Dana Graham grew up a few blocks from here

Their grandmother, in 1966

I found this photograph, probably from 1966, or so.  I don’t know much about its origin.  Looks to me like a school photo, the kind the teachers and administrators of high school used to ask you to get.  All you had to do, in those days, was show up after school or on a weekend at the photographer. 

Boys usually had to wear a suit, if they were seniors.  It wasn’t a big deal for me, or anyone else.  We all went to the photography shop to have our pictures taken.  Sometime later, we’d get a proof sheet to select a favorite.  The proof sheet was made on “printing out” paper.  This was almost the same as ordinary photographic paper, but exposed as a contact print under intense light until the clear parts of the negative turned deeply purple.  You had a high quality image that would eventually turn altogether black.  Well, we didn’t keep the proof sheet, we marked off the image we liked.

Dana Loris Graham lived one block west of Billings Senior High School, at 1505 West 6th Street.  She grew up with a brother who’s name I don’t know and her sister Bonna.  Their parents, Orval and Hazel, had not yet retired when I first met them.  These two were examples of the “greatest generation,” the survivors of WWII, the ones who defeated Hitler and Hirohito. They looked the part. She was always carefully made-up and he looked like Jimmy Stewart, pipe and all. Orval and Hazel. Aptly named, fine people.

Our oldest boy, Todd, was a Boy Scout in 1983 and, to earn a merit badge in architecture, sought out Orval to mentor him.  Orval was warm and friendly.  He was a Shriner, a member of a the precision motorcycle team.  I remember examining things in the garage at the Grahams:  Wooden boxes, about the size of milk crates, but meticulously designed and built with dove-tailed interior partitions of exacting proportions!  Everything in place, everything neatly labeled with pen and ink.  The boxes, which showed signs of repeated, frequent use, were stacked vertically on a shelf near the garage door.  Between the garage and house was a charming garden.  One could get drunk!  I looked back into the garage to note the sedan next to the giant motorcycle. The one Orval rode.

The garden had a fountain of a statue of a lad urinating.  Closer to the walkway was a retractable clothesline.  Lots of comfortable lawn chairs.  Kitchen window.  The stairs to the basement showed some of the wonders of Orval’s interests.  Elaborate tools, brass, copper pieces.  A steam engine was made to run on Sterno, all of copper and brass, pressure relief spindle spinning.  

Years later, I was in the basement printing programs for an MLK event our group organized in response to an attack of bigots on one of our Jewish families.  I was printing with purple ink when the phone rang.  This was probably 1992, or so.  Bonna was phoning me from Missoula because her father, Orval, had died that day.  She asked me to go to her parents’ to sit with her mother who was otherwise alone.  So I did.  A man from next door also came over, so it was us three, sitting there, talking.  Hazel was glad for the company.  She and the man from next door drank whiskey.  I suppose I should have joined them. Orval did not have a memorial service, at his own request.

Bonna and I have spoken, most often by telephone, over the years.  Bonna’s husband, Frank Hall, was a high school classmate in Dillon.  Soft spoken, intelligent, kind.  That’s Bonna and Frank.  They have at least one child.  Haven’t spoken to her recently, not since Dana died.