Another story I did for the Indy this week was posted to dane101.com through our content-sharing partnership.
Check it out: Recall petitioners allowed to stay in Reedsburg Rec Center - for now
Showing posts with label Reedsburg. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Reedsburg. Show all posts
8.10.2011
Thoughts from a Plane Crash
At the scene of an accident, it's not a good sign when the frenetic pace slows, firefighters begin lifting off their helmets, paramedics draw farther away. The plane, bent in wrong directions like a broken bone, was laying where it had crumpled and came to rest against the side of a storage shed.
I was standing in tall grass between Jeff and a rusted out washing machine when a fireman approached us. "It just dropped out of the sky," he said with a combination of astonishment and exhaustion.
His voice dropped off. "They've passed," he said.
We don't respond to accident calls often. I don't know how to succinctly explain it - other papers like to publish accident photos from time to time, and it always gives me a bad taste in my mouth. It's just not nice.
The plane crash was different. There was no debating whether or not we were going to respond, no looking up addresses while questioning if it was worth our time to drive out there. A plane crash. I sprang up, haphazardly predicting what I needed to bring to the scene like gathering possessions to rescue from my burning home. Jeff was already out the door. Nate the intern trailed behind.
We drove like maniacs across town, and it seemed like everyone with a police scanner was headed in the same direction. I called my dad. "They're trapped," he said, relaying what he heard on the scanner. "They've started CPR."
We parked behind the VFW Hall and a man in a station wagon was telling a guy with a baby stroller that he had seen the whole thing. "Go talk to him!" I yelled to Nate, struggling to keep up with Jeff.
I felt blindly pulled like a magnet toward the accident scene, ignoring fences and driveways. Jeff led us the long way along the road, scolding me for trespassing. "That's private property," he yelled behind him.
As we approached the scene, a sheriff with a white handlebar mustache and brown uniform was pulling police tape across our path. My stomach dropped.
The sheriff looked up and saw us. "Did you get a good picture yet, Jeff?" he asked, lifting the police tape so we could go under. "I know you won't get in the way."
As we approached the scene, the reporter part of my brain started to take over, filing away facts and details, making lists. The red barn and red fire truck standing stark against that clear blue summer sky, calm and still. The plane, looking fake like a movie prop, wrong in the scene before us. Firemen swarming everywhere. The jaws of life.
Jeff, with a surprising knowledge of airplanes, relayed technical details to me as we stood several yards away. "That's an ultralight," he said of the plane in front of us. "You're more secure in a Ferris Wheel." We stood back, trying to decipher what was going on in the scene before us, trying to make sense of all the people and objects that had converged in this ordinary trucking yard. The only thing that was obvious, the thing that later played through my head over and over, was the moment when all of the emergency people gave up, slowed down, and stepped back.
Back at the office, my adrenaline still pumping, I flew into reporter overdrive. I got on the phone and called every person I could think of who would have information, an ultimately useless task as the tragedy was still new. No one knew anything, least of all me, and I had no idea what to do next.
I didn't go to journalism school, but I don't think there's standard procedure for handling a tragedy. I put off writing the front page article until a few days later, forcing myself to talk to those involved, forcing myself to go over the events one more time. As a reporter, I have always felt that my responsibility has been to make things make sense, and more than my grief over the event itself, more than my disbelief, more than the images playing over and over in my head, I think what bothers me more than anything right now is an overwhelming feeling of inadequacy. I can't make this make sense. I can give you the facts. I can describe what happened at the scene. I can provide photos. I can find things out. But I can't make them make sense. I just can't.
Additional photos from the scene are linked from my Flickr earlier in this blog. A full write-up of the story will be available in this week's Reedsburg Independent, on newsstands Wednesday and in subscriber mailboxes on Thursday.
I was standing in tall grass between Jeff and a rusted out washing machine when a fireman approached us. "It just dropped out of the sky," he said with a combination of astonishment and exhaustion.
His voice dropped off. "They've passed," he said.
We don't respond to accident calls often. I don't know how to succinctly explain it - other papers like to publish accident photos from time to time, and it always gives me a bad taste in my mouth. It's just not nice.
