Episode 1 - Capturing the Moment
By Christmas of 1895, Spencer had been living in the Hood River Oregon vicinity for a little over a month. By day, he worked in the general store run by Mr. Saunders, a man of roughly 45 years who made a decent living selling necessities for the town.
New folks were always wandering in and out of town, so Spencer’s arrival didn’t draw any undue attention. In fact, he had not really had to drum up much of a fictional backstory for anyone yet. Customers were usually in a hurry, and Mr. Saunders spent his words frugally.
In the weeks since his inexplicable travel through time, Spencer had reflected on his situation constantly. He missed a few of his colleagues at work, football games on Sunday, and the internet, but not as much as he would have guessed. In fact, he was relatively certain that the thing that would frustrate him the most about being unceremoniously thrust into the late 1800s was the social situation. The fact that he currently existed in a time period when women could not legally vote, for example, was a startling realization.
Adding to his intriguing conundrum was the fact that he still had no idea why he had arrived in THIS particular time and place. He racked his brain every day for some sort of reason for Oregon or 1895, and came up with nothing. Was he supposed to stop something from happening? Or instigate something himself?
As these endless questions played on a loop in his brain, one thing seemed certain to Spencer. His knowledge of history (or maybe the future was more appropriate?) was his greatest asset. He had a golden opportunity to turn his modest teacher salary and corresponding retirement in the 21st century into substantial wealth in the early 20th.
Spencer had done some rough math by lantern light one evening in the cabin he was squatting in outside of town. If he could save aggressively, he figured there was a good chance he could invest in Sears and Roebuck in time to cash in on its meteoric rise in the early 20th century. He did not have a photographic memory, and worried he might be slightly off in his recollection of the timing of its success. Best to play it safe if he got an opportunity, and invest earlier rather than later. If that didn’t work out, there were a couple of other options. Kodak was another company that Spencer recalled was about to take off.
On a slow chilly winter day in the shop, Spencer found himself day-dreaming, watching the swirls of dust drift through the shafts of light piercing the dim interior of the store. It was a long, narrow building, with a copper tile ceiling and creaky wooden stairs at one end that led up to a small landing. On one side of the landing was the door to the store’s office, and on the other the entrance to the small upstairs apartment that Mr. Saunders occupied with his ginger cat, Cleveland.
There was a large window on the landing, which along with the storefront windows, provided most of the daylight for the store, as it was flanked on either side by other merchants. To the north was a hardware store which loosely competed with Mr. Saunders, and to the south was a photo studio which Spencer kept meaning to drop into. He had always been fascinated by the craft, even if he himself was a mediocre photographer. For lovers of history, small town photo studios were a blessing, capturing images of Americana that would have otherwise been undocumented.
Spencer was a member of his local postcard club, which met every month for members to nerd out, trade and sell their favorite postcards, and talk about local history. He had a modest collection himself, mostly of the real photo variety, depicting long-dead Americans at work, hanging out at home, and enjoying their leisure time. The combination of folk photography and history was irresistible to him.
The bell on the door jingled, drawing Spencer back from his daydream. A man in denim pants and a corduroy shirt shuffled in, grabbed a copy of the local paper and scooped a handful of penny candy from a glass jar on top of the glass display case next to the register. The man plunked the candy down on the counter with one rough, calloused hand. Dirt was wedged under the man’s fingernails so far that Spencer doubted it would come out without a fierce scrub with a wire brush.
“Lemme get some tobaccah too please sir,” said the man with the unsophisticated formality of small town America. Spencer reached under the counter and added a pouch of plug tobacco to the pile of candy.
“Better make it two, please” said the man, spitting a jet of coarse brown liquid into the spittoon on the ground next to the counter. Spencer grimaced and counted out the man’s change. Not only did he find chewing tobacco putrid, he was also responsible for emptying the spittoon every night at closing time. Mr. Saunders had told him he could do it every other day, but the smell of day-old tobacco slurry was enough to turn Spencer’s stomach, and he preferred to do it daily.
