Photos at the Trunkhill farm November 1972, and pictures of Sjaelland and around Hobro in Denmark July 1973 ~

I was told, and I believed because I was a naïve Iowan in 1973, that there was a joke in Denmark.  A world traveler had engaged a rural Dane in a conversation about all the places he’d seen.  After listening a long time, the Dane finally got a chance to speak and asked, “But have you ever seen Hobro?”

Hobro is a tiny rural town – the Danish equivalent of Keosauqua, Iowa.

My host family in Denmark had a friend who lived on his family’s estate in an estate house outside Hobro.  I haven’t yet scanned photos of that house so I haven’t written about it yet.  There was a derelict 19^th Century windmill on the property.  A few of the photos were of that wonder, including the pareidolia picture of the gears from the windmill axle to the grinding shaft.  Many of the photos are from a quarry nearby.  Antique machinery has always fascinated me.  These photos demonstrate my attempts to see things photographically.  That statement is generally true throughout my photography, but here I haven’t yet worked out the difference between what interests me and what is visually interesting to others.

The young woman is Mikaela, Mukke, Engell, my host-family sister.  She needed a portrait for an application, likely for being an exchange student to the U.S.  Mukke was an extremely intelligent woman and provided a memorable introduction to Denmark.  At 16, she was working through the issues of having recently moved from suburban Copenhagen to the farthest reach of the Jutland peninsula, Hjorring.  She had been accustomed to her education at Denmark’s school for the children of diplomats – a Hogwarts of the intelligentsia.  Her move took her to the high school serving this very rural region.  She did not, does not like her picture taken and it shows.

The 1953 Chevrolet in the Trunkhill photos was the first car I drove, at eight years old sitting in my uncle Dick’s lap as we took the dirt road to the fishing spot.  The farmstead was the last stop for many cars.

I remember being four or five and throwing a rock up at the gas tank depicted in 00015a06.  I was surprised that I could throw a stone high enough to hit the tank, and then surprised when it bounced off and struck me in the forehead.  I had the presence of mind not to inform my relatives how stupid I’d been.