The plane crash was different. There was no debating whether or not we were going to respond, no looking up addresses while questioning if it was worth our time to drive out there. A plane crash. I sprang up, haphazardly predicting what I needed to bring to the scene like gathering possessions to rescue from my burning home. Jeff was already out the door. Nate the intern trailed behind.
We drove like maniacs across town, and it seemed like everyone with a police scanner was headed in the same direction. I called my dad. "They're trapped," he said, relaying what he heard on the scanner. "They've started CPR."
We parked behind the VFW Hall and a man in a station wagon was telling a guy with a baby stroller that he had seen the whole thing. "Go talk to him!" I yelled to Nate, struggling to keep up with Jeff.
I felt blindly pulled like a magnet toward the accident scene, ignoring fences and driveways. Jeff led us the long way along the road, scolding me for trespassing. "That's private property," he yelled behind him.
As we approached the scene, a sheriff with a white handlebar mustache and brown uniform was pulling police tape across our path. My stomach dropped.
The sheriff looked up and saw us. "Did you get a good picture yet, Jeff?" he asked, lifting the police tape so we could go under. "I know you won't get in the way."
As we approached the scene, the reporter part of my brain started to take over, filing away facts and details, making lists. The red barn and red fire truck standing stark against that clear blue summer sky, calm and still. The plane, looking fake like a movie prop, wrong in the scene before us. Firemen swarming everywhere. The jaws of life.
Jeff, with a surprising knowledge of airplanes, relayed technical details to me as we stood several yards away. "That's an ultralight," he said of the plane in front of us. "You're more secure in a Ferris Wheel." We stood back, trying to decipher what was going on in the scene before us, trying to make sense of all the people and objects that had converged in this ordinary trucking yard. The only thing that was obvious, the thing that later played through my head over and over, was the moment when all of the emergency people gave up, slowed down, and stepped back.
Back at the office, my adrenaline still pumping, I flew into reporter overdrive. I got on the phone and called every person I could think of who would have information, an ultimately useless task as the tragedy was still new. No one knew anything, least of all me, and I had no idea what to do next.
I didn't go to journalism school, but I don't think there's standard procedure for handling a tragedy. I put off writing the front page article until a few days later, forcing myself to talk to those involved, forcing myself to go over the events one more time. As a reporter, I have always felt that my responsibility has been to make things make sense, and more than my grief over the event itself, more than my disbelief, more than the images playing over and over in my head, I think what bothers me more than anything right now is an overwhelming feeling of inadequacy. I can't make this make sense. I can give you the facts. I can describe what happened at the scene. I can provide photos. I can find things out. But I can't make them make sense. I just can't.
Additional photos from the scene are linked from my Flickr earlier in this blog. A full write-up of the story will be available in this week's Reedsburg Independent, on newsstands Wednesday and in subscriber mailboxes on Thursday.
7.07.2011
Reflected
Maybe I'm getting a little sentimental in my old age, but I'll admit to tearing up a bit last Monday at the dedication of the new Veterans Memorial in Reedsburg.
It really seems like not so long ago that Jeff and I went to the groundbreaking. It was one of only a handful of events we've ever covered together, and I was only an intern at the time. The speakers then focused on a grand vision for that tiny corner of Nishan Park, and I had a hard time picturing it. As they stood there with their ceremonial shovels, posing for photos, the completion seemed so far off in the future, still a someday, still a dream. Three years later on July 4, the Memorial was finished.
I've visited my future in-laws in Washington D.C. a few times now and have hit up most of the touristy monument stops in the area. But I have never been moved the way I was last Monday, viewing the Reedsburg Memorial in its finished state for the first time. The glossy black granite panels display scenes from the US's past and current conflicts and fittingly, they also reflect the viewer. I went back early on Tuesday morning to get some shots of just the Memorial, including the photo above that I put on the front page later that day. Sitting on the warm cement in the exact center of the site, the environment was calm, quiet, meditative, the Memorial and flagpoles looming above me, stretching into the sky.
I grew up in Reedsburg, and I constantly marvel at how working for the Indy gives me a totally different perspective on my humble hometown. In the last three years, we've covered every fundraising effort for this Memorial, every Vet Fest, every raffle, every donation, and the Packer Tailgate that came to town last year just to name a few (of many) off the top of my head. Had I been just a citizen, I might have been too wrapped up in my own life to notice what was going on in that corner of Nishan Park, and how the citizens of Reedsburg were tirelessly working to make that dream a reality.
