This is a true history, insofar as can be recollected, concerning the life and times of Roger Herman Zierenberg Sr. who was born of noble parents on November 26th 1921 within the bounds of Evergreen Cemetery, in the mansion house, located in the heart of East Los Angeles, California. This may seem strange but his father, Ernst Erich Hermann Zierenberg was the Superintendent of the Cemetery. The doctor was called and birth came about in the bedroom of the mansion house. This was a special event since a little sister Hermine Elizabeth and a brother Norman Erich were born ahead of Roger, Hermine surviving only three days; born 4 April / died 7 April 1919, laid to rest in the Northeast, Pennsylvania Cemetery. Norman was born 17 February 1920 and only survived a little over a month and was laid to rest on the 20th day of March and buried in Evergreen Cemetery.

Roger was headed in the same death-path as his siblings due to a severe case of lactose intolerance. By some divine intervention, Roger’s mother, Ruth Elizabeth (Ricart) Zierenberg, was led to try goats milk which overcame the intolerance leading to the eventual survival of Roger. On the 28th day of April 1923, his brother, George Jackson Zierenberg was born in Los Angeles, and was followed by Richard Dudley Zierenberg on 20 April 1926.

Rogers’s father was born in Gevelsberg, Westphalia, a section of Germany which also includes the town of Zierenberg. He was born 26 Nov 1882/ died 27 Oct 1947 at 65 years of age and was buried in the same grave as Hermine in the Northeast Pa. Cemetery. He had four brothers Bruno, Georg, Felix and Kurt. Roger’s grandfather, Hermann Erich Zierenberg, was born on 8 Aug 1848 in Breitenberg Germany and his grandmother, Bertha (Krumme) Zierenberg, was born on 27 Dec 1877. They were upstanding parents and grandparents who taught righteous living, correct work ethics and physical healthiness which were passed on to Herman who passed these same traits onto Roger and his brothers.

Roger’s mother, Ruth Elizabeth (Ricart) was born in the village of Moorheadville, Pennsylvania situated midway between Erie and the town of Northeast, on Christmas day 25 Dec 1891/ died 30 March 1976 at 85 years of age and was buried in Glenhaven Cemetery, Sun Valley California. She had a sister Joyce and two brothers, Edwin and Urban. Edwin was born with a stillborn twin. Ruth’s father, Joseph Ricart (also spelled Reichert in some earlier records) was a farmer and built a magnificent home and barn in Moorheadville at the intersection thirteen miles East of Erie Pennsylvania where the Lake Road from Erie, meets Moorheadville Road, one quarter mile from the shore of Lake Erie. This farm, uphill from a beautiful creek, was the pride of the area around them. They named it “Eaglemere” (Eagles Nest} and a gas-lit sign proclaimed that to any passersby. A gas well was on the property and provided heat and cooking fuel for their use.

Ruth and Herman worked in the office and grounds of the Northeast Cemetery. Later they opened a candy store in Jamestown, New York. Ruth became quite ill and was told to locate in a dryer climate area, which resulted in their move to California. They bought 40 acres in the Antelope Valley near Lancaster and after living with some good friends, the Alvin Tidd family; they bought a prefabricated house, set it up, and lived in it until they moved to Evergreen Cemetery. Their little house was left vacant there in the desert and upon subsequent check-up visit to the 40 acres they were shocked to find only the cement foundation. The house had been stolen lock stock and barrel!

Further genealogy can be obtained through other records now available going back ten generations to 1653 to a “Barthold” Zierenberg. A family tree compiled by Wilhelm Zierenberg, a Colonel in the German Army, attests to this. Even deeper family history can be looked forward to through the internet connections even now in process.

The following compilation of events of the life of Roger, are as accurate as his memory can bring up, this being done at the age of 81 years and older.

First recollections of Roger’s life start in a fly-netting covered baby buggy, waking from a nap, in the front yard of the cemetery mentioned above. A large Magnolia tree with beautiful aromatic blossoms provided the shade from the sun and the bedding was cozy and warm. I do not know how old I was but this is a vivid memory of my first awakening. Life, on the grounds of these lush and spacious lawns, rose gardens, towering palm trees and goldfish ponds, was fun with a great feeling of freedom. The crawfish in the fish pond were scary creatures with their huge pincers. The accompanying pall of death-and-burial thoughts that we could have associated with this life style, were non-existent. We ran free through the blue-bells and the California poppies and we played over the swampy manure pit on long planks where George fell in and had to be hosed-off before heading for the house.

