowing students to “let off steam” ahead of final exams. The tradition dates back to at least 1922.

Activities have changed with the times. There are “bounce houses”, bubble blowing, bands, arts and crafts, uh, some drinking, and at one time there was a mud pit.

The Galesburg Register-Mail almost always coverd the festivities, and it always made for good visuals and fun photos.

In April of 2000 I was working the early shift on Flunk Day, Monday, April 24th. The paper had gone digital (cameras) not long before. I headed to campus with a fairly new Nikon D1 body (2.3 megapixels) and a couple of lenses. The new technology was pretty cool as you could see what you were getting by viewing the review screen on the back of the body. The drawback was the camera had a DX sensor, which meant the lenses were not “true” to their focal length. There was a “crop factor” which made the frame tighter than it would be with film (or later, FX, full frame, sensors.).

Anyway… I dug in and made my way around the various things going on. The mud pit instantly caught my attention! By dragging a hose to an open area near some dorms, all it took was a lot of water and the constant stomping and trampling of feet to make a mess in a fairly short amount of time. The students were loving it.

I got in there as close as I dared, using the 24-70mm zoom lens and choosing a low angle by kneeling. I photographed several students, staying as long as needed until I felt like I “had something,” then walked the short distance back to the newsroom.

In editing, I felt like I had something better than average, maybe a “keeper,” portfolio worthy. All of the elements were there in this one frame. Permission was granted to submit it to the Associated Press and I did so, sending it to the Chicago Bureau.

The photo was published in newspapers all over the world. The San Francisco Chronicle’s online, SF Gate chose it as one of its pictures of the day. The photo was also seen in Japan… by the father of the young man swinging in the mud pit. The father called the son to express displeasure. “I didn’t send you half way around the world to go to school, only to play in the mud,” is something like how the conversation went, according to Takahiko, the student in the photo, who told me this later on. He didn’t care, he had fun that day.

My co-worker, Rich Dickin, was careful to save his original files. Even though we shot JPEG, Rich kept the uncropped “master copy” versions of anything he felt was important. I did not, I kept the cropped versions used for the paper. The original file has a tad more room on the left and right sides, giving more context of the hands that are holding the young man by his hands and feet. I wish I had that file but I don’t.

Flunk Day has yet to happen this year. My prediction is May 4th. That’s a Monday, and Mondays seem to be a favorite day. It has fallen on the 4th several times before, and it’s easy to remember because it’s also the anniversary of the Kent State shootings. That’s another story.

Screen shot from the San Francisco Chronicle’s SF Gate.

Some Flunk Day history. (Courtesy of Knox College)

"Concert Flashback. Led Zeppelin"

In his autobiography, Bill Graham, the late concert promoter, described Led Zeppelin as “the ultimate rite of passage band.” My vote would be The Doors, but who am I to question the most famous promoter of all time? Graham also described the band and its entourage as bringing with them, “raw, naked, aggression.”

Several popular musicians and music critics have been vocal in their disrespect for Zeppelin, citing the group for basically ripping off old blues artists, rearranging the songs a bit, and calling them their own. As someone who isn’t a musician in any way, I can’t speak to that.

The band developed a following and became huge. Fans, record sales, and concert attendance are what matters. Jimmy Page is responsible for some of the greatest riffs in the history of rock and roll, and his guitar sound is his unmistakable. Many say John Bonham was the greatest drummer ever, with impeccable timing. Throw in Robert Plant’s voice and the multi-instrument talents of John Paul Jones and there you have it.

I was very late to discover and explore their catalog, starting with “Led Zeppelin II” years after its release. Next came “Led Zeppelin IV”. I never owned their debut record, “Led Zeppelin III”, or Physical Graffiti” as a teenager, but the music I knew, I liked a lot. They became a “must see” act.

During my senior year in high school in March of 1977, I drove home for lunch break. I held tickets to see Jethro Tull, who were headed to St. Louis. “You got something in today’s mail from Tony Morris,” said mom. Tony, a friend, was a year older and attending college in St. Louis.

The short note read, “Krotchie (a nickname. Kriegshauser to Krotchhauser, shortened to Krotchie) Zeppelin, I repeat, Zeppelin, is coming to St. Louis. Details to come.” Jethro Tull was out, Led Zeppelin was in! The Tull tickets were sold to friends Bill Cox and Bill Aiken.

The show was announced. Led Zeppelin for one night. Friday, April 15th, at The Arena. Tickets would be sold at The Arena box office only and were priced at $10 each. TEN BUCKS?! Most concerts of that era had ticket prices that capped around $7.50. Money was one thing, the bigger issue was how to obtain tickets? There was sure to be a long, overnight line on the arena property. There was no way I would be allowed to skip school to camp out overnight in a parking lot. Mom was cool but not that cool.

Tony had a solution and it came in the form of a near miracle. Tony couldn’t stand in line but two of his friends were willing to do so “just for the fun of the party atmosphere and spending the night in line with others.” The two weren’t interested in getting tickets for themselves, but we may have compensated them with a tip of around $30, to be split equally among the ticket holders. We wound up with six tickets, one for myself and five to share with friends who were interested in going. The crew was eventually formed. Brian Ervin and myself would drive down in my car. Rick Alspaugh, Larry Borrowman, Jeff Seymour, and Mike Burrows would take a second car.

18 years old, seniors, and about to see Led Zeppelin. We thought we were hot shit. Excited and counting down days to the show. This was my second trip to The Arena, located west of downtown St. Louis, I wanted to make sure to allow plenty of time for the drive, missed exits, etc. Mom sent a note, asking permission for me to leave school early that day. We were playing flag football in the lot across the school when I asked Coach Bennett to leave. I was dismissed. Jeff Seymour was in the same class and whined, “but coach, he’s going to the same place as me.” Seymour didn’t have a note, he remained.

The 90 mile drive was enhanced by a six pack of seven ounce cans of Coors beer. I’d visited Culver-Stockton college in February or March, beginning to explore college possibilities. Keokuk, IA was 30 minutes north of Canton and the legal drinking age in Iowa was 18. Once done at Culver, I drove on up to the border and made my first legal purchase of alcohol at some downtown grocery store, deciding to hold the beer for a “special occasion.” Zeppelin was it. Brian and I finished off the last two cans as we sat in the north parking lot that sloped down to the “old barn” as The Arena was known as.

Once inside we began to find our way to our seats. It felt like we were climbing Mt. Everest, we were two rows from the top and back of the building. Erv and I were together, the other four were in our row but down a few seats, still within sight. 16.000 people, lots of pot in the air, mid-April, in a building with no air conditioning. It became sticky quickly.

I had a camera, and my hometown paper had provided me with a “press pass” of sorts on Pike Press letterhead. The goal was to photograph from the pit in front of the stage. After settling in, I walked back down the steps to the northeast lobby, looking for someone who looked “official.” An arena employee listened to my pitch and seemed like he wanted to help. Right on cue, a member of the Zeppelin crew appeared, walking around to make sure everything was as it should be. The arena guy stopped the Zeppelin guy and I explained I had a press pass. The Zeppelin guy wanted none of me, was in a hurry and appeared irritated. “I don’t care if he’s with Jesus Christ of the Latter-Day Saints,” he said to the arena man in a British accent. I made my way back up the many flights of steps.

We all waited for the show. Years later I learned that three in the other group had spiked the hamburger of the fourth with a “substance.” during a stop on the way to St. Louis. I have never asked that person what he thought of, or remembers of, the concert.

There was no opening act.

“Welcome to the sauna” said Robert Plant as they hit the stage, making reference to the heat in the building. Opening with “The Song Remains the Same,” they were off and running, looking like ants from our location, it was loud. I failed to recognize the next four songs, due in part to misinformation I’d brought on myself for years. Thinking the band was touring in support of the live album, “The Song Remains the Same,” unaware that “Presence” had been released in March of 76’. That album produced no charting songs and I was totally unfamiliar with any of it. “Physical Graffiti.” was the same, I’d seen it in record stores but never picked it up. The set list drew heavily from “Graffiti,” skipping many earlier songs, now classics.

Firecrackers were set off with frequency, prompting a plea from Robert Plant. “Please, no more bangs.” There was dead time between songs. Where was the “freight train” we’d expected? It was disjointed and unfocused.

They made it to “No Quarter,” the live version superior to the studio version, the best song of the show. An acoustic set came, then more unfamiliar songs, followed by Bonham’s drum solo and Pages’ obligatory guitar solo with the violin bow.

Glancing to my right, down the row, I looked to see how the others were faring. Three of the guys were upright but Seymour’s giant Afro was silhouetted against an exit light, he was passed out, leaning forward. Was it the heat or was the band that boring?

“Stairway to Heaven” closed the set and that was it. No encore. “Booos” rained from every corner of the building.

Stopping at a Denny’s near St. Charles on the way home for a bite, I don’t recall any of us exclaiming what a great show it was. Jim Barrow saw me on the way to school the following Monday. “What did you think of it”? My response was that it was a big disappointment.

I have to take responsibility for a lot of it. for not being well-versed on their songs. That night, “Nobody’s Fault but Mine” sounded like noise. Now it’s one of my favorite Zeppelin songs. Many consider “Physical Graffiti” to be their best work. It was omitting material from the second and fourth albums, along with no encore, that left people upset. I wasn’t alone, the show drew bad reviews in Concert News, a St. Louis paper devoted to live music.

The tour continued…Remember Bill Graham’s observation of “raw, naked, aggression.” On July 23rd, the band played in Oakland, there was a dispute between Graham’s staff and the Zeppelin camp. Peter Grant (band manager) Richard Cole and John Bindon (road manager and security), along with Bonham, beat one of Graham’s people nearly (literally) to death in a backstage trailer. A full chapter in Graham’s book is devoted to Led Zeppelin and this incident. When I read and learned of what happened in Oakland I thought back to St. Louis, wondering if that encounter in the lobby was with Cole or Bindon?

A great band, not so nice humans, especially Grant and Bonham. Karma took care of them in time.

I made it through the rite of passage and got the t shirt, sold it at a yard sale a few years back, probably shouldn’t have. The memory still with me.

From a St. Louis newspaper.

From a St. Louis newspaper.

My ticket stub.

The only photo I made that night, from near our seats.

I think this photographer was with either Washington University or St. Louis University.

Photos and review from Concert News.

Show recap from a Led Zeppelin fan site.

The set list.

"Show and Tell"

G&M Distributors is Galesburg-based, the local-regional Anheuser-Busch InBev distributor. The staff a fine, hard-working group of professionals. I’ve been fortunate to make photos for them for a few years. Holiday parties, anniversary celebrations, website work, and the annual, recent, team meeting.

