Recently, over at civics21.org, I wrote about the idea of hyperlocalism and history, or as local history blogger John Chilson described it to me, “microhistory.” This concept encompasses the bits and pieces of the past — the loose strings about the edges — that don’t often get encapsulated in the history books.

This intense and intimate scale interest in place — both in the traces of the past as well as the fingers of the present — is one of the aspects of photography that I am strongly drawn to. For me, photography really is a way to visually explore place, and the more tacticle the better.

The monuments, the vistas, the grand spaces, these have all been documented or interpreted countless times. As beautiful as the slopes of Mount Hood are, what more can I really add to the visual interpretations of that space, what can I contribute that has not already been said better? And no such photograph made by me will ever be able to transmit the holy beauty of that monolith.

However, in the common scramble of photographers to capture the big, the famous, the looming, the grand, we often have forgotten the corners of the world, the places that we pass by day-by-day, and which have so much story to tell if only we choose to listen.

Although such corners have always held a fascination for me, until discussin the idea of microhistory with John I had not really recognized that that was one of the threads to be found within my own visual work. Realizing this thread, however, has given me many new ideas to consider.

As a photographer, it always pays to be thinking about your photographs, even when you don’t have a camera about, and it pays too to talk to the people who know your subject matter, jsut as I did with John. It opens up your mind to new possibilities.

In American culture, the railroad is often viewed as a collection of marvelous technical feats, of brutish powerful locomotives hurtling thousands of tons of freight at great speeds. Beyond this technical and technological aspect, however, the railroad has always been a place of people, a machine sure, but a machine run by human beings. Thanks to social and technological changes, however, the railroad worker of today is no longer seen or heard from on a daily basis. Instead, they exist inside a closed, wholesale-side world, one that runs 24/7/365 but largely out of view of the public consciousness. Linda Niemann, a former brakewoman on the Southern Pacific, seems more adept than any other contemporary writer at cracking open this insular, often nocturnal world to outsiders. In Railroad Noir, Niemanns’s third book, she again plunges readers into the realms of the railroad world through a series of short non-fiction narratives, accompanied by the moody, pensive imagery of photography Joel Jensen.

Following the acknowledgements is a brief introduction shared between the writer Niemann and the photographer Jensen, primarily discussing how the book came into being after many years working together on articles. The book then launches into the heart of the matter, 20 stories or life on the railroad by Niemann. The first ten are each accompanied by a single opening image from Jensen in black-and-white. Following this group comes a gallery of 21 color images and a map of the Southern Pacific system, Neimann’s former employer. The map, though handy, seems slightly incongruous slapped down here in Jensen’s photos, and would have made more sense at one end or the other of the book. Next come two short stories that begin with color images, and then seven more stories accompanied by black-and-white photographs. One chapter, “Lord of the Night,” is accompanied by a photograph of an apparently ancient drawing of a Native American god; it is unclear whose photograph this is as it is not accompanied by a location, does not fit Jensen’s usual style or subject matter, and is not included in the publisher’s official count of photos in the book. A glossary of railroad terms rounds out the work.

Railroad Noir is essentially an anthology of Niemann’s stories. Some of these were printed previously as parts of her first book, Boomer, or in the pages of TRAINS Magazine (where they were likewise accompanied by the photos of Joel Jensen). Niemann’s writing is intense and often poignant as she tells tales of the hidden underclass who populate the railroad. Her personal landscape is made up of dry, dingy built spaces, vast and terrifyingly beautiful desserts, and windblown openness. This is not the ordinary America we all see and experience, but a private, clannish world, a refuge for the people who, as Niemann puts it, are “on the borders” of life. She is brutally honest and raw with her descriptions of her co-workers lives, from drug addiction to sexual problems and alcoholism. Niemann is no finger-wagger, however, and spends considerable time examining her own life with all of its flaws and mistakes. Yet at no time does Niemann come off as moralizing. She presents this world not without a judgement for or against it, but instead with a kind of documentarian’s sensibility. The railroad world and its inhabitants, to Niemann, are a microcosm of humanity that has value and should be recorded and understood. Her writing is both open and slightly sentimental, which only adds to the complexity and confusion over what to think of this part of society.

The pairing of the text with Jensen’s photos is very complimentary, as Jensen has a gritty loner’s eye that immediately makes the viewer feel like both an insider and an outcast. Images like “Mechanics on break” on page 62 or “Truck stop” on page 110 speak loudly of the isolation of this world view. More poignant, however, are the two images of railroad workers walking in the snow towards their motels, “Off duty” on page 70 and “Home away from home” on page 71. Both have an eerie, unearthly glow to them from a world lit only by off-color, man-made light. Beyond these pools of glow, in the blackness, there is, perhaps, another world out there sleeping, but if so it is one which the denizens of the railroad have no part or place in.

The format of the book is much like a photography book, not a book of text, and as a result it sometimes feels that there are not enough photos from Jensen. Beyond that, the book could also have benefitted from more images to help a fresh reader develop a better understanding of the tone of the world that Niemann is describing. As far as the text, Niemann continues to give us compellingly written stories of her time on the railroad. Occasionally, however, she delves into unusual side-jaunts away from the railroad — one such jaunt takes us with her to Mexico where she learns Spanish by immersion. It is only after a few of these narrative sidebars occur that the reasoning becomes clear: this is not a topical book about life on the railroad, but rather a memoir of someone who worked for and lived in the railroad world. In some ways, this limits the book, as an audience seeking a more topical focus might find these side-jaunts to be distracting. As a method of carrying forward a sense of authenticity, however, the decision to include these extra-railroad memories is quite effective. The title, however, remains deceptive: “Railroad Noir: The American West at the End of the Twentieth Century” does not very well convey that the book is, in fact, a highly personal biographical narrative. These are minor quibbles, however, and both the narrative and the images chosen are all top-notch work.

Fit and finish shows the book itself is a quality product. Photo reproduction looks to be good, and color is consistent and fresh. No image is spread across two pages, a stylistic choice that retains the power of most of the photos but at the price of displaying them rather small. The paper is solid and thick and should hold up well, but it also has an odd, rubbery feel to the fingers. The size of the book is moderate — its horizontal frame will fit on a standard shelf — but there are some odd quirks resulting from this format choice. Although this is basically a book of stories accompanied by some photographs, this size makes it inconvenient to take as a piece of travel reading. It is also not ideal to read in your lap in an armchair, or in bed. Despite the fact that it is a fairly small coffee-table book, a coffee-table book it remains, and it feels best to read it at a table. This is not exactly the most comfortable place to spend time getting lost in Niemann’s compellingly penned world.

