By Gary Cameron

There’s an old military adage, which seems to follow more fact than fiction, that if you arrive 15 minutes BEFORE your scheduled starting time, you are late.

Given that, I found myself attempting to find the walkway to the Vietnam Veterans Memorial in Washington 30 minutes before the volunteers from the Vietnam Veterans of America local chapter 641 arrived at 06:00 for a weekly cleaning of the black granite and grounds.

There was low-level illumination from ground lights – it was not enough. I have been here numerous times before.

Walking down the entry sidewalk in nearly pitch black conditions, I know the names on “The Wall” are directly next to me on the right. I can feel them; honestly, I can.

At first, the feeling was disconcerting. After a few seconds though, I settled down. In the quiet blackness, I felt comforted being there, even though all the souls around me are gone.

Architectural designer and artist Maya Lin’s Vietnam Veterans Memorial was one of 1,421 anonymous national entries submitted in 1981 to the Vietnam Veterans Memorial Fund which oversaw the judging. At the time, she was a 21-year old Yale undergrad. Initially, Lin’s winning design was highly controversial because it threw convention, and Washington, D.C.’s obsession with white marble, out the window.

Gallery: The Vietnam Veterans Memorial

Her stark design went INTO the ground and did not stand above it. There were no faces, and no soldiers atop prancing horses. Just names etched in granite. Lots and lots and lots of names.

She designated black granite instead of white marble. (The black granite used is from Bangalore, India, one of three places on earth where it can be obtained in the large sizes needed. Sweden and South Africa are the others.)

The viewers of the memorial would be face to face with the 58,272 names of the fatalities from the Vietnam conflict, which also included Laos and Cambodia and coastal areas.

You could, if time permitted, read every name of the people killed in one of the United States’ most controversial military actions that are etched on panels. And if you couldn’t find the names, numerous booklets in covered stands had them listed alphabetically by the memorial’s panels. You would walk down into the earth to view it.

This, coupled with Lin’s Asian heritage, (her parents immigrated from China in 1949 and settled in Ohio in 1958, a year before their daughter’s birth), caused an uproar.

Lin had to defend her design before the U.S. Congress. A compromise was reached, and sculptor Frederick Hart’s “The Three Soldiers,” was to be installed 150 feet away from “The Wall”. Hart, who had come in third in the original judging, had his “The Three Solders” installed in 1984 with a flagpole flying the nation’s colors.

In 1993, the Vietnam Women’s Memorial was dedicated on the same grounds. As haunting as Hart’s “Three Soldiers” eyes are as they look towards “The Wall”, Glenna Goodacre’s statue of three Vietnam-era nurses surrounding a seriously-wounded soldier truly illustrates compassion, loss and the sacrifice these women made.

Here we are, 30 years later, and Maya Lin’s stunning and stark design has stood up quite well, thank you. People slowly walk by, either looking up, or down, searching for names. They smile, they cry, they pause. A piece of paper and a pencil are all that are needed for copying the names to take home. I think they find comfort here. Everyone is listed here; not just a group effort.

Family members, sons and daughters, husbands and wives, mothers and fathers, cousins, friends, all look for the names that brought them to Washington. Mementos are left behind; dog tags, boots, flags, wreaths, letters, notes and flowers. For a war that divided America, we still want to remember, and not forget those who perished – no matter what the shape, form, or color of the memorial.

Every Saturday, from May to November, volunteers from various veteran’s organizations gather before the crowds appear to clean “The Wall.” A leaf blower starts the process, followed by the granite and walkways being hosed down. Once wet, soft scrub brushes soaked in soapy water are used to wash “The Wall.” Another long rinse from the hoses removes the suds. Wind and air currents finish the drying process. All of this is done in quiet reverence with limited, hushed conversations. Those helping out are former military, current military, civilians and some with Southeast Asian ancestry.

Even if I had not spent a year in Vietnam, (and a very lucky, quiet, uneventful year at that), “The Wall” would still rank as one of my most inspirational sites in Washington. No disrespect to any of the others, but there is something about a memorial from an era of protest, civil unrest and national division that just makes sense. Maya Lin probably didn’t plan it that way, and I’m sorry she received so much unwarranted grief over her design. It is a stunning place to reflect, literally, on what war and conflict do to a nation. The 58,272 names and lost lives in black granite accomplish this.

