Time travel
In the absence of a functional (and dependable) time machine, I’ve settled for second best. Over the last hour or so, I have been immersed in the industrial history of the town where I went to high school. And, of course, cut my teeth in the workforce.
Our memories are imperfect; sometimes a good photograph can reset skewed scales; just how big was that building? I had the good fortune to put several summers in places that had nothing to do with my vocation (and everything to do with my impoverished financial state). My sons would scoff at pay envelopes based on a minimum wage somewhere below $2 per hour, but back in the ’70s, it seemed like a fortune. I wasn’t a spendthrift, so when my return to school would come along in the fall, there was sufficient cash to pay my major bills.
In fact, old photos solve all kinds of inconsistencies in my mental map. My high school years were without personal transport, unless you count the city bus or my buddy Bill’s “Bug” (the one with the cool sunroof). I walked; a lot. Now that I can review certain sites, I am reassured.
Which leads me to the next thing: at what point are MY old photos of value to others? Should I spend hours digitizing 35mm B&W negatives, if nobody else cares? I know that my rail pics are a requested item, but my focus on campus architecture and sporting events… not sure. Maybe I should cherry pick, instead of going crazy trying to remove the dust from thousands and thousands of frames of Tri-X.