Overall, Railroad Noir is an interesting book with some sophisticated photos and a moving set of narratives. Photographers may find the book a good addition to their collection, but this is not primarily a photography book and it is certainly not a pictorial aimed at a typical railfan market. The book should prove interesting to those with an interest the human and social sides of railroading as well as those who enjoy railroad literature. .

Railroad Noir: The American West at the End of the Twentieth Century is available from Amazon, Powell’s Books, as well as directly from the publisher.

This week, a friend picked up a copy of David Plowden’s retrospective, Vanishing Point, a book I once wrote a Russian-novel length review of here.

I’ve come to be a great admirer of Plowden. His photography is simultaneously straightforward yet lyrical. Unlike the works of, say, the New Topographics movement, Plowden’s work doesn’t imply a value judgement. Instead, the reaction provoked is more emotional, and is usually described as loss. He has famously described his career as a photographer as being “one step ahead of the wrecking-ball.”

What does that have to do with this image? Many things. The subject itself — Portland’s Guilds Lake industrial park — is slowly fading from its railroad industrial past. More significantly, this image is part of an in-progress series, an intentionally unromantic take on the railroad world. Yet, precisely by being intentionally unromantic, this image (and its series kin) become about loss too, the loss of the romantic viewpoint.

Maybe loss is integral to photography. Cameras, after all, have always held the promise of extending the moment, of being an external memory device. First steps. Birthdays. Weddings. Friends. You know the drill. You want to capture memories, preserve them before they, too, become victims of loss. And besides, entropy is not only a lot easier to find than growth, it is required to precede it: the first sign of newness is usually the sweeping away of something old.

And in the ultimate sense of Time’s irony, it’s barely possible to stay ahead of the wrecking ball anymore. The wrecking ball is going the way of, well, the wrecking ball.

Since I’ve discussed both David Plowden and the New Topographics, there are a few more things I should mention. First, the New Topographics exhibit is together again, and on tour. The closest it will get to the Pacific Northwest will be at the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art, starting in July. There’s also a new book out, and I strongly recommend it to anyone with an interest in landscape photography or critical photography. Second, Plowden has a book forthcoming this fall, Requiem for Steam from W. W. Norton. Keep an eye out for it.

Portion of NW 5th Avenue, Portland

Over the last few years, I’ve been working through a significant shift in my photography, and as a result I’ve been experimenting with a number of new techniques and ideas. One of those has been the notion of typologies.

Typologies are a photographic tool that owe much of their heritage to Twentieth Century photographers of the “New Topographics” movement, and they in turn to pop artists like Ed Ruscha. The idea, in brief, is to make a set of images that illustrate something in a classified way. Think of each photo as an illustration of a typical, repeatable element, much like a letter in an alphabet, and you get why it was known as a typology. Ruscha’s 1965 work, Every Building on the Sunset Strip, was perhaps a grandaddy to them all, documenting every building along a length of LA’s famed boulevard. It’s influence was far and wide, not just in photography circles but in urban planning and design. It did not surprise me in the least when I opened up a long-range planning document from last year to find an exact reproduction of Ruscha’s work, only in color and of Highway 99W.

With a strong interest in culture and place, the typology seemed like a natural way to investigate a story that has fascinated me for some time, the simultaneous decline of Portland’s historic Chinatown, and the rise of a new, more broadly Asian community on the far southeast side of town. I wondered to myself, has the new Chinatown along Powell, Division, and SE 82nd become larger than the old? Borrowing Ruscha’s idea and photographing the street fronts seemed like a logical choice.

It is moments like these where you learn that you are as much defined but what you do not do as by anything else. As soon as I beheld my hundred plus images of both old and new Chinatowns, something felt off. No image felt like it could stand on its own. The images themselves were straight documentary, sure, and I respect that ideal, but they were almost too documentary. They were without art, or more tellingly without thought.

What suddenly occurred to me was that there was almost no difference in the end product of my work and the end product of, well, Google Street View. Sure, I had higher pretensions, and I was freezing a specific moment forever. Oh, and I was using film — black-and-white film — which guaranteed that what I was doing was art, not just pedestrian photographic mapping for the masses. Right?

Or not.

Not long after this experience, I began a photography journal for myself. (I’ve made notes about photography endlessly over the years, but they were always scattered about my various notebooks, never in one specific place.) The first page of that journal I reserved for one short statement, a note to myself. It reads:

The sweeping view, the grand vista, the bird’s-eye perspective. These are all classic ways of shooting the city, of trying to capture the greatness on a metropolitan scale. Such perspectives have been the staple of urban photography since the medium was born in the mid-Nineteenth Century.

Once reformism shook up that genre around the turn of the century, however, it’s been far more in vogue to shoot critical images, photographs meant to provoke social change. While undoubtedly effective and necessary, they too have become a kind of cliche, raising decay to almost celebratory levels.

The two forces tug at my vision and my heart. I love cities, but I also value photography more than candy making. More and more, the tension caused by these two forces has resulted in a more personal take on the urban form, one that emphasizes that which can be touched, that which is intimate, and reduces the grand landscapes and the landmarks and monoliths of civilization to something more akin to context in a very personal quest for sense-of-place.

This image, of a vestigial neighborhood off Portland’s Interstate Avenue, is an example of that thought process, and represents for me a significant new direction in my photography. Or is it, perhaps, a direction that was lurking in my work for years and that only now I have come to recognize? Sort of like waking up one day and realizing that you are in love with a person, a place, or an idea?

Denman Street and the West End is a prime example of a place where the focus is not on tourism as much as on the local, as evidenced by the presence of — tada! — that novelty, the grocery store, along with a post office and lots of small inexpensive restaurants. This is everyday Vancouver. And — perhaps this will come as no surprise — I enjoyed it far more than touristy Gastown or the shops of Granville Street. Keep Stanley Park, keep the Harbour Centre viewpoint, keep the Olympic Village. It is here at the West End (as well as places like the Chinese streets of Richmond) where the authentic Vancouver can be felt.

At Kintaro, in Vancouver, B.C.’s West End, ramen is served up from a genuine Japanese-style ramen shop.