The location for the meeting has varied. With a second facility in Dixon, IL, sites have included Princeton, Langley, and the Galesburg plant, which is where the most recent event occurred. Each location has required a different approach in technical terms. The Langley location was outdoors and didn’t require much extra at all. The indoor venues…Well, there’s always available light. Digital cameras can handle, with quality, high ISO ranges, unlike film, which lost quality at higher speeds. But the ambient light in most places is flat and dull. One could use a phone camera and get “decent” results with existing light. I aim for better than decent. That’s where auxiliary lighting comes in. A flash brings out detail and gives color contrast, that “pop” that catches the eye. Wanting to provide G&M my best, all it took was extra effort.

The space used for the gathering is part of a warehouse, approximately 144 feet long and 30 feet wide. The ceiling is high, maybe 30 feet. The area breaks into two sections, the larger portion is where the stage and tables are located. The smaller is for socializing. The existing lights are ceiling mounted, daylight balanced but not powerful.

Lights! Lights are the answer. Off camera flash units. Lots of them. Having worked this same room last year, I made mental notes as to how I would handle this year. Similar, but with one extra touch to “raise the bar.”

To do so required a six light set up, using four, Alien Bee 800s (320 watt seconds each), and two Nikon SB speed lights. The Bees were used to light the main area and the speed lights were implemented to light the “social” area. The speed lights were the extra component this year, as I noticed too much light “fall off” in the social area last year. It was too dark.

The Bees were set up at the four corners of the main area, their light stands extended to their maximum height of 12-13 feet. Seven inch reflectors were used and they were angled to around 45 degrees and bounced into ceiling to soften the light. The output on each was set to 1/2. The power for three of four of them came from Vagabound Mini lithium battery packs, I found a wall outlet for the fourth unit. The two speed lights were set to quarter power output and placed across from each other to ensure even light coverage. All lights were triggered by remote, six receivers for each light and a hot shoe mounted transmitter for each of two cameras.

I’d budgeted an hour to set everything up, but was surprised to look at my watch and see it had been done in just over 30 minutes. It was time for a “test shot.” Playing off experience and intuition, I set a camera to what I believed would be “close” to a proper exposure. ISO 400, 1/125th of a second, and f4.5. I fired a test shot and the exposure was spot on! I allowed myself a smile. 42 years of this stuff and I am learning to know what I’m doing!

The set up has a drawback or two. I have, at times, wished for taller light stands. Wide shots may expose the flashes, depending on the shooting angle. I attempt to compose wisely, thinking of how lights and stands can be be cropped out.

The two speed lights did exactly as hoped, adding light to the east end of the space. A third speed light would have been helpful and was in my bag, but I didn’t have a seventh light stand.

A second drawback… The flashes do cause some “washout” on the projection screen, but I shoot everything in RAW format, allowing for bringing detail back into the highlights.

Here are six from the event. The first is a scene-setter with five of the six flashes circled in red. The fourth from left is one of the two speed lights, aimed back towards the social area. The second speed light is out of view but is camera-left behind me.

A little self-promotional plug to conclude this blog. If you hire me (and if you have photography needs I hope you do) You WILL receive my best effort!

"Every Picture Tells a Story. Ozzie's full moon"

Play ball!

Baseball season is here, starting last night, with more games scheduled today. I am not, and never was, a huge baseball fan. During the regular season I’ve stated that watching baseball is like watching paint dry. But during the playoffs, there’s nothing more exciting. I do enjoy the challenge of photographing it.

Baseball photography requires patience and concentration. A good understanding of the game is important as well. Unlike football, basketball, and other sports with near-constant activity, baseball can be slow, explode in a moment, then quiet again. There aren’t as many chances to make interesting photos.

As a staff photographer for The National Sports Daily, working in the Chicago bureau during the short life of the publication, I was fortunate to work two major events involving the Chicago White Sox. The last game at “old” Comiskey Park in 1990, and the home opener of the “new” and current Comiskey Park in 1991. The first game in the stadium was Thursday, April 18th. A sold out crowd of 42,191 watched the Detroit Tigers obliterate the Sox, 16-0.

My boss, friend, and fellow photog, Barry Jarvinen, had moved to Washington D.C. to work at the newly-opened bureau. I would go it alone for this assignment. There was pressure, as my role was to capture as much of the festivities and game action as possible in a new stadium. It was not the typical “show up, get the action photos and get out for deadline” of most jobs.

This meant arriving early to get a “feel” for the new place. The photo shooting positions, what lenses might be used, etc. To do a good job one has to be prepared. So there we all were, Chicago area newspapers, television, etc, a loose mob walking around the infield, the photo bays, and dugouts.

Eventually, players began making their way from the clubhouse tunnel to the dugout to wait for batting and infield practice. These times can make for some cool moments as, early on, it’s just the players on hand, the gates for the public have not yet opened.

Bo Jackson was with the Sox at this time and he was a very hot commodity. When he came into the dugout and sat down the media pack immediately gravitated towards him. A semi-circle of approximately 15 of us bunched tight, standing on field level and making photos down into the dugout, documenting the loose atmosphere. I had a good position and was favoring a 35mm lens to allow for some context and getting more than one player in the frame.

Ozzie Guillen came around. Ozzie was the super star short stop for the Sox. A fan darling and a true character. Wild, fun, and unpredictable. Ozzie loved being in the limelight and he knew how to play those moments. But in this moment, everyone was interested in Bo Jackson, Ozzie was second fiddle, and my theory has always been this. Ozzie needed to take drastic measures to swing the attention back to him…so he did.

It happened in a flash. Figuratively and literally. Ozzie turned his back to us and dropped his pants for a millisecond to “shoot the moon”! The reaction from his teammates and those gathered around was a combination of laughter and shock. Bo Jackson and Ken Patterson sat smiling, bemused. Ozzie had gone out on a limb here. It was funny for us, but MLB might not find it so humorous. I got one frame because I was prepared, never taking the camera from my eye during all the goofing around.

Later, back at the office, I told Phil, an advertising sales rep, what had happened. “Nooooo, he probably had some kind of super thin undergarment on.” Phil was stunned when he saw the image.

What to do with a photo of a famous baseball player showing his bare ass? You sure can’t put it on the front page of the sports section the next day. You really can’t publish it anywhere. It became a “novelty shot” for me. Valuable but worthless. I’ve shown it around from time to time, sold a few copies, and did submit it to the National Baseball Hall of Fame for a photo contest. Someone told me they saw it displayed there but I have doubts. “Look kids, there’s Ozzie’s ass.”

One person who did purchase a print from me was able to get both, Ozzie and Bo, to sign the print, and both signatures have been authenticated. When Rich presented it to Jackson, he said Bo’s reaction was something like “Oh my!”

I have two “versions” of the image. The original, and one where I have removed the bat from between Guillen’s legs. This blog has the edited version, Rich is holding the original version in the second photo.

I do not know who else got the moment that day. I have not seen, nor heard, of any other copies. I never heard any other examples. I am 99.9% certain I have the only frame.

The working title for this picture has always been “Ozzie’s Full Moon.”

"Saukees at State, 1980"

The Illinois High School Association (IHSA) boys basketball state tournament is here, near, or somewhere close to this weekend. “March Madness” applies to high schools as much as it does colleges. Though I don’t keep up anymore, in 1980 there were only two classes based on school enrollment. Pittsfield High School, my hometown, was in Class A for the small schools, Class AA contained the large schools.

The Pittsfield Saukees made it all the way to the state tournament in 1980 under the coaching of Dave Bennett, who I believe was in his third year as the head coach. I was taking a year off from college and working for the local paper, The Pike Press, a weekly publication. All of this worked out perfectly for me to follow the team to Champaign and Assembly Hall.

The Saukees would face Luther South High School in the first (quarterfinal) game. Though Pittsfield had a great season and had gotten this far, scouting showed just how difficult it would be to beat the team from the Chicago area. They were stocked with talent and their players were tall. Two of them checked in at 6’6” and 6’7”. It would be a “David vs. Goliath” scenario.

In planning my coverage strategy and making sure I’d have the access I hoped for, I stopped in at Voshall Gymnasium a day or two before the team was to leave for Champaign to talk to coach Bennett and assistant coach Gary Allen. What I saw going on was an ingenious move by Bennett. As the team scrimmaged, the defensive players were holding brooms a couple of feet above their heads to force the offensive players to shoot with more arch, thereby replicating the height difference they would be up against.

The team left for Champaign on Thursday. I debated on leaving later Thursday or early Friday. I was anxious and went later on Thursday. More details and memories are in the column I wrote (last photo in gallery).

I caught up with everyone on Friday morning and had unlimited access. School principal Don Mellon and Coach Bennett had given the paper and me their full support and cooperation. Bennett and I had known each other for three years. He came to town my senior year, 1977. I knew most all of the players and staff. If you have read, or will read, my blogs, you know how I feel about access. For a photographer, access is everything! Without it you’re screwed. Unlimited access is usually gained by trust.

Time was spent with the team on that Friday morning at breakfast, in their hotel rooms…eventually moving to Assembly Hall where I also had total access, even the locker room (with Bennett’s permission).

Game time arrived. Pittsfield lost 61-38. It was never close but the Saukees played hard the entire game. Luther South won the tournament. One of those players went on to a successful career as a college long-jumper, appearing in a music video of the Pointer Sisters song, “Jump.”

Pittsfield remained in Champaign, watching the remaining games. I think I drove back home after my work was complete on that Friday, then covered a welcome home rally for the team on Sunday.

On Monday (remember, weekly paper) I worked with Julie Boren, one of the editors, and we came up with a plan to show off the events in a sequential manner covering two pages (a double truck). This remains the one and only double truck of my 43 year professional career. Looking at it, I’m struck there are no action photos of the game, but believe they were used on the front pages of the news and sports section. The double truck was devoted to feature photos.

Oh how I chuckle when I see that I shot five rolls of film, 20 exposures per roll, totaling 100 photos for the ENTIRE project! In this digital age, a photographer might make 100 exposures in the first 30 minutes or less! It was Kodak Tri-X film in those days, as T-Max (a much better film) wasn’t introduced until 1986. Tri-X was 400 ASA, I probably push processed it two stops to 1600. The odd-sized 20 exposures came the fact that the paper bulk loaded film cassettes.

All photos were made using one Nikon FM body (no motor drive) and three lenses, a 24mm, 35mm, and 105mm, changing lenses as needed, often every few moments. Some of the photos I made show advancement in how I was seeing things, some are pretty static and boring. I was 21 years old, learning, and having a blast. I’m not sure of the whereabouts of the negatives from this project, in one of my binders or left at the Pike Press and now surely lost to time.

My hope is there are scrapbooks out there with these clippings in them. Photos are powerful memory preservers.

"Every Picture Tells a Story. 1988 NBA All-Star Game"

Or should this one be titled “This Story Tells a Picture,” as the picture wouldn’t have happened without the story.

