The Pittsburgh Press (April 9, 1942)
Rambling Reporter
By Ernie Pyle
TUCSON, Ariz. – You remember Esther Henderson, the eminently successful showgirl photographer of Tucson? Oh, of course you do, it was only yesterday I told you about her.
Well, Esther Henderson has really got life by the throat. She quit the stage before it was too late, went at photography with hooks and tongs, now has the finest studio in the Southwest, and keeps hours that would make the traditional banker look like a peon.
She is now a little past 30. She’s as big as half a pin, and still as pretty as a picture. She is very tanned, and wears a checkered shirt and faded cowboy overalls. I can’t imagine her in a dress. She gives you the impression of being the happiest person alive.
She smokes and takes a drink when she can get somebody to drink with her, and now and then a nice “damn” floats into her conversation, but if that gives you the impression she’s a hard gal, you’re clear off the track.
Seven years on the stage didn’t harden her. She’s as fresh and enthusiastic as if she were just seeing her first circus. She’s wise, but about as hard as maple syrup.
She had a tough go of it here in Tucson, at first. Things were pretty well sewed up, and it was no child’s play to break through. But she kept battering and ramming, and finally she not only broke through, she shot clear to the top.
A couple of years ago Esther made some pictures for a tourist pamphlet the Sunshine Club was getting up. Then suddenly she heard the state was bringing in a photographer from California to complete the pictures. Esther hit the roof.
Storms downtown to protest
She went storming downtown and probably pounded the desk and said, “What is this? You can’t even have the booklet printed in Phoenix because it would be disloyal to Tucson, yet you bring in a photographer from California. What is this? What is this, anyway?”
They tried to pacify her by saying this man was more than a photographer, he was an experienced dude-ranch organizer, and could run barbecues for the eastern guests and make everybody happy, as well as take pictures.
To which Esther replied, “What the hell is this guy, anyway, a cook or a photographer?” And then she huffed out. They brought the California guy anyway. His name was Chuck Abbott.
Esther kept hearing about this fellow but never saw him. She didn’t want to, for she had a hate on him. The whole idea of an imported cook-photographer still rankled in her.
Then one night just before Christmas a year ago, Miss Henderson’s secretary came into the studio and said Mr. Abbott was outside to see her. At first she wasn’t going to go out, but then she thought, what the hell, might as well be decent about it. So she came out and offered him a drink. He wouldn’t take more than one, and that made her mad, too.
They were married not long afterward. They’re two of the happiest people I’ve ever seen. Chuck is one of these prematurely gray men – his hair is snow white. He wears overalls and cowboy boots, and is quiet and kind. He has a separate studio downtown.
Chuck is dude-ranch fugitive
As a couple they’re doubly happy, for they’ve both escaped from careers that would have been ceaseless grinds. Esther escaped from the stage and the night-club circuit, and Chuck escaped being a dude-ranch owner. He’d been saving for years to buy a dude ranch. When he met Esther, that was all off.
Nobody yet knows why Arizona brought Chuck over from California, because actually Esther is much the better photographer. But all’s well that ends well, so what’s the difference?
When Esther was telling me about looking for a place to land and finally settling here, Chuck broke in and said, “And Tucson got another dynamo.”
He sure was right. She makes things hum. Whatever she does, work or play, it’s fun for her. She doesn’t have to worry much about the kitchen, for that “cook or photographer” guy she was ranting about turned out to be both cook and photographer. Incidentally, they have a dish-washing machine, the first I ever saw in a private home.
I happened to hit them about 11 o’clock, just as Esther was dismissing a young man who had got all dressed up to have his picture taken.
By 11:30 we were all calling each other by our first names. By 12 we were out in the kitchen eating sandwiches. By 12:30 we were talking about going into business together. Thank God, I had to leave at 1 o’clock.