Sitting in Kintaro — a ramen shop on Denman — I found heaven. The little shop’s kitchen is hopping with two young Japanese men, holding up the tradition of this culinary genre. Both staff and clientele are young, which bodes well for the future of the shop. Indeed, the formula must be paying off, as there are two more ramen shops within a block’s distance, and a third a bit beyond that.

Ramen, gyoza, Heaven.

The noodles came tasty, swimming in a rich miso-based broth, and accompanied by the prerequisite slice of pork, hard boiled egg, and a mix of vegetables. I also ordered a plate of gyoza, succulent and hot. This is the real comfort food, the way I like it, putting a smile on my face and made with genuine love for the art of its creation.

In Portland, Kintaro would be an ethnic restaurant, a culinary lark in a solidly intellectual, liberal, Caucasian American city. But here, in a metropolitan region where less than half the population speaks English as a first tongue, Kintaro is more akin to home cooking. And that is why, to me, this bowl of ramen is the real Vancouver.

Recently, I visited the Vancouver, B.C. area. Among a number of goals, I had one that stood out: to sample the legendarily good Chinese food available in the suburb of Richmond.

Interacting with the culture of Richmond was an adventure of its own, especially if that adventure involves ordering something to eat. The first restaurant I tried was Top Shanghai. Although they had some English signs the predominate language spoken inside sounded like Cantonese. I immediately felt out of place, not so much for my skin, as for my lack of fitting into the social norm: every table in this place was built for eight or so, and here I was, a single patron looking for lunch. My awareness of being the only gwai low in the place did not disconcert me so much as it puzzled me: Richmond is the heart of Vancouver’s storied Asian food scene, but here I was, the only non-Asian enjoying it? What’s wrong with these people? I thought.

English is definitely not the predominate language in Richmond.

Perhaps the menus are to blame. Mine had almost no English on it, with several pages of purely Chinese characters and only a handful of items with English descriptions. I looked on the bright side: there was no way I had time, even if I spent all the rest of my stay at the restaurant, to sample everything on the menu, so this helped me to narrow my choices.

When I ordered the Shanghai Style Pork — they are a Shanghai style restaurant, so it made sense to try what they ought to be best at doing — the waitress seemed perplexed. She brought over an older woman who tried to explain something to me that seemed very important. Bones kept being mentioned, and I indicated that was fine, fine. Perhaps my nice shirt and tie made them think I didn’t want them? Or was she so used to the Caucasian obsession with personal health and fitness that the ordering of a bony, fatty cut of meat was surprising? For a split second, I considered that maybe I had just ordered a dish of marrow. No matter, this is an adventure, I thought to myself; try something new even if it was the wrong thing to order. I just nodded and encouraged them, and with one last check back — “They ribs. Pork ribs. Okay?” I confirmed my order and sat waiting, drinking tea and reviewing some of the day’s photos on the digital camera.

Top Shanghai’s Shanghai Style Pork.

Having cycled through the photos on the camera, my food arrived, a large pile of lustrous deep brown, short-cut spareribs that smelled luscious. As if my insistence on ordering them had made some sort of difference, I could feel the mood change in my servers. Suddenly, I was attended to often, albeit in a discrete and non-intrusive way. Did I need some rice? It appeared in a bowl shortly after. When my plate began to fill with bones, a new clean one quickly arrived unbidden. And the ribs? Moist, tender, succulent. Were they worth the trip all the way here for? I was not convinced that I couldn’t find some similarly good food at home if I looked hard enough, but at the same time, consider, my choice of restaurant had been a shot in the dark, as had my selection from the menu, and they had arrived delicious and without fault, not dull or oversalted or greasy in the least. The same could not be said of picking a random Chinese restaurant in Portland and picking a random menu item.

Although I had done what I had not planned to do — finish an entire plate of ribs — I still had enough room left to try one more place before heading back. My next stop was HML Seafood, located on the second floor of a newer building and offering Dim Sum until 3 o’clock. Inside, the atmosphere was a bit like a modern hotel ballroom, with rich carpet and upholstery, pinkish walls, and crystal chandeliers. There was no overwrought Suzy-Wong-dancing-with-a-dragon theme here. The dining room was relatively packed, with only a half dozen or so tables empty. I was amazed and impressed, however, to note that they had tables set up for two and four people as well as the prerequisite Chinese restaurant staple of the 8 person round. Plus, the smaller tables were not shoved into some corner by the restrooms, but in the thick of things where a good view of the dining room could be had. The staff here all dressed up in rather nicely cut suits bringing a very professional air, and they glided about the room in silent stately grace.

Alas, I did myself in here, deciding to be a little more experimental. My order: superior shrimp dumplings, custard bao, and — yes, I’ve seen Anthony Bourdain in Indonesia, and yes I ordered it anyway, or perhaps even because of that — baked durien pastries. The dumplings were excellent, although not necessarily unobtainable at home. The custard bao was unique, but a bit difficult to eat as anytime you bit into one a hot stream of orange custard would gush out. (Fortunately, none of it landed on my clothes.) The flavor was sweet — perhaps too sweet for me, but still interesting.

And the durien pastries? Well I bit into them skeptically, expecting the horror story of their smell to suddenly cause me to be caught in a foul yellow cloud of stench that would drive my fellow diners away. I was surprised, and maybe even a bit disappointed, but they simply weren’t that bad. There was no foul odor, and Bourdains’ description of a “stinky cheese” didn’t really come to mind. At the same time, there was a slightly off vegetal taste to them that didn’t encourage me to finish one, much less eat the other two. When the waiter came back with the check, he made a double take and stopped to ask if there was anything wrong with the pastries. I denied it, stating only that I could eat no more; I did not want him to offer to take them back and replace them with something else merely because I had made the mistake of ordering something I had not in the end liked.

The Canada Line makes for a quick trip to Richmond, earning it the nickname of the “Orient Express.”

Sadly, my list of things to do on my stay in Vancouver was long, and I didn’t get a chance to eat again in Richmond. The experience, however, was good, like a tantalizing appetizer. Without question, the new SkyTrain Canada Line had made exploring the area much easier, and I am looking forward to returning to the area on my next visit to try another couple of restaurants. Or three. Or more!

At the Lansdowne SkyTrain station in Richmond, B.C.

Sometimes I think that one of the main reasons I feel I am not particularly skilled as a photo journalist is that I’m just not enough of an a-hole for the job. On a recent trip to the largely ethnically Chinese city of Richmond, B.C., I realized that more strongly than ever before.