My father was driven about by our chauffeur who also did odd jobs. We sawed wood, drilled holes and fashioned little sailboats in the carpenter shop. The old German carpenter brought us home-made apple strudel from his kitchen. His wife also made us kids tiny loaves of bread and little jars of jelly to spread. A great lesson was learned when my brothers ate their bread and jelly and I gloated over them showing that I still had mine. I continued my gleeful gloating and refused to share, until my bread went moldy and I had to throw it away. I watched my first encounter with death when I witnessed the axed beheading of a chicken which ran headless about the yard before expiring.

I attended a Lutheran church-school nearby and was given catechism lessons, was swatted on the wrist by the hooded nun-type teacher and even rode my pony, “Belle” to school. When introduced to scissors I promptly cut holes in my trousers and was sent home. I also found out about “snow-cones”, a flavored shaved-ice delight. In contrast, my experience with German Shepherds was somewhat disastrous. In trying to do a good deed by taking a metal lawn sprinkler-head away from one of these huge dogs, to save his teeth, I was bit on the top of my head. My father made wine from Malaga grapes and assembled quite a few friends in the process. These were party times and sometimes the O’Connor girls were present. It was kindergartner Kathleen O’Connor who introduced pre-school Roger to buttered white bread with sugar sprinkled on top. She was also the recipient of Roger’s first kiss.

The first real accident after the dog bite was a lesson in speed, gravity and control. A beautiful, shiny, red wagon which may have had the name “Radio Flyer” on its side, and the steep hill west of the cemetery made up the combination that caused the “loss-of-skin syndrome”. A “scab” was a new thing and so were pain, bandages, alcohol and iodine. Then came the wonderful world of “healing” with lovely new skin replacing those old wounds, accompanied by nightly prayers after the “now-I-lay-me’s” asking for a no more “hurts”.

Since mother was working in the office daily, a maid was hired to take care of household chores including cooking breakfast and lunch. Consuelo Garcia was of Mexican decent and was known to the family as “Concie”. She was a treasured addition much loved through the years and even traveled to Pennsylvania on the train with the family when Grandmother Blanche (Ricart) was visited.

Speaking of Grandmother Ricart, Roger learned a lesson in discipline and the art of working the butter churn at her hand. He also became aware of the fact that when one was put down for a nap, that if one didn’t comply, her slipper made a good switch.

Concie made a few mistakes in her youthful attempts to make the children happy. One instance was the ingestion of a whole box of raisins with glasses of water resulting in a very uncomfortable bloating and a doctors’ house-call.

Kindergarten was time of sand-box play, bead stringing, modeling clay, crayolas and being with kids other than brothers. This association of course started the string of childhood diseases including whooping cough, chicken-pox, measles, mumps, and diphtheria. Camphorated oil, castor oil, eucalyptus oil, milk of magnesia, a cresoline lamp, mustard plasters, aspirin, kerosene and sugar, German Black Salve and round-the-neck socks soaked in one of the above made up the medicine cabinet. During one of these sick sessions there was a roaring oil-well fire that added to the terror of an already delirious condition. This was my first contact with catastrophe and disaster. It was then that I planned to run out of the house in case of fire, with the basket of eggs that always sat on the counter.

It was about this time that the owners of the Evergreen Cemetery were considering Herman to be the superintendent of a new cemetery called Forest Lawn in Glendale, California. Unfortunately Herman at this time of life had acquired a drinking problem and at the formal interview had imbibed with a little too much fortification and subsequently not only did he not get the new job but lost the old one as well.

A move to Glendale to 825 South Verdugo Road became the new home. This was on the south edge of Glendale near one of the bus-stops which hosted a large group of “foreigners” and Blacks at dinner time when all such had to be out of the city limits of Glendale by 6:00 PM. This new home was much smaller than the mansion house at Evergreen. This home was built when heating systems were in their infancy and so on somewhat rare cold California mornings we lit a fire in the front room fire-place and huddled around while getting dressed for school. These were hard times and the 1927 Willys-Knight bought while still at Evergreen served them well. One of my most pleasant of memories is the new-car-smell I inhaled while sitting in that brand new car in the Bozzani Brothers show-room in mid Los Angeles.