I've had very few profound moments in life, where everything seems to move slowly, where time stops, as though the world is in a vacuum and centers on that one moment. The last time was the June 2008 flood, walking away from Pineview Elementary, clutching my flood clean-up kit. This time the experience was positive. On Monday, a few hundred people came together to welcome this Memorial into the community, listening to speakers, exploring the grounds, celebrating the hard work and dedication of so many people. On Tuesday, I was fortunate to be able to spend some time with the Memorial, taking it in, observing and photographing and experiencing the stillness of the place. It was a privilege to cover this story over the past three years and to see the Memorial come to fruition.
More photos on my Flickr.
It really seems like not so long ago that Jeff and I went to the groundbreaking. It was one of only a handful of events we've ever covered together, and I was only an intern at the time. The speakers then focused on a grand vision for that tiny corner of Nishan Park, and I had a hard time picturing it. As they stood there with their ceremonial shovels, posing for photos, the completion seemed so far off in the future, still a someday, still a dream. Three years later on July 4, the Memorial was finished.
I've visited my future in-laws in Washington D.C. a few times now and have hit up most of the touristy monument stops in the area. But I have never been moved the way I was last Monday, viewing the Reedsburg Memorial in its finished state for the first time. The glossy black granite panels display scenes from the US's past and current conflicts and fittingly, they also reflect the viewer. I went back early on Tuesday morning to get some shots of just the Memorial, including the photo above that I put on the front page later that day. Sitting on the warm cement in the exact center of the site, the environment was calm, quiet, meditative, the Memorial and flagpoles looming above me, stretching into the sky.
I grew up in Reedsburg, and I constantly marvel at how working for the Indy gives me a totally different perspective on my humble hometown. In the last three years, we've covered every fundraising effort for this Memorial, every Vet Fest, every raffle, every donation, and the Packer Tailgate that came to town last year just to name a few (of many) off the top of my head. Had I been just a citizen, I might have been too wrapped up in my own life to notice what was going on in that corner of Nishan Park, and how the citizens of Reedsburg were tirelessly working to make that dream a reality.
I've had very few profound moments in life, where everything seems to move slowly, where time stops, as though the world is in a vacuum and centers on that one moment. The last time was the June 2008 flood, walking away from Pineview Elementary, clutching my flood clean-up kit. This time the experience was positive. On Monday, a few hundred people came together to welcome this Memorial into the community, listening to speakers, exploring the grounds, celebrating the hard work and dedication of so many people. On Tuesday, I was fortunate to be able to spend some time with the Memorial, taking it in, observing and photographing and experiencing the stillness of the place. It was a privilege to cover this story over the past three years and to see the Memorial come to fruition.
More photos on my Flickr.
6.07.2011
Waiting for Dinner
Near dusk last night at my parents' house, the pizza delivery guy pointed out this treefrog perched on their house number under their front door light, waiting for the bugs to come. He didn't act particularly thrilled to have a camera shoved in his face, but he put up with it. It was probably a long climb up the siding on those tiny pads in hungry anticipation of the dinner soon to flock to him.
When I was a kid, we used to catch dozens of these things. Tiny fingernail-sized toads and slimy bullfrogs were common, but treefrogs were the money. The pet shop that used to be on Main Street paid two dollars each for them, no lie. My neighbors and I scoured the backyard, the swamp and woods . If we were lucky enough to spot them, the challenge then was in catching them; they were fast, just in sheer velocity and jumping power. We mere human children scrambled after them, disappointed every time one disappeared into the tall brush.
After so many months of cold, it's finally summer in Wisconsin. :)
When I was a kid, we used to catch dozens of these things. Tiny fingernail-sized toads and slimy bullfrogs were common, but treefrogs were the money. The pet shop that used to be on Main Street paid two dollars each for them, no lie. My neighbors and I scoured the backyard, the swamp and woods . If we were lucky enough to spot them, the challenge then was in catching them; they were fast, just in sheer velocity and jumping power. We mere human children scrambled after them, disappointed every time one disappeared into the tall brush.
