Solace Found in a Dead Man’s Camera

The western sun speckling off the White Rock Lake water brought me back from daydreaming about a wedding where I was working as a photo assistant for my father. There were five voices in the room, all taking turns asking me questions. There were forms and documents in front of me on a large and expensive mahogany desk, which matched the expensive dark wood office walls. I looked again out of the window at the lake as two fishermen in a johnboat zoomed by to the other side. Suddenly they disappeared behind the specular sunlight. I looked back at each of the five faces then back at the documents. The thermostat was set at 72 degrees, but the climate felt cold from these intruders. The office was familiar, but most of the faces were not. I found myself asking, “How did I get here?”

 They say that the top five most stressful times in most people’s lives include moving to a new town, spending time with family, traveling or spending time on vacation, attending funerals, and asking a girl out on a date. My stress went through the roof when I had to experience three of those five situations after my mother recently died. My father perished from a heart attack several years ago which meant that all the responsibilities for dealing with the parent’s estate fell on me, the first-born son. My employer very kindly gave me three bereavement days to travel to Dallas for the funeral, to which I could add some paid vacation days. To save time, I opted to fly from Boston to Dallas rather than drive, even though I hate traveling. I’d rather walk than be stuck in a car or plane for hours on end. The news of mother’s death seemed to hit my younger sister very hard emotionally, which encouraged me to make a trip that I would rather avoid. I simply wanted to be there to support her during the grieving process.  My sister flew down to Dallas from Omaha, Nebraska for the funeral service and reading of the will. She said that would leave her kids with her husband at home in Omaha for two days so she could look for pictures of her with Dad. One of her photo albums got water damaged the year before. They had hail stones during a spring storm that were the size of grapefruit which killed hundreds of cows and created multiple two-inch holes in roofs of several homes. Windows on the east side of the homes were also shattered.  My sister’s photo albums were in their home office on the east side of their house, which became flooded during the storm. She was yearning for photos from better times with our parents. Something one of the talking heads said to me brought me back to the present.

“It says here that you are to have all your father’s camera equipment, darkroom equipment, his vintage Porsche, and his entire library of 20,000 books. Your sister is to have your mother’s jewelry, her Lexus LS500 sedan, her imported China dishware, and sterling silver flatware. The rest of the estate you are to split between you, which includes this house, funds in a checking and savings account, and your father’s retirement account. There were also life insurance policies, which will take a couple of weeks to process payment. The retirement account, savings account, and checking account has already been liquidated by your attorney, Nigel Flannagan, who is to your left.” I looked to my left, locked eyes with my new best friend, smiled and nodded. I was single and still in my 30s but had lost a fortune when my Italian restaurant closed during the lockdown in 2020. I never recovered financially from my business closure. I had to sell everything to try to pay creditors, including my house, an Audi R8 sports car, and my guitar collection. My corporate job in Boston was barely keeping me afloat while I was paying my debts and waited for new opportunity. Whatever the unexpected amount of money bequeathed to me would help get my life back. My girlfriend wanted to get married, but not with a loser who would bring huge debts into the marriage. This might really help me. 

Nigel the lawyer was at least six foot five inches tall, in a $4,000 dark blue suit, with a thick white button-down shirt from Italy, and a vibrant red silk tie custom made in Shanghai. He seemed to have a spray on tan that made him look a Donald Trump impersonator, which matched his Italian leather shoes. He claimed to like to play tennis in his spare time. Then why the need for spray tan? He liked to tap his gold pinky ring with his fisted right hand on the tabletop to emphasize a point. “This should tide you over until the rest of the estate has been settled.” Tap, tap goes the ring. I looked down to see if he left a mark on my dad’s old desk. Nigel handed a check to my sister and a second check to me. The amount was much larger than I expected. He said there would be more after the insurance was settled, and the house was sold. The joy from newly found ability to pay my debts lasted about 7 seconds as I suddenly felt numb inside from knowing what the check meant in my life. The sudden knowledge that my parents’ lives were cut short brought a dark feeling in my soul with a deep sense of loss. All the things I wanted to do with my parents were no longer possible. The trips to Europe where my parents wanted to show the places they had been when he was stationed in Germany could not happen. All of the things that I wanted to say to my dad and mom they would not be able to be heard.  Once the talking heads had left my parents’ house, I began looking for things that might bring back good memories of my time with dad. My sister began searching for old photo albums in mother’s sewing room, which was really her version of an office with European artifacts and knick-knacks from their travels, acrylic paints of scenes from Greece. I walked outside towards the garage.