The $10,000 income at Evergreen was not very easily replaced, although Ruth, with great planning for the future, had put away enough money to buy the Glendale house for $4,500. This house was a great playground for the brothers. Cowboys and Indians, skate coasters, a pole vault and high jump pit, a cave, a workshop, a fish pond, a banana tree which got its full share of arrows, a cellar, and access off the fences to all the neighborhood roofs. Model airplanes were built, rubber band/clothes-pin guns were constructed, coasters with wagon or skate wheels were crashed. Balsa wood and rice paper airplanes were sent burning to the ground on a wire. Neighbors’ fruit trees were raided daily as well as the fig, peach, plum and avocado trees in our own back yard. Bamboo grew next to the pond and made great fishing poles which were used to catch mosquito fish with hookless worm-bait. We always threw them back to catch another day.

It was during this time that Herman invested in a La Vida Water Co franchise and delivered bottled water to customers including the even then famous Walt Disney. Mickey Mouse was a lot skinnier then and his cartoons were all black and white.

John Muir Grammar School in Glendale at Chevy Chase Boulevard and Acacia St. came next. This brought together a montage of long-remembered experiences. The first tasting of blue-cheese dressing at the school lunch room. The first encounter with crime came about when Roger had his lunch replaced by someone who left a sack of inferior, inedible, thick slices of black bread with an unidentifiable substances spread inside. This event created the circumstance resulting in his teacher vouching for the school lunch ticket providing the above mentioned abominable Blue-cheese salad lunch.

A lesson in competitive sports came next wherein Roger was first in “chinning”, standing broad-jump, swinging rings, and second in the 50 yard dash. However to get a medal for these achievements Roger had to also either throw a baseball a required distance or accurately throw a ball through a rectangular frame. Roger could do neither. Mrs. McLaughlin, a very sympathetic teacher, came out to the school grounds and gave Roger a second try at the frame, to no avail. But that lesson was well remembered in that it taught that no matter how well many things are done, one lapse can cause a loss of the ultimate goal.

This brings to mind the spiritual side of life. All three brothers attended the Baptist Church across the street from the school as it was the closest church to home. Old Reverend Ford was very kind and respected by all and Sunday meetings were attended as well as Vacation Bible School in the summertime. Cool-aid and cookies seemed to be the big event of the hot days of summer. Many scriptures were learned here and good basic things were taught that had a bearing on the lives of these brothers. Herman was blessed with a beautiful singing voice and Ruth was an excellent pianist and so they participated in many a church and PTA program. Ruth was also at one time the PTA president.

The school activities included the Maypole Dance, the Candy Apple Carnival at Halloween, the carving of all the California missions out of Ivory Soap, the building of an adobe hut and the weaving of mats from tule grass. A mural depicting California life surrounded the interior of our classroom. A potters wheel was used to make ceramic bowls and vases. The pledge of allegiance to the flag was performed every morning, as well as singing the national anthem or My Country Tis’ Of Thee or Columbia the Gem of the Ocean. A portrait of George Washington was on the front wall and there was a cloak room at the back of the room for jackets and lunches.

Local entertainment was provided by Bards Theater giving a matinee film performance, a cartoon and at least fifteen minutes of outstanding prelude music by a talented organist on a wonderful pipe organ, all for ten cents. Many an episode showing the villain and the hero fighting on the edge of a cliff and seemingly going over the edge together were shown the next Saturday with the hero somehow making it OK. Sometimes an advertiser would give away samples of toasted cheese, Eskimo Pies, Abba-Zabba’s, Butterfingers and Milky-Way’s. What wonderful Saturday afternoons.

What’s an inkwell? What’s a blotter? An inkwell is a round depression placed at the upper right hand corner of the school desk with a small container of ink with a stopper. When one had to write, a quill pen was used and after writing, a blotter was pressed over the writing to keep the slow drying ink from smudging. Some of the more mischievous boys enjoyed sticking the pigtails from the girl in front of them, into the inkwell. Many advertisers distributed printed blotters. Blotter collecting became quite a hobby as well as bottle-caps and milk-bottle stoppers. The playing of marbles (“migs”) made up a great deal of our off-time as well as softball, football and soccer. I found out that if I took a whole pocketful of “migs” to the school-yard to play, I usually came home a loser. So I started bringing only a few along with a couple of good agate shooters and invariably came home with my pockets bulging.

