Jon Webb; Glint of Humor and Joy

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In the spring of 1967, Jon Webb, with the blessing of Kenner Bush,  Publisher, hired me as a photographer for the Athens Messenger. In a year or so of producing the Picture Page, the most popular feature of the daily newspaper, Jon had become a legend, an inspiration to many young photographers, and writers, who dreamed of having the freedom of self-expression Jon had created at the Messenger. I was lucky enough to grab on to his coattails for a ride that would change the direction of my life, not a small thing. Working with Jon drew out the best in me, things, thoughts, feelings, and talents I didn’t know I possessed. Jon was filled with energy, talent and an idealism that found expression through his work, in a day when such were rewarded, not with money but freedom. We reveled in it, and worked our asses off. I learned more from Jon, and that freedom, in the less than two years we worked together than I learned in all my schooling, including a Master of Fine Arts. The difference was one of passion. Jon worked and lived with a passion that was infectious. He would go on to greater things at the Louisville Courier Journal, win the most prestigious of awards, and as is unavoidable for a passionate one, ruffle a few feathers. I did a bit of that myself, and that’s probably why we both ended up working most of our careers as freelancers of one sort or another. And we’re not sorry one whit!

Ken Steinhoff (last post) had found in his storage shed (Ken saves everything thank goodness) a bunch of Picture Pages. I used the delivery of them as an excuse to invite myself, and Claire, to visit him in Louisville. As with Ken, there was a bit of bemusement at the prospect of seeing me again, one who was in his life for a very short period of time, more than forty years before.

At a distance I would not have recognized Jon had I passed him on the street, nor he I; forty plus years changes a body! But as I got closer, and the small talk proceeded, I began to notice bits of body language that hadn’t changed. As the memories of that time begat one story and another and another, suddenly there was a thing that touched me: an unmistakable Santa Klaus glint in his eye, a window into the humor and joy that is at the heart of the man; always has been, always will.

Of course we’ve had our struggles, but neither of us tend to dwell on those. I wanted him to met Claire, love of my life and partner in the continuing adventure. I could tell he fell for her. They all do.

I was able to tell him how important he was to me and to see him surrounded with family and love. Claire and I both enjoyed our time with him and left with new memories. I wish him well as the journey continues for us both.

Please don’t put off telling the important people in your life that they made a difference. You’ll both be happier for it.

Do it Now. Say Thank You. Thank you, Ken Steinhoff and Lila Steinhoff, and Mary too!

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For the past twenty some years I’ve been doing something that brings me great satisfaction, something I recommend to you. Express your appreciation to those who have had an impact on your life. Begin with your parents, if you are so lucky to have one or both, your siblings, teachers, work mates, bosses, old friends, spiritual guides; anyone who had an impact on your life’s path. When you begin thinking about these people, you will be amazed, as was I, at the people who helped form your present self. It’s a wonderful process, one I don’t expect to finish..

As Claire and I wend our way East this year I have sought out, or been found (Thank you Facebook) by some people I wanted to appreciate. The prospect of meeting an old acquaintance can be unsettling at first thought. After forty some years, how much have we changed, will we have anything to talk about?  These feelings fade quickly, when I see a familiar smile, hear a familiar voice, and listen to the first of many stories of times gone, but not forgotten. The thank you, and accompanying hug, create a new memory.

 

Ken Steinhoff, and his 43 year wife Lila, found me through Facebook. I brought Ken on board at the Athens Messenger as a photographer when Jon Webb left for new challenges at the Louisville Courier Journal (a later post).

Claire and Lila on the Mississippi

 

Ken and I worked together for about two years. I was nominally Chief Photographer, but never noticed it. We mostly played at doing our passion, photojournalism. We worked hard, and played hard at it, often late into the night. I’m sorry Lila, that I kept him away from you so much, though I’m sure you knew his mistress would always be his camera. Ken and Lila kept this bachelor company many a lonely evening, though I was probably too quick to abandon them when I found female distractions for my few free hours. Some of those detours seem to have been engineered by Ken, probably so he could have some time with Lila.

We met Ken and Lila, and Ken’s mother Mary at her Cape Girardeau, Missouri home. Ken writes and photographs the wildly popular site (I’m not kidding): http://www.capecentralhigh.com/  about the town and surrounding area of The Cape. He is retired now from the newspaper business, where he got kicked upstairs to management way too soon, and back to doing what he loves best, taking pictures and talking to people, reporting. He’s doing his own personal form of the Picture Page he and Jon and I produced at the Athens Messenger back in the golden age of photojournalism. His readers are legion and appreciative. I wish I had 10% of the returning visitors he has for our New Bohemians. He’s giving his readers what they want and understand, what they have a personal connection and memory of; I’m just rambling on about our travels, but we’re both having fun, using old skills, not yet too rusty to make a creative contribution.

Ken took us on several road-trips to show us some of the special places he reveres in Southeast Missouri. It’s quite a place, and I understand why he loves it so.

We parked Turtle in Mary’s driveway and quickly made a new best friend. She’s a great mom to Ken and his brothers, and a friend to anyone. At age 90, she’s one of the happiest people I know; an inspiration we hope to see again. Ken said she was about to hide away in Turtle and go back to Arizona with us. I think we’ll have to arrange that Mary.

This is one of my favorite photos of the trip: Mary lost in the beauty of an historic chalice at a rural Lutheran church.

A Good Day on the Mississippi

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A hot summer day on the bank of the Mississippi is a place for beer and cigarettes and fishing. It’s a time for watching the float bobbing in the current, and storytelling:

“When they was going to build the new bridge across down at The Cape, there sent this diver down to tell them where to set the pillars. Well he went down there with his tanks and all, and it’s deep, and he’s poking around and picking a spot. All of a sudden he comes a shooting back up. Said there was catfish down there big enough to swallow a man. Guess he told how he’d found the spot for the pillars and they could believe him or not, because he was not a going back.”

Somebody caught a fish, and it was time to unwind the stringer, light a cigarette, crack another cold one; tell another story.

“When the water is high there’s a whirlpool right out there. Takes up this whole side of the river. I know a man saw a cottonwood tree sixty feet long go into that thing. It turned around a couple of times, stood on it’s end and just disappeared. Nobody never saw it again.”

Around the fire roasting a mastodon long ago, or fishing with ripe hot dogs, storytelling is as old as language, as old as man. It’s the anchors we bury, story by story, into our the landscape of our lives. Our local stories hold us against the current, hold us from floating away, alone.

 

Joplin Farmer’s Market and Missouri Blackberries

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The farmer’s market in Joplin, Missouri is arguably the best we’ve seen in our U.S. travels. There were no crafts or art booths. Nothing against the arts and crafts, but they have their own venues, and just distract from the purpose of a farmer’s market, real food.

Above is the lunch we made in the parking lot after buying most of the makings at the market: corn, potatoes, whole wheat bread (with Claire home-made hummus) cole slaw and tomatoes. Everything from the market was so fresh it was probably picked that morning It reminded me of my Mother’s summer lunches.

One of the great rewards of motorhome travel is being able to buy fresh food, and prepare it minutes later. Oh my.

And you don’t always have to buy it! While unsuccessfully searching a forest service track (not a road) in central Missouri for a boondock spot, Claire saw ripe blackberries. We picked a quart in minutes and they were the sweetest imaginable. She made a wonderful desert: the blackberries, peaches from Joplin, her own home-made wheat germ shortbread, and goat cheese. Life it good on the road.