I had gathered only a few photographs that day, mostly of SkyTrain and of a few of the signs around the Richmond area, whose total lack of English turned the mundane into a visual feast, in the same way that listening to an opera sung in a language I can’t understand — say Italian — is far more moving to me than most songs sung in English.

Walking past a grocer’s doors, I peered inside to see dozens of families sorting through piles of fruit, looking for the best orange or persimmon. I had been just about to raise the camera to take the photo when I stopped. What was I doing? Why was I taking this picture? Oh, look, whole crowds of slant-eyed people!

Although their ethnicity served to make my actions more immediately felt, this wasn’t really an issue of race at all. It was more an issue of respect. I was a guest in these people’s community, and in my mind I had turned them into zoo animals to make picture postcards of. It was a sin I was sure, in that moment, I had committed numerous times.

I tucked my camera back into a pocket of my vast coat.

As a writer, I think you can say and do far worse things — slander is so much easier with the written word — but somehow, at the time, the invasive act so central to photojournalism seemed worse.

I’ve rather provocatively titled this image “the future of Beaverton” with my tongue only partly in cheek. There are many ways that the pairing of Richmond/Vancouver does not hold as an analogy to Beaverton/Portland. Vancouver, for one, is a true international city, thanks to being the only major metropolis of its country’s (Canada) west coast, while Portland is more of a domestic city in the middle ranks of the United States.

That said, Beaverton — like Richmond — is a significant suburb of a larger city that is rapidly diversifying ethnically. Over the last decade, Beaverton has become the home to more and more small businesses catering to Japanese, Korean, and other Asian and Latin ethnic communities, a trend that shows no sign of slowing.

Beaverton, also, has ambitions, as evidenced by projects such as The Round, the recent proposals for mid and high rise towers on the old Westgate Theater property, and an attempt to secure a stadium for the soon homeless Portland Beavers AAA baseball team.

Rapid transit, high rise towers, acres of parking, strip malls of ethnic small businesses. This is the vision of Richmond, B.C. today. Might it also be the vision of Beaverton, Oregon in the next decade?

Opening up today’s Oregonian is quite an education sometimes. In today’s paper, staff writer Larry Bingham outlines an in and out list, of “how life in the Northwest is shaking out in lean times.” The title is “The Frill is Gone.”

And the list? The list of outs include microbrews, Powell’s Books, New Seasons Market, boutique coffee, the Portland Opera, Oregon wine, and heirloom tomatoes from the local farmer’s market. In? Pabst, the library, Grocery Outlet, Folgers, radio broadcasts, California 2-buck-chuck, and home grown tomatoes.

When I first read it, I was shocked at the stupidity behind it. Let’s step backwards for a bit of perspective. Yesterday, Moody’s down-rated the status of Macy’s bonds to junk status. Macy’s just happens to be one of the biggest advertisers that the Big O has. Without them, the paper would be in serious revenue trouble.

Now journalism isn’t about advertisement, (or at least it shouldn’t be,) but I would hardly call a puff piece on trends from the “How We Live” section journalism anyway. Given that, is it smart to be, in essence, insulting potential and actual advertisers in this way? Last I checked, New Seasons inserts their weekly sales ads into the Big O, and in fact they are a partner in one of the paper’s promotions on the back side of the very page this story appeared on. Ah, irony.

But this is more than just a matter of keeping advertisers happy. The economy is, indeed, in a dark, dark place. People are being laid off, and markets are shrinking. In this time of all times, our brewers, booksellers, grocers, farmers, and artists do not need to be listed on an “out” list. They do not need the region’s largest newspaper advising people that spending money on these things is a poor choice. To suggest that spending on these things is “out” is a cruel blow, is kicking these sectors while they are down.

For all of these reasons, the Oregonian in general, and Larry Bingham in particular owe an apology to everyone on that “out” list, from Apple at the top of the chain (iTunes was ruled as an “out”) to the smallest farmer at the local farmer’s market.

But it is an even deeper mistake than all of this.

Microbrews, books, good coffee, local and organic produce; these aren’t “frills”. Bingham writes that “some would even say good riddance to our age of excess.” These things are not excess. They are our culture. What Bingham proposes would be akin to asking the French to give up bread and wine, the Carolinas to give up Cheerwine and Q, or Wisconsin to give up grilled bratwurst and beer. And for the sake of what? Saving money? Yes, money is tighter now than it was, but to suggest that we would give up our culture for the sake of our wallets is preposterous and insulting. Mr. Bingham, you will have to pry the heirloom tomato from my cold dead hand.

I, for one, know the perfect protest. I am going to Powell’s this afternoon to buy a book.

For a long time, the answer seemed to be no. But some intensive Google digging turned up the critical gem: a rural transit program out of Longview. It was not only possible to get to Seattle using local busses, but plausible that it could be done in one day, and in time to return to Portland via Amtrak!

It had to be tested. It was begging to be tested.

Leg One: TriMet No. 12, 5:19 A.M., Tigard, OR

TriMet No. 12 at about 5:25 A.M.

This was the second 12 of the day according to the schedule. I was unsure how popular the bus would be. Empty? Jam packed? In the end it was neither, yet it was about as busy as it was on a typical normal (non commuter) hour of the day, which surprised me. There truly are some early risers in the P-town region.

With almost no traffic and in the light rain, the ride went very smooth and fast. Before I knew it, I was being dumped off at 4th & Hall near PSU, where I was to make my first connection of the morning. The city was dark, quiet, empty. I had once had a theory that the lack of nightlife in Portland was because the city was a morning town. Now? Now I’m not so sure. The cafe behind me was almost clinical in its absence of life, with vinyl letters on the door stating that it did not open until 7 A.M. Useless.

Busses stopped about every five minutes, with sporadic passengers. I was ever watchful for my quarry, C-Tran 134, the Salmon Creek Express. I had time, fortunately. There were at least two of these expresses I could catch and still make the following connection, but where were they? As I stood eagerly looking at my watch, along came a C-Tran bus. It was close to the right time, and I didn’t have my schedule out. The reader board said I-5 express, but there was no mention of Salmon Creek. Was this the right bus?

“You go to Salmon Creek?” I asked the driver through the open door. He seemed not to notice, so I repeated my question hesitatingly.

“Yeah, eventually,” he replied. I climbed aboard.