After so many months of cold, it's finally summer in Wisconsin. :)
5.18.2011
Ladders
I set out on Monday to get a photo of this construction site on Main Street in Reedsburg. Jeff suggested standing against the dry cleaners with my back to the sun, as it was mid-morning by that time. Good tip.
I am five feet tall exactly, and I've been considering more and more lately getting a small step stool and keeping it in my car, just in case. It would only need to give me another foot or so in height, but there's been at least three times in the last few months where I could have used one. On one of those occasions I actually pulled my car into the spot I wanted and stood on the hood to get the shot. I would have done the same in this situation had I not been on Main Street in a skirt and heels in the middle of a weekday. One more foot or so and I would have been able to shoot over this fence instead of through it.
I've shot through a fence before and it hasn't been a big deal. But in this situation, the straight fence shot gave me too much shadow from the building next to me, and the diagonally-placed fence piece gave me the shot I wanted - except I kept catching the fence through it. I climbed a small cement stoop and was able to shoot over the fence... but through a spindly little tree. I was so frustrated; it was a simple assignment, to take a photo of a construction site, and I was having more trouble than necessary in making it work.
I took the above photo as a joke. My assignment was to, "Get a picture of all the equipment in that big hole" (Jeff). As I looked over the construction site, considering my shot, I noticed the ladders perched against the cement walls of the underground parking garage. It reminded me of movies set in the Middle Ages when people stormed castles and got shot at by burning arrows. I imagined someone storming the construction site, giggled and took my shot.
I took a few other photos once I figured out what I was doing. This turned out to be the one Jeff liked the most but not for the same reasons - he pointed out that there was a nice color contrast between the two red pieces of equipment in the photo, and he pointed out that it wasn't something people can see just driving past. I agreed, and we printed it in this week's Indy as an inside color photo.
My new telephoto lens is scheduled to be delivered today, and I am ridiculously excited. I have a new case sitting on my dining room table just waiting for it. I bought it because there were three or four times in the last couple months or so that I needed one, and looking forward to this summer, I don't want to take Butterfest and Demo Derby photos without one. I also look forward to using it for my personal project. I always swore I would never buy new equipment (editing software included) until I felt like it was holding me back, and the telephoto started to be that way. Maybe a stepladder will be my next purchase. :)
I am five feet tall exactly, and I've been considering more and more lately getting a small step stool and keeping it in my car, just in case. It would only need to give me another foot or so in height, but there's been at least three times in the last few months where I could have used one. On one of those occasions I actually pulled my car into the spot I wanted and stood on the hood to get the shot. I would have done the same in this situation had I not been on Main Street in a skirt and heels in the middle of a weekday. One more foot or so and I would have been able to shoot over this fence instead of through it.
I've shot through a fence before and it hasn't been a big deal. But in this situation, the straight fence shot gave me too much shadow from the building next to me, and the diagonally-placed fence piece gave me the shot I wanted - except I kept catching the fence through it. I climbed a small cement stoop and was able to shoot over the fence... but through a spindly little tree. I was so frustrated; it was a simple assignment, to take a photo of a construction site, and I was having more trouble than necessary in making it work.
I took the above photo as a joke. My assignment was to, "Get a picture of all the equipment in that big hole" (Jeff). As I looked over the construction site, considering my shot, I noticed the ladders perched against the cement walls of the underground parking garage. It reminded me of movies set in the Middle Ages when people stormed castles and got shot at by burning arrows. I imagined someone storming the construction site, giggled and took my shot.
I took a few other photos once I figured out what I was doing. This turned out to be the one Jeff liked the most but not for the same reasons - he pointed out that there was a nice color contrast between the two red pieces of equipment in the photo, and he pointed out that it wasn't something people can see just driving past. I agreed, and we printed it in this week's Indy as an inside color photo.
My new telephoto lens is scheduled to be delivered today, and I am ridiculously excited. I have a new case sitting on my dining room table just waiting for it. I bought it because there were three or four times in the last couple months or so that I needed one, and looking forward to this summer, I don't want to take Butterfest and Demo Derby photos without one. I also look forward to using it for my personal project. I always swore I would never buy new equipment (editing software included) until I felt like it was holding me back, and the telephoto started to be that way. Maybe a stepladder will be my next purchase. :)
5.11.2011
Curve
Taken on Hwy K in Reedsburg, Wisconsin, May 2011.
