At John and Jane's house. Oddly enough, wild turkeys live in the backyards of crowded, cramped Cambridge.
I'm back. This is not an uncommon situation at all, I'm sure. This past week I voyaged to Cambridge to see my stepfather John, who just moved into assisted living, and my mother, whose name is Jane, in the memory unit at a different facility (the first time I've seen her since well before COVID-19), and offer at least token help to my step-siblings who have been taking the lead in readying John and Jane's house of 31 years for sale, a huge task. I had been asked to come sort and retrieve the family pictures.
Here's a small sample of what I found waiting. How did I never see this before?
Kodachrome slides from 1943. I felt some dismay when I opened the top drawer and the only labels were "Trees" and "Houses," but other drawers contained "Family" and "Friends" among other things. The color still looks pretty good for 78 years down the road. I believe the photographer was my mother's father, who had a Zeiss camera and had dye transfer prints made from the Kodachromes, a few of which survive.
That's he in the oil painting, a duplicate of the one that hangs at his alma mater
I had to do triage on a great mass of material, and there's no help for it, a lot just had to be discarded. It was almost overpowering, I have to say.
Giant French tripods
I've always thought I caught the photography bug from my father, who was an enthusiastic amateur. He was a businessman, but he wrote and photographed articles for travel magazines like Holiday (published 1946–1977) and for gourmet magazines such as, well, Gourmet (1941–2009). I vaguely remember figures for one trip that I accompanied him on as a teenager: he spent $3,000 on the trip (about $16,500 today), and earned $650 for the resulting article ($3,500 today, a marker of the extent to which earnings for such work have fallen). In other words, it was a hobby for him. He worked hard at it, and did good work, but it was as much a reason to travel to France and dine in a succession of fine restaurants as anything else. By the way, that was the trip on which I learned to loathe tripods—we rented an ancient and enormous wooden and metal tripod we barely used at all, and it was my job, age 16, to lug it everywhere.
But now I wonder if I also didn't get my interest in photography from my mother as well. At her house there were dozens and dozens of her albums filled with the once-ubiquitous 3.5x5-inch (3R) "drugstore prints," documenting all sorts of aspects of her life. These 3R prints were everywhere, in every sort of state: finished books, boxes of the packets in which they came back from the processor, loose stacks, and jumbled in with other things. I just don't have clear memories of her taking pictures, although I have pictures of her with various point-and-shoots on lanyards around her neck and there was a box of all her old cameras. But she simply must have taken lots of pictures, and often. Come to think of it, there were a number of her albums of square Instamatic prints, too, from before the era of the 3R print.
The sheer amount of family-historical material was overpowering. The contents of my great-grandmother's attic were transferred to my grandmother's in the '50s, and then my mother and her sister inherited that; and of course the mass was added to at every stage of the way. (At the same time, it's also been diminished at every stage of the way, as it was this time.) Just a few examples: boxes (made to resemble books, so they could be stored on bookshelves) of purchased stereoscope cards from the turn of the 2oth century; sixteen eight-inch reels of movie film, in tins, from the 1920s (I saved half, although I hardly know why); cases of very early Kodachrome slides like the ones above from the 1930s and '40s (I brought home three cardboard boxes full of very old slides, which I shouldn't have done, but I'm too curious); a large number of large-format portraits in deluxe folders by a professional photographer named Russell; many dozens of pictures in all manner of frames; all kinds of wedding pictures from many eras; even a stack of loose black-and-white 4x5 negatives.
A large number of family pictures were lost in a basement flood a number of years ago, and I went through the remaining salvage, discarding a lot of it. I did find a few things I was looking for, like the annotated copy of the family history my great-grandfather wrote in the last quarter-century of his life after retiring from the railroads. There were many manila folders full of old newspaper clippings. With these, in many cases I couldn't even guess why they were saved in the first place. To give one example of how tangential a good deal of the material was, I found a college yearbook from 1922, kept because it related to my grandfather, but it wasn't even his class—as far as I could tell he only appeared in one picture, of the "Negative Side" of the debate team (the "Affirmative Side" was on the verso). Not something that needs to accompany his descendants through generations!
Despite consigning a large mass of material to oblivion, I drove home with the floor of a nine-foot U-Haul van packed mostly with boxes of photographs.
Serves me right, eh?
Loading the van on Thursday night I heard what sounded like a large critter walking around on the roof—the turkey. Not sure a turkey was the last thing I expected to see, but close. Real life can't be made up.
Anyway, I know my great-grandmother loved photographs—she must have been photographer Russell's prized client, because every summer she commissioned large-format portraits of just about everybody and then bought multiple prints of everything. (I remember the guy. He was a little man who worked so hard he sweated, and he liked to stick a nickel to his moist forehead to make kids look at him.) Her youngest daughter, my great-aunt (who died in 2008, I believe, aged 101) loved pictures. My mother obviously did. It wasn't just my Dad. Clearly I come from a photograph-besotted family, going back years.
I'll have some other thoughts on this task, and this material, in weeks to come. There are a few really interesting issues that relate to all this. Observations are a-percolating.