At eight months into my job as a staff photographer at The Daily Herald, I was absolutely the “low man on the totem pole.” Only by 2-3 months, but seniority is everything. Mark Welsh was just ahead of me, moving to Arlington Heights from Effingham, IL in late spring of 1987, I’d arrived via Macomb.

“Sparky” and I were close in age and had worked at smaller papers. Mark was hard working, with almost that single-minded focus that puts them on another level. He was good beyond his years. When I worked in Macomb I’d see his Effingham work roll across the Associated Press wire. “Who IS this guy?!”

As good as he was, he too, took a lower position than the rest of the guys on our staff of seven or eight shooters. Mark and I both worked Sundays. And Sundays usually lacked the energy and activities that the rest of the week and Saturday’s provided. If something big was happening on a Sunday, one of us was to get that assignment (we called the good jobs “plums”), and the other guy was going to get the, well, whatever. Mike Seeling was the Sunday photo editor. I never had any issues with Mike, I thought he was generally fair, but if it was something “really” big, Welsh got the nod more often than not. Rightfully so, Mark was that good, and I was still on a learning curve. Mark could be counted on to come back with the photo.

February 7th, 1988 was a cold one. And it was one of those days, something definitely big was taking place in Chicago. The 1988 NBA All-Star game at Chicago Stadium. The slam dunk contest had been the day before, and I’m not sure who covered that for us. Michael Jordan won it, and it was from this contest that a handful of iconic frames were made of Jordan as he put on his show. Mark was to do the game its self on Sunday, he got the plum. I would pick up the other stuff.

Poor Mark. Seriously and literally. I don’t recall if he made it as far as the office, or if he called Mike to give his report. He drove a Dodge Colt and that Colt had issues of some sort. Sparky was out, I was in by default, and headed to 1800 W. Madison to cover the game, not overjoyed at how Mark’s misfortune got me the gig. But I had a gig to do, and it was a big moment, “second choice” or not.

Of course it was a huge deal, media were in from all over the country. No pressure, Kent. There were so many photographers that floor positions had to be extended from the baselines and down the sidelines. I sat in the 1/4 section between the baseline and half court line. The southwest side of the court, across from a bench.

We shot black and white negative film and color transparency film in those days. This meant at least two bodies, one loaded with b/w, one with color. The lights at the stadium weren’t great, and it was hard to get clean color. There was always some cast. With hockey, light would bounce off the white ice and help the exposure. Not so with the Bulls. I think our usual recipe was Fujichrome 400, pushed two stops to 1,600. Results varied, sometimes the grain looked as large as a BB.

All-Star games are not typical. You know if you know. Nothing huge is at stake, the intensity is lowered some. It’s about the star power on the floor, assembled in one spot, celebrities in attendance, etc. Action is important, but more so, are interactions, reactions, anything unexpected, etc. A photographer has to have a different mindset and be looking for those “other things.” I did my best.

At one point, for only moment or so, Danny Ainge and Kareem Abdul-Jabbar were near each other, an exchange away from the action at the east end of the floor. A Celtic and a Laker, I liked the banter and the contrast in height. Three or so months later, those two could be just as likely trying to rip each other’s head off.

The East beat the West, 138-133. Jordan scored 40 and was the MVP.

I think this is literally the one single frame I held from that assignment. I can’t remember what else I got, what was published, etc. You see what I mean about the quality of the image. The highlights are pretty blown out and I can’t get rid of the yellow no matter how much I try. I don’t know what Mark shot that day, if anything. I know he didn’t keep that car much longer.

Danny Ainge and Kareem Abdul-Jabbar at the 1988 NBA All-Star game. Chicago Stadium, Chicago, IL.

"Concert Flashback. Young and Zevon, Two In Two"

Neil Young and his music came late to me. I certainly knew of him, largely from the “Harvest” album of 1972 and the monster hit, “Heart of Gold.” Everything changed when my friend Brian introduced me to “Decade” while we were roommates at Carbondale in early 1979. A three album set, loaded with songs that resonated with me. The door was blown open, I began purchasing his back catalog as fast as I could afford them. Seeing him live became a top priority.

Young marches to his own drum. In 1978, with his band Crazy Horse, they toured ahead of the release of “Rust Never Sleeps,” defying the norm of touring upon the release. Unless one was already a fan, there was no new music to spark interest in seeing a show. “Rust Never Sleeps” became huge, turned a lot of people on, but the tour was over. Shoulda, Woulda, Coulda.

Warren Zevon was an immediate admiration after the release of “Excitable Boy,” his second record. Lyrics are everything to me, throw a warped sense of humor on top of it. Ray Davies, John Prine, and John Entwistle, are masters. Zevon may have been the best, though he wrote ballads that that can bring you to tears. Another must see.

The chance to see both of them for the first time came in January of 1983. A night apart, in different cities, while I was attending WIU in Macomb. I would not be denied (pun intended, using a Young title.)

Mr. Young rolled into Kiel Auditorium in St. Louis, MO on Sunday, January 30th promoting the “Trans” album, a synth-driven record receiving lukewarm (at best) reviews, and for good reason. Anyone expecting the hard driving sound of Crazy Horse was in for disappointment, it was nothing like the previous release. No band for this tour either, it was to be a solo, acoustic show. Guitars and two pianos.

It was a solo trip for me from Macomb to south county St. Louis on that Sunday afternoon, meeting up with friends at Tony and Susie’s place. We’d hang out, then head to the show later. Brian and Sarah, Tony and Susie, Jim and Jane, and me. It was Super Bowl Sunday to boot. The horrible, wretched sounds of REO Speedwagon’s “High Infidelity” filled the air as we snacked and visited.

We all set together. Main floor, stage left, about 40 rows back. The anticipation was high for all of us, as none of us, though fans, had seen him in concert. Preshow activities included large, on stage video screens and a “broadcaster” interviewing fans as they arrived, asking them what their favorite album was. There were also updates on the Super Bowl, which had begun, between the Redskins and Dolphins.

The show fell far short, disappointing all of us. The set list was impressive. looking back, maybe even more so now. “Don’t be Denied” was my favorite of the night. but one man, playing to 10,000 in a large arena, didn’t cut it. Low energy, and mutated reworks of classics like “Mr. Soul” didn’t work at all. We knew what we were getting into, just not to the level it was.

It was a deflated, three hour drive back to Macomb, with a 10 a.m class on deck for Monday, a long day, once again, full of anticipation and optimism. As soon as that class was over, Jim Keating and I climbed into my RX-7 for a 4:45 trip, this time to Carbondale. It was Monday, January 31st, Young was in the rearview mirror, Warren Zevon was ahead, playing a solo show in the small, Shryock Auditorium on campus. For this one, I had photo credentials through The WIU student newspaper, The Courier.

“The Zev” was on the road to promote his fifth album, “The Envoy.” Shryock seats 1,200, other than that it was to be the same scenario as the night before. One man, a few guitars, an upright piano and a Steinway. How would this one go? Jim joined our mutual friends in seats, I settled into the orchestra pit, just below the edge of the stage and very deep, making photos difficult.

As Zevon walked on stage, the crowd sang him “Happy Birthday” (it had been Jan. 24th), then he dug in. He killed it. Great show, great energy, great set list (including a Rolling Stones cover).

When it was over, Jim and I said our goodbyes to our pals and headed back to Macomb, arriving somewhere around 4 a.m. I wrote a story and submitted photos to The Courier. The student activities person at Carbondale had asked me to send him a copy of the review. I did when it published. He responded, “I love it! I’m sending a copy to Zevon’s management.”

Two firsts in two nights. I didn’t give up on Young, and have seen him on one variation or another a total of 14 times. He’s much better with “Crazy Horse” behind him. Zevon was much the same, fine solo, but with a band…It’s the energy! I caught Warren five more times, two of them were New Year’s Eve shows in Chicago.

A lot of highway time for music, but worth every bit of it. I had just turned 24 days before these shows and carried the attitude of the title of a Zevon song. “I’ll Sleep When I’m Dead.”

Page 1 of review of Neil Young and Warren Zevon concerts for Western Courier.

Conclusion/Jump page review of Neil Young and Waren Zevon for Western Courier.

Warren Zevon, January 31st, 1983 in Carbondale, IL

"Saylor Livestock Part 2. Livestock Truckers"

Learning Resources 305 with Ted Stenerson. It was a photography class I took at Western Illinois University in the fall of 1981. A mid-level class where we refined and improved on technical aspects and composition. I had immediate respect for Mr. Stenerson, as he was 180 degrees apart from the pretentious instructors I’d encountered at SIU-Carbondale. Ted was like a good coach, he knew how to bring out the best in someone without belittling them. WIU didn’t keep Ted because he didn’t have an advanced degree. That is unfortunate, as he was a great professor. Knew what he was doing and worked well with students. He may be living in Florida these days, and I’d be thrilled if this blog finds him.

The class was in Memorial Hall. Along with Ted was Paul Lee, the man who ran the “cage,” the room behind the counter where we checked equipment for the darkroom in and out. Paul was from Plymouth, IL and was a legitimate cowboy when he wasn’t working his day job at WIU. Into horses and rodeo, he usually dressed the part, and he walked with the “gimp” of someone who’d been bucked from the saddle more than a few times. A great guy, he passed in 2018.

The final project for LR 305 was a “picture story” or photo essay. The story was to contain 10 photos, and the subject matter was entirely up to us. I don’t believe this class involved any aspect of color. If so, we were given the choice of using color or black and white. I chose black and white. Each of the 10 prints were to be mounted on matte boards, numbered in sequence of presentation, and captioned on the back of the matte. A photo story usually contains a “lead” photo, which acts to introduce the subject matter, and the “closer” which acts as the “period” to end the story. In between are photos that fill in the rest.

I chose to document/photograph livestock truck drivers. My Uncle George worked in that industry as the owner of Saylor Livestock, I’d have unlimited access to whatever was going on at his business. Having worked for him for two summers, I knew the drivers and enjoyed spending time around them and the hogs and cattle. I used Thanksgiving break to work on the project, as it would allow for multiple days of shooting and a variety of situations while home in Pittsfield.

That plan worked well. I spent time at the office and barn, took a short trip to nearby Barry, IL to get a load of hogs from a farmer, then took a longer trip to the National City Stockyards in East St. Louis, IL to deliver hogs to market. I believe I worked three days, and shot three or four rolls of film. The negatives bear witness in that, many times, I made only one frame per situation. One Nikon FM body, along with three lenses, a 24mm 2.8, 35mm 2.0, and 105mm 2.5, were my “tools.”

Brief descriptions of each photo, and any relevant technical information are listed below.

Photo 1. Terrell Stearns behind the wheel on our way to the National City Stockyards. The “lead” photo. The obvious truck driver frame. 24mm lens, I was standing/kneeling on the passenger seat with my head backed into the corner of the cab, trying to get as much context in the frame as possible. A wider lens such as an 18mm would have been nice to have!

