A Delightful Little Book on Aging Book Blog Tour and #Giveaway #LoneStarLit

My mom, Cleopha-Marie Tylenda

There aren’t a lot of photos of my mother as a little girl. Personal photography was not a common thing when she was growing up. Rather, it was the work of a hired professional. For an ordinary family, it was a big deal to memorialize a moment of life in a photograph. Yet, a handful of images from my mother’s young life exist.

A framed photograph on my living room bookshelf shows mom when she was about two years old. Holding onto her small toddler frame is her father, my grandpa, Paul. They’re sitting on the floor of the back porch, his arms around her, holding up a holster that he’s wrapped around her simple cotton dress. While her face is serious, my grandpa’s face reflects a mischievous grin.

The year would have been 1921. My grandparents were farmers with a few cows. They lived in Elbert, Colorado, and were raising three daughters. So, who took the picture, the casual pose with Mom, Grandpa, and holster? My grandparents wouldn’t have owned a camera. Did they have a friend that was a photographer?

It’s an imaginative musing to see my grandparents as young people. To think that they may have sat in their living room when the kids had gone to bed and talked with a friend who had a camera—that the friend would have offered to take some pictures of them.

Later in life, when I knew them, Mom had a Brownie camera. She took pictures of my brother, sister, and me standing in front of the giant lilac bushes in our grandmother’s yard and pictures of my grandparents standing in the dirt driveway of their home, a grandchild balanced on my grandma’s hip as she smiles for the camera, the look of pride on her face.

Recently, my nephew Dan found a picture of my mom in a moving box as he was getting settled into his new home in Oregon. He emailed it to me. Eventually I will print it, frame it, and place it next to the other photo on the bookshelf.

It’s not the framing of the photo that feels important; it’s the reframing of what those photos mean to me: a way to see my mother as an innocent and an appreciation of my grandpa’s quirky sense of humor, divorced in memory from the man who drank too much. It’s the act of reframing that helps me to see that we all do the very best we can do to love each other and ourselves and yet fall terribly short. To put it in perspective, these photographs of my mom are from a hundred years ago. They represent the passage of time, mortality, innocence, ancestry, and the most basic of human longings, that of love.

In the photo sent by my nephew, mom is seven years old. She’s wearing a white dress meant as a First Communion dress. It had probably been worn by her sister Anne and would be worn again by her younger sister, Mary. The photograph is staged. In one hand she holds a missal and a rosary; in the other she holds a candle. Again I wonder who the photographer is. Did each child at my mother’s Catholic school get a picture like this at the occasion of their First Communion?

I imagine the picture being taken at the church her family attended. I saw that church once. My brother and I visited it when she died, but it had been turned into an antique store. The day that we were there, it was closed, and I was sorry about that. I had wanted to go inside, to walk around in a place where she had walked, where my grandmother and my great grandmother had gone to worship.

It’s easy to forget that my parents and my grandparents lived long, full lives before I was born; that they were filled with dreams and ideals like all young people, dreams that took a beating when life intervened. It’s the story that we all live out.

When I look at my mother’s little face in the picture of her First Communion, I don’t see the woman I fought with as a teenager. I see a child that I didn’t know, but eked out in our relationship nonetheless, with stories that she made up and shared with me at bedtime about the little town of Elbert, Colorado, her horse Duke, and a Catholic family with three girls living in a cabin on the hill

As Paul Simon sang in the song “Bookends”: Long ago . . . it must be . . . I have a photograph. Preserve your memories; they’re all that’s left you.

Now living closer to the edge of my life, I’m grateful for the memory, for the image of a little girl whose life I can only imagine, but imagine in sweetness and love’s longing, nonetheless.