At Nicolet High School in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, in March 1957, students, known as auditorium hosts, collected tickets, distributed programs, and escorted classmates and guests to their seats. I sat with my mother in the auditorium at a special event. A host walked by our aisle seat.

“Dicky,” she touched my arm. “Such nice boys and girls.” 

“No.” I slumped lower in my seat.

#

A week later I pondered my terse reply. Hosts were theater majors, part of a group of college-bound kids known as academics. I ran with a group of friends who fixed old automobiles. Hot rods, we called our cars. Hosts and academics called us greasers. School athletes, also known as jocks, made up the rest. Sometimes jocks joined academics, never greasers.

Three divisions of students. Except for jocks, you belonged to one. Never by choice, you accepted your assignment. But here was the rub. I ran the movie projector at high school and some kids saw me as a host. Hey, I only ran the projector and loved movies. I wasn’t a host.

Dad owned a Keystone brand 16mm movie projector. He filmed home movies and taught me how to run films for family entertainment. Eight mm home movie technology produced lower-quality images, so Dad used the same state-of-the-art film format as Nicolet. I don’t remember how I became the sole school projectionist. There were at least ten hosts. I wasn’t one of them. I was above them.

Each time I showed a movie, I climbed carpeted steps to the projection room over the heads of my classmates. When I flipped the switch to start a film, I stopped all conversation and turned heads toward the screen. I got my classmate’s attention.

Dad’s Keystone projector ran movies on small reels of eight to ten minutes in duration. Known as shorts, these films included home movies, cartoons, and newsreels that covered one year or less. When I ran more than one short at home, I had to change reels. Each swap required lights on, and the next film had to be threaded through the projector, a process prone to error. When I changed reels, I destroyed the mood of a darkened room, the feeling of escape inherent in viewing motion pictures.

I wanted to run feature films, movies that lasted for more than thirty minutes in a dark room. A projector that could accommodate larger, feature-length reels would meet my need. I wanted a movie projector like the 16mm Ampro model 20 at high school.

Cast iron constructed, of art-deco design with a textured, tawny-colored surface, model 20 at Nicolet resembled a lion on four stump-like legs. An upright cast iron housing contained the projector’s lamp, film drive mechanism, and lens. Vertical cooling fins draped from the housing like a lion’s mane that flowed from the head of an Egyptian sphinx. A metal plate attached to the projector bore the name Ampro Precision Projector.

He stood at the edge of Nicolet’s projection stand and sent images across a valley of students to a movie screen at the opposite side of the auditorium. Years later I saw a poster of Lion King. From the precipice of a rocky bluff, he roared to the crowd below him, as if to say, “Look at me.” I remembered Ampro, the lion of Nicolet.

Ampro’s predecessor company, Universal Stamping and MFG Co., established in 1913, produced high-quality 16mm movie projectors. In 1926, the Chicago-based company broadened their line of silent film projectors to include sound to meet demand for new talkie films. Renamed Ampro Corporation in 1940, the company expanded production of their most popular product. Dominant in the war and early post-war period, Ampro in the mid-fifties faced competition from lower-priced projectors and television. Production ended in 1958.

#

On weekends, Dad and Mom took my sister and me to their favorite movie theater, The Egyptian. Located on Teutonia Avenue in northwest Milwaukee, The Egyptian ran feature-length films. In her confines, I experienced terror, mystery, and heartbreak of Hollywood’s finest.

A palace of entertainment and intrigue, The Egyptian’s lobby contained statues in the image of the god-kings of ancient Egypt, pharaohs who stood adjacent to simulated Roman columns. Passageways, festooned with curtains, simulated flaming urns, and velvet drapes represented a Middle Eastern bazaar. When I turned in my seat while I watched a film, I looked back at the projection room. I imagined a theater-sized Ampro, the lion of The Egyptian.

Movies ran at The Egyptian until she closed in the mid-seventies. Box-style, multi-plex cinemas located in shopping malls replaced The Egyptian and other glamorous stand-alone movie theaters. Demolished in 1984, The Egyptian passed into memory like the pharaohs and flaming urns she emulated in her lobby.

