I just got word this morning from my mom that my grandma is not doing well and in what are probably her final days on this earth. While I am sad to think that she will no longer be with us, it is definitely her time (even past her time). However it is a day like today that I can't help but think back to all of the wonderful memories I have of this woman and my grandfather. Over the summer I took and English composition class in which I had to write a short essay about a photograph of my choice. I'd like to share the essay below with all of you:
More Than a PhotographDuring most evenings while my husband reads to our son at bed time, I head upstairs to my beautiful desk (I say beautiful, because my husband built this desk with his own two hands) to start plugging away at the day’s school assignments. A few months ago, while my husband was reading one of my childhood favorites to our son, The 500 Hats of Bartholomew Cubbins by Dr. Seuss, a photograph fell from the book.
Upstairs, I was hard at work on a massive statistics problem and at first did not welcome the interruption of the squeak of the stairs as my son and husband ascended. That is, until my son reached out with a photo of me when I was around seven years old, standing with my Grandpa Otto and my Grandma Irene. I thanked him for the photograph and explained who the people photographed in the picture were, gave him a kiss goodnight and sent him back on his way.
I stared for a long time at the photograph, tears welling in my eyes. My Grandpa Otto passed away in 1997 after a long struggle with Alzheimer’s disease. I missed the funeral because I was a nanny in France and could not get a flight home in time. My Grandma Irene sits in a nursing home today, mostly sleeps her days away and does not recognize a soul that enters her room. What were once two of the most important and vibrant figures in my life are now long gone, but this photograph flooded my head with so many memories it was impossible to contain the emotion.
The photograph was taken in our hotel room on a road trip to South Dakota’s Black Hills area. There isn’t anything in the photo that would giveaway our location; we are standing in front of a stark white wall, a chain from a hanging lantern visible behind us and a bit of the window drapery to the side of us. Only I would be able to tell you that the photo is taken from our hotel in South Dakota because it is written in my mother’s delicate handwriting on the reverse side.
In it, I am wearing a horrendous jumper and a pink hat with my name airbrushed on the visor in a bright shade of neon pink, a recent souvenir purchase while on our mighty road trip and a definite clue to the time period in which the photo is taken. The orange and rust drapes covering the hotel room window are also reminiscent of the late 70s, early 80s era. All three are quite tan, having spent a summer outdoors without sunscreen. Protection from the sun was not a concern during this time, hence the amount of wrinkles permanently grooved in my grandmother’s face. My grandma is wearing the same white blouse that she wore for their 50th anniversary party, her brown hair, not a speck of gray, neatly set. My grandpa, his arm around me, is smiling only with his eyes for the camera. I can barely see my grandpa’s hand coming around my waist in the photo, but his hands are committed to memory, long skinny fingers, delicate and rough all in one.
This was just one of the many road trips we took with my grandparents. Often we would jump in my grandpa’s big red truck adorned with a camper top and arrive in another state by morning. My grandparents owned their own business and my mother did not work full time until I was in school, so it was easy to be spontaneous and get away for a few days. I remember these road trips very vividly, not always remembering the location, but the experiences I will never forget. All four of us in the front seat of the big Ford truck, two adult smokers with the windows barely cracked and not a seatbelt to be found. This was not a healthy environment for a growing girl, but the people beside me couldn’t have loved me any more.
Since the night my little guy reached out his arms with this particular photograph in his hands, it has been taped to the side of my desk where I can gaze up at it when I am lost in another statistics problem, pondering the effects of the Civil War, or for moments like these, when I am assigned to write an essay about a particular photograph. I look up, I see the photo of me and my grandparents and know instantly that this is the photograph I will most enjoy writing 750 words about, though knowing 750 words will never be adequate to describe the love represented in this photograph.