One great sport was the spinning of tops. This was done by flipping a string wrapped top, with a sharpened point, onto an adversary’s already spinning top to split it wide open. The Yo-Yo experts were special people and looked up to. Mumble-dee-peg, the art of flipping a jack-knife into the ground within a circle to slice the pie. This one did in competition with a fellow mumble-dee-peg artist; sometimes at the loss of ones jack-knife to the winner.

Mrs. Gowans, a good teacher whom I later came to appreciate, was a little hard with me, and I wrote, “Mrs, Gowans is a nut” in one of the history books. A Spanish Inquisition took place which included the school principal, a handwriting test for the whole class and a confession period with heads on the desk with eyes closed. I must reluctantly report that the phantom writer never appeared although I always felt she knew who it was.

Mrs. Gowans was reading a story to the class. I think it was Tale of Two Cities, or possibly Penrod and Sam. She suddenly stopped and looked in my direction and said, “Whatever you are playing with, bring it up to my desk.” I slowly rose and took the eraser I was motoring around the edges of my pencil holder groove and was about to place it on her desk when she exclaimed, “I didn’t mean you”, and pointed to the kid back of where I had been sitting who was flying coat-hangers from the cloak room. A very embarrassing moment, probably the earliest I can remember.

My paper route was the first thing to instill in me the work-ethic. I delivered the Glendale News Press in the evenings after school and did this by walking, skating, by skate coaster, and later by bicycle earned with the paper route money. It was Adams Hill that tested my stamina, endurance, fortitude, perseverance, physical strength and the coveting of a rival paper deliverer who drove a cute little yellow Model A Ford roadster to distribute his papers. I went to church. I read the Bible. I was honest with my customers, so how come he gets to have a car and I have to deliver papers out of a home-made skate coaster box. Poor Roger. However I got over this dent in my life when I smugly purchased the new bike. My smirk soon disappeared when later I ended up with a beat-up fender-less bike as my new unlocked bike was stolen from the school bike rack. The thief made a great swap at my expense. Another lesson learned, however I got over the loss when I got interested in Hot-Rods, a disease that has never left me.

I mowed lawns for 25 cents. I Simonized cars for 75 cents. Gas was as low as 10 gallons for a dollar. Remember there were no gas mowers available to the general public in those days but that meant the building of strong legs and bodies for the kids that did this. A strong body was always at the forefront of my desires and so my activities were mainly athletic. To get home from school and put on my sneakers and jeans and head for the hills, or go back to the school grounds and play ball or shoot migs was a source of great happiness to me. I have never been able to keep the smile off my face when it rains. Sliding around the bases in the mud or sailing ships down the gutter or helping push drowned-out cars out of the flooded street or just letting the rain hit my uplifted face gives me a kick. This feeling persists to this day.

Then came Junior High School, Woodrow Wilson in Glendale a part of the Glendale High School Campus, became my home for the next couple of years. This was time when you could purchase a Ford Model T for five dollars and get a second one for a penny. It was also a time for decisions. What was I going to be when I grow up. Mom said I wanted to be an electrical engineer. Duh. I had absolutely no interest in that direction in any way. Push the plug in the wall, flick the switch, light bulb lights up. What’s so great about that. Now, hot rods, loud mufflers, fender skirts, lowered rear ends, mud flaps, white walls, spinner hub caps, dingle-berries or spongy dice hanging from the rear view mirror, musical horns, dual intake manifolds, straight pipes, etc. That was the way to go. Right.

Algebra, Geometry, Civics, English, homework, paper route, church, tap-dancing lessons, piano lessons, Instrument Training, and Scout activities really cut into my play-time.