#

In July 1957 I slipped into our living room and stood behind Dad as he read the Milwaukee Sentinel, the morning newspaper.

“Dad,” I stepped into view. “I want to buy a 16mm Ampro movie projector to show feature-length films.”

“Dicky, please sit beside me.” He patted the sofa. “Have you earned enough money from your paper route to buy a new movie projector?”

“Sure.” I joined him on the sofa. “I have my savings in this oatmeal box.” I placed the container on the coffee table in front of us.

“Where could you buy – what do you call it – an Ampro?” His eyes brightened.

“At Blackhawk Films in Davenport.” I moved closer. “They sell movies and projectors. Uncle Wally drives to Iowa every month. He invited me to ride with him and we would stop at Blackhawk. I’ve studied their catalog. They sell and service all brands of projectors. Blackhawk also sells feature-length films to start my own collection.”

“Good deal.” Dad rubbed my shoulder. “I’m glad you will get what you want.”

Blackhawk Films, founded by Kent D. Eastin, opened in Davenport in 1932 to collect, restore, and preserve classic 35mm, 16mm, 8mm, and Super 8 motion picture films. Blackhawk mailed a catalog, in a style of a mimeographed newsletter, worldwide. I received their hand-crafted missives and spent hours lost in imagination. Over-the-counter sales in Davenport ended in 1957. Ownership changed in 1975 to market films through Betamax, DVD, and later compact disk. Television replaced these formats. In 2020 Blackhawk’s successor company transferred their remaining film collection to preservationists in Paris, France, keeping an office in Burbank, California.

#

Uncle Wally wheeled his Buick Roadmaster into our driveway one early morning in August 1957 to drive to Davenport.

“Ready for our trip?” He smiled.

“I’m really excited.” I slid across the red leather passenger seat already warm from the sun. “Our visit to Blackhawk will be like a vacation trip to Hollywood.”

“Great.” Uncle Wally gently punched my arm. “I’m happy to help you with your plans. Let’s hit the road!”

Road indeed. We left Milwaukee on US Highway 18 also known as Bluemound Road, named for the village of Blue Mounds, Wisconsin, about 100 miles west of Milwaukee. Constructed in 1926, US 18 began in Milwaukee and ended 1,043 miles west in Orin, Wyoming. Although we were headed to Davenport, Uncle Wally made the first stop for his business in Madison, Wisconsin. He sold women’s clothing to department stores. After Madison, US 18 became two lanes of winding asphalt pavement through a hilly portion of southwest Wisconsin known as the driftless area.

Untouched by the last glacier that retreated ten to twelve thousand years earlier, this portion of Wisconsin lacked glacial debris or drift. Instead, a pristine pre-glacial landscape of hills, valleys, bluffs, and winding rivers (a trout fishing paradise) survived for today’s enjoyment. By 1989 the State of Wisconsin finished reconstruction of US 18, described as improvements. A four-lane ribbon of concrete pavement with limited access, designed to expressway standards, replaced two lanes. With curves eliminated, hills flattened, and bluffs truncated, US 18 bypassed Blue Mounds and other towns and businesses in favor of safety, speed, and convenience.

After three slow hours through the driftless area, Uncle Wally’s dashboard temperature gauge registered 95 degrees. We pulled off US 18 in Dodgeville, Wisconsin, for a business stop and to add water to the Buick’s radiator. Uncle Wally chose water instead of radiator fluid, deemed by some to be a better coolant. He told a story about a household pet that died after drinking radiator fluid.

“Better isn’t necessarily best,” he shook his head.

We left Dodgeville on US 151, made another business stop in Dubuque, Iowa, and headed south on US 60. After one more department store visit, we arrived in Davenport. Uncle Wally wheeled the Roadmaster through a parking lot to park at the front door of a single-story, metal warehouse building. A neon sign flickered Blackhawk Films.

“Hollywood, huh?” He smiled. “Let’s go in.”

A man sat behind a glass counter. He sported crew-cut hair and wore a denim work shirt, his name stenciled above the right pocket. Maybe the name was Gus, Ben, or possibly Dan. I don’t recall. Let’s assume his name was Gus. Behind him, movie boxes jammed metal shelves.

