Old Photographs

When my father died I “inherited” my extended family’s photos.  There must have been at least a thousand pictures, dating back to the beginning of the 20^th century. In addition, there were written records and sundry other mementos. My parents never threw anything away.  Such fascinating information can be coaxed from those records. For example, it cost my parents $2.35 a day for my mother’s maternity stay in the hospital when I was born. Automobiles were priced in the hundreds, not ten thousands like they are today. 

There are WPA notices and old ration books.  The ration books brought to mind one of my most trying experiences. When I was in the terrible twos I tore up the ration stamps, requiring that my parents bring the torn stamp remnants and the naughty child before a judge to replace them.  It was years before I could deal with the trauma. The memory is sharp nearly 70 years later.  To this day I get panic attacks when called for jury duty! Not all inheritances are pleasant.

After sorting through my photographic legacy, I put some aside and attempted to relieve my embarrassment of riches by giving hundreds of photos away. I gave the oldest person in each of the families the photos to keep or to distribute amongst their children or siblings, or perhaps to toss.  I still have several hundred pictures, wonderful and painful memories of people loved, feared, dead.  When I die the memory of many will die with me; they truly will be gone.  No one will want, or even care about, the smiling, laughing, crying faces that meant so much to me. 

Old photographs are a responsibility. Which can I keep a bit longer?  Which should be tossed? I know most must go, holding no illusions about passing the photos on to my son. He does not care about those strangers. Yet I know these mementos could mean something to the right person. I feel that I have a last responsibility to the dead to find that right person. Sometimes I get lucky.

 In a recent rummage down memory lane I found a song written by my great-uncle, the owner of a formal wear establishment. It was funny, written in broken English, an advertising ditty. But it was my Uncle Frank speaking out one more time.  I sent it around to my millions of cousins via email and was amazed at the response amongst Uncle Frank’s grandchildren.

The emails whizzed back and forth with wonderful memories of young children gathered around the radio on Saturday, waiting to hear the ad so they could sing it along with their grandfather.  Their memories gave us a glimpse of family life we never knew existed.  Efforts were being made to locate a tape recording so younger descendants of Francesco could once more hear their grandfather singing and playing the mandolin.  That sheet of music with its lyrics meant a great deal to my cousins who had nearly forgotten the fun they had had with a grandpa once more alive in their memories. 

What of all the other pieces of family history and fond memories?  I believe that a person is never truly dead while someone remembers them. It has been the privilege of the 20^th century to retain memories of the common man in ways never experienced before.  Since then ways and means multiply and subsequent generations will have the capability to store and access memories of parents, grandparents, friends, children in new media. If they so choose.  Will 21^st century lives be shared and preserved?  I hope so.  I fear not.