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Zoom In: Charles Beck
On the wrong side of the tracks in Fergus Falls, we drive past homes patched together by peeling paint, and climb up through the cement factory's back lot. At the top of the hill, there's a silver mailbox: C. Beck. A trail of faded wood steps carries us through the woods, over a ravine; the path becomes a bridge, the bridge becomes a porch lightly dusted by snow.
Among the firs is a driftwood-colored Bauhaus-style house. Charlie Beck comes to the door in a worn flannel shirt. He has the freckled complexion of a farm boy, faded into a pale chamois and framed by wild white hair.