Where will the memorial be for the veterans lost in the Iraq and Afghanistan wars be placed? What will it’s design and location convey? Will it unite, comfort and heal? Will it show the exhausting extended tours, the incredible amount of arms and legs lost from bombs, the time lost and never replaced with a soldier’s family? Will it come close to explaining why we were there?

Finishing the last day of a nice Canadian fishing vacation, (in 70 degree temperatures with no humidity I might add), I got “the call” from my wife Joann last Saturday. She had just returned to our Silver Spring, Maryland home of 29 years.

“Bring the generator, and a chainsaw.” Oh, oh, sounded like vacation time was over.

Heading home on Interstate 81 south, I saw plenty of power company trucks from various U.S. states and Canada going in the same direction. Little did I realize that quite a few of those trucks were heading for my very own neighborhood in Montgomery County, Maryland. I stopped for gasoline just over the Pennsylvania-Maryland line to fill up as I wasn’t certain if gasoline pumps were operational in my home area. A man approached, asking if that was a generator on my hitch carrier. He said that they were already sold out regionally and admired my 5300 watts of surge power.

Arriving home a day after a rapid major storm ripped through the mid-west to east coast, I saw what intense wind forces can do to an old neighborhood, circa 1918, and the beautiful, old trees that form a canopy over it. I’ve been through hurricanes on my home street, and covered them nationally; this damage was just as bad. Not Joplin, Missouri bad, but bad nonetheless. Power lines were down everywhere, temperatures were always in the high 90 degree plus range, with intense humidity adding to the heat.

DAY ONE; THE CLEAN UP

As much as I wanted to cover the story on return, I had to take care of my property first. (Sorry, Tom). The backyard was strewn with limbs, branches, and the garage took a major hit from a branch about 200 feet above. The house and front yard were mostly unscathed, but the power transformer and utility pole in front of my house, which supplies juice to our block was down and in the middle of the street. That’s never happened before. The poles have bent and taken out lines in the past, but never ended up in the street.

Most of my neighbors were not as lucky; many had huge limbs through their roofs, or at best, laying on top. This was the price of living in a nice old neighborhood with plenty of shade.

Job one: Save what was left in the freezer and refrigerator, which meant getting the generator going and run power cords into the house.

Job two: Get enough gasoline in two portable tanks to run said generator for what could be many days of use.

Job three: Find a fan or two to get air moving on the front porch, which was the coolest part of the house.

After accomplishing that, it was time to pick up the chainsaw and start cutting limbs and branches down to size that could be hauled up the block to a huge neighborhood pile for later pick up. With evening approaching, it was now time to take care of domestic matters. With my wife not embracing the no lights, no air-conditioning edict, we decided (actually, SHE decided) that she would escape with the dogs to an available, and empty, DC apartment with power. I would man up on the home front and keep the generator going – solo.

It was time to make the front porch comfortable and turn it into office space. I ran some power cords from the backyard, through the kitchen, past the living room, onto the porch. Fan, check. Pillow, check. Flashlight, check. No need for a blanket.

DAY TWO; GET TO WORK!

I really didn’t sleep much, as another small weather front came through with heat lightning, but caused no further damage. I fed the generator (every 6-7 hours), and walked the neighborhood with my cameras. By then, people were past the initial stage of the storm, and all the “small” clean up was accomplished. No one was up and moving at 6:30am. How could anyone sleep in this heat I thought? Nothing was happening, and pictures were minimal. You have to have the human element in just about every facet of photojournalism.

Finally, a Montgomery County work crew with big trucks, big machinery, showed up and started their clearing and hauling process. This introduced me to Cliff and Krista Lutz, whose house I have always admired, took a major hit from tall trees. Pictures were here and new friends were made.

A few blocks over, the chain saws and private tree removal companies were starting up. I took some more pictures of more destruction. Seeing how badly some homes were damaged, the lack of power and comforts that it provides, seemed minimal. No one should complain when a neighbor has a 200 foot tulip poplar in their upstairs bedroom.

I headed back to the house and office porch/bedroom. Air card and laptop fired up nicely off the generator, and pictures were on the wire. Time for another tour of the neighborhoods. I really didn’t have look too far. My next door neighbor Jonathan Jay hired a tree removal crew to get heavy wood off his demolished rear deck (just finished last year), and garage (also, just finished last year).

A tow truck came and hauled away his Toyota Prius, which took a major hit from a branch, destroying the windshield. Half-way through filing my next edit, the “dead” transformer in the middle of the street came alive, with loose wires arcing high-powered electricity, and starting a brush fire (in front of Jonathan’s house, naturally).

