Every Picture Tells a Story

EVERY PICTURE TELLS A STORY

I'd purchased the old film camera last Saturday at the local United Church rummage sale. It was a vintage Nikon F-series SLR that appeared to be in mint condition. Don’t get me wrong — I love modern photography, especially with the fantastic DSLR cameras available. But, back in the day I had experimented a bit with film and had even tried developing some of my own photos, and I was still film-curious. I saw the camera as a chance to literally develop my film skills. And I do love a challenge.

It was a cute little camera, compared to the big honking full-frame digital I was using now. And it came in a beautifully tacky carrying case — ugly, yes, but probably the reason the camera was in such good condition.  

I headed out to my local camera store, Mountainview Cameras, the indie shop where I bought all my photography equipment, and where I had it all serviced. I loved Mountainview. It was local, in the same location for close to seventy years. And the service was superb. Bert the owner was a veritable font of photographic knowledge, as his father, the original owner, had been, as well.

Before I headed out to Mountainview, I looked up the Nikon F model online, and found out that it had been produced between 1959 and 1973. It was a fantastic camera for the time, so popular that Nikon continued production for two years after the F2 was launched in 1971.  

When I showed Bert the camera he “oohed” and “ahhed,” and told me what a “spiffy” little camera it was, whistled, and told me that I had purchased an A1 piece of photography equipment. He was impressed.  

“I haven’t seen one of these babies for years,” he said. “I had one just like this back in the sixties. It was a real popular model.”

When I asked him how old it was, he disappeared into the back office, rummaged around, and came out holding an old catalogue from the 1960s, waving it in one hand.

“Found it!” he declared. “I knew I still had this.” 

He showed me a thick, pulp catalogue, with a black and white photo of a camera on the cover, dusty enough to convince me that it had been sitting on a shelf somewhere for the last fifty years. 

“Let’s see now,“ he said, flipping the yellowed pages of the old catalogue, his finger running down the pages. He looked from the serial number on the camera to the catalogue, back and forth, back and forth. Minutes ticked by.

“Got it!” he said, jabbing the page with his finger. “This camera was made in 1964, and its suggested retail price was $233, or —“ Bert paused, doing the calculations in his head, “—over two thousand 2022 dollars.” He picked up the camera, “Plus, you’ve got the original 50 mm f/1.4 lens, so these two probably came together as a package. It’s a beauty!”

I arranged to leave the camera so Bert could give the Nikon and lens a good cleaning and some TLC. And he said he could hook me up with some film, so as soon as I got the camera back, I could start me my journey back in time to completely manual film photography — no “auto” anything — just me and my machine.   

“Plus there’s this,” I said, holding up an exposed roll of film. “It came with the camera. I thought maybe I’d be able to get it developed, and see what’s on it.”

Bert said he knew a lab that would develop the film.  He held up the roll, and looked at it.

“Kodachrome,” he said nodding his head slowly. “Did it come with a canister?”

I held up the mildly battered yellow metal canister the film had been stored in.

“Amazing!” he said, looking at the canister. “Haven’t seen a metal canister for years. From looks of it, I’d say the film was from the late sixties, early seventies.” He looked thoughtfully at the roll of film. “I better warn the lab that the film is probably between forty and fifty years old. Probably fragile.” He looked up at me. “They’ll probably have to charge you extra.”

“No problem,” I said. I was now fully invested, and more than a little curious as to what was on the roll of film.  

Three days later, Bert had the camera ready. Two weeks after that he gave me a call to let me know the photos were back from the lab.

“Here you go,” he said, handing me the ubiquitous paper envelope with the package of photos tucked inside. “They didn’t even charge you extra.”

I waited until I got home to examine the photos.  I sat down at the kitchen table, opened the envelope, pulled out the pics, and started flipping through them.

There were thirty-six colour photos. They were all candid shots, none of them posed — what I called guerrilla photography — where the people in the photos don’t know they’re being photographed. Like the pics you'd find in a tabloid newspaper.

There were only two people in the photos — woman with long straight blond hair, and a man with longish dark hair cut in the popular “shag,”style of the day — a precursor to the mullet of the 1980s. Both people appeared to be in their twenties, both embracing the psychodelic fashion of the newly hatched “hippie generation" — bell bottoms, hot pants, peasant tops, leisure suits. Man, that was a lot of polyester.

I needed to figure out when exactly these photos had been taken. Some of the photos ad been snapped on the street, so I checked out the cars. Using the internet, the newest car in the photos was a 1971 Mustang. All the license plates were the blue on white motif of 1971. Ergo, the photos were taken sometime in the summer of 1971, based on the foliage.

I laid the photos on the kitchen table, in the order that they had been taken — sort of like a timeline, and looked at them.  

