I have been going through my mother’s things, and it never occurred to me that she would have done the same thing with her own mother almost twenty years ago when my grandmother passed. She would have discovered pictures, looked at them, puzzled over them, organized them. They, too, would have been snapshots and portraits, but from a different time, from a different reality.
Today, I found those images.
Images that look as if they came from a Ken Burns documentary. Images of my family that are completely foreign to me. I can’t look at these and think, “Isn’t that Aunt L in the sixties?” I don’t recognize the places, the faces, the adults, the children — I don’t recognize anything.
Were they not in my mother’s belongings, tucked away in a Rubber Maid storage bin, could I not recognize one single last name and think, “I believe that was my grandmother’s mother’s family,” had I not known that they were my family, I would never know it.
And now I am so full of questions, so curious, so wanting to know everything about these people — and so frustrated that I didn’t find these years ago, when I could ask Mom about them, when I could take notes, when I could maybe even hear stories.
I have one cousin I can ask, and will do so shortly…