I am no hero, nor close to one, but I sprang into action (and I mean damn quick), running my garden hose down to the brush fire, and attempting to contain it so the whole block didn’t go up in flames. All the curbsides were full of dried out branches and leaves from people’s yards. I yelled at Jonathan to give me more hose, and told Jill across the street to call the fire department and Pepco, and to turn this damn flame-breathing beast off. The fire was NOT going down.

The fire department arrived, quickly, and a weary firefighter admonishes me for attempting to do their job. ‘Your heart was in the right place,” I was told, “but your brain wasn’t.” “If that water stream came close to the arcing wires, it could have followed up the hose and make you look like Jim Carrey’s 1980’s character ‘In Living Color’, Fire Marshall Bill.”

A good friend and neighbor, and former DCFD Battalion Chief, William Flint agreed later. “Just take photos and let it burn.” I knew that. Well, I sort of knew that. The professionals wouldn’t even approach the mini-blaze near the transformer, but it appeared I put enough water on it for containment.

A small Pepco crew showed up near dusk. Working 16 hour shifts in heat and humidity, they just wanted to accomplish their tasks and move on to the next one. Their job was to ensure that the “dead” transformer stayed that way, and prep the damaged pole for transfer to a new one. Stoic and weary, they offered hope that power would be restored sooner than expected, especially after the little brush fire incident. That had got someone’s attention.

Two men waited with “Old Sparky,” wrapped up and ready to head off wherever old transformers go. A truck was needed to lift and carry the monster away. They waited and waited and waited. Fortunately, they had cases of cold Gatorade and water in coolers on ice but no food. I offered to bring back burgers from my nightly run, but they said thanks, they’d be gone soon.

I returned from a quick dinner. The men were gone, but “Old Sparky” remained in the street, wrapped in heavy gauge plastic wrap. The pick up truck never showed meaning that power probably wouldn’t be restored as quickly as we had hoped.

Night approached and it was still 85 degrees at 8pm. Jonathan left in his rental car, leaving Jill and I as the last Woodside Parkway soldiers on the block. I started to feel like a cross between Wil Smith’s character in “I Am Legend” (minus the quick red Mustang GT) and Clint Eastwood’s ‘Walt Kowalski’ on his porch in “Gran Torino.” There were no zombies roaming the streets; I hadn’t had to put up 2×4’s over the windows and doors – yet.

Photographer Gary Cameron sits on his porch. Photo by Brian Beard

Minor break-in’s were reported in the neighborhood, as there were a number of empty homes with no power and light. Time to feed the generator for the night and turn on the porch fan, call Joann who said the pool was nice at the apartment complex and the dogs were happy. I was invited over but I didn’t want to leave my generator. We’d become quite close.

DAY THREE; BEN CUSHMAN AND THE INCREDIBLE TREE CLIMBING STEVE GORDON

It was time to find the human element amid the destruction. Ben Cushman’s house, a half block down the street, was one of the hardest hit and had a frightening story. Moments before the storm and high winds hit late June 29, Cushman’s wife Nirupa said in no uncertain terms that they had to get their children Sahana and Suriyan out of their second story bedrooms “now!” Just as they were carrying them out of their respective bedrooms, a huge tree crashed through the attic and into the rooms over the children’s beds. It was a close call, very close. Talk about maternal instincts.

As Cushman waited for a huge crane to arrive, he was amazingly cheerful, resilient and optimistic. Again, the loss of electrical power seemed minimal. I was in the presence of a man who knew how lucky he was to have his children out of harm’s way. The crane operator was very wary of starting the job; to get to the wreckage, he had to take his crane arm over power lines that weren’t clear whether they were hot and active. After the transformer incident and minor fire, no one was taking any chances. The crane operator wanted a Pepco representative on site to assure him.

I headed back to the office/porch/bedroom to file photos. My friend Brian Beard showed up with homemade biscuits and gravy and a six-pack of a micro brew. It was going to be a good day. Just as Brian and I sat down to eat, a huge Pepco crew arrived with a new utility pole and a new transformer! Christmas in July!

The crew, all from out of state, were an incredible team to watch. Every move and repair was orchestrated, with linesmen Travis Shepherd and Will Hall appearing to take the lead. Shepherd, in a lift bucket, started to disassemble all the remnants of past electrical and telecommunication lines, which even before the storm, were a mess. Somehow, despite the heat and the physical and mental effort of his job, he kept track of which lines go to which homes and tied them off.