Whoever the couple was, they were very much into each other. There was handholding, hugging, kissing, and what looked like a bit of groping. Hmmm. It made me wonder who, actually, had taken the photos. They had a bit of a stalker-vibe.

I thought about the photos themselves. They were a moment in time. Whatever had been going on at the time was important enough to capture on film. Back in the seventies, developing film was expensive — not like today with almost unlimited capacity of SD cards and the cloud.  Whatever was happening in these photos was important enough to be immortalized on film. I figured I should at least try and find the previous owner of the camera, so I could give them the photos. These pics weren’t part of my story, they were part of someone else’s story, and they belonged to that person.

But how could I find the owner?

I figured I could start with the church where I had bought the camera — see if they remembered who donated the camera. Or maybe there was a tax receipt for the donation. A bit of a long-shot, but I figured it wouldn’t hurt to try. I had to start somewhere.

I phoned the church and arranged to meet Fiona Belker, the rummage sale organizer, the next day. I brought the camera and case with me on the off chance that Ms. Belker recognized either.

I didn’t expect much, but I was still disappointed. Miss Belker, (not Ms., as she informed me) couldn’t help me. Although most donations came from parishioners, there was no way to determine which parishioner. And tax receipts weren’t issued for rummage sale donations.

So, the church was a bust. 

What next? I asked myself, mentally scratching my head.

When I got home, I took another look at the photos. This time, instead of concentrating on the main characters in each photo, I started looking at the background. I scanned the photos onto my computer, enhanced them, and zoomed in on the backgrounds. I could read some of the licence plates from the cars, but my friend at the DMV assured me that there was no way — actually, no way in hell — to track down a licence plate from 1971.

I sat at my computer, staring at the photos on the screen, hoping for an epiphany. When none came, I returned to my computer. Using the zoom feature on Photoshop, I started a grid search of the background of each photo. It wasn’t until photo number twenty-eight, that I found a bit of a clue. There, in the background, was what looked like a house number, but because of the shallow depth-of-field it was a bit blurry. But through the magic of Photoshop I was able to sharpen the image enough to read the number — 746. Great. But 746 on which street?  I continued to look through the photos. The same house appeared in two more photos. It was something.

I spent the next couple of days at the reference library, checking the reverse directories for 1971. Obsessed much? I admit it, but I was not one for leaving any potential stone unturned in my quest for answers. In the metro area, there were twenty-seven residential streets that included number 746. I guess I should have been happy that the number wasn’t something smaller, because there were relatively few residential streets that numbered that high. I took my list, and the photos with the house number on them, and hit the streets. It was street number fifteen, where I was pretty sure I had a match — Spanner Road. The sapling in the front yard of the picture was now a full grown maple, throwing the house into shade. A large front porch had been added, and the garage had been expanded — but I was pretty sure it was the same house.  

The name from the reverse directory was “Norquist.” One more trip back to the reference library to hit the municipal tax rolls. I was happy to find out that Mrs. Delia Norquist was still, in fact, the owner of 746 Spanner Road. My perseverance had paid off.

I headed back home, gathered up all of the photos, grabbed my camera and carrying case, and headed out to return Mrs. Delia Norquist’s photos from 1971.

I rang the bell, and a few seconds later, a woman opened the door. I don’t know what I expected, but it certainly wasn’t this. Mrs. Norquist was in her mid-seventies, at least. But somehow, she did not look it. In front of me was an incredibly well-preserved woman, wearing very stylish clothes. But she was not the woman from the photos.

“Mrs. Delia Norquist?”

“Yes,” she answered, looking slightly confused.

“Hi,” I said, flashing my winningest smile. “I’m Theresa-Ann Waits. You don’t know me, but I believe that I have something that used to belong to you.”

I held up the camera and the case.

“Why, yes it was mine.” She smiled, remembering. “From a long, long time ago. I just recently donated it to my church. I guess you bought it there?”

I nodded.

“I loved that old camera. But digital is so much easier,” she said, nodding. “I wasn’t going to use it ever again, so I though, what the heck, the church could use the money. How much did you pay for it?”

“Twenty dollars.”

“Well, that was a steal! We paid well over two hundred dollars for it in 1964.”

“I also have something else for you,” I said, showing her the envelop of photos. “When I bought the camera, there was an undeveloped roll of film in the camera bag. I had the photos developed, and I thought maybe you would like to have them.”

I handed her the envelope. She was a bit stunned.

“Really? You developed the photos? How kind! How did you realize they were mine?”

“Well, it took a bit of detective work — I looked for clues in the photos, a couple trips to the reference library, municipal tax records, and, viola, here it am.” 

I smiled broadly at her.

“Thank you for all your hard work.” She smiled back at me. “Would you like to come in?”

“Thank you. Maybe you could tell me the story behind the pictures.”