I went out a few weeks ago to take pictures of the ongoing construction work on the North Side sewer in Reedsburg. They never made it in the Indy, but I liked the results.
I parked on the corner of 19th Street and K in Reedsburg and walked down K. I realized later that I could have parked much closer and spared myself much of that painful high-heeled walked up and down the highway, but I would have missed some fantastic shots. I loved seeing all of those huge sewer pieces up close, particularly the manhole covers. I felt like a little kid, fascinated by the big machines displacing so, so much earth.
I have never been keen on getting to close to anything while taking pictures for the Indy. I try to reassure myself, saying that my photos come out more from the perspective of a casual observer than an insider, but mostly, I'm just scared. As I took pictures of the worksite from across the street, I thought about getting closer. Images of my untimely death flashed across my brain, "Search called off for reporter who fell into center of Earth." I decided I was just fine across the street, thank you.
Despite my reluctance to get too close, I have always appreciated the access my job gives me. I can only name a handful of times in the last three years that I've been hassled while taking pictures, and usually no one questions me. I had that same feeling on my excursion this day, sauntering through barricades that said, "Roads Closed" thinking, yes, I am supposed to be here.
I went out a few weeks ago to take pictures of the ongoing construction work on the North Side sewer in Reedsburg. They never made it in the Indy, but I liked the results.
I parked on the corner of 19th Street and K in Reedsburg and walked down K. I realized later that I could have parked much closer and spared myself much of that painful high-heeled walked up and down the highway, but I would have missed some fantastic shots. I loved seeing all of those huge sewer pieces up close, particularly the manhole covers. I felt like a little kid, fascinated by the big machines displacing so, so much earth.
I have never been keen on getting to close to anything while taking pictures for the Indy. I try to reassure myself, saying that my photos come out more from the perspective of a casual observer than an insider, but mostly, I'm just scared. As I took pictures of the worksite from across the street, I thought about getting closer. Images of my untimely death flashed across my brain, "Search called off for reporter who fell into center of Earth." I decided I was just fine across the street, thank you.
Despite my reluctance to get too close, I have always appreciated the access my job gives me. I can only name a handful of times in the last three years that I've been hassled while taking pictures, and usually no one questions me. I had that same feeling on my excursion this day, sauntering through barricades that said, "Roads Closed" thinking, yes, I am supposed to be here.
5.09.2011
Grede
Scene from Grede Foundry, Reedsburg, Wisconsin. Taken today, May 9, 2011.
How do you explain something you've done a million times? I found myself struggling for words today trying to explain how to use a dSLR - something I once had to learn as well but has, in the last three years, become second nature to me. I ended up taking crappy photos of crappy scenes that I immediately knew I wasn't happy with. It was that kind of day - tired, rainy.
I was aimlessly driving around town later when I stumbled on the scene above. I've always been fascinated by Grede Foundry; it stood out on the backdrop of my childhood, smoke stacks rising in the distance. There is a yard next to it that must be some kind of metal yard; through the fence you can catch glimpses of metal mountains glinting in the sun. And I've always wondered, why blue?
My uncle was at work at Grede that day in 2003 when a boiler exploded at Foremost Farms nextdoor, sending tremors through the whole area. He later said when the Foremost boiler exploded, Grede shook, and he looked up and watched the dust come unsettled and waft down like ashen snow. When I remember the chaos of that December morning, picturing that scene calms me. I'm not sure why.
I was driving by earlier for no reason, that dull blue metal blending in with the steely, dull blue sky, when those boxes caught my eye. I pulled over and thought for awhile about what to do; I wanted a photo of those boxes, but I didn't want to get too close to them. I planned the shot in my head, left the keys in the ignition, ran up, took four photos, and ran back. The photo above was the first one I took.
I need to learn to trust myself. Maybe I know more than I think I know.
How do you explain something you've done a million times? I found myself struggling for words today trying to explain how to use a dSLR - something I once had to learn as well but has, in the last three years, become second nature to me. I ended up taking crappy photos of crappy scenes that I immediately knew I wasn't happy with. It was that kind of day - tired, rainy.