Inside, the bus was clean and neat. The layout felt a tad more open than a TriMet bus, and it had that bright, Shell-station-at-2am quality to the illumination. Aboard were a smattering of people, including some elderly women. I took my seat and we charged off. The bus had one more stop to make in Portland, down at 2nd and Alder, and there the elderly women left. The driver announced “next stop, Vancouver!” and we charged over the Morrison Bridge and onto the interstate. I glanced around me. Who was he announcing to? Me? There was nobody else left on the bus, and I certainly didn’t need loudspeaker announcements to hear the driver.

Leg Two: C-Tran 105, ~6:10 A.M., Portland, OR

Backhaul commuting apparently isn’t too popular.

We crossed over the river, and in Vancouver, picked up a couple more passengers, including an elderly man with a massive backpack, a long gray beard, and a walking stick. Then back on the freeway we went. About this time, it occurred to me that I was not on the bus I had wanted to be on. Outside the window, in the fast lane, a 134 Salmon Creek Express passed us by at such speed that I feared we’d never see it again in our lifetimes. If that bus, headed to Salmon Creek, had been one of the ones I had needed to make my connection, just how slow were we? How long did the driver really mean when he said that we would “eventually” get to Salmon Creek?

I fretted, and the minutes passed slowly in the rainy darkness. Then, we were once more pulling off the freeway. Shortly after, we turned into a large transit center with great sweeping wood-rooved shelters lit artistically from below. I had seen the place before, from the freeway back when I had a car still, and always recalled it as being attractive. It was rather large, too. Surely, this must be Salmon Creek. Saved! There was plenty of time left before my scheduled connection.

Or not. The driver: “99th Street Transit Center!”

99th Street? Where the heck is 99th Street? My ignorance of Clark County was not helping me any here. I dug out a C-Tran map and sure enough, we were only on the outskirts of Vancouver proper, but not yet at Salmon Creek. With the map not to scale, it was hard to know just how much farther that really was, much less what it looked like.

Back on the freeway we went. Outside, the sky was getting a bit lighter, turning from black to shades of deep larkspur. Dawn was approaching, and this was bad. It simply reinforced what I knew: that time was moving onwards, and I was still not at my connection. If I missed it, the challenge would fail. I would still be able to reach Seattle, but not return the same day, meaning that I would have to cut my trip short no later than Tacoma at best, and Olympia at worst.

We began to sidle off of Interstate 5 again. A couple of turns, and we entered a rather sketchy parking lot. Another stop along the way? Must be. And yet… we stopped. Here, in this dull parking lot, with almost no architectural form whatsoever, we stopped. Yes, this, this was Salmon Creek.

Leg Three: Salmon Creek Park & Ride at dawn

Salmon Creek, landmark of the masses.

On the bright side, I was well within my target time. It was 6:45 or thereabouts, and my next connection was at 7:05. I cannot stress what elation I felt. If I had missed this connection, failure would have been certain. Making it was the first and, really, the most critical of the narrow gateways I had needed to pass.

At seven, a little van-bus pulled into the lot, the kind that are often used for paratransit services, complete with the massive side door to accommodate wheelchair access. Welcome to the Lower Columbia Community Action Program Rural Transit line. Open to the public for $1 each way.

I once recall reading legislator (and future governor of Oregon) Theodore Geer’s account of riding a ramshackle narrow-gauge railway in Oregon’s Willamette Valley during the 1880s. He recounted the horrendous ride, the slowness of the pace, the utter uselessness of the employees. I felt much in sympathy with Governor Geer, and believe I have found a spiritual successor to that railway line. The seats felt as if they had been trampled on by a heard of bison, and smelt like it too. The driver was sterner looking than an Easter Island carving and about as taciturn, with his only utterances being to curse under his breath at fellow drivers. With no interior light, I huddled against one of the windows to try and read my book and forget. Sadly, though, the ride had more texture than Joan Rivers’ face, and half the time my eyes bounced a few inches northward on the page, forcing me to reread the same sentence over and over until we got to smoother road.

The interior signage was rather amusing. “No food / or drink / allowed”, in red letters, with not one but two exclamation marks at the end. A second sign read “Please” (underlined) “do not ask the / driver to make / unauthorized stops.” Another: “Absolutely / No food or drink / ” (last three words underlined) “you will be put off the van / immediately and permanently / (last three words in red letters) “if you do” (one exclamation mark). Lastly, “if you vandalize the can / the appropriate police agency / will be called and you will / be prosecuted” (one exclamation mark). One is glad for their sake that punctuation is free.

Longview could not come quickly enough, and nor could I wait to leave it again. The transit center was amazingly busy, with every stall filled with a clean if dated looking bus. Passengers stood around in fair number, smoking and waiting for their departures. I could see why the system was busy. Looking about me, I saw more twenty-year-old domestic automobiles than I had seen since a trip to West Virginia years back. Probably none of them ran, or even if they did, it was widely agreed that it was preferable to be seen in a bus. Beyond the transit center, it was the typical sad sight of former lumber towns like Longview: Meth alley. Cinder blocks, badly painted buildings, decay, gambling parlors that had the effrontery to claim to share a professional tradition with the likes of The Sands.

Leg Four: Longview Transit Center at 8:00 A.M.

And by here I knew how T. T. Geer felt.

Then Longview surprised me. At 8 A.M., sharp, every bus in the lot started up their engines. People scattered, and then each of the vehicles departed. All at once. At the same time. It made me wonder if their schedules had been planned by someone who had worked in school transportation in their past.

Once they had gone, about five of us were left at the very, very empty transit center. Our “bus” from Salmon Creek had left us here and drive off, perhaps back to the Hades from whence it had come. I hoped, likely in vain, that it had not simply gone off to refuel before returning for us. Please, please, please, be a different vehicle, or at least a different driver!

Another van-bus pulled into the lot, looking much as the other had done, and stopped before us. The doors opened, and prayers were answered. Not only was the driver different, but so was the van. This one was clean, and did not smell, and had a driver who actually asked a friendly question or two, remarked on the coldness of the weather, and cranked up the heat. It was 8:05, and we were off.

The ride from here was a long one, one that would take me from the waters of the Columbia River and its tributaries, to those of Puget Sound. Along the way, we would pass through the heart of Washington’s timber country, a land that was once a cash cow for the state but has sadly turned sour. Environmental restrictions and international trade have conspired to make logging in the region less and less attractive. While protectionists had and have good intentions, the communities that once depended on the timber monies have, like Longview, declined rapidly. The ride filled me with bittersweet thoughts. Sure the forests are beautiful, but humanity here? Perhaps it’s unfair, but it’s hard to ignore the meth houses, the abandoned trailer houses, the closed mills, the empty storefronts. Centralia has, perhaps, fared the best, as it tries to convert itself into a tourist center. Antique stores have settled like a benign rash on it’s main streets. But even here, you have the distinct feeling that anyone who wants a better life for themselves and their families goes to seek their fortunes elsewhere. For many it’s a place to be from, but no longer one to call home.

