 Dad at his office, c. 1959 In 1959, my father sat in the cold metal hut buried halfway into the ground of Shemya Island, a remote piece of land that sits near the very end of the tongue full of islands that make up the western edge of Alaska. It’s no surprise that some of his photos from that island have Russian fishermen in them.
My father was an electronic spy some 20 years or so before electronics was a thing.
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