Photo 2. Donnie McLaughlin, left, and his step-son, Ronnie White, drive cattle from a holding pen into a barn for shipping. I stood in a feeding trough like the one seen in the background. Cattle are typically hard to drive towards someone so I stood up for that reason, and for the “taller” angle. Either the 24mm or 35mm lens.

Photo 3. Vern Sevier, speaks to Mr. Gentry, who was bringing in hogs. Vern was a driver and helper. I was riding “shotgun” with him on an errand and we stopped for a quick exchange. I thought using the door and window of the pickup truck as a frame looked might look good.

Photo 4. Tom Fesler inserts aluminum decking into a trailer to convert it from hauling cattle to hauling hogs. That 24mm wide angle lens really helped for this one, though I had to be willing to crawl, duck, and get pig shit on my knees to get the shot.

Photo 5. Vern Sevier again. Using the mirrors of the tuck to catch him, with the holding pens in the background.

Photo 6. Ronnie White, a helper, waits by the door, watching for a load to arrive. This photo… It was NOT staged. I took ONE frame of this, still learning light, exposure, and how to use the light meter in the camera. When I processed the film I was disappointed and shocked at how the negative looked, believing it was an underexposed throwaway. It looked “thin,” ( a term meaning the shadow areas of the neg lacked detail) When I made an attempt to print it, the “Oh, WOW” moment happened. Though not intentional, I had used the camera meter to read and exposure the light coming through the door. It’s been said National Geographic photographers “expose for the highlights and let the shadows fall where they may,” making for that beautiful, contrasting light. This was a learning moment, and the first really good example of achieving that “look.” This photo has received several compliments and sold a few copies. Some have said it resembles a Dust Bowl era photo.

Photo 7. Vern yet again. We had gone to the Schnepf farm near Barry to sort and load hogs. Vern holds the “hot shot”, Carl Schnepf is in the middle, and one of his sons is at left. To make this photo, I used the open air slots on the side of the trailer and treated them as a ladder to climb to the roof of the trailer.

Photo 8. Uncle George, left, confers with Donnie McLaughlin in the office.

Photo 9. Terrell Stearns backs his truck into a chute for unloading at the National City Stockyards. The skyline of St. Louis, MO is seen across the Mississippi River.

Photo 10. Vern Sevier. This portrait was staged but not posed. I did not feel there were any candid moments strong enough to be the “closer,” so I asked Vern to stand next to the trailer. He leaned in and his body language made it “That’s got it,” I thought.

Photo 11. Mr. Stenerson’s notes on the back of the last board. The story received a 97 of a possible 100.

P.S. Many who drove for George are not included in this project. Depending on the time period, drivers came and went. I’d like to list as many as I can think of, and would like to thank Gene Stickman (who was a driver) for his help. Those guys were/are, in no particular order… Earl “Tuffy” Richards, Denny Richards, Vern Sevier, Tom Fesler, Terrell Stearnes, Donnie McLaughlin, Gary Guthrie, Gene Stickman, Ronnie White, Roger Harshman, Terry Yelliott, and Merle Springer. Great guys all.

Terrell Stearns drives a load of hogs to the National City Stockyards in East St. Louis.

Donnie McLaughlin, left, and Ronnie White, drive cattle into a barn from a holding pen.

Vern Sevier stops briefly to speak with a local farmer who was bringing in hogs for market.

Tom Fesler inserts decking into a trailer to convert it from hauling cattle to hogs.

Vern Sevier.

Ronnie White watches and waits for another load of livestock to arrive.

Vern Sevier, right, sorts hogs at Schnepf Farms near Barry.

George Saylor, left, talks to driver Donnie McLaughlin.

Terrell Stearns backs into a chute at National City Stockyards with the St. Louis, MO skyline across the river in the background.

Vern Sevier poses for a portrait.

WIU professor Ted Stenerson’s notes and score on my project from Learning Resources 305 in 1981.

"Saylor Livestock Part 1. Uncle George"

When I thought of using a college photography class project regarding livestock trucking as a blog, I didn’t consider the importance of a backstory. After all, “a picture’s worth a thousand words.” However, the more thought I gave it, the more I felt it necessary to explain a little. Tomorrow’s blog WILL be about photographs, those I made of the men who drove for Saylor Livestock, my Uncle’s business. It’s important to know a little background on Uncle George.

He was my mother’s brother, born November 18th, 1925, the oldest of six children. He lived in Pittsfield, IL (my hometown), which permitted me more access to time with him, whereas my other aunts and uncles lived further away. George and his siblings were born and raised as farm kids, and that placed George around livestock from his beginnings. When my dad died in 1973 I was 14. Uncle George stepped up to help mom and me.

As a teenager, or in his early 20s, George began working for Gerard Brothers Trucking in Pittsfield. He started as a truck driver, working his way to manager. “Ding” and “Dike” Gerard owned the business, located on the southeast edge of town. Through working for the brothers, George got to know livestock, and people, really well.

He moved on to become an “order buyer,” purchasing cattle from farmers for companies such as Swift and Independent Packing Company, while also locating feeder calves for farmers.

George purchased property West of Pittsfield. Fences were repaired, the grounds cleaned up, a barn and office added. It became Saylor Livestock.

George was the “middle man.” He built a good reputation, working a radius of approximately 200 miles surrounding Pittsfield. It was not uncommon for him to put 600 miles a week on his car as he drove to farms and sale barns looking for cattle. His largest single purchase of cattle was from a farmer in Missouri, 1,014 head.

He worked hard, and he expected others to follow. This led to occasional “head butting” with drivers and others. He likely worked more between the hours of 5-9 a.m. than most people do all day. I have heard stories of some conflicts and I “get it,” though he may have been easier on me as his nephew. I worked for him for two summers and he was hard to keep up with. “Grab a root and growl,” he’d say, implying we should act like a wild animal, jump in and grab a root in our mouths, and dig in with conviction. There were many mornings I had a 5 a.m. breakfast with him at The Cardinal Inn before the day’s work began.

George had a nickname for me. “Gilly.” I relished it and never questioned it. I assumed it was in honor of Gale Gillingham, a guard for the Packers when I loved them as a kid. Instead, it was for a Pike County resident, Gilly Goodin, George knew. Gilly had long curly hair like myself, and that reminded George of a story. George went to Goodin’s to conduct business one day. The man was fixing breakfast and George had to wait. When the bacon and eggs were done, George watched as Gilly took his cast-iron skillet and hung it on a nail in the wall, grease running down the surface from the pan.

As I graduated from high school it was still to be determined if I would make photography “stick.” George and others thought to see if I had the aptitude to follow in my uncle’s footsteps. We drove to Norris Farms, a huge feed lot near Havana, IL to look at cattle. George could estimate the weight of an animal to within 2-3 pounds. He quizzed me, “How much do you think that one weighs, Gilly?” “Oh, somewhere between a thousand and fifteen hundred,” I answered. My cousin Eric saw George soon after this trip. “I heard you’re going to make a cattle buyer out of Kent,” Eric asked him. “No. I don’t think I’ll live that long,” George replied.

Stories…We were sorting cattle at the barn one day, I was having a hard time keeping a head count. I asked my uncle for advice. “Count the feet and divide by four,” he joked!

Gene Stickman was one of the truck drivers and is a friend of mine. I recently spoke to him and he shared this one. Gene drove from Kansas City to Pittsfield with a load of feeder calves. He sat in a White Freightliner with a V-12 Detroit diesel. (think of a Ferrari truck, fast!). Gene made “good time” and called George to announce he had arrived in Pittsfield, at the barn. “You can’t be,” George said, knowing how much time it usually took. Sure enough, when George arrived, Gene and the load were waiting. “I can tell you must have gone fast because the first five rows of cattle had their ears pinned back and were wearing goggles,” said George.

Stories aside, Uncle George became an expert with cattle. He judged 12 consecutive American Royal Livestock Shows, the most prestigious show in the country. The equivalent of being asked to officiate 12 consecutive Super Bowls.

He wasn’t perfect. I’m told he played as hard as he worked. He got into some trouble in business dealings, I don’t know all the details. I was too young and just knew him as “Uncle George.” He bounced back to continue his work until he just couldn’t do it anymore. Age, and a broken hip, took him down.

Uncle George passed in August of 2014 at 88.

Uncle George and his siblings. Date unknown. Clockwise from lower left: Alvin “Bud”, Dorothy, June, Jean, Donnie, George.

Uncle George giving me my “birthday spanking.” January, 1971. His buyer card number for that day still in his pocket.

Ariel view of Saylor Livestock property. Circa early-mid 80s.

Uncle George’s obituary.

"Every Picture Tells a Story. Culture Club and Wrestling"

“Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.” That’s a quote from Oscar Wilde.

I began seeking out Rolling Stone magazine in the summer of 1975 to follow The Rolling Stones massive U.S. tour. I was 16 years old and packing a new, Minolta SRT 101 camera, beginning my quest to become a professional photographer. The photos of the tour by RS staff photographer Annie Leibovitz had a huge impact and influence on me. I became a big fan of her work, rightfully so. She was great. A genius with concepts.

Fast forward to June of 1984. A portrait of Boy George and Culture Club caught my eye on the cover of the magazine. It was Annie’s. “Oh, that’s kinda cool,” I thought to myself. “Great idea.” That portrait of the band stuck with me, in the back of my mind. What is it they say? Something about how we accumulate thoughts, ideas, etc, like lint.” The portrait became “photographic lint.”

If they are honest, I’d bet any photographer would tell you how they were influenced by another photographer along the way. By one or more “shooters” who came before them. The payoff, once one gains enough experience and develops their own style, is to learn that yourself influenced someone coming up behind you. Tom Grieger, who was the Director of Photography at The Daily Herald when I worked there, said, “There’s nothing new under the sun. Everything has been shot. It’s all about how you make it look new again.” I can speak only for myself, I have never meant to directly steal an idea, but I have certainly emulated some.

Fast forward again, to December of 1991. I was working at The Daily Herald at its bureau in Lisle, IL in DuPage County. The paper was making a huge push to increase circulation in a rapidly growing area. The prep sports department in DuPage was second to none, strong! The editors “turned the dogs loose” in terms its use of photography. Photos got huge play, which photographers love.

Waubonsie Valley High School in East Aurora was in the circulation area. I was dispatched to photograph three brothers, all wrestlers, for the high school. I arrived, was taken to the practice area, was introduced, and we began working. I can’t remember for sure, but I believe I was told in advance that the story and photos would lead the section. I knew I had to come up with something better than usual. “Do the best you can and don’t screw up,” we used to joke. “Failure is not an option, we can’t publish excuses,” Mr. Grieger would say. Both quotes rang in my head.

