Jessie rarely had time for anything but work. Mr. Steffes had accepted her suggestion that she clean his shop at least three times a week. Her mother was happy she’d gotten her nickel back and earned more to boot. On those days, Jessie still had extra laundry, as her aprons were always covered with grime. She even turned down an invitation from Lilly to join friends at Latsch Beach along the river to see if the water was warm enough to swim in. “I’m just too tired,” she told her sister and welcomed instead a nap on the screened porch where the girls slept during the summer months.This photography was serious business that required constant attention. She made mistakes, mixed chemicals incorrectly, wasn’t as patient with clients as Mr. Bauer wanted. She read books and his journals with discussions of apertures and such that might be beyond her, though she told not a soul of her fears. In her dreams she wasn’t a fine female photographer traveling to exotic places. Instead she stood on a ladder in precarious climes, often slipping just before she reached the top rung.
