Dwight Caswell: The Renaissance Man

Published 9:36 am Monday, July 11, 2022

Dwight Caswell was a big man. Big in so many ways.

We walked together. Traveled down into deep canyons, both physically and metaphorically. Stood atop pueblos, crossed Death Valley, and slogged along dune tops like Freemen. Our little caravan was seeking the next camera shot, the next adventure. He carried heavy equipment, a Hasselblad camera, tripod and a bag of lenses. Like a big game hunter, he knew his equipment intimately; when to shoot, hold up, and race — heart pumping for the perfect photo — into the heart of the lion’s den. Dwight did a stint as our bartender in the Shelburne Pub before he became a pastor. He was a believer. He ministered to the souls of the less fortunate, to the sick and hungry, to his congregation and to friends.

He was guided by keen intelligence and a moral dictate. He knew right from wrong, and he never let truth fall far from the source. That is, unless to illuminate a comic relief moment or a wry joke. He liked to tease. I like to tease, and at times our combined teasing rose to an artful level, especially with our customers at the Pub.

“This is my twin brother,” I would say, to an unsuspecting guest. He was 6’4’ and I languish under 5-foot-seven. “But we’re not identical twins,” he would reply. “I got the brains, David the hair.”

“Yes,” I would counter, “but Dwight can’t row a boat in a straight line.” And on we went.

Photographing together, Dwight taught me patience. I would shoot dozens of photos of a winter storm at Beard’s Hollow, Benson Beach, or somewhere in the great spread of silver waters lapping in and out of Willapa Bay. Dwight waited patiently for the right light, the right shadow, the perfect second when the topsy-turvy waves curled into a deranged ball of fury, crashing down as if to proclaim, “I’m boss here.”

He had fine teachers: the legendary Brett Weston and Ansel Adams. He was a good listener, an adept student. But ultimately he was the great teacher, himself.

He loved his Forty-Niners. I backed the Seahawks. It was hard to lose simply because of the goodhearted retribution that rattled the walls of our living room, post-game.

“Pay up, Campiche.”

“Pay up, Caswell, you cheap Putz!”

“Dunce.”

“Moron.”

Yes, grumpy old men, happily wagging their index fingers at each other. Then we would laugh together and hug.

To the very end, his courage and wit did not desert him. Nor did the twinkle in his eyes.

His wife, Rhonda offered her steadfast support and loving presence. Moral integrity followed him like a friendly spaniel. I considered him a truth-teller, an artist, gourmet, seeker, gardener of both plants and souls.

I will miss him, my buddy. Miss his appetite, his palate. His shepherding. Pastoring with a sense of humor. A proclivity to open his heart to Jesus Christ, and, to a lesser degree, to the wisdom of the Buddha or the Dalai Lama. Or Bill Moyer. He was an open book and praised kindness and intelligence.

Kindness is as kindness does. He remains my dear friend.