We are now so accustomed to color television, streaming video, and all the other wonders of the technological age that we take them for granted. If something of interest is happening somewhere in the world, it’s possible for us to see it shortly after it happens—or even as it’s happening. Before there was color television, there was black-and-white television.
And before that were black-and-white newsreels and still photos. Nearly all of our mental images of the first half of the 20th century—reinforced by miles of film footage on the History Channel—are in black and white.
One remedy for those earlier years comes in the remarkable legacy left by an amateur photographer, Charles W. Cushman. A graduate of the University of Indiana and briefly a naval reservist during World War I, he left to his alma mater a collection of more than 14,000 color slides. He began recording the images in 1938, shortly after the introduction of durable Kodachrome film. Thanks to Cushman’s energy, meticulous record keeping, and sense of what to shoot, the university now has a collection that includes many of the things Americans saw during the more than 30 years in which he took his camera (and first wife) on the road. His pictures are available on the Internet at http://webapp 1dlib. indiana.edu/cushman/index.jsp.
What makes the Cushman collection so valuable is not just the color but also that he focused on the kinds of ordinary subjects that seldom made it into the newsreels. The pictures on these pages provide a prime example. On 6 September 1940 the roving photographer was in downtown Baltimore. It was an ordinary day, just over a year before the United States became an active combatant in World War II. People were going about their daily business, and delivery trucks were making their rounds.
In one shot are a barge and a Chesapeake Bay steamer. In others we can see the terminal for the Baltimore Steam Packet Company, better known as the Old Bay Line. That year the company was celebrating its centennial, as a sign on the building proudly proclaimed. Just to the right of the electric trolley pole, which somewhat resembles a ship’s mast, can be seen the funnel of one of the ships. These days the site of the old terminal is occupied by a glitzy shopping mall, a destination that draws both tourists and residents to the city’s Inner Harbor.
In 1940 that same site was more than a destination; it was a gateway to the Chesapeake Bay and beyond. The Old Bay Line ran two steamers a day between Baltimore and Norfolk—one northbound and one southbound. (They passed each other shortly after midnight.) The steamship line continued to operate until the early 1960s. A combination of air transportation and superhighways eventually took away its business. But back when the line was celebrating 100 years of operation, watercraft were often the most convenient way to reach many locations on the bay.
Imagine the scene on the waterfront in the evening of that September day when Charles Cushman was taking his photographs. There were the normal noises of the city: cars and trucks moving along the street that adjoined the terminal, the sound of horns honking, people talking. On the waterside of the building were shouted commands to the line handlers to cast off, the blast of the ship’s steam whistle, and the tooting by tall-stacked tugboats. Slowly the ship moved out into the stream, headed fair, and found the channel in the Patapsco River. Soon she passed old Fort McHenry to starboard, turned the comer into the Chesapeake Bay, and picked up speed.
For a time, passengers lingered on deck—chatting, watching the receding skyline of Baltimore, and listening to the sound of water lapping against the ship’s side. Then many moved into the ship’s interior to have dinner. The former noises of the city were replaced now with the sounds of cutlery, the hum of mealtime conversation, and the words of waiters gliding smoothly among the tables. Doubtless, the topics of discussion included the war in Europe, which had started just a year earlier, and the upcoming U.S. election in which President Franklin D. Roosevelt was seeking a third term.
Out on the weather decks, passengers emerged after dinner to take a leisurely stroll, light up cigarettes, and continue their discussions. As they took in the scene, depending on the time of year, they may have watched the rising moon paint a streak across the water. Eventually they would retire to their rooms and prepare for the night. For many it would be a restful time, but sleep would come slowly for new passengers because of the excitement of being in an environment so different from their homes ashore.
One person who made that southward trip in the summer of 1938 was a young man named Bernard B. Forbes Jr. He had grown up in a home north of Baltimore, completed high school, and had a year of college under his belt. A Navy recruiter had come to his high school a year before, during the Depression that still haunted the nation. He extolled the benefits of serving in the Navy, including three square meals a day and running water. The wry Forbes later described his reaction in an oral history for the Naval Institute. After the recruiter spoke, Forbes thought: “Running water? We’ve got a good stream behind the bam. What’s so big about that?” Many were the bucketfuls he had lugged 300 yards to the house.
Now his great adventure in the Navy was about to begin as he headed for boot camp. For one night, as he remembered, he lived like a king. The recruiter in Baltimore had supplied him with a first- class ticket for the steamer and arranged that he would have a nice room and meals on board. And the recruiter had thoughtfully given him a silver dime so he could pay for the final leg of his journey—the streetcar ride from the Norfolk terminal to the naval training station. Such were the events that an old man recalled with pleasure many years afterward, when he was a retired vice admiral.