I was aimlessly driving around town later when I stumbled on the scene above. I've always been fascinated by Grede Foundry; it stood out on the backdrop of my childhood, smoke stacks rising in the distance. There is a yard next to it that must be some kind of metal yard; through the fence you can catch glimpses of metal mountains glinting in the sun. And I've always wondered, why blue?
My uncle was at work at Grede that day in 2003 when a boiler exploded at Foremost Farms nextdoor, sending tremors through the whole area. He later said when the Foremost boiler exploded, Grede shook, and he looked up and watched the dust come unsettled and waft down like ashen snow. When I remember the chaos of that December morning, picturing that scene calms me. I'm not sure why.
I was driving by earlier for no reason, that dull blue metal blending in with the steely, dull blue sky, when those boxes caught my eye. I pulled over and thought for awhile about what to do; I wanted a photo of those boxes, but I didn't want to get too close to them. I planned the shot in my head, left the keys in the ignition, ran up, took four photos, and ran back. The photo above was the first one I took.
I need to learn to trust myself. Maybe I know more than I think I know.
4.01.2011
Life's a Beach
Taken in Reedsburg, Wisconsin. View of the City Shop off South Webb Avenue. Taken March 2011.
I love the desolation in this photo, the perfect capture of Wisconsin winter. The sky is a dull light blue, trees black, snow piles a mix of grey and cold white. Even the weeds and beach ball are dull colors.
I'm always attracted to power lines for some reason. Maybe its' the song "Engine Driver" by the Decemberists - "I'm a county lineman/on the high line, on the high line/So will be my grandson/There are power lines in our blood lines." I like the straight lines, extending up into the sky and off into the distance, as far as you can see. I like the idea of length and connectivity, I like how they stand out in flat lands when it seems like the road is the only civilization for miles. Somewhere, somebody is going to be connected to someone else, and to someone else, and to the power source.
The water in the photo is overflow from the Baraboo River, flooding the low spots with the rain and melting of spring, It's a spot that floods regularly.
The ball? Not sure where that came from.
I love the desolation in this photo, the perfect capture of Wisconsin winter. The sky is a dull light blue, trees black, snow piles a mix of grey and cold white. Even the weeds and beach ball are dull colors.
I'm always attracted to power lines for some reason. Maybe its' the song "Engine Driver" by the Decemberists - "I'm a county lineman/on the high line, on the high line/So will be my grandson/There are power lines in our blood lines." I like the straight lines, extending up into the sky and off into the distance, as far as you can see. I like the idea of length and connectivity, I like how they stand out in flat lands when it seems like the road is the only civilization for miles. Somewhere, somebody is going to be connected to someone else, and to someone else, and to the power source.
The water in the photo is overflow from the Baraboo River, flooding the low spots with the rain and melting of spring, It's a spot that floods regularly.
The ball? Not sure where that came from.
1.04.2011
Little Brother
My brother and his friends were cleaning the skatepark of all the leftover fall leaves one afternoon, maybe around March, and they called me to come take a photo. It was a slow day at the office, and besides that, I love making those punk skateboarders look good. Sure, there are always a few bad apples in any group, but that park has been maintained solely by local skateboarders since they campaigned to build it a few years back. They really put their minds to projects when it's something they care about.
Anyway, it was one of those crisp, early spring days that still have a slight chill of winter but the hope of spring, with sunshine and all that complimenting the crisp air. The guys had mostly finished by the time I got there but they still broke out the brooms so I could get a few shots. The one above is my little brother (not so little anymore) doing a trick off the box.
10.30.2010
Just Another Day at JTG
My parents are wrapping up the end of another successful year today, so this post is very appropriate. This photo was one of those rare moments that makes me confident in my photographic eye for scenes, people, interesting things. I love every element of this photo: the worn-looking picnic table in the foreground, the hot dog stand in the background. And I don't know who that guy is, but he's posed just perfectly in his foundry uniform, waiting for lunch.
I love it so much that I even put it on the cover of my book, Jimmy's To-Go: The Beginning, that chronicles the first and very successful year of the Jimmy's To-Go saga.
10.13.2010
Fourth
Published in the Reedsburg Independent, July 8, 2010. Taken at Pineview Elementary School,
Fireworks are notoriously difficult to photograph. The challenge is in the timing. Fire too soon and it's just the tail. Fire too late and it's just smoke. You've got to get the camera settings right too, otherwise the lighting is all screwy.