“Welcome to Blackhawk Films.” Gus bounded from his chair, a newspaper fell on the floor. “What may I help you with?”

“My nephew, Dicky, wants to buy a 16mm movie projector.” Uncle Wally gave me a hug.

“Howdy, Dicky.” Gus pumped my arm and waved toward a table at the back of the store. “I’m sorry but we don’t have many. What brand are you after?”

“I want an Ampro model 20.” I shuffled my feet.

“We don’t have any more Ampros.” Gus frowned.

“Your catalog says you sell all makes and models.” I looked down at my shoes.

“Sold all of them.” Gus crossed his arms. “You should have come last week. I’ve got a nice Victor I’ll sell you.”

“RCA Victor?” I looked at Gus.

“No, just plain Victor.” Gus uncrossed his arms. “Victor model 60 actually. It’s newer and better than an Ampro with arms for spools on the top. You can put this projector on a tabletop. You don’t need a special stand like you do for an Ampro. Victor is convenient and easily stores in your closet.”

“Never heard of Victor,” I sighed.

“Look Dicky, do you want a movie projector or not?” Gus motioned toward the back of the store.” Come on, I’ll show you.”

Victor Animatograph Corporation, an early manufacturer of motion picture equipment, began operations in Davenport. Affiliated with Blackhawk Films, Victor produced their first 16mm movie projector in 1923, the same year as Eastman Kodak. Gus hefted a Victor model 60 from a shelf onto a nearby table.  As he said, top-mounted reels folded into a compact, rectangular, utilitarian designed, battleship-gray sheet-metal body. At table height, model 60 with reels extended reminded me of our family’s television set with a rabbit ear antenna, no resemblance to the lion of Nicolet.

A half-hour later Uncle Wally loaded the Victor into his trunk along with four cartoons and three newsreels that covered world events from 1942, 1943, and 1944. Gus didn’t have any feature-length films. He must have sold them last week, too.

“Glad you stopped in,” Gus stood in the store’s doorway. “Come back again.”

Uncle Wally nodded to Gus and gave me a hug.

“Hey, Dicky, too bad you didn’t get what you wanted.” He put the Buick in gear and we headed for Milwaukee. “Maybe you’ll have a good time anyway.”

#

I loved winter. No outside chores or paper routes distracted me from my movies. By mid-January 1958, I had borrowed enough folding chairs from family and neighbors to create a small movie theater in our basement. Arranging chairs in rows, Dad placed our Starlite home movie screen in front of the seats.

“You’ll probably need all of these.” He winked at me.

I set the Victor on a folding table in the back of the room. Mother made black curtains to cover basement windows and hung a velvet drape at the entrance to the basement. She decorated the post at the bottom of the stairs to look like a Roman column at The Egyptian.

“Isn’t this great,” she smiled.

Beside the column, I placed a flower pot stuffed with red tissue paper, my flaming urn. I made flyers and tickets I distributed at high school that announced a free movie every Saturday afternoon in February. I titled the movie World War II – 1942 to 1944. To create this feature film about the war years, I spliced together the three newsreels purchased from Gus. Although I didn’t have a film for each year of the war, I reasoned that 1942 through 1944 represented most of the war, the middle years. For every matinee, I would add a cartoon before the movie so that each show would begin with a different cartoon, just like at The Egyptian.

An hour before the first show in February my sister made bowls of popcorn she placed on a table at the bottom of the stairs. Dad set bottles of soda pop beside the popcorn. Uncle Wally arrived early.

“Hey, Dicky,” he handed me a silver dollar. “I know the movie is free, but here’s the first buck you’ll earn doing what you love.”

“Walter,” Mother waved from the kitchen window. “Come in for coffee. And Dicky, there’s a line of kids by the basement door. Such nice boys and girls.”

Dad was right. My premier would be a full house. I gestured to my sister at the top of the stairs to begin to collect tickets and rushed past the velvet drape. Flying down the stairs, I stood beside the Roman column. Before I started the movie, I greeted each guest and escorted them to their seat.

– Richard Wilberg