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On Journalistic Curiosity: Down the Rabbit Hole With Dan Barry On Journalistic Curiosity: Down the Rabbit Hole With Dan Barry
(2 days later)
The actual, not virtual, library of The New York Times is in the basement catacombs of the building, located at the end of a lab-white labyrinthine hall. Its venerable collection is rarely visited these days, since a few keystrokes delivers the world. The actual, not virtual, library of The New York Times is in the basement catacombs of the building, located at the end of a lab-white labyrinthine hall. Its venerable collection is rarely visited these days, since a few keystrokes deliver the world.
But sometimes you just need to hold an old book — to measure its heft, linger over its imprinted words and be open to the chance of serendipity within. This desire is how I recently came to be reading a musty forest-green copy of the autobiography of Lincoln Steffens, the legendary muckraking journalist of the late 19th and early 20th centuries.But sometimes you just need to hold an old book — to measure its heft, linger over its imprinted words and be open to the chance of serendipity within. This desire is how I recently came to be reading a musty forest-green copy of the autobiography of Lincoln Steffens, the legendary muckraking journalist of the late 19th and early 20th centuries.
I won’t go into why I needed the 1931 autobiography of Steffens, whose name has not lately been on the lips of the nation, other than to say that I have spent much of my life going down rabbit holes. And so there I was, in the familiar darkness of another rabbit hole, breathing in the book’s dust mites, when I found a small snapshot tucked between yellowed Pages 694 and 695.I won’t go into why I needed the 1931 autobiography of Steffens, whose name has not lately been on the lips of the nation, other than to say that I have spent much of my life going down rabbit holes. And so there I was, in the familiar darkness of another rabbit hole, breathing in the book’s dust mites, when I found a small snapshot tucked between yellowed Pages 694 and 695.
The time-faded photo was of a toddler in a white dress — a girl with blond hair neatly parted — posing beside a small black dog.The time-faded photo was of a toddler in a white dress — a girl with blond hair neatly parted — posing beside a small black dog.
Old photographs of strangers, discovered in this way, seem precious, even faintly sacred. And who can resist studying the stranger’s face for clues to a suddenly pressing question: Whatever happened to you?Old photographs of strangers, discovered in this way, seem precious, even faintly sacred. And who can resist studying the stranger’s face for clues to a suddenly pressing question: Whatever happened to you?
With little chance of an answer, the photo is usually tucked back into obscurity, that fleeting sense of universal connection soon gone.With little chance of an answer, the photo is usually tucked back into obscurity, that fleeting sense of universal connection soon gone.
Except this particular snapshot had notes written in pencil on the back:Except this particular snapshot had notes written in pencil on the back:
Merlyn Della DavisMerlyn Della Davis
Born June 9, 1934Born June 9, 1934
Picture taken May 30, 1935Picture taken May 30, 1935
And down another rabbit hole I went.And down another rabbit hole I went.
Using keystrokes, I learned that Merlyn Della Davis and a man named Johnson applied for a marriage license in Rutland, Vt., in 1954. Digging further, I found associated addresses in Vermont and in Florida; the associated name of Shackelford; and, finally, a 2014 obituary for Jack Shackelford, who died in Rutland at the age of 88 after a lengthy illness.Using keystrokes, I learned that Merlyn Della Davis and a man named Johnson applied for a marriage license in Rutland, Vt., in 1954. Digging further, I found associated addresses in Vermont and in Florida; the associated name of Shackelford; and, finally, a 2014 obituary for Jack Shackelford, who died in Rutland at the age of 88 after a lengthy illness.
“In 1990, Jack became engaged to Merlyn ‘Lynn’ Johnson, a Rutland Town native, and they shared a loving commitment for 25 years, which included traveling, visiting with friends and, of course, playing golf.”“In 1990, Jack became engaged to Merlyn ‘Lynn’ Johnson, a Rutland Town native, and they shared a loving commitment for 25 years, which included traveling, visiting with friends and, of course, playing golf.”
After two more hours of rooting about and leaving messages as far-flung as California, I called a telephone number in Rutland that seemed to have potential. The woman who answered said her name was Lynn Johnson. I stammered to explain the nature of my call.After two more hours of rooting about and leaving messages as far-flung as California, I called a telephone number in Rutland that seemed to have potential. The woman who answered said her name was Lynn Johnson. I stammered to explain the nature of my call.
Finally, after describing the photograph and inscription, I concluded, “And I think this little girl ... is you.”Finally, after describing the photograph and inscription, I concluded, “And I think this little girl ... is you.”
“Yes,” the woman said, “it is.”“Yes,” the woman said, “it is.”
Ms. Johnson was taken aback by my call. How did a photograph of her as a child wind up inside an old copy of Steffens’s autobiography, and how did that copy wind up in the library of The New York Times? I shared what little I knew: only that a note on the book’s inside flap indicated that it was donated to the library in 1996.Ms. Johnson was taken aback by my call. How did a photograph of her as a child wind up inside an old copy of Steffens’s autobiography, and how did that copy wind up in the library of The New York Times? I shared what little I knew: only that a note on the book’s inside flap indicated that it was donated to the library in 1996.
She then told me what had happened in the nearly 83 years since that photograph was taken. But first: The photograph’s information is incorrect. She was born in 1933, not 1934.She then told me what had happened in the nearly 83 years since that photograph was taken. But first: The photograph’s information is incorrect. She was born in 1933, not 1934.
The daughter of farmers, she went to the one-room Mill Village School, graduated from Rutland High School and studied at what was then the Green Mountain Junior College, in Poultney, Vt.The daughter of farmers, she went to the one-room Mill Village School, graduated from Rutland High School and studied at what was then the Green Mountain Junior College, in Poultney, Vt.
Ms. Johnson married a dentist, worked as a medical secretary and lab technician, then stayed at home to raise their two daughters. After the divorce, she met Jack Shackelford through friends. The relationship had stamina, the two of them splitting their time between Vermont and Florida.Ms. Johnson married a dentist, worked as a medical secretary and lab technician, then stayed at home to raise their two daughters. After the divorce, she met Jack Shackelford through friends. The relationship had stamina, the two of them splitting their time between Vermont and Florida.
“We were engaged for about 25 years,” she said.“We were engaged for about 25 years,” she said.
A few years ago, they both developed lymphoma — “though not the same brand,” she noted. “I took care of him until the end.”A few years ago, they both developed lymphoma — “though not the same brand,” she noted. “I took care of him until the end.”
Now, she said, “I’m just dealing with heart problems.”Now, she said, “I’m just dealing with heart problems.”
Ms. Johnson no longer goes to Florida. Her daughters and two grandchildren live in Maine. And yes, she would like very much to have that photograph — a black-and-white bit of serendipity, hidden in a book hidden in a library hidden in The New York Times.Ms. Johnson no longer goes to Florida. Her daughters and two grandchildren live in Maine. And yes, she would like very much to have that photograph — a black-and-white bit of serendipity, hidden in a book hidden in a library hidden in The New York Times.
Oh, and the former Merlyn Della Davis remembered without hesitation: Her dog’s name was Skippy.Oh, and the former Merlyn Della Davis remembered without hesitation: Her dog’s name was Skippy.