Once finished with that, the old pole had to be removed, and the new utility pole dug and installed. Looking down the street back to Ben Cushman’s house, I saw that the crane operator and tree removal workers were attempting to bring down the huge limbs and tree trunks around, and attached, to his house. Steve Gordon was up in the middle of the mess, attaching the crane’s lifting straps, and then cutting limbs and trunk that will be lowered to the ground. It was a delicate dance about 150 feet in the air, with much yelling back and forth from Gordon to the ground crew. He moved very slowly and deliberately. Even so, after a massive piece was cut, he had to duck out of harm’s way as the piece of wood swung back over the top of his head.

Back to the house for the final hook up of new lines, transformer and street light. Shepherd, Hall and crew were putting the final touches on attaching the big juice wires from the main 240 volt line to the transformer. Everyone was drenched in sweat, and nothing but thanks and compliments are directed toward the crew. These are the worker bees who get the job done.

Amazingly, the power came on less than half an hour after the final touches on the new transformer and pole were installed. I shut the generator down, wound up the maze of extension cords throughout the house, and re-attached the freezer and fridge to their original electrical outlets. Watering the plants and flowers seemed like a cool and refreshing idea, so I did that for 30 minutes before going into the house to turn on the air conditioning. Suddenly, a police cruiser appeared in my driveway. The officer asked if I was the homeowner, and once that was established, he stated that my alarm system, reactivated with electricity for the first time in four days, was going off.

The internal temperature in my house slowly lowered from 89 degrees to the artificially chilled 74 on the thermostat. I took a shower, turned on a hi-def baseball game, and fell asleep before the third inning was completed. I woke up hours later, game over. I headed up to my bedroom and not the porch.

The night before I was to head to central New York state to cover the Wounded Warrior Amputee Softball Team for a Memorial Day weekend story, I played a double-header on my own softball team.

As I slid into third base, the opponent’s third baseman’s knee, and my rib cage, met with enough force to make us both wince and hit the ground hard.

The next morning, as I packed for the three-day trip, the pain persisted to the point that it made me wonder how I was going to carry gear and work long days. My second thought was: “Gary, you are such a frigging wimp.” How could I worry about any personal pain while covering a softball team comprised of U.S. Army and Marine veterans from the Afghanistan and Iraq wars that have lost numerous limbs, gone through agonizing rehab, fought off mental demons, and yet play the game as hard as any team I have ever seen, with so much less?

Approaching the first practice session on a game day in Binghamton, New York, I immediately saw that these men were not interested in a pity party or a mere “feel good” effort. Team manager David Van Sleet, who also organizes the team’s operation and tours, barked out to every player, demanding hustle, 100% effort, and perfection- tough criticism and full encouragement were often in the same command.

Coach Bucky Weaver ran the team through countless drills, with lots of stress on outfield communication, hitting the cut-off man, and throwing to the right base. Sarcasm, insults and self-deprecating insults are all part of the team.

Not everyone on the Wounded Warrior team has lost a leg, or both legs, or a foot. Outfielder Greg Reynolds has both legs, but no left arm from the shoulder down.

This makes for a challenging approach when he catches a ball in the outfield and has to throw it in. After catching the ball, Reynolds flips his glove up, the ball pops out, he catches it in mid-air with his right hand, and throws it in. All within an instant and not unlike former MLB pitcher Jim Abbott.

If fellow outfielder Todd Reed, 51, the oldest player on the team is near Reynolds on the play, Reynolds merely flips the ball out of his glove to Reed, who relays it in. Reed, a single leg amputee from the Persian Gulf War, is often called “Dad” because of his senior status and is an amazing hitter. In the Binghamton game, he went five for five with two triples, two doubles, and a single. In the Cooperstown game, one of his hits on Doubleday Field struck the outfield wall, over 300 feet away on a much larger HARDBALL diamond.

Greg Reynolds also bats with the only arm he has, putting all of his body into his swing. As one of the faster players on the team, he hustles on everything. In the game in Binghamton, I saw him dive for a shallow pop up in the outfield. He caught it, but the impact of hitting the ground knocked the ball out of his glove.

