Celebration

We noticed the first photographer because his car, emblazoned with his photography business name was an amazing metallic rose. A second photographer was parked nearby.  They were clearly waiting.  A wedding we figured.  It can be hard to pin down exact times where groups of people are involved. In time, two more photographers arrived. Gadzooks! How big would a wedding be to need four photographers?

On cue, two large busses wheeled into the parking lot and an amazing flood of fabulously dressed party goers poured out.  

The women were so wondrously dressed we weren’t sure we would spot the bride but there she was all gold and glitter and grace. 

Family members grouped for pictures and regrouped, their joking and laughter a celebration in itself. 

limited visibility

 

This very blurry picture is one of those "limited visibility" shots that the delete button usually takes care of.

Not in 1964 though, apparently. 

No, then you took aim, counted your money, mailed away the film and waited. 

And waited. 

You expected a few limited visibility shots. 

I don't remember this picture being taken. 

I don't remember...oh wait....a flicker.

I sort of remember those dogs.

I think at least one of them belonged to my friend Evelyn, who is the little girl on the far right.

I'm the little girl on the far left hoisting a dog of my own. Such an armful. It may have been our own dog although I feel doubtful about that. 

See my little feet, so Mary Poppins? Kind of reminds me of my Gramma. Heels together, toes out.

The little boy beside me was my dearest friend. Literally the boy next door. 

My older sister, also happily clutching a dog is in the middle. 

It's Blue River so of course there is snow. 

Snow, dogs, friends and an obliging photographer. No wonder we are all smiling.

in the north

This photo is 100 years old.
It was snapped by my grandfather in the Peace River area of Northern Alberta where he homesteaded for a time.
I can't help but think what a treasure this photo would be to the family of this mother and child, to their great great grandchildren.
How amazing it would be to gaze intently into the serene face of the woman and perhaps see a shadow of yourself.
To admire the clothes of the little child, so beautifully decorated.
And have a window into your ancestors everyday life in the north 100 years ago.

again and again

I can't believe I haven't written about this picture before! In fact, I scrolled through my blog forth and back and clicked with ever increasing disbelief on labels but lo, and no, this photo was not to be found. It's the 'not to be found' part that is troubling me.
Aptitudes don't destine us, but they do nudge us along. Some people have a natural aptitude for organizing.
For archiving.
For categorizing.
I struggle with this.
I imagine it is why Pinterest is a wilderness to wander into for me. A wonderful wilderness for sure but how to save the pins. Is the quilted bird meant to be saved to my board called Feathers? Or should it go under Quilted. Or perhaps Color as inspiration for painting. And if I don't know where to place it with clarity, how will I find it later? I could place it in all three categories I suppose. That seems to be what I've defaulted to in my blog. One story/post may have several labels but because life is bewildering, some defy categorizing.
This picture could be Blue River, Photo, Family, and/or Childhood and is one my eye has rested on nearly every time I've scrolled happily though old family black and whites. It captures my very young and happy aunt and my very delighted older sister. They are seated serenely in a construction zone which was likely my cousins downstairs suite in the making. My aunt has her hair piled aloft, funky glasses perched on her cute Nelson nose. My sister is hugging a special baby doll. Her toes are turned in with the joy of it.
Joy.
Yes, it's the joy that stops me in my tracks every time.
It radiates out in technicolor and surround sound.
It's why photos are such a gift. They capture more than a moment in time. They capture the feeling of that moment so that you can feel it again and again.

no doubt

My Dad wore hats rain or shine, sleet or snow. If I could stack all of those hats in a towering teetering pile, they would give Bartholomew Cubbins a twitch in his eye. No doubt about it.

little skiiers

Ahhhhhh, another Blue River photo with the inevitable snow.
I love this picture; my sisters standing like little Hummels, my father hunkered down to make the photographers life easier.
I love the evergreens freshly frosted, the ski suits hand sewn.
Little skiis.
Little ski poles.
Little skiers.

to matter

A pair of old photos from my mothers childhood makes me smile and nod and ponder. I like to think of them as Exhibit A and B.
Exhibit A, above, shows my visiting great grandmother Minerva. It also shows my Aunt Fran, the toddler beaming on the left, and on the right, my mother. My very, very sad little mother.. Smack dab in the center is a cousin, the little interloper. She has traveled by train across the Rocky Mountains with Gramma Minerva. There is something recognizable in her pose. It's HER Gramma Minerva.  There is also something recognizable in my mother's pose, something so unusual that it stands out like a beacon.
My mother is Sad.

Exhibit B is very telling. The photographer, likely my own kind Gramma has sized up the situation. My Very Sad Mother has now been given the place of honor at Gramma Minerva's knee.
Baby Fran's smile has faded.
There is angst in the air.
Little Interloper has taken up her new position unimpaired and has a hand possessively and comfortably placed.
My mother's mood remains unaltered. Very Sad still has her in its grip. In fact, she may now have added Very Put Out.