She ushered me into what would have to be called the formal living room. My mom had the same deal. All the fancy, super-uncomfortable furniture, so tidy you could see the vacuum marks on the wall-to-wall. A place where, as a child, I was strictly forbidden to enter, on pain of death. It was a room for company, only. My dad wasn’t even allowed in there. And like my mom’s living room, the only thing missing in Mrs. Norquist's living room was the red velvet rope to keep interlopers out.

She pointed to the couch and I sat.

“Can I get you something to drink? Coffee, tea, juice, water?

“No I’m fine, thank you.”

Mrs. Norquist opened the envelope.

“This is so exciting!” she said. “Like Christmas morning!”

She started looking at the photos. Her smile disappeared. Her face fell. Her brows furrowed. Her cheeks reddened.

“Damn bastards!” she said, clenching her jaw.

Alarmed, I asked her if she was okay.

“No, my dear, I am not.” She looked up at me. “These are photos of my second husband, Oscar, and that strumpet he took up with, Marjorie Danza!”

I was stricken. My good deed had apparently morphed into a traumatic event for Mrs. Norquist.

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

Mrs. Norquist ignored me, and continued to look through all the photos, quickly, brows furrowed deeper. She checked the envelope.

“Good! The negatives!”

She flung everything — envelop, photos, and negatives — into the fireplace, and marched out of the room, returning a minute later with a yellow squeeze bottle of lighter fluid, the brand used on charcoal barbeques. She bent into the fireplace, and squirted the contents of the bottle on the pile of unhappy memories, soaking them completely. She then struck a match from the box on the mantle, and ignited the whole mess. 

A whoosh large enough to force Mrs. Norquist to step back, erupted. The flames danced blue and green from the chemicals used in the developing process.  

“Mrs. Norquist, are you alright?”

“I will be once these bloody photos are destroyed!”  

She swirled the whole mess with the fireplace poker, making sure all the photos were charred. When the flames died down, she gave the smouldering pile another little squirt, and the flames erupted again. Swirl, squirt, whoosh, swirl squirt, whoosh, until the entire package of photos had been reduced to ash.

“Fuckers,” she muttered quietly under her breath.

My mouth must have been hanging open, because she came to sit across from me. Had sweet Mrs. Norquist just dropped the F-bomb?

“My first husband Maurice Norquist died in 1967. This was our home,” she said. Pointing to the camera, she continued. “And that was our camera. We both loved taking pictures.” She seemed to be somewhere else, remembering a happier time.  

“Anyway,” she continued, coming back to the present. “After Maurice died, I was alone for a few years. Then I met Oscar von Eckhardt. He was quite charming, and I thought, well-established, but that assumption turned out to be a fantasy, on both counts.”

“But you kept your first husband’s name?”

“Yes, and it was quite scandalous at the time. You see, Ms. Waits, I’m a surgeon, now retired. I decided to keep my name, as I was already established in my practice. Besides, von Eckhardt? This was during the cold war. No one wanted such a German-sounding name. Norquist was just fine, thank you very much.

“Anyway, it turned out that Oscar was not what I thought. He said he knew Maurice through his practice — Maurice was a criminal lawyer — through some social deal, but I later found out that he was a client of Maurice’s. Apparently, he had been tried, and found not guilty of murdering his first wife. There was talk of jury tampering — by Oscar, not Maurice — but nothing was proved. I didn’t know any of this back in 1970 when we met. There was no internet then. He swept me off my feet, and we were married in February of 1971. Everyone warned me, but the heart wants what the heart wants. Right after we were married, I found out about Oscar and Marjorie from, of all people, Marjorie’s husban, Noel. He was suspicious and shared his concerns with me. I started following them, taking pictures for evidence. Those photos were from my last sortie,” she said, pointing at the ashes in the fireplace. “Noel and I confronted them. They both swore it was over. Marjorie and Noel moved away not long after, and I never heard from them again. It wasn’t until Oscar died that I found out about his lurid past.”

“How did he die?” I asked her.

“I killed him. Poisoned him. Botulinum. I fed it to him. The bastard.”

I was gobsmacked — apparently this lovely woman killed her husband, and had no qualms telling me about it.  And she had quite the mouth on her.

“Mrs. Norquist, er, Dr. Norquist, you’re telling me that you killed your husband? You’re admitting it?

“Yes. If ever a man deserved to die, it was him. Did I mention that he was physically abusive? That he was going through my money like water? That he threatened to ‘do me’ like he did his first wife. Little prick.”

“Uh, Dr. Norquist, stop talking, and call a lawyer.”

“Why would I do that, dear?”

“Because I’m a police officer.” I took out my badge and showed her. “Detective Terry Waits, homicide.”

She stared across at me.  

“Oh shit.”