In the Cooperstown, New York game the next day at Abner Doubleday field, Reynolds raced down to first base after hitting an infield ground ball. Opposing first baseman Jim Tallman, Cooperstown’s Fire Chief, fielded the ball. Unfortunately, both men reached first base at the same time; one attempting to be safe on a ground ball and one trying to record an out. The impact was tremendous, and both men went sprawling through the air.

Reynolds was out on the play, but never went down. Tallman was not as fortunate. His own rescue squad carried him off in a cart with a broken ankle that will require surgery. That’s how hard the Wounded Warrior team plays. They do not want or expect any pity; just an opponent who plays as hard and with respect.

Left fielder Nick Clark is truly the hot dog on the team. He plays to the crowd when he comes up to bat. And in practice, he always demands more fly balls to work on his throws to the infield. While most of the team are still kids at heart, it is Clark who reaches out to children in the stands, giving constant high-fives and breaking the ice with people hesitant to approach an amputee.

It was easy to see the athleticism that all of these men still carry, and possessed before their battlefield injuries. Third baseman Saul Bosquez, avoiding a sliding opponent in the Cooperstown game, jumped high into the air on a force play, and came crashing down on the base runner. On an earlier play, Bosquez, a single amputee, leapt high into the air to snag a line drive down the third base line. Both plays were stunning, regardless of how many limbs the fielder had or was missing.

Then there is second baseman Bobby McCardle, a former Marine. Bobby is somewhat new to the team, and does not have a state-of-the art prosthesis that the other players have. Missing most of his right leg from the knee down, Bobby was constantly applying duct tape (yes, gray, hardware store duct tape) to his prosthesis to find the right balance while on the field.

Ever the perfectionist, McCardle was still tweaking and adjusting after the second game in two days. Between innings on hot days, all the players are constantly removing their prosthesis and drying off sweat that causes discomfort and slipping.

In the Cooperstown game I saw how all of these men, especially Manager Van Sleet and outfielder Clark, while wanting to win, still realize the bigger role they play as representatives of the Wounded Warriors.

A local boy, nine-year old Scott Fura, was introduced to the crowd and served as the team’s batboy. The connection was obvious; Scott had lost his right arm recently in a lawn tractor accident. Van Sleet had the little boy at his side constantly. Scott was invited on the team bus for lunch, talking about baseball and softball, and Van Sleet made every effort to include him as part of the team. The little boy was introduced to the crowd during team introductions. In the dugout, you could see how Scott really opened up. He went from being somewhat intimidated and shy to a cheering fan and teammate. Scott told Van Sleet and myself between innings, “This is the first time I feel like no one is staring at me. All these guys are just like me. I really like that.”

In the last inning, with the Wounded Warrior team well in front of Cooperstown, Van Sleet called for a time out. Nick Clark was on second base after hitting a double.

“Scott, get in there,” ordered Van Sleet. The little boy was confused. “Get in there; replace Nick at second base.” And with the unbridled glee that only a nine-year old could possess while playing with the big kids, Scott Fura took over at second base as a Wounded Warriors’ base runner. Moments later, teammate Saul Bosquez, with two outs, hit a long triple to score the little boy.

My rib cage had stopped hurting a long time ago.

Bosquez, who plays with the Wounded Warrior Amputee Softball
Team and wears a prosthetic leg below his left knee, said the
hot weather on Sunday in Cooperstown – home to the Baseball Hall
of Fame – was making it harder than usual for him to run the
bases.

Luckily, the ball soared over the outfielders’ heads, and
Bosquez made it safely to third.

“They were playing pretty shallow, and I was able to get it
between both of them,” Bosquez said. “Usually I’m a pretty
decent runner for a guy with one leg.”

The Wounded Warriors ended up beating the Cooperstown First
Responders, a local team of firefighters and police, 21-9.

“We all pretty much have the same story,” Bosquez said of
his teammates, participants in the kind of athletic pastime that
experts say can be a key factor in the successful rehabilitation
of wounded war veterans.

Bosquez, who is from Seattle, was wounded in Baghdad in
August 2007 when his vehicle was hit by an improvised explosive
device.

The Wounded Warriors, consisting of 15 men who lost limbs in
the decade of U.S. warfare following the attacks of Sept. 11,
2001, is the creation of David van Sleet, a prosthetics manager
for the U.S. Veterans Affairs Southwest Health Care Network and
the team’s head coach.

“With a lot of these guys, they didn’t think they are going
to live. Then they didn’t think they were going to walk, and all
along they certainly didn’t think they were going to play a
high-level sport, or any sport, again,” van Sleet said. “The
camaraderie on this team is absolutely unbelievable.”