As the man left, Spencer returned to day-dreaming, gazing at the shelves lining the store and towering from floor to ceiling. Cereals, dry beans and oatmeal, rough soaps and household cleaners, and a hundred other products lined the shelves, some with brightly colored logos, but most in simple burlap sacks and relatively plain boxes. Advertising and marketing was catching on fast at the turn of the century, but it was still in its infancy.
Outside, folks walked by in dresses with high necks and long skirts, horse-drawn wagons clopped along, splashing mud and muck as they went. The street was strewn with horse dung, dirty puddles and rotting vegetables thrown out by a grocer across the street. Spencer learned fast that sanitation was not a high priority in the late 1800s. He was glad to be vaccinated against most of the diseases most likely to kill him in 1895. He recalled showing his 10th graders pictures of life in American cities in the early 1900s, including a vivid depiction of the squalid streets of New York, where a random dead horse was simply left in the street after its unfortunate demise.
A group of three farmers came in speaking rapidly in Japanese. Spencer couldn’t understand anything they said, the extent of his Japanese knowledge coming from film and television. He knew “arigato” and “sayonara”. Fortunately, these were the main greetings he needed to work as a store clerk. The men grabbed the items they needed and quickly left. Mr. Saunders came in as they were leaving, carrying a pile of mail from the post office.
“Quiet day?” he asked after a couple minutes of listlessly opening and reading letters.
“Yep.” Spencer said, watching Saunders use a silver letter opener with a bald eagle clutching a shield engraved in the end.
“You can head home then, see you tomorrow.” A man of few words indeed.
Spencer grabbed his lunch pail, notebook and pencil, and headed out into the late afternoon sun. He turned and started walking briskly down the wooden planked sidewalk, but then stopped, turning to consider the slightly faded sign over his head. It featured a carved rising sun, painted yellow over a pail blue background. Gold leaf letters underneath read “Sunlight Studio - L. Bradley Photographer”.
A light bell tinkled as Spencer opened the door into the studio. It was a brightly lit space, with a skylight cut into the ceiling. There was a large ornate carpet on the ground and several chairs set up close to the wall. A few different cloth backdrops were draped over one of the chairs, a large ornate oak monstrosity that Spencer supposed was there to invoke a regal quality to the surroundings.
Various portraits were set on stands on small tables around the room. Residents of Hood River past and present gazed at him from the photographs. Most wore their Sunday best, but there was an ambitious cowboy here and there. The clunk of a door closing diverted Spencer’s attention to the back of the room, where a small reedy man wearing wire-rimmed glasses and a bowler hat emerged. Mr. Bradley had a wind-swept look about him, but addressed Spencer in a surprisingly booming tone.
“Can I interest you in a photograph sir? I’m about to close up for the day, but I would be happy to fit you in for some portraits. Perhaps the drawing room backdrop?”
Spencer pointed to a plain gray sheet hanging up against the wall. “I’m in a bit of a hurry, can we do one with the sheet that’s already up?”
“Suit yourself!” Bradley busied himself preparing the camera, which was in the corner of the room on a large tripod. Spencer positioned himself on a plain wooden stool. This was clearly not normal practice for Bradley, who likely expected to have to set a mood for his patrons, but he ignored Spencer’s lack of formality. The photographer hesitated before taking the photograph.
“Should we say a dozen prints? Two dollars for the lot.”
“Sounds swell,” said Spencer grinning to himself. He held that smile as the flash lit up the room.
“Well darn it, I think you were smiling. I should have warned you I was going to take the shot,” said Bradley apologetically. “I can take another.”
“No need. I can pick them up Friday?” asked Spencer, almost laughing as he remembered that smiling in photos was not yet commonplace.
“Yes indeed, see you then!” boomed Bradley.
Spencer gathered his things and walked out into the darkening street, breathing in a large lungful of cold, fresh winter air. It was a good day to be alive, he thought. In any year. For the first time he found himself wondering if he even wanted to find a way back to the present.