In the stacks of photos that belonged to my mother, there are many of people and places that I can’t identify. Even sometimes when I have names, I’m not sure which of her siblings’ families they belonged to. For example, a couple of my uncles were married multiple times and had children with their different wives. I only remember the wives they had when I knew them, and her genealogy records are sometimes lacking in those details. Some photos will always remain a mystery, so when I look at them, I make up my own stories. And really, memory is such a tricky thing, and family reminiscences are often filtered through so many sources, that what I come up may be just as valid.
Stories We Tell Ourselves — One.
This man is likely a nephew of my mother’s. But since I don’t know that, and since he’s handsome, I’ve decided he’s the man she loved before she met my father. There actually was such a man. He was Catholic, and because they wanted to be married, she began the process of becoming Catholic. For some reason, they broke up. I have a vague sense that his family didn’t approve of her. He broke her heart. She stopped her steps toward becoming Catholic.
It might have been after their breakup that she took a trip alone to San Francisco. When she came back to the South, she met my father. Their first date was to a dance, but they ducked outside and talked. She told us they talked for hours about books and art. Many of his first gifts to her during their courtship were books. Later, the other boyfriend–I seem to recall that his name was Johnny–wanted her back, but it was too late. She was in love with my father. I’m glad it worked out that way!
One reason I’ve decided to let this photo be “Johnny” is because something connected to him remained with her through the decades. After my father died, she finally became Catholic. That brought many friends, a way to help others, and a lot of comfort to her in the last fifteen years of her life.
Stories We Tell Ourselves — Two.
This photo is so scratched and faded that if there’s a family member in it, I can’t possibly identify which one, even if it’s one of my parents and not one of their siblings. If I make it really huge, some of the kids are smiling, but some of them break my heart because they make me think of the grinding poverty of the South when my parents were growing up. Faces of children shouldn’t be so worn, so joyless. Maybe part of the problem is that they were told to be completely still for the photographer, but all I see in the sadness is the root of why my mother thought FDR saved the South. He turned her into a lifelong liberal and champion of any marginalized group who deserved a shot at a better, fairer life. In our house, we did not all always agree on politics. But I would say that our politics are based on social justice more than any other concern.
Stories We Tell Ourselves — Three.
The stories of my parents’ meeting have gotten muddled over the years. I spoke above of their first date, but that wasn’t their first meeting. Legend has it that he saw a girl walking down the street and was smitten by her confident stride, her beauty, and the bounce of her shiny brown hair. When he asked who she was, he learned she was the sister of someone he already knew. He asked for an introduction, and when he got it, he asked for a date, and she said yes.
In this photo, Daddy’s sitting on a front porch with her brother John and a baby who’s not any of us. So I imagine that after she began dating him, my mother took my father around to meet various family members, and this photo was taken on one of those visits. The photo is so dark that it’s hard to see the two men. John looks tired–with a toddler in the house, that wouldn’t be surprising. And my father looks like a man who’s been aged by war. Sometimes I wonder how she looked past the gaunt cheeks, the hollow eyes, the too-slender frame and saw the fine quality of the man within.
And then–I remember the character of both of them that I knew so well, and I don’t wonder at all.
