Woolworth’s always had lots of ice-cream treats on its menu, so I’m hoping I ordered some for her. My memory of that trip is vivid, but the details are blurry.

My grandmother was in her 70s then, and had lived for decades in a Southern town that forbidded her from doing something as simple as eating lunch at that store. She was a very quiet and peaceful woman who didn’t put up a fuss – as she would describe it – and likely never thought about going there. Or did she, I wonder. I remember trying to talk to her once about her life, but she just brushed me aside. Older black people tended to shield their past from us.

Ice cream parlors and soda fountains were a hit in the 1950s, and we’ve all seen the old photos of white teens in bobby socks and saddle shoes sitting on stools at the counter or in booths enjoying malts and cones and shakes. For black teenagers, though, sitting at those counters and ordering sundaes was off-limits.

In one southern state, a group of youths decided to test this segregation rule at the Royal Ice Cream parlor in Durham, N.C., in 1957. They sat down at booths, and were arrested by police and charged with trespassing. In 1962, youths with protest signs marched outside the parlor, as shown in these photos on the endangereddurham blog. Last month, a marker noting the sit-in was erected at the site.

Their protest was about three years before the famous sit-in by North Carolina A&T students at a Woolworth’s counter in Greensboro, N.C. In my research, I came across mention of a sit-in at a Woolworth’s lunch counter in Macon in the 1960s (which I do not recall).

Despite the popularity of the parlors, the paraphernalia at auction recently went surprisingly cheap, it seemed to me. One of the neatest items was an antique copper, tin and glass paneled ice cream cone countertop display jar, with cones, 13” tall. It sold for $60.

Here’s what else was sold:

Vintage 5-cent glass ice cream cone countertop display jar, 12 ½” tall with a metal lid. There were still cones inside the jar. $40.

1910 Stromeyers Grape Punch glass soda fountain syrup bottle with original cup, reverse label. 12” $55. The auctioneer said this one was rare.

1910 Vin Fiz glass fountain syrup bottle with original cup, reverse label. 12” $65. Another rare bottle, according to the auctioneer.

Early 20^th-century Greater New York Extract Co., 421 S. 2^nd Street, Philadelphia, glass soda fountain syrup bottles. Chocolate, vanilla, cherry. 12” There was damage to the glass over the labels. $35.

Pair of early 20^th-century thin-ribbed glass straw holders. 13” The auctioneer said they were circa 1910-1920 and were a “rare pair.” $60.

In researching ice cream parlors and soda fountains, I found some interesting links to African Americans. Did you know:

A man named Augustus Jackson, who had been a White House chef and later moved to Philadelphia, created several ice cream recipes and came up with a method for manufacturing ice cream circa 1832. He sold it in cans to shops. According to one website, many blacks in Philadelphia owned ice cream parlors and made ice cream during that time.

Around the same time, Aunt Sally Shadd, a freed slave who owned a catering business in Wilmington, DE, also created her own ice cream recipes, which First Lady Dolly Madison later served at White House parties.

The ice cream scoop was created by Alfred L. Cralle of Pittsburgh.

Related posts:

1. Ice cream posters make me want a milkshake
2. Black child, 1919 Cream of Wheat ad, no watermelon?
3. Hand crank ice cream maker

The Graflex came to mind a few weeks ago when it was mentioned in a news obit about Philadelphia photographer Jack T. Franklin. For more than 60 years, Franklin had aimed his camera at local and national celebrities, sorority and fraternity events, black soldiers during World War II and most importantly, the civil rights movement in Philadelphia.

He died three weeks before the passing last week of photographer Roy DeCarava, who captured black life in Harlem during the same period. The two men were born three years apart during the early part of the 20^th century.

DeCarava was the most famous of the two, and was renowned for his black & white shadowy images. Most people outside Philadelphia may have never heard of Franklin, but he was a fixture at local events in his trademark black beret.

In Franklin’s obit, a woman remembered seeing him walking in their North Philadelphia neighborhood when she was a child (he rode the subway to assignments). “He used to walk through the streets with his Rolleiflex and Graflex cameras,” the woman told a Philadelphia Inquirer reporter.

That statement piqued my interest. I wanted to learn more about Franklin and the cameras he used to tell his stories. And when I heard that DeCarava had died, I wondered the same about him.

I’m familiar with both the Rolleiflex and Graflex cameras. Both are as beautiful as they come. While I never bought a Graflex, I did manage to out-bid someone on a Rolleicord, one of the least expensive in the Rolleiflex series. This one was a Rolleicord Ia, produced between 1937 and 1938.

The Rolleiflex is a German camera that was first produced in 1929 and the first to use roll film. It’s a Twin Lens Reflex Camera (TLR), meaning it has viewing and taking lens mounted on the front. The creators came up with the idea during World War I. They wanted a practical camera to use on the battlefield. Production didn’t come until years later.

Famed photographers Diane Arbus and Ernst Haas both used a Rolleiflex.  

The Graflex Speed Graphic was the camera of choice for early newspapermen. I’ve seen many an old movie with white male reporters, some half-sitting on desks, others in chairs, a Graflex plate camera in hand, waiting for a morsel from the local mayor or police chief. The most famous photograph taken by a Graflex was the World War II image of Marines raising the flag on Iwo Jima in 1945, photographed by Associated Press photographer Joe Rosenthal.

Franklin took more than 400,000 photos, which are now housed at the African American Museum in Philadelphia. His news shots of historical events may be the most significant. He covered the 1963 March on Washington, and he was there in 1965 for the Selma to Montgomery protest march, photographing Dr. King and his wife Coretta, along with others.

Franklin got his first camera at age 11 in 1933 when he was given a Brownie camera.  

“The way I treat photography is different from how other people treat it,” Franklin said in a 2006 interview with the Philadelphia Tribune. “…. The idea is to photograph what they’re doing. The atmosphere of the surroundings is very important because that’s telling you what year, so when you see a picture you can say, ‘Oh that was taken in the ’30s.’ That’s the purpose of photography: the main reason is to identify.”

All I could find out about DeCarava’s camera was that he used a 35mm camera. He purchased the first one in 1946 to photograph images he wanted to paint. He soon ditched the paint and kept the camera. One account of his life noted that his mother had used a Brownie Box camera to photograph friends and neighbors.

I can only speculate what type of 35mm camera he used, but here are some types that were available around that time. Most were rangefinder cameras (they focus with a mechanism that measures distances).

Maybe he used a Leica, which was very popular.  DeCarava’s style of black and white dimly lit photos have been likened to those of Henri Cartier Bresson, who used a Leica 35mm rangefinder camera with a 50mm lens. Bresson described the small hand-held camera as a “big passionate kiss, or then again like a shot from a gun or the couch of a psychoanalyst.”

Life magazine photographer Robert Capa used a Leica for his famous war photos. German filmmaker, photographer and Nazi propagandist Leni Riefenstahl also used a Leica.

DeCarava’s other choices of rangefinders: Argus Model A that sold for under $10. Argus Model C3, affectionately (or unaffectionately), called the Brick because of its shape and size. I love the look of the C3; it’s a mighty camera. It’s not likely the camera he used. Too heavy.  DeCarava told a Washington Post reporter in 1986 why he chose photos over paintings:

“I didn’t know what I wanted to paint, but photography told me right away,” he said. “I was very shy, scared to death of people, and somehow the camera gave me a license, a way of relating to people.”

Related posts:

1. An extraordinary display of historical cameras
2. Black golfer, black relics & black ancestors
3. The life & art of Stuart M. Egnal