This long ride was scheduled to terminate in Tumwater, just south of Olympia, where I would be able to transfer to the local transit agency, Intercity Transit. The point of embarkation: Tumwater Square. I wondered what it would look like. For a time, I had lived in Olympia, but I had rarely had occasion to visit Tumwater. Would Tumwater Square be some kind of transit center? Perhaps it was a suburban mall of some kind. Maybe, just maybe it was some kind of transit oriented development? The Olympia region does have a progressive streak, it was possible. It was surely, however, a very impressive name.

Too impressive, by half. Tumwater Square consisted of a pair of bus shelters on either side of a road, amongst the swanky delights of two gas stations and a Safeway.

Leg Five: Tumwater Square at around Ten A.M.

Is it square because the streets are at right angles?

Shortly afterwards, IT No. 13 rescued me from oblivion, and we charged into downtown Olympia. The route followed Capitol Boulevard, whose streetcar era bones show through today in the gentle curves and continuous lines of bungalows. Past these residences, the road and the bus route begin the slow descent through downtown Olympia. Not far after this descent begins, the dome of the capitol building pops into sight to the left, but even before then you can tell you are in a seat of state power. There’s lots of concrete buildings and a hollow, haunted look to the streets. Subconsciously, you just can’t figure out why the city exists. It is large, yet looks poor. It seems to have more importance than other towns, and yet it lacks the bustling air of a city. It is the whiff of futile dreams, suspended in the amber of bureaucracy.

Olympia Transit Center has always impressed me. It is clean, modern, white and glass, and appears by all observances functional and busy. Arrival here was a kind of celebration, really. This was the hump. Here, actually on the waters of Puget Sound, everything suddenly became “downhill.” Now the question turned away from if and towards when: when would I reach Seattle? I was hungry, I wanted food, I had not eaten yet and I had been up for nearly six hours. I pondered walking around the harbor, gloating in the waters of the sound, dining beside them at someplace-or-other from years before.

But over at the north edge of the transit center, a Tacoma bus idled.

Leg six: IT 603

Aboard the Tacoma express at 10:30 A.M.

The bus was rather on the full side, and I was lucky to find a seat. Up front, the driver was rather garrulous, chatting with a flight attendant headed to SeaTac International to work a flight to Japan. “If I had my way,” the driver noted, “you’d ride free. Transportation people would always be free.” Returned the steward, “yeah, and you’d fly free too, right?” The driver rather liked this notion.

I glanced at my private timetable and noted my progress. My original goal had been to be aboard a 603 to Tacoma departing Olympia at noon, and here I was 90 minutes earlier than that. If things continued as planned, and assuming that my connections were available when I got to Tacoma Dome Station, I’d be in Seattle near lunch time. We made an odd circuit of Olympia and Lacey, stopping at park-and-ride lots to pick up people here and there, and then we hit the freeway and sailed down into the Nisqually River Delta. With the crossing of the delta, I had entered Pierce County, and soon after, Tacoma.

Then there was another snag. We pulled off to another nondescript park-and-ride, this one somewhere near the McChord Air Force Base. “This is the SR 512 Park and Ride,” yelled the driver. “Transfers here to SeaTac and Seattle!” I puzzled over this. Was not the 603 bound for Tacoma, where I could make my transfer as planned? As nearly the entire bus emptied out, I took a gamble, and got out too, trusting that we couldn’t all be wrong.

On reflection, this was likely a mistake. The 603 did indeed touch on Tacoma at Tacoma Dome, where I could have transfered to a Sound Transit bus to Seattle. But no, instead of staying in the warm bus, I got out with the crowd to stand in the cold and await my transfer. It is very, very likely that the bus I had to take — Sound Transit 594 for Seattle — was the same exact one I would have caught in Tacoma proper, meaning my wait was no longer. But here, at the SR 512 lot, there was nothingness. Some shelters. Some garbage cans. Freeway exit ramps. Parked cars. No food, no warm drinks. I dug into my stash of snacks for the first time that day, but found little comfort in them. I was cold, I was wondering not for the first time why I hadn’t done this in warmer months. But it was too late now.

Twenty minutes passed. Other busses came and went, including those from Pierce Transit, Tacoma’s transit provider, and a massive boat of a bus from Sound Transit. This was ST 574, the SeaTac express, a bus very similar to those used by Greyhound, complete with dual rear axles and cushy reclining seats. Ah, the thought of reclining seats! And warmth, too. The moments dripped by slowly. But finally, finally, a blue-and-white bus pulled in the lot with the name SEATTLE on its destination sign, and I stepped aboard.

My stomach was growling, my eyelids were drooping, and I was lulled ever more to sleep by the warmth inside the bus. The seats were nicely cushioned, though annoyingly they did not recline despite the presence of headrests. I checked to be sure multiple times. But it didn’t matter. I was down $13.80, and I was nearly there. I only opened my eyes a few times, mostly to note passing through Tacoma. This city has always been my favorite on the sound. It retains a blue collar edge and an honest, industrial vibe. It is no city, and likely never will be, but it is a fine, fine town, the likes that few are fortunate enough to be. The fact that our bus had exited the freeway for a slow and prolonged trip down surface streets, making stops every two or four blocks? That was only mildly annoying, for it gave me time to glance about and try and remember the buildings I had been inside of. And then, we were back on the freeway, and my head was nodding back, and I was asleep.

Leg seven: Fresh off of ST 594

~12:48 P.M., Pike Street at 3rd.

I woke with a jolt as we exited the freeway and traversed Spokane Street, bound for Fourth. Alongside the latter road, to one side were the rails of a BNSF switching line, and along the other side were the tracks of Sound Transit’s first light rail line. Shoehorned into an area vastly comprising of light industry and railway yards, I really wasn’t sure why they bothered to put stations in so frequently. I counted at least two in the industrial flats, places that by the nature of the constrained rail assets of the region will never be anything other than railroad infrastructure. I shrugged. It’s Sound Transit’s first light rail line, and this is hardly the biggest lesson they have yet to learn.

