Skip to main content

Governor Henry Bellmon, September 3, 1921 – September 29, 2009


November, 1986.

As a young photographer for the Stillwater NewsPress I was assigned to photograph former Governor Bellmon voting in his hometown of Billings, Oklahoma.

The polling place was a tiny spot in the gymnasium of Billings High School. The polling spot was dark, lit only by a single bulb.

Governor Bellmom and his wife came in and greeted every precinct worker by name. He walked over to the polling booth and began to vote. I asked him if he minded if I took his photograph and he smiled and said warmly, "not at all," but ask me if I would "make him look good."

I laughed.

There were other photographers there, but none spoke him at the time, and they all used flashes because the room was so dark.

When I looked through the viewfinder I saw this image.

I was struck by the glow of the single bulb, the serious look of the governor's face, and the imposing nature of his body.

I shot several frames, then turned and thanked the governor (and Mrs. Bellmom) and left.

The photo ran on the front page of the next day's NewsPress and I received several compliments from our subscribers.

Fast forward to March of 1990.

Bellmon is ending his second term as governor and I'm a new employee of the Oklahoma State Senate who is still trying to figure out where the restrooms are in the Capitol building.

One cold morning, I'm in the basement of the Capitol (trying to find the restroom) and I bump into Governor Bellmom. He walks over to me, sticks out a large paw and says, "Hi, I'm Henry Bellmom."

We talk for a second, and I re-introduce myself. The governor chuckles and says, "I remember you, Scott, you took my picture when I was voting in Billings."

You could have picked my jaw up off the floor.

I started to stammer a thank you, when he added, "I always liked that picture."

I guess that's why I always liked Governor Bellmom. He was kind and decent and he remembered my name.

While I worked for the Senate I saw David Walters a million times and he didn't give a damn who I was. Frank Keating wouldn't even speak to me in an elevator, and George Nigh was always too busy working the room for even a handshake.

But Henry Bellmom would stop and make it a point to smile and talk, and make a young Senate employee feel welcomed at the Capitol.

I guess that's why I like this photograph. For me, it's a very personal photo and, to me, it shows Governor Bellmon at his best — simply being a decent man from a small, Oklahoma town.

Comments

@okieprof said…
Bravo Scott...great photo and story, and a great man

Popular posts from this blog

Ex-pastor suing Moore's First Baptist Church

MOORE — A former official with Moore’s First Baptist Church is suing the church for his termination, and for “spreading false rumors about his mental health throughout the community,” court documents show. Jimmie D. Lady, the church’s associate pastor, filed the suit in Cleveland County District Court last week seeking $10,000 in actual damages and $10,000 in punitive damages for “severe emotional distress and mental anguish as a result of statements made about him when his job was terminated.” Lady’s attorney, Andrew Hicks of Houston, claimed church officials terminated Lady for being bi-polar, then spread rumors about Lady in the community. “Although a man of God, Dr. Lady cannot ignore the dramatic, adverse effects these untrue and unfair accusations have had on him and his family,” Hicks said. “First Baptist Moore’s efforts to tarnish Dr. Lady’s reputation have threatened his family’s livelihood. Through this suit, we hope to restore Dr. Lady’s good name.” Church officials denied...

If I were a chef...

If I were a chef, I’d spend early Wednesday mornings at the Farmers Market. I’d get there around 7 a.m., when the produce was wet and fresh and the day was young and the people were still drinking their coffee. If I were a chef, I’d wait patiently while the wrinkled granny lady individually fondled all 631 tomatoes on the table in front of her. I’d quietly tap my foot as she sniffed and touched each of the red, buxom vegetables before she finally selected two, and paid for them. I’d do that, if I were a chef. If I were a chef, I buy peaches — boxes and boxes of peaches. I’d buy them from the old, snaggle-toothed man with the radiant smile whose booth sits to the right of the entrance to the fairgrounds building. I’d buy his peaches because I know the old man understands fruit and earth and trees, better than anyone else there. I’d smile as his wrinkled, gnarly hand gently placed peach after peach in my basket. And I’d give him a sly wink after he handed me a bruised, but succulent pea...

Dear Daniel...about that graduation

Dear Daniel: By the time you read this, your graduation ceremony will be over. You and 500 or so of your friends have reached the first big intersection on that road we call life. Congratulations. As I watched you sit at the Ford Center last Thursday, I couldn’t help but remember your childhood. Granted, you are not my son, but instead, you’re the son of my closest friend. And, therefore, you are family. You were only 3 months old with I met your father. We both went to work for the Oklahoma Legislature and both found ourselves stuffed into this tiny office with no windows and very little space. Your dad had been there, maybe two days, at the most, when he told me he was going to be taking several weeks off. I wasn’t too happy about that. I’d started a week before he did and I didn’t understand why he was so special. I remember cussing him and pretty much acting like schmuck. Later, when he returned, he told me how his newborn son had to have heart surgery and that’s why he wasn’t at ...