The team, launched last March, has won 20 of its first 38
games.

“We’re a good team. We’re not a great team,” their coach
said.

RECOVERING AS A TEAM

Nearly 1,500 American service members have lost limbs in
military action over the past decade, with leg and foot injuries
making up the bulk of cases, according to the U.S. Department of
Defense.

Kendra Calhoun, head of the Amputee Coalition, a national
advocacy group, said the recovery and readjustment process of
someone who loses a limb is closely linked to the person’s
network of social and family support.

“These soldiers train in groups, they go to war in groups,
and (in the case of amputees) they recover together. And then
they go home to their individual civilian lives, and they’re
alone,” Calhoun said. “These team sports really provide them
that camaraderie that they have become so accustomed to. And I
think it’s critical for their recovery and readjustment.”

Nick Clark, 31, an Army veteran from New Hampshire who lost
part of his left leg in Afghanistan in an attack involving a
rocket-propelled grenade, said the Wounded Warriors team means
everything to him.

“I didn’t have anybody I could talk with or who I could
relate to,” said Clark, who lives in Seattle. “It really helped
me out with my mental recovery.

“It’s like I’m part of a brotherhood again,” he said.

(Additional reporting and writing by Edith Honan; Editing by
Steve Gorman and Eric Beech)

While every photographer for Reuters is expected to cover, and have a knowledge on an array of events, whether they be political, sports, entertainment, or features, there are certain subjects that always hold a personal interest. For me, if it has wheels, wings, and a sense of history, I want to be there.

The arrival of the space shuttle Discovery from Cape Canaveral, Florida to Dulles International Airport in Virginia (where it will be transferred into the Smithsonian Air and Space collection) yesterday took some minor planning locally, mainly with trying to figure out where our best photo positions would be around Washington, D.C. as Discovery did a last fly-over before landing at Dulles.

Elevation would be key, but also, trying to line up the various Washington landmarks with the aircraft in flight. Discovery was riding piggy-back on a NASA 747 jet, which creates quite a large object moving through the skies. Also, flight altitude was listed at 1,500 feet, which is quite low.

Reuters Senior Photographers Kevin Lamarque (on the roof of RFK Stadium in the east) and Larry Downing (at the Iwo Jima Memorial to the west) would handle the Mall aspect which comprises the Lincoln Memorial, Washington Monument and U.S. Capitol.

REUTERS/Kevin Lamarque

Editor in Charge Jim Bourg and Senior Photographer/Editor Stel Varias would take a look at side positions, attempting to bring in the White House or other recognizable sites.

REUTERS/Jim Bourg

Freelancer Jonathan Ernst would concentrate on the “people watching” aspect, trying to incorporate those on the ground viewing the aircraft above.

REUTERS/Jonathan Ernst

I would take the actual landing at Dulles and the arrival on the tarmac at the airport.

While Reuters Senior Photographer Joe Skipper and his crew in Florida would handle the take off and prep work at the Cape.

REUTERS/Joe Skipper

Prior to landing at Dulles, the 747 with the Discovery atop, did a few flyovers to give us a nice look at the aircraft. Those images went out early, and the aircraft returned to the Washington area for the flyovers.

Next, was the actual touchdown of Discovery on the ground. The Smithsonian media personnel did a great job of getting media and VIP’s out to the tarmac in giant people movers used by the airport. We were given FIRM perimeters on where we could shoot from; any variation would put you back on the people mover and escorted off the airport grounds.

I never had the opportunity to photograph a launch of a shuttle into space. I am told by my peers that the rocket liftoff noise alone was worth the long days and early mornings setting up remotes in swamp-like conditions, dodging alligators and mosquitoes the size of aircraft. Joe Skipper and his various crews did amazing work throughout the lifetime of the shuttle program.

The space shuttle era has come to a close in the United States. Yes, there were two devastating tragedies with Challenger in 1986 and Columbia and 2003, but overall, the successful thirty-year program put 135 re-usable space shuttles into one of the greatest space exploration programs in history. It truly was one of the grandest efforts put forth by a United States government program.

Yesterday, having Discovery fly over one last time a mere 1,500 feet above my head, was the thrill of a lifetime. $192 billion (total cost of the 30 year shuttle space program) well-spent I say.