I removed the gray cloth cover and opened the driver’s door of the light-blue Porsche 914 and sat down in the black vinyl seat. My five-foot-ten-inch frame barely fit in the seat. The keys were hidden on the black carpeted floor, near the left side of the center console. The all-original car must have sat for years. Would it start? Supposedly, Dad’s friend Eddy came over and put a charger on the battery last week. I pushed in the clutch pedal, turned the ignition key to On. Several red and yellow lights on the dash illuminated. I turned the key off and popped the black cover in the middle of the car which gave access the engine compartment. There was plenty of oil in the engine. I finally found the courage to turn the key and start the engine, which came to life on the third crank. No unusual noises from the engine. Nice. An image suddenly appeared in my mind of my teenage self in the passenger seat with Dad driving on a windy road near the Texas hill country. A straight stretch of road was coming up. Dad suddenly accelerated and put the car into fifth gear. The speedometer was near 90 mph. Dad was yelling over the wind noise from the roof being stowed away in the trunk of the car, “I like to keep the engine at around 4,000 RPM! This baby lives and breathes at 4,000 RPM!” Riding with Dad was exciting, scary, and exhilarating all at once. Dad drove that boxy Porsche like a professional. I came back to the present and smiled when I saw that the oil pressure light had turned off. Satisfied that the car was still in running condition, I turned the engine off and went back into the house. I still hadn’t found what I was looking for.

After searching in the house for an hour through various trunks, closets, and shelves, I finally discovered two large, black Pelican 1650 cases that contained my father’s camera equipment. My Dad bought them because of the advertisement, which showed a guy rowing in a kayak with four of those cases floating behind him. The cases were strong enough to stand on if you needed to be sixteen inches taller for a group shot, and waterproof to protect the lenses and camera bodies. There was even a pressure relief valve for when you took them on a plane. I opened both cases and saw both camera bodies, eye level prisms, normal, wide, and telephoto lenses were all still there, as well seven film backs. Dad had wanted me to follow in his wedding photography business and had given many encouraging words about my photographic work over the years. He had taught me everything about photography that he learned from the University of Colorado. In a teen-angst ridden moment of rebellion, I left home to study the culinary arts, and stopped talking about the photo business. Picking up one of the Hasselblad 501C bodies, I attached a lens, waist-level viewfinder, 120 film back, removed the dark slide. The camera easily cycled through a few shots without any indication that the leaf-shutter was in need of repair. Everything seemed to work perfectly. I found some 120 and 220 Fuji 400 speed film still in the original packaging in the bottom of the refrigerator. Mom must have kept it when dad died. I remembered that film could last a long time if kept cool and dry. A quick inspection of Dad’s old tan Domke camera bag showed some paperwork from his last wedding and radio slaves for his photographic lights. My sister’s voice brought me back to the present.

“Jake, I can’t find it. I can’t find a good picture of Dad and I together. I found one of me with Mom, lots of pictures of you and I growing up, but most of the rest of the pictures landscapes and architecture from their vacations together. Any idea where else I should look?”

I helped look for the photos she wanted for over two hours. Twelve photos albums, but none contained the pictures she had in mind. I suddenly had an idea.

I asked Jolene, “Do you remember that time we flew to Denver as a family then drove that rented Jeep CJ all over parts of Idaho, western Wyoming, and Montana? We even saw Yellowstone and that geyser that goes off every hour.”

“Yeah. So what? All of my pictures got ruined last year, which included shots from that trip, remember? I can’t tell if you’re trying to make me feel better or worse,” she replied.

“I want to help you,” I said. “Obviously, we can’t find the negatives for those photos. We’re almost at a stopping point with this estate-business. You fly back to Omaha tomorrow. I’m going to deposit this check in the bank and go find some of these places. I remember exactly where we went, and the angles Dad used for those vacation shots. I’m going to rebuild a photo album for you.

