My Father Took Pictures
Inspired by a cache of photographs – dating from the late ’40s to the early ’60s – left to me by my father, who was the publisher, editor, and photographer of our local weekly, the Thirteen Towns. Join me on my journey back into the everyday life of Fosston, Minnesota – population 1,700 – in a simpler age, when men had odd nicknames and the threat of gossip guaranteed that we all got along. In those days, you could choose from among many family-owned eateries for the cheapest blue plate special, the best homemade pie, and the most refills of coffee. Ours was a world of Fourth of July and Homecoming Day parades, Christmas pageants, and church suppers, and of Santa Claus Day and an annual “community bean feed” downtown on First Street. We packed our Art Deco gym every February for the boy’s basketball tournament and, in July, thousands flocked to the East Polk County Fair for carnival rides, livestock judging, and performing dog acts. Our little town also had its share of tragedies – car crashes, house fires, robberies, and even murders – that Frank Vikan covered for the newspaper, with me tagging along as his “little helper.” And there was the mostly hidden story of my father’s struggle with alcohol and our family’s struggle to cope. Late one night my magical world was turned on its head by the sound of a gunshot – a signal that my father’s alcoholism had spiraled to the bottom. A few months later, and on the same day, he went off to the state mental hospital for drunks and I went off to college.