THERE ARE VOICES THAT I HEAR

There are voices that I hear from out of my past. They tell of happenings and events that in themselves were not momentous but merely experiences that colored someone's life or lives. I recognize the speakers. They are my dead comrades and the stories are theirs. But, the voices are growing fainter and the tales they tell are becoming obscured by time. What a pity.

There was a time when we would all try to gather at lunch. It was an easier time, back then and the Photo Department would just shut down for an hour. The City Desk knew where we could be reached in an emergency, but, it had better be a murder or a plane crash if they expected to roust a photographer from his burger and beer.

Most of us would make an effort to get back to join the others for this pleasant socialization at lunch time. When we finished our pre-noon assignments and called in, the Photo Editor would announce that we were going to the Garden City Bowl for lunch. Or the Hempstead Elks. Or maybe Gus’s Old Country Diner. And Max, the Day Photo Editor, and Harvey Weber, the Director of Photography would grab a large table and hold it and as many of us as could make it would show up.

And over a beer, before our orders came, someone would start talking about some crazy thing that happened to him (there were no women on the staff, back then) and that would start a round of, “Hey, remember when old Smiley got stopped by that cop one snowy night.........?” And the stories would make the round of the table with everyone trying to top the other.

As a young and brash newcomer to the group, I sat there and soaked up these stories like a sponge. Because they were filled with practical lore on the fine art and finesse required to get pictures when people and fate conspired to keep you from doing that very thing. And the stories were filled with humor and sometimes sadness. I believe the spirit of Damon Runyon sat at that table, because the characters that starred in these scenarios were Runyonesque in a manner not to be believed. And some of us had our own little personal tales to tell and it was a magical moment.

“Do you remember when Jimmy Nightingale had to take photos of those trained mice in Freeport? He got there and this poor demented woman trouped out her imaginary trained mouse marching band, complete with tiny instruments and uniforms, or so she said. And Night just aimed his Speed Graphic at the empty carpet and popped off a coupla flash bulbs; tipped his hat, and beat it out of there.”

“And how about the time they sent Al Raia to Floral Park because some woman claimed she had a Siamese butterfly in her garden. Al got there, and sure enough, there was these two butterflies joined together with two sets of wings and two sets of abdomens or what ever bugs have. And he shot a beautiful close up of this marvel and Newsday published it the next day and the phones rang off the hooks as soon as the papers hit the streets. ‘What's the matter with you guys?’ people wanted to know. ‘Don't you know how baby butterflies are made?’ ”

There was never enough time to tell all the stories before we had to head on out for our afternoon assignments. But, our boss, Harvey Weber used to say that one day we should get together with a keg of beer and a tape recorder and put all of these stories on tape to preserve them. Other wise they would be lost to posterity.

We often talked about doing that. But, alas, we never did. And one by one, the story tellers retired and died. I remember coming back from assignment, one afternoon and the few old timers who were still left all had long faces. They told me that they had gotten a call from Jimmy Nightingale (of the marching mice story). He had retired a few years earlier and was living in Florida. He called to say good-bye. He had cancer and didn't have much time left.

I got his phone number and went out into the City Room to call him. I didn't trust my emotions to do it in the Photo Department where I knew everyone. So, I found an empty desk in the corner and turned to the wall and dialed the phone. Jimmy answered and filled me in on what was happening to him. With tears streaming down my face, I said good-bye to this old trouper. He had been a song and dance man in Vaudeville and often would entertain us with sleight of hand magic tricks while we waited for our film to dry. Jimmy was an accomplished story teller and a lot of the stories involved him and some of the crazy things that happened during his long and colorful career as a news photographer.

When I finally hung up, I vowed not to let these stories fade into obscurity because there was no one left to tell them. I was left, and the ghosts of all my friends would haunt me if I let this opportunity pass.

I didn't know how I would accomplish this feat. And then, one day, I got my first computer. Then I found the Internet and soon after that I discovered the National Press Photographers Association-List (NPPA-L). After lurking on the list for awhile, I realized that this would be the perfect place to spin these wonderful stories. And I started cranking them out under the heading of “Through A Lens Dimly.” The response was incredible. People e-mail me asking for more. Some of the stories were very short. Others were incredibly long and I had to break them up into several installments. And the more I wrote, the more people clamored for them.

I haven't written any for quite awhile, now. Especially now that I am contributing to this journal. Fortunately, I have saved everything that I've written and if I can ever find a publisher willing to take a chance on a wanna-be Damon Runyon, it is possible that these stories could make a book. I’d like that. If it were a success, the money would be nice.

And even if it wasn't, Harvey and Max and Jimmy and Smiley and the others would be pleased.

Behind the Viewfinder - A Year in the Life of Photojournalism
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