It only took a few quick stops to get the Porsche 914 more road worthy, which included a new set of tires and stopping by the tax office for renewal of the car registration. A quick purchase of two sets of jeans, t-shirts, and flannel shirts, and I was ready to be on my way. The first stop would be Denver, Colorado, which was usually a fifteen-hour drive from Dallas. I put one camera body, one eye level viewfinder, three film backs, and one wide angle, one normal focal length lens, and a telephoto lens in the Domke bag. The Hasselblad did not have a built-in light meter so I moved the Minolta hand-held light meter from the Pelican case to the Domke bag. I slung the Domke over my shoulder for fitment. It hugged my body when I moved left and right and was very comfortable, even though it contained several pounds of camera. No wonder Dad loved those camera bags. Problem solved. Not only did Domke bag easily fit in the tiny Porsche 914 but would also protect the fragile Hasselblad lenses. Overnight bag was stashed away in the front trunk. The roof panel was stashed away in the rear trunk, which left little room for anything else in the back. The camera bag had to rest on the floor of the passenger side of the cabin. Time to leave Dallas and hit the road. 

Between avoiding afternoon traffic, and exceeding the speed limit, I was able to make to Denver in thirteen hours. It could have been only twelve hours but there were many state troopers in Oklahoma at just about every truck stop. Three quick stops for photos at three locations: coliseum at Colorado State University, Boulder, the walk place at the 16^th Mall in Denver, and Denver Union Station. These were all places that were talked about by Dad from his college days and should bring back memories for my sister, Jolene. But something else was happening. The more I used the Hasselblad, the more I seem to find a little peace in my soul. The drive to Denver was fun but using Dad’s old camera brought something that I didn’t expect. Everything from the long-drawn-out procedure of loading film into a film back, which involved moving the black plastic spool from left to right, install the new roll of film where the old spool was before, feed some film into the empty spool, hand crank the side pulley until you see the arrow, then close the film back. Ensure the dark slide is fully installed in the film back. Then install the film back on the back of the camera body; advance the film using the crank on the side of the camera body; remove the dark slide. Ready to take pics! I had Dad’s voice in my head the entire time I was loading film. It was like he was there with me, coaching me, encouraging me to set the exposure for this part of the frame instead of the dark area, when using the handheld light meter. It was not quite an Anastasia experience, but there was something extraordinary happening when I used Dad’s camera equipment that I did not know possible. I found solace while using a dead man’s camera.

The next five days found me taking pictures of scenic locations in Yellowstone National Park, Pocatello and Boice, Idaho. I drove to several towns in Montana, including Missoula, Two Dot, Hungry Horse, and Kalispell. I found a photo lab in Great Falls, Montana that could process and print my medium format film. For an extra $20 they could rush the processing and printing. The results of my venture were about to be ready. I couldn’t wait to put a photo book together and ship them to my sister.

“Six rolls of 120 film processing, plus double sets of 5” x 5” prints on Fuji paper, plus rush fees, that will be $201.65, please.” The cashier at the photo shop was also the owner. The degree on the wall behind the glass counter said she graduated with a degree in fine arts from Montana State University in Bozeman. Her hooped nose-ring and blue tipped-blond hair told me how she probably voted in local elections. She was at least six inches shorter than me, which made me feel like I was looking down while conducting business. I looked at her in disbelief when told me the total bill.

“Wait. I only gave you five rolls of film. Plus, there isn’t any sales tax in Montana. How much did this cost?” I was a little speechless. She repeated the fee and corrected me on the quantity of rolls of film that I dropped off: there were six rolls. I suddenly got excited and tore open the bag of film negatives and photographic prints. I looked in each envelope containing prints. The first roll was photos from Colorado. The second was prints from Idaho. The third envelope contained photos from Yellowstone Park and Old Faithful. The fourth envelope had photos that did not look familiar. There were pictures of my sister in what appeared to be a blue Easter dress holding some lilies, smiling at the camera. They all looked professional. She looked about fourteen years of age. Dad must have taken these. The fifth picture was of Jolene standing next to Dad. Mom must have taken the pic with Dad’s camera. This might have been what Jolene was looking for at the house. That film must have been in the pocket of the Domke camera bag that used to store exposed rolls of film. 

It was still early afternoon in Great Falls. I didn’t want to waste time by shipping the photos to my sister. The drive to Omaha would be about 1,000 miles, or at least 15 hours. Cutting down through the southeast corner of Wyoming to I90 in South Dakota should give me plenty of places to stop for gas. The car was good on this trip, but what if it decided to break down? I picked up some cheap hand tools and flashlight at the local auto parts store on my way out of town.

I arrived in Omaha at around 7:30 in the morning. My sister wept when I showed her the picture of her and Dad. Serenity finally filled my soul.