Then we ascended the viaduct beside King Street Station, and passed into downtown itself. I kept an eye out for the streets, waiting for the one I wanted. Jackson, no. Cherry, no. Spring, no. Then there it was. Union. I gathered my bags, my stomach growling louder still, and began to plan where I would find my lunch. Outside, the pavement was wet, but it was not raining. I checked my watch, and found that it was 12:45 in Seattle.

From The Addendum @ route99west.com | © Alexander B. Craghead

The desk serves on today, but with slightly less pizazz. While it still holds checkbooks and postage and envelopes and the like, it also serves as a stand for a three year old iMac. I’m reminded of my own “desk” a bit, and the war that always goes on between the space my computer takes up and the space I need to spread out my eight-and-a-half-by-eleven redundant memory aides. (They used to call that paper in the 20th century.)

Earlier today I used my computer and the incredible power of the Internet for a very non-technical purpose: to find labels. You know the type: gum backed, with a little foil edge, the kind that used to go on the marbled covers of composition books, the kind that used to lurk n my mother’s desk. I didn’t find any, but much like when I go searching Wikipedia, I ended up making what a friend calls a “wiki-tree” of strange ephemeral goodness. Follow along, all you fellow paper geeks!

First up is Donovan Beeson, who makes various handmade stationery products and sells them on her Etsy page. Handmade envelopes, custom journals, shipping labels. All very cool stuff. Donovan also has a blog, Murmurs and Musings, which focuses naturally enough on the lost world of paper. While browsing through her archives, I found a post point towards sarcastic stationer 16 Sparrows, who had begun a campaign known as the “Letter Writer’s Alliance”. (You can buy LWA stationery here.) The LWA mission is, and I quote:

“In this era of instantaneous communication, a handwritten letter is a rare and wondrous item. The Letter Writers Alliance is dedicated to preserving this art form; neither long lines, nor late deliveries, nor increasing postal rates will keep us from our mission. As a member of the Letter Writers Alliance, you will carry on the glorious cultural tradition of letter writing. You will take advantage of every opportunity to send tangible correspondence. Prepare your pen and paper, moisten your tongue, and get ready to write more letters!”

I always find it amusing to see the net used for these sorts of projects. Paper hasn’t died, it’s just become a fashion symbol! It’s probably no surprise this kind of thing is up my alley, after all I do shop a Blue Moon Camera and Machine.

Another source for ephemeral goodness is PodPost. Sadly, their “Pod Post Mail Art Bento” is out of stock. Too bad, too, it combines all my love of ephemera and otakuness in one convenient bundle. Drat!

As I skipped along, I also ran into busynest cards. Busynest focuses on a very lost art — the calling card. There’s some really nice graphic design work here. These cards really do drive home the odd mixture the Internet has brought about: an out-of-date practice (calling cards) married to a very sleek and modern graphic design and sold worldwide over the ‘Net. The 21st century is a strange place.

As for calling cards themselves? This page has the scoop on what they were and why. Interesting tidbits: a calling card doesn’t include where you work, and includes your profession only if it gives you a title (M.D., General, etc…), as including your place of work or firm makes the card a business card, and therefore socially inappropriate to leave as a calling card:

“it was considered to be in very poor taste to use a business card when making a social call. A business card, left with the servants, could imply that you had called to collect a bill.”

Interestingly, what we consider today to be a business card — flashy pictures, promotional saying, establishment name displayed prominently, and so forth — was not at that time considered a business card at all, but a “trade card”.

Now, where did I put my Fedora?

From The Addendum @ route99west.com | © Alexander B. Craghead

Jumptown: The Golden Years of Portland Jazz, 1942-1957
By Robert Dietsche. Oregon State University Press, 500 Kerr Administration, Corvallis OR 97331; http://oregonstate.edu/dept/press/; 9.7 x 6.9 in; trade paperback; 229 pages, 160 b/w photos, 48 illustrations, 1 map; $24.95

A visitor to Portland today might not realize that the city has a rich history in jazz. Fueled by the shipbuilding boom of World War Two, the city’s black population grew rapidly throughout the 40’s, creating a vibrant community on the east bank of the Willamette. This was a land of wild nightclubs, neighborhood bars, shady speakeasies that were open all night. Big names came to play, artists like Duke Ellington, Dizzie Gillespie, and Louis Armstrong, but the city also produced a number of local talents, like Wardell Gray and Doc Severinsen. It was not, however, to last; the construction of the Memorial Coliseum wiped out much of the jazz scene, and much of its history was lost. Dietsche’s Jumptown: The Golden Years of Portland Jazz sets out to record that lost history.

Jumptown is by-and-large a narrative prose history. The story of the Portland jazz scene flows generally in a chronological line from the 1940s through to the 1980s, with each chapter focusing on a particular location that was key to the jazz of the time. The text relies heavily on direct research, consisting primarily of interviews with direct participants; many quotes and extended passages are included verbatim. Supporting this are numerous photos, many culled from those individuals. There are also reproductions of numerous LPs including recordings of local talents.

This work contains a wealth of information on the history of Portland music and Portland’s black neighborhoods. The book is not written for jazz neophytes however; many portions seem to be a stream of name-dropping, as if the book is a bop version of the Chronicles in the King James’ Bible. Without this context, many passages will feel confusing or dense, and even with it, it seems to be more a who’s who list than a story. The book does yield up some gems of local history, however, including the locations of most of the big clubs and some entertaining anecdotes in the words of witnesses and participants themselves.

The book is printed in the dimensions of a typical hardbound book, but is in a softcover trade paperback binding. Paper weight is smooth and the photos are reproduced adequately. The back of the book contains a discography of Portland-related music that proves handy.

Though a bit thin, the book is the only work I am aware of dedicated specifically to Portland jazz culture. Jazz lovers will no doubt understand the laundry list of names better than the average reader, and there is enough obscure history of the city that it will prove a worthy edition for Portland historians wishing for a truly broad library.

Jumptown is available from Amazon, Powell’s Books as well as directly from the publisher.

From The Addendum @ route99west.com | © Alexander B. Craghead

Graffiti has been a subject of debate a lot in the Portland area last year, thanks partly to Randy Leonard’s anti-graffiti measures. I want to touch on the topic a bit, but from a different perspective, from the standpoint of a photographer making images of it.

