JOURNALISM WAS MORE
INTERESTING
by Tom Hubbard
Emeritus Prof. Ohio State School of Journalism and Communication
Quirky things happen to photojournalists. Here’s a few of my experiences
in Atlanta and Cincinnati.
This first one happened when I was a photographer for the Cincinnati Enquirer
some time in the l960s. It was a routine Saturday morning assignment. Only
one TV cameraman and I responded to a news release. Two University of Cincinnati
music professors were going to receive an award at a campus concert. The
PR person met us and gave us a concert program to let us know when the award
presentation would be made.
After the awards, the music was going to be “Grand Canyon Suite.” The
TV guy and I both recognized it. A small portion of Grand Canyon Suite
was being used in a popular commercial, so it was probably the best-known
classical
music of the time.
We both saw something else at the same time. The program said, “Grand
Canyon Suite, conducted by the composer.” The most famous piece of
classical music, conducted by THE Ferdie Grofé, the composer! Is
that right?"
“Yes, that’s him over there in the wheel
chair."
We asked, "He’s
going to conduct the symphony from his wheel chair?”
“Yep.”
The professors didn’t make the paper. The Ferdie Grofé story
and photo did.
****************************************
A teenager tried to hijack a plane at the Greater Cincinnati Airport. He
was about 14, never really had a chance. When the media got there, he was
being held in the airport fire station. The fire station had a big mirror
window overlooking the runways. We were all standing around waiting for
him to be transported. We could cup our hands, creating a shadow area,
and see
him sitting there, inside the mirror window.
It occurred to me, if I can see through the window, maybe I could photograph
him by shadowing my lens. I could barely see him but I made a few shots.
It worked! (I didn’t share this discovery with my colleagues.) We ran
my picture, the only available picture of the hijacker. His mother called
me. I steeled myself for some sort of tirade, but she was delighted with
the picture. “Best picture I’ve ever seen of him. Will you send
me a copy?” It seemed the best part of her day was getting a good
picture of her son. How could I refuse such a gracious request?
****************************************
It was the early 1970s.
Miniskirts had just come out. The assignment was the new police
recruit graduating class. This was once or twice a year, usually
dull, just a bunch of blue uniforms in an auditorium. One feature;
this time it was the first graduating class to include women police
officers. Still, just a bunch of blue uniforms … until.
As I looked down a long row of blue clad knees, there was one
miniskirt in the row. What an unmistakable way to say “woman
police officer.” I was standing to one side of the auditorium
with a small group of reporters and photographers. When everyone’s
attention was on the stage, I grabbed my shot.
I used the shot in class a lot when I taught photojournalism, partly so I could
brag, but to make a point. Sometimes, the word content of a story reveals itself
all at once in an image … and when you get a good shot, it’s a good
idea to take it and not announce it. |
|
****************************************
Some times on an assignment, you allow yourself to be struck, “This
is a romantic occupation.” I was on a liquor still raid in
Georgia. I was the only journalist, benefiting from some sort of
tip. We were sloshing
through a swampy area in the early morning mist. Ground fog clung
to the surface, silhouetting trees, which seemed to sprout from
the fog at chest
height. We were silently creeping along, guns and cameras drawn.
We found the liquor still functioning, but no one was there. A fisherman
wandered by, got interrogated, and sent on his way.
The sheriff and a bunch of part-time civilian deputies busted up the equipment
and carried all the gallon jugs of moonshine outside for a count.
The sheriff called everyone together for a solemn speech. “I’ve
got to go back to town, but I want every one of those jugs to be busted.” Lots
of solemn nodding, “Yessir, we wouldn’t think of doing
anything else.”
The instant his car disappeared in the haze, the deputies were
in a discussion, There was no preliminary of “should we” or “shouldn’t
we?” They went right to, “How many should we bust (for effect,)
and how are we going to divide the rest evenly?” Some times you witness
such exquisite theater and don’t realized you are seeing
an act.
****************************************
At the Cincinnati Enquirer, I used my own car for work, which was
equipped with a two-way radio. I had just photographed my new sister-in-law’s
wedding on a Saturday and was headed for the reception with my wife in the
car. I called the paper to check on what assignments I might have the next
day. The city editor responded, “Tom, head for I-275 and Cleveland
Avenue, I’ll give you instructions on the way.”
I responded, “Bob, I’m off today and am in the middle of covering
a family wedding.” He ignored me and repeated, “Tom, head for
I-275 and Cleveland Avenue.” I was recently married myself
so this was a new adventure for my new wife. She was excited to
be going on a spot
news assignment. So, with wife in bridesmaid dress, I headed out.
On the way, we learned it was an ammunition truck on fire. A passing motorist
had alerted the truck driver of a fire in his trailer. You can imagine
how quickly the driver pulled over.
I was blocked about a half mile away. There was no way Ingrid was going
to run a half mile along a highway in a full length bridesmaid dress, so
she
stayed at the car. Believe it or not, she wanted to go. The fire was out,
but there was an ominous burned out portion of the trailer body, revealing
wooden racks of big artillery shells.
An on-duty photographer had been diverted from another assignment, so he
took the pictures and I proceeded to the wedding reception.