Jeff's instructions for taking Fourth of July photos always include the phrase, "If you mess it up, we can always use a photo from last year," which is mildly comforting.
This year's fireworks seemed good to go, despite the sky having been overcast most of the day. Then, right before dusk, a downpour started. Apparently the organizers decided that because they'd already spent the entire day setting up, they were just going to shoot em off anyway and all at once, so that's what they did in probably the shortest fireworks show in recent memory. I ran down to the park to get this shot of the few brave souls who were left. We put it on the front page.
9.21.2010
Taking Off
I caught these cranes by chance, although they had been frequenting the Reedsburg area for awhile. I saw them by Plenke's as I was driving back to the office, and I immediately pulled over, switched to the telephoto lens, slid down an hill, and snapped a few nice shots before they took off. Although I think cranes are pretty ugly creatures, this shot of the whole wingspan turned out nice.
9.20.2010
Hey, Down Here!
There are so many things I love about this picture. These kids were waiting for a plane to "drop" buckets of bouncy balls (really they're thrown off the roof of the store as the plan flies by). After the kids scramble to catch them, the balls are traded in for toys. It's Reedsburg's infamous ball drop, and I was a part of it as a kid, as hundreds of kids before me and hundreds of kids since.
Needless to say, there is a frenetic energy at every ball drop, with kids frantic, looking for the plane and waiting for the balls and at the same time not exactly sure what to do. This picture captures them perfectly, almost in a slow motion freeze frame, right before the plane swoops over. And my favorite part is the little girl in pink in the lower right hand corner of the photo.
This photo was put on the front page of the Indy, the first time I ever put the paper together by myself while the editor was on vacation.
9.19.2010
Boom & Bust
So far I've been revisiting a number of pictures I took in the aftermath of the flood of 2008 - several Granite Avenue pictures, and then this one, which I have always felt was one of the best I've ever taken. In the background is a mural in downtown Reedsburg celebrating its history in the hops industry. In the foreground are beer kegs and brewing equipment pulled up from the basement of the Corner Pub, which had sustained significant flood damage and much had to be replaced.
I'd only been working at the Indy for a month when the flood hit, and the aftermath taught me a lot about what it means to be a journalist, and what kind of responsibility it carries with it, and what it means to stay disconnected from a tragedy, and how to be respectful. My first day on the job at the Indy is the first time I ever held a dSLR camera, and a month later, I snapped this picture. I think it was the first time I ever saw something, did a double take, and took a picture. I didn't know what it meant to have an "eye" before this, but I think this picture demonstrates that whatever that means, I have it.
I have pride in myself now in seeing things a certain way, noticing things that someone else might notice, and having my camera on hand to capture it.
9.16.2010
Too Short
Taken at the Reedsburg Butterfest, June 2010. Published in the Reedsburg Independent, June 24, 2010.
The Butter Festival... sigh. Reedsburg's annual event, complete with a week's worth of activities including a Miss Reedsburg Pageant, parade, and obligatory overpriced carnival. It's almost always muddy as hell, and the rides are the same every year. But it does provide opportunities for cliched carnival shots and some good ones.
9.14.2010
Abandoned
For nearly two years, Granite Avenue in Reedsburg was suspended in a strange time, everything left exactly as it had been when the water finally pulled back after the June 2008 flood. As a reporter and photographer, I knew it was my job to constantly and almost obsessively stay on top of what happened on the street, with so many people forced into condemnation after the damage to their homes was too much. But for two years, it was the lack of what was happening that was the story. It's a cruel reality how our government moves at a snail's pace when getting around to helping those in need, but when The Man says, "jump," we're expected to say, "how high?" Anyway.
I hated it and was strangely drawn it it, for everything it was and for everything those houses stood for. I always felt like I was walking in a graveyard; everything felt quiet and still but with a strange energy bubbling through the service, like something was happening or about to happen. Maybe it was a mental anxiety, something in me screaming that something should be done.
Eventually it was. Eighteen houses and two commercial properties in the city of Reedsburg were condemned and torn down after the June 2008 flooding, displacing dozens of people, some who never came back.
This photo was one of hundreds I took for the Reedsburg Independent but this one in particular was never published.
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