Generations would speak of long dead relatives who were truly afraid of what his camera might bring to them; they feared his “magical boxes” might literally capture a part of them, if not steal their souls altogether. As a result, many Indians wanted no part of a folly which might prevent them from travelling peacefully on to the “other world” by holding their souls captive on image-laden panes of glass or cellulose.
Time has an uncanny way of changing views about most anything.
Walk into any home of a descendant of these noble tribesmen, and I am confident one would see numerous images of family members ~ living and dead ~ covering walls or desktops. And I would venture a certain bet that most also carry a cell phone equipped with the necessary technology to instantly transmit both still and video images far and wide.
As her life ebbs to a close, my family has set out to unearth as many beloved ~ as well as previously unseen ~ photographs of Mother accumulated over a lifetime. And, as I sit here reflecting over a group of these priceless images, I can’t help but think of the fears expressed by the ancients of the Wild West, and I begin to understand.
I don’t believe I had ever seen this picture until last year. To my knowledge, this is the earliest picture on record of Mother, sitting alongside her beloved brother, Jim.
She could have been no more than a toddler; she surely had not a care in the world. While the “Rules of Behavior” established by her parents might have made a slight dent in her public persona, for the most part, she seems to have been totally unrestrained with the excitement and joy of living for the moment, spending time with her family and a curious man with lights, a box, and a silly toy.
“This isn’t something we do every day!"
There is a seriousness about her in this photograph.
At this time, parents still demanded a great deal from their children when it came to deportment; rest assured Mother was never allowed to run lose screaming in a public setting; failing that, I can only imagine the serious consequences that would have been had.
“Children were meant to be seen and not heard.”
My guess is that the seriousness of this picture, however, has more to do with her sewing.
Mother’s passion for toiling with her hands has never known any bounds; her fascination and love of sewing during childhood would eventually expand to include knitting, gardening as introduced to her by her grandfather, and, in later years, cooking.
While she steadfastly refused to ever acknowledge praise, she was very skilled at all of them.
It is little wonder why I was once (correctly) accused of hiding Mother’s apple pie; to my mind, it was inconceivable to me that any of my more pedestrian siblings might come close to truly appreciating the God-given wonder that was her Apple Pie. Purely out of reverence, I did what I had to do.
The many gifts, wrought of her own hands, would bring great joy to Mother ~ and many others ~ for decades to come.
In today’s vernacular, Mom would be labeled a “Tween” in this photo. Taken in advance of her twelfth birthday, Mother was clearly coming into her own.
At the time of this photo, the Great Depression was soon to be eclipsed and later vanquished when America was finally forced out of self-imposed isolation into the worldwide conflagration of WWII.
Despite the continued challenges at home and abroad, I see a young girl/woman who was full of optimism, daring to envision a future with limitless potential.
Her life was surely centered on her family but now included friendships, school, tepid attempts at independence, and ... dare I say ... boys?
Knowing my Mother, I would have bet, “Not.”
Mom has never suffered the foolish antics of boys well; I should know.
This picture, presumably taken while in college, eventually represents a true find.
My sister was so excited when describing it to me over the phone one evening that I was confident she surely must have exaggerated its potential.
But, perhaps owing to my own personal bias, my sister had been absolutely correct.
Our future Mother was a knockout.
A gaggle of four elderly women recently stopped by Mother’s room while I was visiting. They had all played bridge together for years and, merely by coincidence, learned that Mother was now living in the same nursing home where one of the four was recovering from a hip replacement.
On seeing Mother, I could tell that each of them was immediately taken aback. While no one ever fails to still speak of Mom’s natural beauty and flawless skin, the woman sleeping in that bed was clearly not the vibrant person they had come to know ~ or, perhaps, even wanted to see.
I quickly grabbed a framed picture of Mother from ten years ago and handed it to them. To my amazement, they all became extremely animated when they exclaimed, “This is our Dorothy. Oh, she is so beautiful ... and such a bridge player you have never seen!”
I was ultimately struck how their hoped-for reunion was accomplished only after seeing the woman in the picture from a decade ago; the woman named “Dorothy” asleep in that bed seemed merely to be an abstraction.
While examining a good many pictures today, my thoughts suddenly turned to the stories of the Native Americans who were so afraid of the potential for a camera to steal spirits.
But, isn't "capturing" the spirit of a person, at least figuratively, exactly what photographs were intended to do?
To remind all of us of the joy and excitement captured forever in a photograph of our future Mothers as toddlers?
To remind all of us of the first glimpse of steely determination captured forever in a photograph of our future Mothers as they learned the lessons of childhood?
To remind all of us of the promising signs of wonderment and awe captured forever in a photograph of our future Mothers as they began taking their first tentative steps into adulthood?
To remind all of us of the youth, beauty, and vigor captured forever in the photographs of these wonderful women who would soon complete the cycle of life, becoming our mothers?
Just as Mother’s friends would have preferred to be reunited with the “Dorothy” they had come to know and love over many years, all of her children would welcome any opportunity to take a magical step back in time. But, such a dream will surely never come to pass.
My brother has busied himself over the last year or two with his digital SLR camera taking pictures whenever he visits with Mother. I will admit that when I hear the automatic succession of clicks produced by the camera, an odd feeling often settles over me.
I become a bit uncomfortable, I believe, because I am not sure if Mom and he are both aware of what exactly he is doing. Mom isn’t blind to her condition, and then, again, neither is my brother. But, I just can’t help but wonder if both of them understand his vain attempt to “capture” as many of the waning moments of her life that are quickly passing by.
It almost seems to be an act of desperation.
But, to what end?
Unlike the fears expressed by the Native Americans when Edward Curtis appeared with his camera, my brother clearly holds neither the power nor interest in preventing her spirit from moving on to the “other world.”
He does, however, intend to take every opportunity to capture as much of the beauty, love, spirit, joy and determination she continues, in her own way, to exhibit most every day.