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This one was two sad assignments. A baby was murdered in a house.
Apparently, the police were not concerned about the outside as a
crime scene because
we were standing right at the house, under its eaves because it was
raining. About five journalists were standing there. I was with Kirby,
a reporter
from my paper. At one point, about five more journalists arrived
and arranged themselves under the eves with us.
The door opened and a grim group of police and medics came out with a gurney,
which they rolled to an ambulance and loaded it. Those of us who had arrived
early noticed a small lump in the blankets, so we photographed the apparently
empty gurney. The newly arrived group wondered why we were all photographing
an empty gurney. After the ambulance left, we told them.
Two days later, a different sad assignment. My paper, the daily
Atlanta Times, folded. The word went out around noon that the paper
had ceased
operation.
I was standing in the newsroom with Kirby as outside journalists
started wandering in. Kirby was understandably upset that his paper
had just ceased
operations. He looked at the invading journalists and said, “Look,
the vultures are descending on us.”
I said, “Kirby, what do you think we looked like two days ago, when
we were standing under the eves of that house, waiting for the baby’s
body to come out?”
****************************************
Kirby was famous in the Atlanta Times newsroom. The Civil War battle
of Atlanta took place in 1864. In 1964, all the Atlanta media made
a big thing
of the
centennial. Kirby was assigned to write the lead story on the Battle
of Atlanta special section. The section was a pre-print, so there
was some
flexibility.
But, Kirby missed his deadline by a day or so. Kirby had to endure
many times the question. “Kirby, it happened a hundred years
ago. Why are you late?”
****************************************
John at the Cincinnati Enquirer didn’t miss a deadline but he made
the newsroom bulletin board. A destructive tornado hit Cincinnati in 1974.
John was assigned to edit a special anniversary section a year later. The
section included unpublished tornado pictures that had surfaced, stories
on rebuilt neighborhoods, etc. There was an info box, “What to do if
you experience a tornado.” The box was pinned to the bulletin board
with an addition to the list. “Wait a year and call John.”
****************************************
Another John, a reporter at the Enquirer, had come from a small
paper, apparently a really small paper. Another photographer told
me this story.
The PR person
at the Cincinnati Zoo handed John a news release. John sat down,
opened his portable typewriter and proceeded to copy the news release.
John was
next
to the lion cage. The photographer used to love to tell this story. “The
lions were sitting there watching him type the release!” It
turns out, where John came from, PR people typed one copy of a
release and loaned
it
to John to re-type. He carried his portable typewriter to copy
releases. John was delighted when he was told he could keep his
copy of the release.
The joys of working in a big city.
John had another quirk, maybe picked up in that small town. If
you politely asked, John, how are you? He took it literally and
launched into a long
detailed description of his health. He took it literally. When
you met John
on an assignment, you hoped you would not forget and automatically
ask, “How
are you?”
****************************************
On one occasion at the Atlanta Times, I was embarrassed, but I
got in, so I didn’t make a fuss. The Atlanta Times was a
conservative paper started by Georgia politicians as an answer
to the more liberal Atlanta
Journal and
Constitution. It was a startup daily in 1964. In those days, any
good journalist was already employed, so the startup Atlanta Times
newsroom was a mixed
bag. About the only thing in common was that the reporters and
photographers were
mostly progressive and liberal thinkers, to the consternation of
the owners.
Well, the assignment was to cover a Ku Klux Klan rally. The Klan
was suspicious of the media so they weren’t letting journalists
in. When I identified myself as “Atlanta Times,” they
said, “Oh, you’re
from the good paper, come on in.” I’ve never before
or since been identified as a friend of the Klan, but that night,
I
smiled and went
in.
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Christmas Eve, I was covering a fire with Dan, a very young looking
reporter at the Enquirer. At the fire, he looked like a curious
kid the police should
have held back. I had my pictures, the fire was over. I’m not sure
the fire officer thought Dan was old enough to be a reporter, so he gave
Dan a hard time. He kept putting off Dan who needed fire damage details.
In desperation, Dan told him, “We’ve got an early deadline tonight
because it’s Christmas Eve.” That set off a tirade from the fire
officer. “You want to rush me because you want to get off early for
Christmas Eve.” Dan tried to explain the early deadline was
so printers could be home for Christmas Eve, not for Dan or me.
Somehow Dan finally
got the information, but I kidded Dan about his lack of authoritative
presence, all the way back to the paper.
****************************************
The Cricket was a restaurant/bar next door to the Cincinnati Enquirer.
We were a morning paper so our mid-work meal was dinner, often at the Cricket.
In that age, through the 1970s, reporters, photographers, copy editors
might
finish their shift with a few belts in them. (It was another era; think
of the drinking as historic precedent.)
A new publisher was appalled at this situation. A grizzled old
guy on the copy desk answered him, “You think we get these headlines from Pablum!?” It
became a historic sentence. If a reporter came in with a great story, or
a photographer came back with a great shot, he or she might endure some Pablum
jokes, “Did you get that from Pablum?’ “See you’ve
been eating your Pablum.”
Journalism was certainly
more interesting back then.
Tom Hubbard
Emeritus Prof. Ohio State School of Journalism and Communication
hubbard.1@osu.edu