Like so many consumers who have seen the continual demise of Eastman Kodak and it’s many film, and film-related products, I view today’s filing for Chapter 11 protection with incredible sadness. That sadness is coupled, however, with the cruel understanding of how a great U.S. company that once led the world in its respective industry, is poised now to go the same route as Oldsmobile, Plymouth, Pontiac, and join an ever-growing group of American industrial icons that did not keep up or improve their product enough to stay competitive.

As a news photographer of 32 years, a lot of Kodak film and chemistry has passed through my hands. Having the last name of Cameron played a part. Schoolyard taunts of “Gary Camera, Gary Camera,” never angered me. Taking pictures was a cool thing to do.

When I was five years old, I would swipe my Uncle Dave’s Leica rangefinder camera that was always loaded with Kodachrome color slide film and attempt to imitate the actions required to take a picture. I knew that this lever would advance the film, this window was where you looked through to take the photo, and that was about it. No focusing and no understanding of how to set the aperture or shutter speed to control the amount of light hitting the film plane. It was always a surprise to my Uncle that somehow, in that batch of processed color slides, there were 36 exposures of a roadside park trash can, all out of focus, and all over, or under, exposed.

Most Sunday’s found my family gathered at my Grandmother’s house for a great seven-course Italian meal, followed by an Uncle Dave slide show. Great pasta, but there was no editing of the numerous slide trays of the Mackinac Bridge, the flower show at Hudson’s department store, the retirement dinners from Hudson’s, the building of the Interstate highway system through Detroit, family baptisms, birthdays, vacations, Detroit Tigers’ camera days, (you got to go on the field… and take pictures of the players!), Christmas trees with presents, Christmas trees AFTER the presents, well, you get the idea. That’s a lot of color slides, and I saw every exposure, every angle, every single, damn one. No one in the family was spared, and neither were any slides. Those slides still exist today with little or no color shift. That is some great film and chemistry!

It was only a natural progression that I would chase photography as a career, in one form or another. Advertising and shiny, new car photos appealed to me so much that I applied, and was accepted, to the Brooks Institute in Santa Barbara, California. Reality set in though, when I started adding up the tuition, cost of living, and large format camera and color film costs. No, I could never afford that; better go with an affordable San Francisco State University tuition and black and white.

Which led me to chasing a career in newspapers; Kodak black and white film and Kodak D-76 film development chemistry and Kodak Dektol print developer.

I need to stop right here and now, and explain one point that might be going through your head. I am NOT a “living in the past photographer” who thinks that digital photography is “Satan’s Etch-a-Sketch.” (That brilliant description is from photographer Steve Crowley of the New York Times.)

While the early professional grade digital cameras were bulky, and just dreadful to operate (terrible shutter lag), no one can deny that the mixing of chemicals, and setting up a portable darkroom in a horse stall at Pimlico for the Preakness, a janitor’s closet at the old Yankee Stadium for a World Series, a college dorm men’s room for Washington Redskins summer workouts, was a good time. It was dirty, stinky, nasty, and we dumped all the chemicals down a common drain. Digital photography freed us from all of that; it just took a awhile for the software to catch up.

For better or worse, it was pretty fascinating to develop film to see “if I got that.” “Got that” meant, was it in focus? (Yeah, we had manual focusing cameras too). Was the exposure good? I still have the opinion that black and white film, viewed through a loupe, (it’s a small magnifier that you can view each individual negative or slide with while editing), was the sharpest film ever made. And once you made a nice 11” x 14” photographic print, it was VERY gratifying to HOLD something in your hand that you had focused on, captured on film, developed, and printed.

Take a look at an original Ansel Adams print, made from a large or medium format negative. Digital reproduction, although very good, still cannot match that.

It is a tragedy that THE company that invented DIGITAL photography is going bankrupt, mainly, BECAUSE of digital photography, and Kodak’s failure to fully embrace or follow through with a competitive digital-based business plan.

It is a tragedy that so many Rochester, New York jobs have been lost, and more will probably follow. I’ve seen this too, in Detroit, my hometown, where one industry fed, housed, and provided, through hard labor, for so many. To their credit, the U.S. automakers, with assistance, recognized the shortcomings of their product and are coming back.

I sincerely hope that somehow, the people of Eastman Kodak can do the same. From George Eastman on, Kodak has developed and manufactured products that are long-lasting, full of quality, and became the nation’s archive for photographic imagery.

Hopefully, they won’t join Plymouth, Oldsmobile, and Pontiac at the roadside.