Graffiti seems to trouble some photographers, especially railfan photographers. The “big question” seems to be if its legitimate art, and most seem to say no. Yet some photographers can’t help but take pictures of it. How many photographers of railroad subjects wouldn’t recognize the cigar-smoking mug of the Colossoss of Roads? (Sidenote, he reminds me a bit of General Alcazar in TinTin). Jeff Bass, amongst others, has made many compelling “captures” (as he likes to say) of graffiti, images I can’t help but admire.

Truth be told, graffiti is there. It’s part of the real world we live in. To pretend that freight cars in LA ought to be shiny and sparkle is to live in a fantasy land inside our heads, not in reality. There is at least a little bit of photojournalism in railroad photography, isn’t there?

Yet it does tear at me. I’m a big believer in order. Which isn’t to say my desk doesn’t look like a war zone. It’s more that I feel that we need more respect in the world, not less. Humor is fine, farce is fine, sarcasm is fine. We’re adults, we should be tough enough to stand that. But graffiti… isn’t that basically vandalism?

And so I’m stuck taking photos of things I don’t approve of.

In 2006 I took a traditional photography course at a community college, in order to get some training in basic darkroom technique. (I’m a wannabe dinosaur, forgive me my strange habits). For my finals project, I concentrated on railroad graffiti. It was on my mind a lot as I traded emails with Jeff and with my friend Scott Lothes on the subject, trying to make sense of it all. In the end, the correspondence and the project ended up merging late last year.

At the end of the project, my attitude is still ambiguous. I feel that if I’m really trying to do something meaningful about understanding the railroad landscape, I can’t ignore graffiti. Yet in a way it’s a glorification of it to photograph it. I’m still searching for an answer. Perhaps I will never find it.

Check out the essay here and see if you can find any answers of your own.

Thanks to Jeff and Scott for helping out with this project, and thanks to Martin Burwash for his candid critique.

From The Addendum @ route99west.com | © Alexander B. Craghead

Unfortunately my current living situation makes developing and printing at home impractical. In addition, developing slides is very nearly impossible at home, involving a process that is far more touchy and hazardous. Because of this, I’ve done most of my developing with labs. Portland, a capital of the advertising industry, was at one time blessed with pro labs who offered top notch work and fast turnaround.

Of course, the digital revolution has changed all that. My first pro lab, Wy’East Color, went out of business not long after the media industry implosion that followed the 2001 Dot Bomb. Following that, I began to use a gem of a lab, PhotoCraft. The lab was located on the third floor of the Oregon Pioneer Building. The base level of the building houses the famous Huber’s. PhotoCraft offered a quick turnaround of 4 hours for film developing. The result was that whenever I needed to handle developing, I’d just hop an early express bus downtown, drop the film, then go kill four hours exploring downtown. I always meant to get to eating at Hubers, reasoning I’d stop by and have a Spanish Coffee and one of their trademark turkey sandwiches.

Earlier this year, the Photocraft offices moved one door down, to a smaller space. At the same time, they reduced their hours. I began to sense something might be closing in.

Fast forward to this August, I returned to Ohio to visit friends and do some photography. Once I returned, I had a small pile of Fuji slide film to deal with. Since I was broke, I tossed them in a Ziploc and threw them in my mini-fridge. Motivation didn’t strike until a week ago. I hadn’t been downtown since July, so I was looking forward to the trip, figuring I’d do a bit of walking around, maybe checking out the progress of construction on the Bus Mall. In through the doors of the building, up the elevator, down the hall… to a darkened door.

The course of things had finally taken it’s toll. As of August 20th, the lab’s retail film services had closed.

This isn’t to say I’m without options. Thankfully, Blue Moon processes film as well as maintaining it’s stock of retro-cool cameras and journalism-related gear. (It’s like stepping into 1965 there.) But of course, there’s no 4 hour turnaround at Blue Moon. Plus, they are located in St. Johns. As much as I love St. Johns with its nostalgic yet healthy blue collar feel, it’s an additional twenty minutes away for me and not easily accessed via transit from the depths of suburbia.

I’m thankful for Blue Moon. Many places don’t have it so good. And I have to say their work was excellent. But all the same, I’m saddened to see this latest turn of events. I’ll always shoot real, honest-to-goodness black-and-white film, but at least as far as color photography goes, I suspect it’s only a matter of time before I go digital.

Palouse River R.R. Company, Walla Walla, Washington, July 2007
Nikon N80, Nikon Nikkor 75-300 f/3.5-5.6 @ 300mm, exposure unrecorded. Kodak T400CN

Before I turn in at last tonight, I would be remiss in correcting an error of oversight. Just as August rolled out and September rolled in, I managed to slip together a photo essay on the intertwining of history, culture, and the railroad in the Walla Walla regon of Washington State. Check it out over at at Railroad Photo Essays.

Ross believed we all have the capacity for artistic talent. This echoes some of Jonathan Hale’s thinking. And I think it is true too. But if so, doesn’t that take away from some of what’s special about artistry? Can a common talent be a valued one? If we could all sing like Placido Domingo, would Opera matter to us anymore?

But lets leave the realm of philosophy aside now, and venture into Bob’s happy mountains. And what mountains they were, raised on the canvas with a few lithe sweeps of the palette knife! Ross was captivated, perhaps even obsessed with painting mountains. Perhaps this came from their exoticness; born in Florida, I remember him once saying that the highest hill in his childhood had been fifteen feet tall. Or perhaps his fascination came from his stint in the USAF, when he was stationed in Alaska.

Most “serious artists” — you know the kind, they scoff down canapes and wine while explaining their vision in white-walled rooms to moneyed elites in every town over half-a-million population — would consider Ross to be in a different world from them. Too low-brow. Too common. Sure, he was no great intellectual artist, and his talents were limited. He was afraid of portraits. His art teacher once told him to stick to bushes and trees, because that’s where his heart lay. Might there have been a sarcastic comment there about his abilities? Perhaps, but I suspect with his “always-the-butter-side-up” attitude, Bob either didn’t notice or didn’t care. Instead he took the advice, and by all appearances he was happy with his bushes and trees. There’s something about him that was inspiring. In a way he inspired me, certainly, as a small child, to continue painting. There’s a pleasing fantasy to his landscapes, a simple escapism that is tranquil in a childish way.

For all the artistic seriousness that we intellectual painters have, we should be so lucky to find such happiness.

Bob Ross, who died on the Fourth of July in 1995, would have been 65 today. Happy birthday, Bob. Hope you’re enjoying the company of your squirrels up there in a happy place, with happy little trees and happy mountains and happy little lakes.