I had time to work with the brothers. We tried few things. I did not have any wireless flash triggers back then, but I did carry three Nikon SC-17 cords in my camera bag. Flash cords, which enabled one to shoot with off camera flash. One end attached to the hot shoe of the camera, the the other to the flash. By tethering the three together, I could place a flash on a stand (or have someone hold it) 6-10 feet away. I also had a couple of Wein Peanut slave units (triggers a second flash when the first one fires)

At some point in the session, Annie’s Culture Club portrait came back to me. The brothers were good-natured and went along with the idea when I showed them what I had in mind. I placed the oldest brother in the position to put his younger siblings in the “headlock,” something synonymous with wrestling.

The primary light was the one with the cords, using a piece of cardboard to bounce and soften the light. The second light (with the peanut slave) was placed to the right, one stop brighter and with no bounce, to give the accent light on the hair and cheek of the older brother.

Joe Bush wrote the story. And there you have it.

The Quintanilla brothers. Waubonsie Valley High School wrestlers. From December 1991

The portrait that influenced me to make the wrestling photo. PHOTO CREDIT: Annie Leibovitz/Rolling Stone magazine.

"Concert Flashback. .38 Special"

January 10th, 1980. 46 years ago. Stages Nightclub in Granite City, Illinois.

Granite City sits across the Mississippi from downtown St. Louis. Stages was, as I recall, in an industrial area, not a lot around it. A basic building in a gritty neighborhood. It opened in the 70s and gained a reputation as a stop off venue for local, regional, and national acts who may have had an open night while passing through. An up and coming artist named John Cougar (later Mellencamp) played there in August of 1979. I wasn’t at that one, but did see him open for The Kinks a month later in Macomb.

Stages was a square building with a large lobby just inside. The show area had an open floor, the stage was chest high, and a balcony with seats and tables hung from at least three sides. I believe the wall behind the stage was open. I’d guess the capacity to be a few hundred.

I first saw .38 Special when they opened for Peter Frampton on August 2nd, 1977 at Kiel Auditorium in St. Louis. Both artists were on A&M Records and .38 Special had released its debut album in May of that year. Leading off for Frampton gave them exposure. They were “Southern rock” with a softer, more commercial sound than most of the bands of that genre at the time. They were credible and good. A six member group, with two drummers. They also had a lead singer with the last name of… Van Zant. Donnie Van Zant, a younger brother of the late Ronnie, who had been the lead singer and songwriter of Lynyrd Skynyrd.

By January of 1980 they were touring to promote their third album, “Rockin’ Into the Night”, which was released in October of 1979. They were often headliners by then, gaining moderate success as they progressed. Guitarist Don Barnes had begun sharing lead vocals on the third album, including the title track. They were becoming almost too polished, and always did lack the writing skills of the older Van Zant. But with the opportunity to catch them in a tiny club…With camera in tow, thee I did go.

I made arrangements for press credentials. I wrote occasional stories and reviews, with photos, for The Prairie Sun, a free newspaper that was distributed by Co-op Tapes and Records, which were regional music stores. The paper was music oriented, with some other entertainment copy at times.

It was my first trip to Stages. I found it, went inside, and settled in. One camera, three lenses, and a handful of slide film. There was no photo pit or barrier. I’d be working directly under the stage, with free access to roam anywhere else in the room. I don’t recall a huge crowd but I do know the opening band was Candy. They are completely forgettable.

I was making photos and loose notes, but don’t have a full set list. They covered a mix of material from those first three albums, the energy good, Van Zant wore a black hat, much like the “trademark” lid his older brother sported.

When the show was over… I had not been granted any promises and hadn’t asked for any. There was no “backstage” area to speak of, but the “green room” was off/near the lobby. I knew they’d retreated in there, it was too tempting, and I summoned the courage to knock on the door.. Someone answered and came out, probably the road manager. told him I was doing a story, etc, “Would it be possible for me to talk to the guys,” The man excused himself, went back into the green room, and soon returned. “No questions about his brother,” was the lone stipulation. (Ronnie had been killed in the Lynyrd Skynyrd plane crash in October of 1977). I shook my head to affirm “no.” I hadn’t planned to ask anyway. This was about .38 Special. With that understanding, I was led into the room. Most of the band were milling around, having sandwiches and winding down. Guitarist Jeff Carlisi and Van Zant were seated on a sofa. I was invited to sit between them while we talked. Van Zant took off his hat and placed it on my head.

I asked some general questions about the band’s history The two guys were incredibly kind and patient. So generous in fact, that they had someone work up a ham sandwich for me. As we talked and ate, a joint made its way around too. One of them suggested we should get a photo of the three of us. Hell yeah, I was livin’ the dream! What a night for a 20 year old, aspiring photographer.

I was back at Stages soon after. This time for Rick Derringer on February 17th. In between .38 Special and Derringer, another band played Stages on January 24th. I knew of them, had their their first two albums, and liked them a lot. They were ascending fast, I just didn’t want to make three lengthy trips in such a short time, figuring I”d catch them later on somewhere. It was a poor decision. When the they released their third album in October of 1980, they exploded to super-stardom. The band I passed on seeing in that small club was The Police.

.38 Special lead singer, Donnie Van Zant at Stages Nightclub. January 10th, 1980.

With Jeff Carlisi, left, and Donnie Van Zant after the .38 Special show.

The masthead for The Prairie Sun. I worked as the Macomb, IL correspondent.

"Every Picture Tells a Story. Floor Scramble"

The Macomb-Western Holiday Basketball Tournament begins tomorrow. Quick research shows it began in 1946. For as long as I’ve been aware, it’s been a three day tourney, beginning soon after Christmas, with a lot of very good Class A teams playing in Western Hall on the campus of Western Illinois University. It’s a well-run tournament.

As the photographer for the Macomb Daily Journal, I covered four of them. Throw in one more when I shot for The Pike Press (Pittsfield, IL), and one as an independent shooter.

While working a the Macomb paper (1983-1986), there were several teams within the circulation area. A lot of time was spent in Western Hall, covering those teams, which was fine by me because of my love of photographing sports. The atmosphere was good, the energy high, right after Christmas. With Pittsfield often playing in the tourney, it gave me the chance to see a lot of friends who made the drive from Pittsfield to Macomb to watch the games. Western Hall was well-lighted and a good place to work.

The Macomb High School Bombers were the local team, and they were usually part of the tourney. During my tenure at the paper, one of the star players was Matt Margenthaler. He was very good, and it may have been in his genes. His dad Jack Margenthaler, was the head coach of the Western Illinois University Leathernecks basketball team at this time. Both father and son approached the game with intensity.

I’m not sure what year this photo was made, but I can tell you the circumstances around it.

Normally, my “go to spot” to photograph basketball is sitting on the court, along the baseline of the court, on the right side of the basket. I prefer the right side because more players are right-handed than left-handed. Working from the right side leaves less chance that a player will block their own face with their arm if they going up for a shot.

With a three day tournament, covering 2-3 games per day, I don’t want every photograph looking the same. I scout for other positions to work from to keep the angle different and fresh. For a Macomb Vs. Brown County game, I decided to plop my butt down along the sideline, still on the playing surface near the mid-court line, across the floor from the benches. Space was tight but “doable,” I was inches from live territory.

These were also the “early days” of my career. I had one camera body, three lenses, and NO motor drive. Making a photo was a two step process. Press the shutter for one photo, move the camera from your face to glance down and cock the shutter lever to the next frame, then make the next picture. No keeping the camera to your eye, no burst of photos from the automatic film advancement a motor drive provides.

At some point during this game there was a scramble for a loose ball, and it nearly happened in my lap! Margenthaler and a player from the Brown County (Mt. Sterling, IL) Hornets were involved. I was using a 105mm 2.5 lens on at the time and made this shot. ONE frame. It’s close to full frame, meaning not much cropping. They were that close. It’s not perfect, in that there is “dead space” at the top right. But the intensity and concentration on Matt’s face, combined with the entanglement of the leg and arm (looks like there may even be some motion blur), made this one a “keeper” back then.

Macomb High School’s Matt Margenthaler scrambles for a loose ball in the Macomb-Western Holiday Basketball Tournament. (Circa 1983-1986)

"Christmas Eve. The Great Escape"

If you read this one, you’re in the majority. Only a tiny fraction of my friends and family know this story.

Christmas Eve, not sure of the year., it was 1970 or 1971. I was 11 or 12, spending a lot of time with one of my junior high classmates, Donnie Bradburn. Donnie had attended East Grade School, I’d gone to South Grade School, but when the primary schools combined at Higbee Junior High School, we found each other through common interests and occasional mischief, nothing terrible.

Example. Donnie lived near the two lumberyards in our hometown of Pittsfield. The two of us would make a game of it to see if we could scale the fences and get into the lumberyards undetected during business hours, then climb around on the boards and materials and get up into the catwalks and rafters and play around. Sometimes there was success, sometimes a worker would spot us. “Hey, Donnie.” We weren’t harming anything and they never got too excited. Like Tom and Huck, we were just looking for adventure.

I’d watched “The Dirty Dozen” with dad. The World War II movie with a great story line and cast. It remains one of my favorite movies of all time. Towards the end, the dozen and the officers are all together, meticulously planning their attack on the chalet where the Germans are staying. Plans made, down to the minute. I guess that movie inspired me and I pitched an idea to Donnie.

Why not two pals, sneak out of their homes (completely across town from each other), on Christmas Eve, and meet up “somewhere in the middle.” I think the plan was finalized in Mr. Boyd’s science class just before break. I wrote my itinerary down on notebook paper. We’d synchronize our watches and leave our houses at the same time to meet up at a random location, the west stall of the car wash at the Deep Rock gas station between Dutton and Mississippi Streets near downtown. From my house, 7/10ths of a mile.

Donnie had the logistical advantage. His bedroom had a window that exited onto a low roof. Next to the roof was a tree. Escape was easy. Many times prior, when I did a stay over at Bradburns, we’d shimmy down that tree to prowl the streets of town, doing nothing more than just running around.

Our house was a ranch. No easy way out. However, I had a “boy cave” in the basement, complete with a full-sized bed. With relatives visiting for Christmas, I'd be sleeping there while my room was for an aunt and uncle. That’s what gave me a “window of opportunity,’ literally, to pull it off. Under the family room was a crawlspace. Two windows led outside from there. A third window, just above the deep freeze in the laundry room, led to the crawlspace… I’d quietly get out of bed, hope I could get into the laundry room without a pair of doors that separated the main basement room from the laundry room, from creaking too much. Then put on a pair of pre-stashed, dark coveralls, and use the deep freeze as my step ladder. Go through the first window, belly crawl through the dirt (just like soldiers), then exit the second window I had unlatched earlier that day as it opened outward. There had been the possibility of dad, sleeping downstairs with me that night, but I was going to try it anyway,, looking to make sure he was asleep! “Check on dad,” read one of the entries on the time frame. He wound up sleeping upstairs, making it much easier for me.

