Work in Progress
Warning: There are a plethora of curves and twists and bends and esses and asides in this unfinished but compelling story, because I keep thinking of things.
Once upon a while ago, a photographer named Peter, who had grown up dirt poor in England, served a typically draconian apprenticeship in London. Several years later he was granted full professional status and wisely set off for America, where we hired him once he was rid of his sea legs. He was a hands-down extraordinary in-studio commercial talent, up to any challenge. This is his (left clicking on type continues)
When I was a boy, we had a telephone mounted to the back wall in our kitchen. To make calls, we had two options: turn a crank really fast several full turns to alert an operator or crank the correct number of turns to get someone on our party line. For example, a full turn and two half turns was called a long and two shorts. It caused rings on all of the party lines. If ours was the one long and two shorts, we answered, knowing several others would listen in. We needed the operator for non-party-line calls. For those who never rang up an operator, we had (left clicking on type continues)