I borrowed an old bugle and found that I could immediately play it. I’m sure my ever-patient good neighbors were somewhat disturbed by this addition to the neighborhood but although I really liked playing bugle calls, I desperately wanted a trumpet. A fellow student played in one of our assemblies and made a lasting impression on me. He played On The Road To Mandalay, so wonderfully that my goose-bumps popped up and made me shiver. A week later, a friend let me take his trumpet home for a few days and my mother and fathers’ music collection included On The Road To Mandalay. So guess what. I messed around with the valves and blew on the trumpet until I found the note I wanted and wrote one and two or two, or one and three etc. By the time my mother came home from shopping I said, I’ll play the trumpet while you accompany me on the piano. She was astonished and very pleased but still no trumpet. I went to the instrument training instructor and asked about the loan of a trumpet and the music class. No trumpets, but they had a cello I could use and they would admit me to the class to learn how to play it. This I did, Oom-pah-pah, oom-pa-pah, yes I did. I sawed that big old cello and tried my best, but it was still not a trumpet. The worst was back-packing that thing ten blocks both ways when I was small for my age. Child abuse. A year went by. New class. Hey, now can I have a trumpet. No trumpets, but we just got in a brand new French horn, how about that. Well we’re getting closer, better than that cello except now I was blowing instead of sawing, oom-pah-pah, oom-pah-pah. My father had compassion on me when he brought home a really beat up old smelly cornet that someone said he could take for a few days for me to try. I was happy, but this instrument was at the end of its days and looked like a truck had run over it. I tried my best but it was too far gone. A cruel blow to my trumpet career.

My best friend in school was Bobbie Bedford, tall, white hair, good looking and an excellent trumpet player. I have to say I envied him and kind of hung around with him. He and Eugene Gilliam made our front porch a rest-stop, going to school and coming home from school. Mom always had cookies or some little treat waiting for them. The tennis courts on the school grounds were exceptional and one of my classmates, who became the tennis-famous Ted Schroeder, went by our house on the way to the courts early in the morning and dragged himself by when it was too dark to play. That persistence was a good lesson for me.

Ah, at last, High School. Since the campus was already familiar to me there was not much change except for Chemistry, print shop, woodshop, track team, Band, athletic supporters, showers after gym, home room, drafting and girls. Deodorant was a thing of the future and a lot of people smelled pretty bad at times and I wondered about all those love scenes in cowboy movies, yep, pretty bad.

One wonderful day my mother lost her car keys and was in a panic to go somewhere. She urged me to try to find those keys and in a desperate moment said, Roger if you find those keys I’ll buy you a trumpet. Now you know why I said that this was a wonderful day. You guessed it, I found the keys and she bought a brand new Regent trumpet. I must tell you now that I still have that trumpet although it has been redone three time causing it to be extra thin resulting in exceptional tone. One of my true loves in this life.

Interview with Roger Herman Zierenberg Sr.
Location: North Hills, CA
Date: June 06, 2010
Interviewer: Rod Zierenberg

Rod: Can you tell me about your birth?

Roger: I was born in East Los Angeles City in Evergreen Cemetery. My dad was the superintendent of the cemetery and we had a house on the property.

Rod: What year?

Roger: 1921 November. The doctor came to the house. My mother didn’t go to the hospital.

Rod: And you were the 3rd child?

Roger: Yes. I had a sister and a brother who died ahead of me, Hermine and Norman. I was the first to survive birth in my family.

Rod: Why?

Roger: They were allergic to my mother’s milk. I survived on goat’s milk.

Rod: What are some of your earliest memories as a child?

Roger: Sitting in a baby carriage under a big Magnolia tree in the cemetery, looking at those blossoms.

Rod: How did your parents meet?

Roger: My dad left the German Navy, jumped ship in New York Harbor, traveled west to Erie where he met my mother. They lived in Pennsylvania, then moved to California.

Rod: Your father was in the German Navy?

Roger: That’s right. He spoke seven languages. His father was a professor in Germany.

Rod: What were your interests growing up?

Roger: Sports, hot rods, and trumpet. High jump, relay team, and later solo trumpet in a 60-piece band. Church every week. Won a YMCA week on Catalina.

Rod: Did you feel any resistance when you joined the church?

Roger: No. Everyone was glad to see me be a “good boy.” My mother joined later and all of my children joined.

Rod: How did you meet Gramma?

Roger: We left California after my father left us, drove to Erie, and stayed at Uncle Edwin Ricart’s farm. Down the street were Juanita, Jean, and Norma. The three of us boys dated the three sisters. I married Nita, Dick married Norma. We married in Erie, honeymooned in Cleveland at the Allerton Hotel. We had about $37. Two months later I left for military service. Leaving in the night to catch the train for my uniform was the saddest day of my life.

Basic training

Rod: Tell us about your Basic Training.