Time has swirled by since that long ago afternoon.
Lots and lots of time.
My mother has always been known for the sweetness of her disposition and the steadfastness of her optimistic, friendly nature, for her remarkably ever ready smile.
But here, in black and white is the evidence.
She was once a little girl just like any other little girl.

The steady smile of Great Gramma Minerva, the comforting warm sun, a kindly photographer.... all come together in these pictures.
They prove the universal need we all have to feel important and special.
To matter.

zero and beyond

My granddaughter told me this morning that her doll is zero. She is referring to its age of course. Zero. Poor dolly; so young she doesn't even register on the Richter Scale of aging.
I was zero once too. And then I was one. Oh happy day. Then I was big enough to ride the wonderful galloping horse that was pastured in my grandparents living room. It was an amazing contraption and took up nearly as much space as a real pony. I think it really belonged to my cousin who lived downstairs in a compact suite. Too compact, and so the marvelous steed was stabled upstairs. It looks like my grampa made a small modification to the joy ride. A pretty stout two by four allows equestrian spirited toddlers to mount and dismount all by themselves. It is good to fan the flames of independence.

This is one of my favourite photos of myself.
I remember the horse.
It was a Palomino.
And I remember the wool rug with kaleidoscope flecks of color.
And I can even remember glancing over my shoulder warily as I rode grimly onward.
It was because of the cuckoo clock high on the wall.
I was scared of the little bird that lived inside.
It was so unpredictable......

But still I rode ever onward into two and three and four and beyond.

monarch of the mountain

My grampa the skier.
He learned as a boy in Norway.
There he is,
perched on the edge,
surveying his vast kingdom.

the barking

My mom had dozens of cousins.
You run the risk of that sort of thing if you have a proliferation of aunts and uncles and my mom had aunts and uncles aplenty.
One uncle followed his fathers fine example and (almost) singlehandedly produced ten children. Ten cousins for my mother... and there were eight more assorted aunts and uncles all doing likewise.
When the dust settled, there were several dozen cousins wandering in and out of Great Grandma and Grandpas farmhouse.
When you have that much going on, what difference would a batch of puppies... or two make?
None at all.
Bring on the barking.

arms full

My mother's grandparents lived far away, over the Rocky Mountains.
A province away.
A long train trip away.
The year my mother turned 12, she traveled with her younger sisters by train from Blue River, B.C. to Carstairs, Alberta to visit her grandma and grandpa.
Just the three little girls.
It was the first and last time.
For that brief moment in time, my mother was both old enough to be responsible for her little sisters, yet young enough to travel free.
And what perfect timing; puppies were there to play with on the farm.
My great grandparents raised Border Collies so a fresh batch of puppies was nothing new to them.
They were new to the little girls though.

Bet it's pretty hard to feel homesick with your arms full of puppy.

side by side

This is a picture of my great grandparents, Rufus and Minerva Ray. It was taken smack dab in the middle of the thirties; the dirty thirties on the bald old prairies. The dirty, dusty, desperate thirties. They were resourceful people, my ancestors. One of their many endeavors to keep bread on the table was raising working dogs; Border collies. I love this photo of them standing side by side, a puppy in each of their arms.
I can see my uncle in my great grandfather's face and my own grandmother and mother in Minerva's face.
My great grandfather's jacket looks like it has made a trip or two to the barn.
His hands are firm, hers gentle. 

that way

This picture is more than eighty years old. It was snapped in Drumheller in the mid-thirties. My Dad is third from the left in the back row.

My eyes go to his face like a moth to the light. It is the youngest picture I have of him. He is probably 14 or so. I can see in his face the man he became. His determined chin. His gentle eyes. His fabulous hair. He was a never a large man; graceful but strong, a natural athlete.
He was a huge hockey fan all of his life. He would hunker in front of the TV winter evenings and cheer and sigh and shift and shout and twitch and groan and run his hands through his hair. He always had something to say about the plays too. Hockey is a team sport that way.

rarefied air

I've been looking at old pictures tonight because I'm missing my parents. Sure wish I could turn time back.
Isn't this a great picture of my folks?  My dad is wearing one of his inevitable hats. He had fabulous hair. It seems a pity to have covered it.
My mother looks so happy. They must have been in love because I'm sure the mosquitoes would have been hovering in clouds. I'm surprised they don't show up in the picture.
The alpine scenery of Blue River makes such a perfect backdrop for a young couple breathing the rarefied air of true love.

at the beginning

My Dad moved to Blue River when he was a teenager and it wasn't long before he and my mother were friends. I love this early picture of him from her album. The Douglas boy. He is looking straight at her, his face warmly lit with joy. They traveled a long road together and this is right at the beginning.

goat girl

The goat girl is my mother. She is patiently feeding two young goats. They are knobby kneed adolescent goats, not young kids but that awkward, between age.
Just like my mother.
I imagine she was only 13  or 14 when this photo was snapped.
Her hair hadn't achieved the long blonde splendor of her teen years.
I bet she sewed her dress and I bet she's wearing sensible shoes.
Just a young slip of a girl but already a shadow of the woman she would become; sensible, creative, home spun and dependable.

sunsplashed

I would love this picture even if the children weren't my big sisters and brother.

