I have a trunk full of family photographs that have been just sitting in the back of my closet for years. Some are in little albums with torn covers, others are in glass frames, cracked and dusty with age.
I thought I ought to pull out the photos to see what treasures I might uncover. Long before fancy cellphones were available, my great, great uncles and aunts captured moments at picnics, birthdays and holidays with Brownie and Kodak cameras. With my mom and dad passing in 1999, I am unable to identify even one of the faces. A few snapshots have notes scribbled on the back, but they mean little to me. I can tell Joe was a fat man who didn’t like to shave, and little Jody could stand on her head. Jack wore suspenders and a grin. That’s about it.
I do know there are great stories to be told from those old shots. I’m confident several of the babies held in the hands of mothers led interesting lives and had children of their own, who now may be in Maryland or Kansas or seven miles down the road from me.
It’s silly, but I can’t throw a single photo away. In all those yellow faded faces, there must be a whole bunch of me.