Roger: My Basic Training turned out to be in San Antonio, Texas. I had a ’37 Ford convertible and, while driving in Cleveland during a rainstorm, the wind got under the top and peeled it back. So I drove the rest of the way with no top. On the way I fell asleep at the wheel and hit a tree, but the car still ran. I continued on through New Mexico down to San Antonio. Nita met me there while I was in flight training. I took the test to become a pilot. I didn’t have college, but I had training they accepted. It was a year of equivalent college in Little Rock.

Crash on the way home

Roger: After I was already a 2nd Lieutenant, I took Juanita home in my ’38 Plymouth convertible with our baby, Bethy. It was night, and to stay awake we kept the windows down. By early morning we rolled them up. The baby slept in the front seat between us. Where the highway curved, we went straight and flew off the road. We rolled and landed upside down in a creek. We climbed out. The Highway Patrol called a wrecker that dragged the car up to the road and into town. They pushed the windshield up so I could see a small square and we drove all the way to Erie. My mother almost fainted when she saw the wreck.

Rod: You landed upside down. Were you wearing seat belts?

Roger: No. There were no seat belts back then, nor baby carriers. I held the baby with my arm while we rolled. People from a bus helped gather our things and piled them in the rumble seat. That delay added five days while I was en route to ship out to Italy as a fighter pilot. I got things straightened out at home and left again. Juanita stayed with her parents and began receiving two hundred dollars per month.

Was basic training hard?

Roger: Basic Training was easy for me. I was in good condition and passed the tests with high marks, including the mental tests. On a questionnaire they asked if we wanted to be a bomber pilot, navigator, or fighter pilot. I wrote that I wanted to fly something hot and fast. Only four of us asked for that, and they gave it to me. The first plane I flew was the P-40 and I loved it.

Roger: During training I had a dogfight over Cleveland and beat the other pilot badly. He had been in A-26s and I was in a P-40. I became a proficient pilot according to my instructors. I shot down five but was credited with four. We fought the Germans, flying into Europe and Africa. I spent time in Casablanca and Tunis. I watched a buddy bail out of his P-51 and saw it crash. My own engine quit on takeoff in San Severo and I belly-landed a P-51. I pulled the gear up in time and walked away, but that airplane never flew again. I flew sixty missions with the 309th Squadron, 31st Fighter Group, the red and silver candy-striped tails.

Bad Penny II

Rod: Tell me about your military service and your airplane.

Roger: My Mustang P-51 was called “Bad Penny II.” The saying is that a bad penny always comes back. I had swastika kill marks on the side for four German planes.

Roger: There were four Messerschmitts and a Ju 52. Getting that Ju 52 mattered. I flew a mission to Russia where our group shot down over a hundred aircraft and I got one. We worked with people near a forest airfield. We also shot down many Stuka dive bombers in Russia.

How he felt about the war

Rod: What were you fighting for?

Roger: I did it because I was told to and because it was right. I was an American doing my duty. I was not very scared. I felt confident. Once I fought two at once. I shot the first down, then came alongside the second so we could see each other. I turned and got him too and watched both hit.

Why only four credits

Rod: Why did you only have four swastikas and not five to be an ace?

Roger: I hit the fifth badly, then turned to get another. I never saw the first crash, so I would not claim it. When I pulled out after chasing the second straight down at full power, I bent the P-51’s wings. The mechanics later told me I had increased the dihedral. I was probably going seven hundred miles per hour. That P-51 is slick and forgiving.

Buddies

Rod: Did you have any buddies who died?

Roger: Yes. A close friend tried a maneuver I did in the P-51 and was killed. He hit another plane, bailed out, and the tail hit him. In Casablanca another buddy bailed out beside me. I saw him go down and the plane crash. I reported his location in Tunis. They found him and we reconnected later.

Buzzing Erie

Roger: When I went back to Erie, I flew a P-51 up from Texas with permission. I buzzed the house at treetop level over four hundred miles per hour. Juanita’s grandmother dropped her teacup. Later at the airport I did acrobatics. I buzzed the runway so low it “cut the grass.”

Aircraft he flew

Rod: What planes did you fly?

Roger: I flew the P-40 and the P-51 Mustang. Five of us arrived at San Severo, Italy. I was the first of our group to fly the P-51 and it fit me like an old shoe.

Interview recorded 7/12/2012. Add or edit captions as you upload more photos.