Am not recalling our “go time,” maybe 9 p.m. as Christmas Eve was usually early to bed. was usually to bed. The adults stayed up, had their adult beverages, and talked by the fireplace. It was certain they’d still be awake while I was sneaking out, the crawl space was directly under where they were. Any noise or mistake and I’d be “captured by the Germans.”

I made it out! It wasn’t terribly cold, and there was no snow that year, making it easy to begin dashing through the shadows of yards, away from street lights. Up Clinton Street to Grant Street, then east, where I used the south side lawns. Then cutting diagonally on Sycamore near Chuck Yeager’s house to Fayette Street. From there, it was only three or four blocks to the car wash. I’d made it on time. I crouched in the southeast corner of that west bay, waiting for Donnie.

It was Christmas Eve quiet. Only a car or two, but I felt like the headlights may have shined on me as I stayed still and down. It spooked me. Waiting for no more than 10 minutes, it became clear that Donnie was not going to show. Retracing my route, almost step for step, and getting back into the house undetected, I’d done it, though the rendezvous didn’t happen. There had been no plan for what we might do if we did meet, we just wanted to see if we could “get by with it.”

I almost did until…That piece of paper I’d printed the timeline on… When it came time for mom to do laundry, guess what she found in the hip pocket of a pair of my jeans?

It was probably a week or so after Christmas, mom and dad summoned me, sat me down and presented the paper. I was stunned. Questions were asked, “Why,” “What’s this check on dad part?” “What were you going to do?” I don’t think they’d have believed me if I had told them it was all inspired by a war movie. “Did you do it,” they wanted to know. Of course I lied (something dad detested and rightfully so). “No,” I convinced them, it didn’t happen. That pretty much was the end of it. At 66, I shudder to think of the consequences if I’d been caught! It was extremely daring of me. Neither parent ever learned the truth. Donnie, of course, would remember the story, and there may be six or seven friends who have heard it.

The Dirty Dozen found success with its mission, but only one made it out alive. Thankfully I’m still here. If I’d been caught by dad, I’m not so sure you’d have read this blog.

Christmas night, 1970. Dad indulges in a game of electric football with me.

"2008 Fatal Fire"

Tom Baughman was a retired Galesburg firefighter. We lost Galesburg lost him a couple of weeks or so ago. Suddenly and sadly. “Baughie” was a friend to all he knew. If you knew him you know what a great guy he was.

Through my work for the Galesburg Register-Mail I got to know many firefighters and police officers. I remember Tom for as long as I’ve been in this area, 28 years. A fond memory is of Tom and his son Brandon, standing at the Hy-Vee grocery store on National Blvd, ringing the bell for the Salvation Army at Christmas time. Tom in his Turnout gear, Brandon, a little boy at the time, in his own, “junior sized” outfit, a mirror of his dad.

At the news of his passing, I thought of the times I might have interacted with him at fire scenes. There were many, but one in particular came to mind. “I think Tom was the lead photo in that double-fatal duplex fire I covered,” I thought to myself. My “photographic” memory was spot on. That fire was 17 years ago today, December 16th, 2008. A father and son perished that day, it was tragic.

We probably learned of the fire from the police scanner in the newsroom. Available, I bolted out the door to the address. Susan Kaufman, a reporter, close behind. It was snowing and cold, and the structure, a duplex, was fully involved when we arrived. Firefighters hadn’t been there long, and it wasn’t too long before we heard reports there may be people inside.

Allowed to do my thing, with full access, I made photos and kept moving while maintaining a safe distance and keeping out of the way of the guys. Susan worked by observing and talking to officials who were on the scene but not actively battling the fire. There was a flurry of activity and urgency. Susan and I maintained contact with the newsroom and I recall someone, I think it was editor Rob Buck, coming to the scene to pick up some camera cards to take back to the office so we could get an early jump on the coverage.

The people who lived in the adjoining side of the building were on site, or came home to find the scene. As time passed, a relative or friend of those inside, arrived and had to be restrained by a police officer. I saw concern and frustration in the faces of the firefighters through the camera. It became clear there would be no rescue that day. The circumstances were about as terrible as they could be. Firefighters are a brotherhood, they take it personally when someone is lost.

Eventually, the fire was knocked down and put out. The “10-79 call” had been put in to notify the coroner, they arrived. The fury of action subsided, it was all but quiet except for radio transmissions from the trucks.

When it came time to remove the victims, I could sense I wasn’t as welcome at the scene as earlier. Not by any firefighters, but by a Galesburg police detective. Keeping a good distance, I made the photo I needed to help tell the story from the porch of a house next door. When the victims were gone, I was invited by, and escorted to, the side of the burned house by a firefighter. (it was not Tom Baughman.) We stood and talked, then he wandered off. Very quickly, I was approached by an Illinois State Police fire investigator who was not happy to see me that close to the house. “Hey! This is MY scene. Get away from there!” I believe the instructions came with a threat. Moving fast and immediately I did, but without explaining I’d been invited. No way was I gonna sell out the firefighter. The investigator didn’t know me that well. If he did, he would have known I would never have been so brazen and aggressive to walk right up to the window of that house. I was already “gun shy” from the exchange with the police detective. There was no need to push it, I knew I had what I needed. I know the investigator, he’s a nice guy. It has been my intention for years to tell him what happened that day, without naming the firefighter.

I hadn’t viewed these photos in years. It was Tom’s passing that made me think to dig them out and check my memory. I was especially struck by the terrible irony of the child’s “fire rescue” helmet. I think the photos tell the story of the day, but there was/is no reward in making them. I doubt there’s a photojournalist alive who “enjoys” covering stories like this. I’d much rather have photographed cute kids running through water sprinklers. But life isn’t always unicorns, jumping over rainbows. Sometimes it’s really harsh. The job of a photojournalist is to document.

Galesburg firefighter Tom Baughman.

A Galesburg firefighter works a structure fire on December 16th, 2008.

Galesburg police officer Steffanie Cromien with the occupants of the adjoining side of the duplex.

Galesburg firefighter Dan Foley yells at a structure fire.

I’m pretty sure this is firefighter Tom Simkins.

Work gloves at the scene.

Galesburg firefighter Stephen Labbe.

Galesburg police officer Steffanie Cromien restrains a woman who arrived at the scene.

A Galesburg firefighter attaches a fresh air tank to Mike Whitson.

Mike Whitson, left, and Dan Foley.

Burned items near the duplex.

Firefighter Mike Whitson, left, and Galesburg police detective Damon Shea.

Galesburg firefighter Scott Benson.

One of two victims removed from the structure.

Dewey Brackett, left, and Justin Moffitt.

"Every Picture Tells a Story. Mallory Square Musician"

It was the second weekend in December, 2001. Key West, Florida. By choice, chance, and fluke that I found myself there. The original plan was for a “four day weekend” to San Antonio, Texas in 2000, to explore the city, the River Walk, etc. I’d never been, and believed it would be a “warm welcome” as winter settled in the Midwest. Airfare was purchased, etc. When the time came to travel, I found myself without enough “walking around money” to go. The trip was scrapped and I sat on those plane tickets for a year.

Now with enough cash to take a proper trip, I learned the difference for the airline tickets had grown too much in a year to go to Texas. Where to go for less money, but be warm? Someone suggested Key West. Sounded good to me. I’d fly down on Friday, come home on Monday.

A rental car awaited in Miami, a Mitsubishi convertible. I had no agenda or schedule. It was me, a duffel bag large enough to hold my tent, sleeping bag, and enough clothes for four days, and, of course, one camera body, a Domke bag full of lenses and a few rolls of film. Wanting to travel as light as possible, a conscious choice was made to not take a flash.

Meandering south with the top down. (The only time the top was up was for a 20 minute rain shower). It was a great run, down through the northern keys. It was all very foreign to me. I stopped when I wanted. For photo ops, food, etc. I remember mispronouncing Conch to a waitress. Driving on until I found a campground at/near Big Pine Key. That would leave me 30 miles from Key West, where I knew things would be more expensive.

After setting up camp, it was on to Key West to see what it was all about. I liked what I found. During the course of Friday evening and Sunday evening, most of the time was spent there, taking in most or all of the “touristy things” The marker at the southern most location in the continental U.S., a tour of Hemmingway’s home (cats were everywhere on the property), climbing the steps of the lighthouse…. Chickens roamed the streets, people were friendly, and it was pretty visual. Photos were easy to make.

Walking, exploring, and photographing. Making time to duck into a bar for a drink. One of them had live music, a man on guitar on a stage, playing what he knew, and taking requests. He was also inviting people to come up and sing. Alone, with no one to embarrass myself in front of, and with just enough “liquid courage” in me, I shouted out “Illegal Smile” by John Prine. The musician knew the song and called me to the stage. Nervous, I missed my cue to begin singing, forgot some lyrics, I was always coming in behind the chords and verses. I really sucked, but it was fun.

It also happened to be the weekend of the Lighted Boat Parade, or “Venetian Night”, as I heard it called. I did not know of this when the weekend to visit was chosen, it was bonus. Boats of all sorts, done up in Christmas lights, moving slowly through the water off the key. A Christmas parade on water. The only film I had was Fujichrome 100, shutter speeds were super slow in the dark. I panned with the boats the way I panned with race cars. It generally worked.

The “must see or do” thing on Key West is to take in the Sunset Celebration at Mallory Square. Arts and crafts, street performers, food carts… It’s a nightly event, year round (I think). People gather to watch the entertainment, have a drink, grab a bite, and watch the sun set into the waters of the Gulf. I saw jugglers, a high wire walker, and a little dog, jumping through hoops of fire. A huge cruise ship was docked nearby.

But it was a man playing a guitar that got my attention. Besides the guitar, he had a variety of other devices attached to himself that he could use for other sounds. Whistles, percussion, etc. He also had props. Troll dolls, an American flag, he was attracting a pretty good sized audience. I can remember at least one song he played. “One More Cup of Coffee” by Bob Dylan.

The issue was, once again, light. The sun was beautiful but low. I was using a 105mm lens with the aperture close to wide open. It wasn’t enough. I had to set the shutter speed to 1/30th at best, but I recall 1/15th and possibly 1/8th. Too slow to stop the action for a sharp photo. There would likely be motion blur. I found myself wishing I’d brought that flash!

Not willing to burn up a roll of film for one shot, I made approximately 10 frames, holding as steady as possible. Maybe a couple of shots would be acceptable. When the film came back from processing, all but one frame were too blurry or had flat lighting to be a keeper.

But that one frame… It became obvious. During one of my longer exposures, some other tourist with a camera, had made their picture at the EXACT moment my shutter was open. And they had used a flash! Their flash provided the perfect fill for my exposure. And because their light was away from my camera, the quality was perfect. The result was a mixture of blur, stop action, and color. A stranger’s camera and pure luck timing, created a decent frame.

And that’s the story of this picture.