Memorable evening
It was an emotional yet engaging trip. Fractious and far-flung families under the stress of difficult transitions are not without friction here and there, but reconnecting with people was deeply meaningful for me at my age. I saw my stepbrother Stephen for the first time in many years and met his wife, Chris, and several of their kids for the first time—one is at Dartmouth, where I matriculated many years ago. His sister Trisha came from Rome with one of her daughters, who speaks excellent English with a lovely Italian accent, the inverse of her Mom. I have to admit I was apprehensive about seeing my Mom, who has advanced Alzheimer's—it's just so very sad, and I'm a chicken about strongly emotional situations—I have trouble coping with them—but it went almost better than I could have hoped; she enjoys visits and is still served well by her elemental social skills. It was so interesting to watch her try to relate and connect on the thinnest of threads. She always was socially adept, and that gift still glimmers. Over the years I've gotten extremely fond of my stepfather and it was great to see him. He's failing physically but entirely himself.
Stephen, Trisha, and Chris, by me
With their mother Barbara and me, by Chris
An absolute high point of the trip—and of my recent social life, actually—was a simple family dinner with my step-siblings and their children at their mother Barbara's house. Picture a grandmother with some of her children and a sampling of grandchildren of various ages, a gracious but very warm and friendly home, a simple but extremely tasty meal of homemade lasagna, salad, and steamed squash, and happy, warm, intelligent, and vivacious conversation in which everyone, even the youngest, participated. Just a lovely evening, which I'll long remember.
Of course we had to take pictures...but just a few.
Mike
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(To see all the comments, click on the "Comments" link below.)
Featured Comments from:
John Bennett: "My father died in May. We are selling his house of 60 years. There were photos everywhere. Just when we thought we had found them all, there were more. And then more. Our rule: If we didn't know anyone in the picture, we recycled it. On the other hand, if the subjects were part of the family, no mater how far back, we saved them. The earliest ones dated to 'the aughts,' as in the 1900s. First we corral, later we will sort. Good luck with yours!"
Clay Olmstead: "My mother, who would have been 101 this year, also took a lot of pictures of us boys as we were growing up. She used to say that if we had described her, we would have said she had a face like a camera!"
Mike S: "A few years ago, you quoted a blogger who believes (paraphrasing here) that present generations are taking more pictures than ever in the history of photography but because they're not being printed, they'll be lost forever. Unless people are very organized, when they pass away, no one will know which cloud service has their photos or the required passwords. And that's hoping that particular cloud storage still exists. And just as important, without those penciled notations on the back of the prints, no one will know who all those people are and what they are doing and yada yada yada. She is so correct."
Hermon Joyner: "FYI, that case holding the slides is something of a collectible in itself. Musicians buy them to carry their microphones in when they travel. Singer-songwriter Gillian Welch famously uses one when she goes on the road."
Bob Fogt: "I think I've written of this once before, Mike, but it seems somewhat apt to repeat it now. When my mother died, I found among her things a yellowed old drug store print order envelope. SUPERIOR PHOTO SERVICE—'Any Good Negative Will Make a Good Enlargement.' The envelope was empty. On the reverse, in her hand, was written: 'Pictures I haven't got.' The envelope now lives in my top dresser drawer, and will remain there until someone else discovers it."
Ron Hoffer: "Wishing you strength and patience as you work through both the care and archive issues. My mother did collect/hoard hundreds of photos, negatives, and mementos in a small suitcase that I picked up from her home after she moved to assisted living over 16 years ago. Since that time till last year I've stared at the case, occasionally in anguish and occasionally with nostalgia, but always with a sense of guilt that I not just pass it on to my son as is. Thankfully one of my pandemic goals was met last September—to turn this mixed up pile into a self-published book of family photos from around 1900 to the mid-1960s. Once I got into it, with some accompanying research on Ancestry.com and other places, it became a wonderful diversion. The initial sorting and triaging was so necessary. Some mysteries uncovered and some remain. About 300 images (mostly prints) scanned and (with text) self-published through Blurb. Perhaps the most fun was working with negatives from the 1930s and uncovering all sorts of interesting scenes. About two dozen copies of the finished book was then sent as gifts to relatives; the original prints/negs shipped off in packets to them as well. Glad it's done!"
darlene: "You’ve got a treasure trove of memories and wonderment ahead! Pretty nice realizing mom gave you some of her visual keenness, a welcomed surprise I am sure. My visual prowess is passed down from my maternal grandfather. I grew-up watching him create beautiful oil paintings, and have cherished photos he made with his Rolleiflex. His love for baseball seems to be in my DNA as well. After receiving all these gifts, I just had to name my son after him."
Don Parsons: "Mike, So sorry that you have to deal with this. I'm in a similar situation. My dad passed in late January. I just finished cleaning out his house, along with some help from my angel wife and a cleaning company. There are numerous small file cabinets filled with plastic bags stuffed with old pictures. There are three tomato boxed stuffed with old photos, many of which I had never seen before. I'm slowly going through them now, digitizing the best and the historic. It's fun, time-consuming and painful all at the same time. If I was there, I'd give you a hug and we'd have coffee my photo-brother. Stay strong."
Mike replies: You too, Don. Sending good wishes.
