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@bsmithimages
There’s just something about seeing a passenger train speeding through the night that awakens a sense of wanderlust. Only a moment previous was it an ember, now a raging inferno of longing to go. The final destination of this train is out west, in a city where my good friends @jacobbykphoto and @chrissysuttles call home. (at Vermilion, Ohio)
by Hot Paper Comics
I have a friend who is bugging me to post some more work, either here or to contests. So here’s some stuff from 2017. I’m not really proud of it. Maybe I’m stuck in a professional rut and need to look for better horizons.
Photos for the Mansfield News Journal
The great American Solar Eclipse of 2017, as seen from the tiny hamlet of Glendo, Wyoming. It was great to experience the Coachella event of the year for science buffs and star gazers. Looking forward to 2024 when an eclipse will pass through the Buckeye State. Here’s hoping for cloudless skies.
Railroading, it's all in the family. My great grandfather Howard Fullmer (standing) spent decades working across northern Ohio for the New York Central during the golden age of steam. I was lucky enough to know him when I was a kid. He always entertained me with stories of cleaning up wrecks, or working as a conductor on a train that used to pass through my hometown. Even though we weren't blood related, he still imparted the love of soot, cinders, and valve oil onto me. When I rolled with @fortwaynerails into Chicago last month, I knew somewhere at the great roundhouse in the sky, a certain gentle giant had a big smile on his face. (at LaSalle Street Station)
If I cannot drink bourbon and smoke cigars in heaven than I shall not go.
Mark Twain (via h-o-r-n-g-r-y)
To anyone outside, a speeding train is a thunderbolt of driving rods, a hot hiss of steam, a blurred flash of coaches, a wall of movement and of noise. A shriek, a wail, and then just emptiness and absence, with a feeling of “There goes everybody!” without knowing who anybody is. And all of a sudden the watcher feels the vastness and loneliness of America, and the nothingness of all those little lives hurled past upon the immensity of the continent. But if one is inside the train, everything is different. The train itself is a miracle of man’s handy work, and everything about it is eloquent of human purpose and direction.
Thomas Wolfe, You Can’t Go Home Again
Photos from the first quarter of 2017.
For the Mansfield News Journal
You can file this under “You saw the president, cool story bro” folder, but being that this is Barack Obama’s last full day as commander and chief, it has given me some time to reflect on his career as president and mine as a photojournalist.
When I first started out in this career, I worked for my community college paper in 2010. Obama was only starting the second year of his term when he visited Lorain County Community College to have a town hall meeting. Obliviously our small newspaper staff at The Collegian was beyond psyched to have him be only two buildings away from our office.
The event went well, and people who said the president had “plants” there, would be surprised by how pointed and random questions people had.
The second time was when I went to Cleveland State the following year, in between covering basketball games that had soon to be two-time NBA Champion Norris Cole, Obama visited to talk about health issues with local leaders. I still give Obama props for having the best rally music that featured the likes of Miles Davis, Thelonious Monk and John Coltrane.
The last time I saw the president was during the 2012 election. I was working at The Daily Kent Stater but I tracked back up to Cleveland where he gave a speech again at CSU. Crowds of people waited up to three hours in the cold October rain to see him. While this would sour a lot of people at a political rally, people were overcome with emotion when he came to the stage.
It was a unique emotion, and the only way I can think to compare it, is to when you see a televangelist attempt to slay people with the holy spirit, and there are gasps, howls and many people catching their breath. It’s like witnessing an invisible wave ebb and flow over a sea of humanity.
I don’t know what the future will hold for the presidency starting tomorrow. I hope we will have a leader that can inspire us to listen to our better angles like Lincoln, but predicting how the pages of the future will be written can be a hazardous occupation.
Politics, football and supermoons, all on display this past fall for The Mansfield News Journal.
Dec. 17, 1957: “No city in the world, Bub, will give you the variety of wheeled things you get here,” Harold Robert Semerau, a wandering widowed repairman for the Salvation Army from Butternut, Wis., told The New York Times. He elaborated: “You get all the American makes, and in shipments from Park Avenue and Fifth Avenue and ‘way over East where the rich kids live you get foreign things. You get wheeled rigs that cost up to $125 and more. We get things with sad stories behind ‘em. Crushed wheels and carriages where some father backed out of a garage without looking; toys of kids who have died; brand-new things a family gets rid of because the father’s been switched to a new job on the West Coast and doesn’t have room to take them along. You could read whole stories into wheeled things, Bub.” Photo: William Eckenberg/The New York Times
Summer has come and gone. Here are several photos from the last half of summer here at the Mansfield News Journal.
Photos from the Ft. Wayne Railroad Historical Society Member’s Day.
Photos from June and early July 2016 at the Mansfield News Journal.
Photos from the past month at the Mansfield News Journal.
I haven’t updated this in a while since I started working at The Mansfield News Journal. Being that I work the night shift, I see a lot of high school sports along with the start of graduations this time of year. Thankfully prom season is now in the rearview mirror.
I seriously could just set up a lawn chair here with a cooler full of Pabst, and enjoy this view all day long. (at Oregon Rail Heritage Center)