Street musician at Mallory Square. Key West, Florida, 2001

"Bears, Packers, Vikings, Oh My"

It’s one of the biggest, most-storied rivalries in the NFL. Two teams, in cities within driving distance of each other, each much different. The Chicago Bears rank third in market size in the league. The Green Bay Packers, are at the bottom of the list. The Packers, in fact, are the smallest major league professional sports team in North America.

Fans for both teams are loyal. When they meet (and because they are in the same division it’s twice a year) it’s a big deal. They will meet for the 211th time, Sunday in Green Bay, at Lambeau Field.

As a former staff photographer for The Daily Herald and National Sports Daily, I’ve been fortunate enough to cover the rivalry a “few” times. With the Packers, in two Wisconsin cities. I use “few” because I’m not sure how many games between the two I worked at Soldier Field in Chicago, but I’ve been to Lambeau twice, and old County Stadium in Milwaukee once (Packers vs. Vikings). The Wisconsin games are memorable.

I’m 99.9% certain my first visit north was September 25th, 1988. It was my second fall at the Daily Herald and I’d gained enough experience and trust to cover a road game. Newspapers had big budgets in those days. We’d send 2-3 photographers to home games, and one shooter for away games. More, if it was a playoff contest. How well were papers doing, you ask? I flew from O’Hare to Green Bay on United Express, the regional carrier. Flying to Green Bay and back in one afternoon…I saw air fare receipts for as much as $700-$800. The Herald could have taken photos off the wire from the Associated Press or United Press International, but it was a “pride thing.” Papers wanted exclusive photos, and the goal was to out shoot the competition.

The man sitting beside me on the flight WAS the competition. Ed Wagner of the Chicago Tribune. Eddie was one of three ace sports photographers for the Trib. He was a great guy. He could tell jokes all day. And he’d pretty much covered it all. Stuff of legend. He called people “kiddo” whether they were older or younger than himself. I picked it up from “Wags” and use the term to this day. Eddie had one bad eye but would routinely get “the shot”. During the flight I shared my excitement that this was the first time I’d traveled for the Herald. He picked up on that and we chatted away, talking about sports photography and the paper industry. He must have had access to a crystal ball. Without any tone of discouragement at all, I remember him saying at some point, “Let me tell ya kid. Open a hot dog stand.”

As a boy I was a huge Packers fan. From about 1964-1969. Yet walking into Lambeau that day, there was no time (and I was too nervous) to gaze around and soak in all the history. In which end zone did Bart Starr make the quarterback sneak to win the “Ice Bowl” in 1967? I don’t know to this day. I need to go up and take a tour sometime. It IS a cool stadium with great atmosphere.

I worked the game, made the flight home, got back to the office, processed film (we were using color transparency film then), and an editor and I chose which photos to publish. I had a good day, so did the Bears. They won 24-6.

The second trip across the state line was October 28th, 1990. This was a job for The National Sports Daily, and I drove from Chicago to Milwaukee for a game between the Packers and Vikings at County Stadium. The Packers played one game a year in Milwaukee for many years. My work for that game wasn’t just football action. I was specifically instructed by the editors in New York to get plenty of photos of Vikings placekicker, Donald Igwebuike. Word was out he was in legal trouble. Sure enough, he was indicted soon after for assisting in smuggling heroin. He was acquitted in April of 1991.

It was a warm, sunny fall day. What made County Stadium unique was both team benches being on the same side of the field. There were 2-3 stadiums in the 1960s that implemented this set up, County Stadium was the last to do so. At all NFL stadiums (at least back then) photographers could roam anywhere we wanted, either sideline, the end zones, etc., BUT were not allowed beyond either the 30 yard line. The bench area and behind it was strictly off limits except for TV and the team photographer. To move from one end to the other, we had to “funnel” our way through a tight area at Solider Field. For this game in Milwaukee, we could work the entire length of the field. It was super nice! The Packers last game at County Stadium was in 1994. The experience for me that day was literally once in a career.

It was back to Lambeau one more time. The National Sports Daily had folded and I had returned to The Daily Herald. It was the Bears at Packers again and the date was October 25th, 1992. The Daily Herald had begun to use color negative film by then.

Sitting at the gate in O’Hare, waiting to board the plane to Green Bay, I glanced over a few feet to see… Packers legend Paul Hornung! He had been “The Golden Boy” for the Packers for many years. #5 was, and is, one of the most beloved players to wear green and gold of all time. He got tangled in gambling scandal in 1963 which tarnished his reputation for awhile, but he was all but forgotten by most. I sat there studying him, he was reading a newspaper. It was a gambling publication! I am NOT making this up.

I couldn’t resist the chance to approach greatness, but waited until we boarded. And I decided not to stroke his ego by talking about him, but by asking about Jerry Kramer, who had been my favorite Packer. It worked, he looked mildly put off. “I don’t know, I think he (Kramer) is still ranching in Montana,” Hornung responded. It would not be my last encounter with Hornung that day.

As always and before, it’s all business. The pressure to produce is there. Not much time to gawk or socialize. looking. Working the game, not enjoying it as spectators. There were some good moments and good action during the four quarters. The Bears won 30-10. How I performed would be determined when the film was processed that evening, upon my return to the paper.

I was parking my rental car at the airport when another car arrived in the same vicinity. I watched as it moved closer. Rather than fully negotiate the lot, it jumped a curb and parked three or four spaces from me. Who gets out of the car but… Paul Hornung and Dick Butkus. Apparently, they’d crossed paths at the game and shared a ride to the airport. They looked at me as to determine whether I was a threat to turn them in, scold them, or whatever. They looked like kids who’d been caught with their hands in the cookie jar. I grinned at them and we all went about our business. It was a cool moment.

Normally it would be a photo editor or senior photographer who would wait in the office to help the returning photographer with processing, editing, and getting prints to the sports department. For whatever reason (probably because no one wanted to work late on a Sunday) my co-worker, Daniel White, was on board to assist, and he was great. In most cases, one photo would be chosen for the front of the news section, one for the front of the sports section, and (my day included) a handful of photos would be saved and devoted for a full “picture page” a day or two later. I’d had a decent day at Lambeau. A full page ran on the following Tuesday.

The Bears were 2-0 when I photographed at Lambeau. I’ll be home and warm on Sunday. I’m calling for a Packers win.

P.S. In this digital age it is possible to save (literally) every frame we make. In the “film days,” most of us kept only the VERY best, portfolio worthy negatives. Everything else was retained by the publication. What you see here is what I felt was the best of the best of my film (or newspaper tear sheets) I have zero material from that game at County Stadium, and that’s a real shame. I blame myself for not making a few frames showing the context of both benches on one side of the field.

Dennis McKinnon makes a catch during my first game in Green Bay. September 1988.

Tom Waddle drags a Packer along for the ride. My second time to work in Lambeau, 1992.

Bears Vs. Packers, 1992

Bears Vs. Packers, 1992

Bears Vs. Packers, 1992

Bears Vs. Packers, 1992 (caption is included with next photo)

Bears Vs. Packers, 1992. (second caption accompanies previous photo)

Photo page of my work from Bears Vs. Packers, 1992

"Every Picture Tells a Story. IHSA Football Playoffs"

We’re into the football playoff season here in Illinois. There are now eight classes, based on school enrollment. It’s “win or go home” this time of year, with communities across the state, turning up the volume on home town pride and school spirit. It’s a good atmosphere.

I can’t remember the last time I photographed a playoff game, but there have been many over the years. Smaller schools when I worked in Macomb and Galesburg. A mixture of both when I worked in the Chicago Suburbs.

This one is from 1984 and was taken in Hamilton, IL when I worked for the Macomb Daily Journal. I was one year into my job as the sole staff photographer. Sports reporter and editor, Joe Stevenson, and I made the drive west to the small town along the Mississippi River, across from Keokuk, IA. Hamilton was on the fringe of the paper’s coverage area, but the football team had a good year and was rolling in the playoffs. Now one game away from playing for the state championship. All they had to do was beat the visitors from Casey, IL

I’m sure the pressure increases on the athletes in the playoffs. I can tell you for sure that it does for photographers. The approach is still the same, capture the action. But it becomes more important than ever to capture key moments and plays that define the game and tell the story, win or lose.

In the end, it’s almost always jubilation or dejection that will wind up being the “lead”, most story-telling image.

As an 11 year old, and a huge Dallas Cowboys fan, the Baltimore Colts broke my heart when they beat the Cowboys on a field goal with 5 seconds remaining in the Super Bowl. When Sports Illustrated landed on our doorstep, I was struck by a photo of Mel Renfro, sitting all by himself on the bench. I am not sure who took the photo, but would bet it would be one of the aces in those days at the magazine. I’m embarrassed I don’t know, and I DID look! That photograph, showing the isolation and dejection, became sort of a benchmark for me. I was a long way from becoming a photographer, but I never forgot that photo.

Fast forward, 13 years later. I was a professional photographer working a game at Hamilton High School. It either had rained hard, or was raining during the game, I don’t remember. But the field was a muddy mess. Things did not go well for the Cardinals (Hamilton). I did my job and tried to capture good action. Near the end, Casey was ahead 22-0, I knew I’d be looking for dejection, not “jube.”

I’ve joked that it’s easier to cover dejection than jubilation because no one is running around. Most sit or stand in silence. But it’s also more awkward. At the local level, bonds and friendships are formed and it’s hard to photograph young people after a defeat. I can remember a handful of times when I’ve been scolded, given the “stink eye”, or had someone actually try and block me from doing my job. That doesn’t play well with me. I have a job to do, though I’d much rather be making “happy” photos.

With my attention now turned towards the sideline and bench, and full of courage, ambition and determination, I made the choice of putting myself “right in there” and use a wide-angle lens rather than a short telephoto. The 24mm lens had become a valuable tool to use. I loved that lens.

Crouching or kneeling, I got down and within a couple of feet of two players. I distinctly remember that not a word was exchanged, no threats, verbal or physical gestures, were made. Those kids ignored me or looked right past me. You can see the coach in the background at right, sort of giving me a sideways glance. But there were no real issues at all. I’m pretty sure it was the “lead” photo for the story. I had made what might have been the first “portfolio worthy” sports dejection photo.

Technically…. The photo is a bit flat. Slightly underexposed. As “muddy” as the field. On gray days, it’s best to avoid the sky as it “washes out.” I over-burned (a technical term) the sky in trying to bring in detail. (This photo is from a print, not a scan.)

The names of those two players are in the caption, taped to the back of the board. I wonder where they are now? I’m sorry they lost the game, but I am happy they let me do my job that day.

The photo from a 1984 football playoff game involving Hamilton High School.

The caption on the back of the matte board.

The photo from Sports Illustrated of Mel Renfro that had a huge impact on me. (Photographer unknown. I DID look)

"Every Picture Tells a Story. Haunted House"

This one comes from the fall of 1979 when I was working for The Pike Press, my hometown paper in Pittsfield, IL The weekly publication had a solid, good reputation in serving Pike County and the region.

