Panoramic photograph recalls an earlier era
When my high school classmate Tom Holman retired from his Buena Vista photography studio at Priest Lake in early September, I ran up there for some last pieces of his talented art. What I didn't expect to find was a sepia print he'd made from an old framed photograph hanging above his office door.
Let's travel back in time in this 6-inch by 36-inch panoramic look at Priest River taken one hundred years ago in October, 1921 — and once sold by Kaniksu Drug Co. for $1.50 each. It's a sunny morning by the lay of the shadows. Somewhat chilly with drifting smoke trails from the chimneys. A bit blustery, blowing the smoke to the west. Later in the month as most of the leaves are off the trees.
South of the dirt track that will eventually become Highway 2 the scattering of single and two story frame houses, along with the business district, is hedged by thick stacks of lumber and logs — as if they are the true residents and the rest are interlopers. A train stopped on the tracks along the river is being loaded with lumber.
The bridge over the Pend Oreille River has pedestrians negotiating its steep incline — so high it almost looks like a drawbridge. Where Stimson mill now sits is a big open field bordered by a few dwellings and barns.
A woman wearing a long warm dress holds her child's hand, walking down the hill along Wisconsin Street. A couple of guys, also on Wisconsin, stand in the road shooting the breeze. They're going to have to move over for the horse and buggy coming their way.
Several backyard lines of wash are hung out to dry in the sunshine. Two men are clearing an empty lot of brush, loading it into wagons each with a team of horses in harness. Where the Police Station and City Hall are currently a starched white building — the hospital — appears ready, but not anxious, for patients.
A four-door sedan — high end for its day — is parked along Main Street. An imposing hotel, not the present museum, waits at the end of Main. A wood fishing boat lays on its side in the weeds. Across the river there looks to be a slash pile burning.
The old corner Congregational Church with its iconic bell tower is quiet — it must not be a Sunday morning. On the street behind is the parsonage — built to house the church's preachers and their families. My brother and I lived in that house in our teens. I can see our old bedrooms — mine on the end with two windows, and his the front dormer window with its four small rectangular panes.
I recognize certain houses that still stand today — and some of the business district buildings. But most things are completely different. The townspeople would be shocked to see the changes one hundred years has wrought. Just as it's hard for me — even with the photograph — to place myself in Priest River a century ago.
And yet — a sunny October morning — a mother walking her child — wash on the line — friends loitering in the street chatting — a fishing boat tipped on its side — all are timeless moments spied upon again and again by these old wooded hills. Some things don't change — or at least don't completely disappear.
If the people of then could come to me, or I travel to them, I like to think we'd belong to this great little town just the same.