That sentence is likely the tenth one I've written under this photo and then deleted. Is it because I have too much to say about this photo I wonder? A feeling of not knowing which way to run with the ball.... mixed feelings?
I talked to my granddaughter this weekend about 'mixed feelings.' How we can feel very strongly about something, very happy, and yet very sad at the same time. She provided an example. What a wondrous thing a seven year old heart is and hers is pinned very firmly to her sleeve as most children's are. She FEELS things and really, really CARES. It is that vulnerability that makes children so precious. (The truth is that we are vulnerable all of our lives and every bit as precious at 60 as at 6.)

This photo radiates with my very favourite kind of light; a strong sidelight so perfect for watercolor paintings.. In 1951 most photos were black and white. I love that. It's all about balance and light then and this picture is so perfectly balanced and full of light. 

My big brother is looking tremendously pleased with life in general. Plaid shorts on a little lad with the last name of Douglas is utterly perfect.
Middle sister is clasping his chubby hand in hers rather protectively although she still had room for a toy. I have always found her posture in photos bewitching. She is the only one of we four sisters to have her hair cut in bangs and she really knew how to work 'em, gazing shyly up, her head lowered.
My oldest sister is such a blithe and bonnie child, her stance confident and carefree. As usual, the children are clothed in hand sewn splendor. The girl's little frocks are literally cut from the same cloth. And the shoes! I could write an entire post about them.

Three little children
sizes extra small, small and medium.
Standing stair-stepped
and sunsplashed.

nature of love

This picture is an oldie. It isn't from my stash of photos, shifting endlessly in a drawer. It wasn't taken out of my mother's black paged albums either, nor my grandmother's shoe box of photos. I doubt that it belonged to my great grandmother either although it is a picture of her uncle. Photography was expensive then and I imagine that the picture was given to her parents. It's a photo of William John Haddock, and would have been a very elegant and appreciated gift to give a brother and his wife.
Doesn't my great, great, great Uncle look distinguished? Isn't his hair amazing?
He looks very sober but he was a judge and that is a very serious business.
This photo makes me ponder the fate of old family pictures.
It has been spared the Great Cull that is inevitable as the baton of life passes from generation to generation.
It has somehow managed to survive the turning of two centuries, two world wars, and a yawning gulf of time that has made dear Uncle William a complete stranger.
But he was my great, great, grandfather Robert's big brother.
He was a teenager when the Haddock's made their voyage across the Atlantic to begin anew.
The Civil War was waiting in the wings.
Both brothers fought and survived those perilous times.
I am certain that Robert loved his brother William.
And that Robert's daughter Minerva loved him as well.
Minerva had something in common with her Uncle.
She left all and moved to a new country.
Beginning anew.
Minerva and Rufus C. Ray.
My great grandparents.
Letters and postcards traveled back and forth between Alberta and Iowa.
The tie remained for a time.
My own mother never met or even spoke of this man and yet I feel something so familiar as I look at his portrait.
More than a hundred years have rolled along.
Can love be passed down?
Or the memory of love?
I think it can.
It's in the nature of love.

to the left

I've talked about my grandfather's picture taking before. He was clicking selfies a hundred years before anyone else thought of it.
Took a bit of engineering.
He would position the camera at just the right angle, and attach a string that could be pulled once everyone had achieved the perfect pose.
His elusive dream was to capture his family gazing fondly in exactly the right direction, which meant of course, the same direction. ( AKA, the direction they had been instructed to gaze in)

I couldn't figure out what was wrong with this picture at first.
Something just seemed odd.
And that's when I noticed it.
The string is in my grandmother's hand.
She was the picture taker.
What?!
Yes, Grandma held the power.
Grandpa is gazing thoughtfully to the left.
Such a natural unposed pose.
His two little darlings are doing likewise, just as instructed.
Wow.
That alone is an amazing accomplishment.
Too bad Grandma was so delighted that she forgot to look to the left too.
Her gaze, directly into the soul of the camera is so warm and happy.
It's one of my favourite pictures of her I think.

something good

I have no idea who snapped this long ago photo but I can tell we're related.
Poor thing. Blurry is my specialty too.
A combination of earnestness and speed are my undoing.
Do they make tripods on wheels?

This photo keeps drawing me back for another look....
I love it enough that I have considered painting it.
I love the angles, and the shadows, and the slendor, 1920's silhouettes.
I even love the person hunkered down in middle of the canoe in a vain effort to alter the center of gravity in their favor.
This photo is an endangered species though.
It is just the sort of picture that is overlooked when the family album is composed.
The sort of photo that would end up in the deleted file.

It was hastily snapped on a warm summer day nearly one hundred years ago.
I bet earnestness and speed were factors.
Still, I couldn't love this picture more if it were as clear as a mirror.
It tells me a story which is the hallmark of a successful photo.
It makes me FEEL something.
Something good.