My connection to the paper ran deep. My Aunt Betty Kriegshauser (dad’s sister) once worked there and had some stock in the ownership. It was time spent with her that accelerated my interest in photography. Watching prints “magically” come to life in the developer tray of the darkroom was cool. The whole process was. Before mom would let me buy my first SLR camera, I was loaned an old Rolleiflex from the paper, to use just to make sure my interest wasn’t a passing fancy.

Al Seiler was, and had been, the editor and publisher for as long as I remembered. Aunt Betty worked for and with him. There was a cast of people who had been there a long time. A true team, taking pride in the content and product.

I’d bombed out of SIU Carbondale that past spring. Even flunking a history of photography class due to lack of interest because the professor was an insufferable, egotistical asshole. SIU wasn’t all for naught, however. I’d also been a staff photographer for The Daily Egyptian, the student paper, and I learned a lot from working with a group of guys who were a lot better than I was at that point. One of their tips was… Get rid of Minolta stuff and go with Canon or Nikon.

I decided to take a break from college, get my act together, hang around home, and find work of some type. The Pike Press found room for me, now equipped with a Nikon FM body and three lenses. A 24mm 2.8, a 35mm 2.0, and a 105mm 2.5.

This photo… I was dispatched to make a promotional photo for a Jaycee’s haunted house that would operate around Halloween season. I think it was out on West Perry Street. A rundown structure that had not been occupied for awhile. No one told me how to compose or what to do. I didn’t know what I’d have to work with until I got there.

I probably tried a few things. I was not very good at staging or directing, “setting it up” as we’d say in photojournalism speak. Later, when I worked for The Daily Herald, staging a photo was referred to as “monkifcation” or “monkifying” because we were told by a gruff newsroom editor, “Trained monkeys could do what you do.”

After a little time and exchange of ideas, I thought of using the 24mm. With the Minolta gear, the widest lens was a 50mm, and that’s not wide at all. The Daily Egyptian guys told me a 24mm was a must have. They were right. That lens opened up a whole new world for me. It forces you to work close, and it really accents the foreground from the background. It separates, especially at a shallow depth of field. When used close enough to the subject, it also can distort. PERFECT to make ghoulish figures look more ghoulish. We arranged some guys on the roof and brought two of the guys in the best costumes to the forefront.

And there you have it. Mr. Seiler and the staff loved it. A year or so later, I remember showing it to either Scott Dine or Larry Williams, at the St. Louis Post-Dispatch, during an informal interview and portfolio critique. The photo drew praise.

P.S. I’d forgotten to look to see if there was a caption on the back of the print. There is. It was indeed West Perry Street, not a bad memory after 46 years. I don’t know who all was present that day, but I’m 99.9% certain the one on the roof, in blue jeans, is Rick Miller.

Pittsfield Jaycees haunted house. 1979. I was working for The Pike Press.

"Robson Farms. The Final Harvest"

Harvest season is winding down. It’s a camera, not a combine, I use, but I’m observing more open fields than standing corn or beans lately. I’m told it’s a good crop this year. Spring planting, fall harvesting. A cycle for all farmers, some of them for generations.

Ten years ago, Wataga resident Michael Robson approached me, asking if I’d be interested in documenting a project for him and his family. I’ve known Michael from my very first days in Galesburg as a photographer at the Register-Mail newspaper. Michael was the athletic director at Galesburg High School. He and his two brothers, David and Dan, were sons of a farmer. Their father, John, was a second generation, maybe third generation, farmer. It was not uncommon to spot John and his wife Chey at the local DQ on Thursday evenings.

Michael lives in the house his dad grew up in on the farm property, His mom and dad had built a ranch style home just across the fields. The two brothers live away from this area. All three men had found, or chosen, different career paths than their dad. At some point, everyone in the family knew the string would end with John.

The timeline moved up, not by choice, when health issues crept up on John. He was 83 years old in the fall of 2015 and had been going strong before.

Michael’s idea was for me to make trips to the farm at various times and days, and make photos of whatever was going on. They would be bringing in corn and soybeans with the help of hired hands, Dick Kelly and Larry Lytle. For four years previous to 2015, Michael was an integral player in the planting and harvest seasons, very involved in the farm operations.

I jumped at the chance to do the work. Stories are the backbone of photojournalism, a chance to expand. Greg Mellis, a friend, great photographer, editor, and now owner of a paper, said this. “I don’t care about singles (one photo), anyone can get lucky. I wanna see stories. They tell me how you think.” A typical story has a “lead” photo, a “closer", and a few in between. Detail shots are important too. In the newspaper business, a story was usually limited to four-six photos due to space. In the digital age, with galleries, space is unlimited. As a result, redundancy in content is a risk. “Every photo should tell you something different,” I’ve been told.

Michael and I communicated on when the best opportunities might be for photos. I had some ideas too, wanting to make sure I caught daylight and nighttime hours, key moments, etc. To tell the story!

The first day for photos was September 30th. I’d never met Dick or Larry before but jumped right in. All four men quickly grew comfortable with me around. The guys acted like I wasn’t around, which is exactly what a photographer hopes for, to capture real moments. There were staged portraits as well.

The further into the project, the more varied it became with situations and emotions. Larry and I were atop a grain bin when the wind blew his hat off his head. John once crouched down, mirroring and mimicking me as I had lowered myself for an angle of him near a combine. John and Micheal stood by a grain cart for me. The portrait was posed, the positioning was not. The cart brand was J&M, the initials of the father and son! In looking back, Michael has noted that in nearly all photos, Michael is walking to his dad’s left, and they are walking in near unison.

Every day, John drove his pickup truck across the fields to have lunch with Chey. I knew this could be a very important photo for the story. Realizing as well, that it was a private moment for the Robsons. A photographer is only as good as the access they are given. Access is earned by trust. I explained how much of lasting impact the photo would have. I sensed only a second of thought and hesitation before I was told I could follow John to the house. I worked quickly and quietly. I feel the story would be weaker without it. When Michael had books produced, allowing me to lay out the photos, I ran it across two pages of the book. A “double truck” it’s referred to in the publishing business.

The last day came. Dick and Larry were on hand, standing nearby, when Michael and his dad, both in the cab of the combine, took out the last of the corn. What we wound up calling “The Final Harvest” was complete.

John Robson passed away the following spring. His passing brought to mind coach Bear Bryant and Peanuts cartoon creator Charles Schultz, who died one day after the last cartoon strip published. A man has to have a sense of purpose. John Robson’s was farming. A slide show of many photos from the harvest played at his visitation, helping tell of John’s life.

Mrs. Robson and Larry Lytle have also passed since this project.

Seven trips and a combined 12 hours were spent at the farm. Just under 2,000 photos were made. Michael has told me many times, he’s so glad he had me do the project. It was an honor and privilege to work with five fine people.

Photos have SO much impact! It’s important to document and preserve memories. If you have a farmer, a butcher, baker, or candlestick maker in your life, I’d love to do more of these stories/projects.

“A picture’s worth a thousand words.” Below are 24 that tell the story better than I can.

Wataga, IL farmer John Robson in the fall of 2015. John is standing near his favorite location, able to see all points of the land.

One of the very first photos made for the project. From left, Larry Lytle, Dick Kelly, John Robson, and his son, Michael Robson.

Corn harvest.

John Robson operates a combine during the fall harvest of 2015.

Dick Kelly, Larry Lytle, and Michael Robson, from left.

Larry Lytle, left, and John Robson, during a coffee break.

Michael Robson in the kitchen of his home. A sketch of the farm hangs behind him.

John and Michael walk the property.

Soybeans in the early evening light.

Michael Robson takes his turn in the combine near sunset.

Work doesn’t stop when the sun does.

Mr. John Robson.

The hands and gloves of a farmer.

Michael walks with his father after John’s shift in the combine. It was lunchtime.

John and Chey Robson say Grace before lunch in their home.

Corn is emptied from a grain cart into an elevator grate.

John mimics the photographer, who had crouched for a lower angle as John got out of the combine.

John and Michael with a grain cart. Ironically, the brand name shares the initials of their first names.

A load of corn arrives from the fields.

Michael and John. Two generations of men and tractors.

Dick Kelly, left, and Larry Lytle stand nearby as Michael and John, run the combine through the last few rows of corn.

Michael and John harvest the last of the corn, completing the 2015 harvest at the Robson farm.

Michael Robson, left, and his father, John.

The last pair of boots and gloves of Wataga farmer John Robson

"Every Picture Tells a Story. WIU homecoming parade"

A quick one.

It’s “homecoming season.” High schools, colleges, and universities seem to use late September through mid-late October as the window for homecomings and the activities that come with the event. I photographed for Monmouth College last weekend, I believe Knox College celebrated the week before. Crisp air, fun times.

I went to Carbondale to see a Bob Dylan concert in the fall of 1978. Not only was it homecoming, it was Halloween weekend. 12,000 people, partying in the streets. I was attending Culver-Stockton College at the time. A small school, located in Canton, MO. I decided SIU was the place to be, transferred the next semester, attended, and pretty much bombed out.

This photo… After taking a year off, I wound up at Western Illinois University in Macomb, IL. Well on my way in wanting to beome a photojournalist, I was honing my photography skills. First, at the student newspaper, The Western Courier, then, The Sequel, the WIU yearbook.

My camera gear at that time was a Nikon FM body, a 24mm lens, a 35mm lens, and a 105mm lens. That’s it. No second body or long lenses. And NO motor-drive on the FM.

This is from 1982. I was covering the homecoming parade, standing on the north side of West Adams street near Lake Ruth. Right across the street from the WIU Alumni House. Floats and people were rolling by. The hill in front of the alumni house made for good viewing. Everything was routine until…

A guy broke from the crowd and jumped onto a cannon, being pulled along by the college ROTC department. He hung there, one arm draped over the barrel, his drink in the other hand, wild eyed. The move definitely livened things up!

The photo was made with the 35mm lens, the lens on the camera at the time. I’ve looked back on this moment and second guessed myself as to whether the 105mm lens would have tightend things up some. Again, I had no second body, and in the time it would have taken to change lenses the moment would have been gone. He wasn’t out there long. “Looser” might be better here. You can enjoy the reactions from those on the hill across the street. There is a lot going on, and to study. Too tight and you wouldn’t see the reactions.

The Tri-X negative of this frame is missing in action. All I have is one print, mounted to a matte board, with the caption taped to the back. Charlie Mueller is his name. Thankfully, the print is of decent quality, and, by golly, I was tack sharp on this one. With no negative, I don’t know how many frames I made. 1-3 at the most, having no motor-drive, I was cocking the shutter lever each time. It was truly “the moment”, as we say in photojournalism.

A frame from the 1982 WIU homecoming parade.

The caption, taped to the back of the matte board.