Page 7 - Demo

5IntroductionIwas about 4 years old when I was first exposed to the world of work. By myself, I was allowed to walk the four blocks from home to Dad%u2019s typewriter shop to watch him repair the machines. He made his living in a small, one-story, two-room building, located a half-block off 5th Street (the main drag) in the small northwestern Indiana town of Fowler. Inside the Gregory R. Bower Co., there were new and refurbished Coronas, Underwoods, and Remingtons arranged in the front room on desks and tables so they could be admired by passersby through the large plate-glass window. In the back room, a heavy-duty steel workbench (which I now have in my garage) dominated one corner. There was also a tall cabinet (designed to hold printing type) filled with drawers of tiny spare parts, several storage shelves, an air compressor, a tub of cleaning solvent, a mimeograph machine, and a contraption that automatically folded paper.To me, typewriters were magical, mechanical marvels. But when Dad was repairing one, he liked to work alone, and quietly%u2014so my questions were considered distractions. Rather than explain what he was doing in terms I could grasp, he%u2019d sit me down in front of an ancient, black, upright typewriter, along with a few sheets of paper, in the hope that I would entertain myself. At first, I eagerly pecked away, learning how to rotate the rubber roller, figuring out how to make capital letters, even mastering an intriguing little lever that engaged the red half of the inked, twotone ribbon. I especially liked the ding of the nickel-plated bell when the carriage reached the end of a line. This was all great fun but, eventually, because I could only spell a few simple words, boredom would creep in. My fidgeting, and renewed questioning, would prompt Dad to suggest I go visit Conrad%u2019s Bakery%u2014an excursion I couldn%u2019t resist. For me, the aromas of the warm bakery were always more inviting than the harsh cleaningsolvent odors wafting through Dad%u2019s place.Conrad was Dad%u2019s favorite older brother, and his bakery was only a half-block away, just down on the corner. He was a bachelor, and we truly enjoyed each other%u2019s company. To my delight, he never minded answering my endless queries. As a result, I learned about making bread dough and pastries, how to open the oven doors and adjust the temperature, and how to clean up properly.While he made all manner of baked goods, Uncle Conrad liked creating beautiful cakes the best. He was, in fact, a cake-decorating master%u2014able to spread butter-cream frosting with a flourish. Fascinated, I%u2019d watch him fill cone-shaped paper tubes with a spectrum of icings, then carefully squirt out pink rose petals, yellow squiggles, or the deep red, smooth, even lettering of a person%u2019s name. When he was done, he%u2019d let me give it a try on a piece of cardboard, but all I ever made was a mess%u2014but it was a mess I enjoyed eating afterwards. Years later, in my 50s, when I was putting this book together, I realized how my photography was a unique combination of what I witnessed as a young boy%u2014the mechanical