Wednesday – Pictures of Pictures
Feb. 20th, 2008 02:29 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ninanevermoreToday on my drive into work, I was thinking about this last Monday evening, when I was sitting at my dining room table selecting photos to send to my cousin Leslie's widower. I took them at her memorial service last month and promised to forward them, along with the copy of the program, to him as soon as I had them printed. Most of the pictures are of other pictures from a framed photo collage outside of the sanctuary. It's not a great way to get copies of cherished photos, but it was the best I could do under the circumstances. Wren said he wanted them, too, so I was trying to write a description on the back of each one I planned to send him.
My 3-year-old son walked up and asked, "What're you doing, Mommy?"
"Looking at pictures," I told him. "See? This one's of a baby girl."
"That you, Mommy?" he asked.
"No, it's not me, it's of another little girl. She's pretty, though, isn't she?"
I never thought Leslie and I looked alike, but I realized that this photo of her as a year-old child does look a lot like my own baby pictures. For as long I can remember, I have had a gut feeling that Leslie and were blood relatives, but I never voiced this suspicion to her. Leslie mentioned a few years ago that she had seen her adoption records (with the name of her birth mother obscured), and that her birth mother's ancestry was Swedish and Native American. I know that my father's cousin, Joyce (who is of Swedish and Hispanic decent), gave up a baby for adoption in the years around the time Leslie was born, but that would be too much of a coincidence for me to believe, and the story around that baby's birth was too horrible for me to want it to be Leslie. But the way both Leslie and Joyce were so wild and beautiful, and that they both loved men who road Harleys, would sometimes grab my imagination and take it out on the open road of my fancy.
My son handed me back the picture, and I wrote on the back of it: Leslie Carol, circa 1957, 1 year old.
I handed him another one. "Here she is when she was bigger, see? She's got a birthday cake."
"I like that birthday cake," my son said. He enjoys rating everything he sees these days. He either likes something, or he doesn't. Birthday cakes are on his good list.
When he returned the picture to me, I turned it over and wrote, Leslie on her birthday, 1960 or 1961. I wonder how Jo got her to sit still enough to put those curls in her hair? Leslie's hair was naturally straight, but both of our mothers aspired to give us curls like Shirley Temple when we were small. I would guess Leslie hated curling irons as much as I did.
"She's a really big kid in this one," I told my son. "She's almost grown up."
My son studied the picture, but didn't comment on it. I wrote on the back: Leslie at 15 or 16. Not sure which, but it doesn't matter because she looks sweet, either way.
"Look, there's a baby in this one." My son is more interested in pictures of children than he is of adults.
"That baby has glasses on!" my son said. He thought this was funny.
"He does, doesn't he? I bet those are his Mommy's glasses he's wearing." Leslie and Cameron, circa 1974, I wrote on the photo. Cameron was born when she was 18, so this made the picture easy to date.
"That's silly!" my son said.
He wasn't interested in the next picture, which was simply of a grown woman he didn't know. He handed it back to me immediately.
It is my favorite of all of them, though, because it is of the quintessential Leslie that I remember: thin, beautiful, with a cigarette in her hand and an incredulous look on her face. I believe this was taken at a family gathering, the last Christmas before she divorced Cameron's father. Leslie, circa 1980, I wrote.
"Look at the pretty flowers in this one," I said to my son, "See, there's a little church and some little trees, too."
"That's a cute church," my son said. Small things are cute, or so the adults in his life always say. He assumes this is the correct thing to say about anything that is obviously tiny.
The photo is this display must have been taken in the early 1990's, I think, before Cameron's aneurism and the unraveling of Leslie's world in general. I doubt she had the time or the money to sit for a formal portrait after that. It occured to me that of all the pictures my aunt exhibited, not one was taken in the last 16 years. Looking at them, you would think that her life had stopped at the age of 35, rather than weeks after her 50th birthday.
I picked up my pen, hesitated for a moment, and then wrote, Photo and floral display at the memorial service for Leslie Carol Crawford. January 19th, 2008.
My epression must have worried my son, because he asked, "Mommy, you sad?"
I smiled at him, and said,"I'm okay, baby. Why don't we put these pictures away and go read some stories before bed?" So that is what we did.
* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * # * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~
My 3-year-old son walked up and asked, "What're you doing, Mommy?"
"Looking at pictures," I told him. "See? This one's of a baby girl."
"That you, Mommy?" he asked.
"No, it's not me, it's of another little girl. She's pretty, though, isn't she?"
I never thought Leslie and I looked alike, but I realized that this photo of her as a year-old child does look a lot like my own baby pictures. For as long I can remember, I have had a gut feeling that Leslie and were blood relatives, but I never voiced this suspicion to her. Leslie mentioned a few years ago that she had seen her adoption records (with the name of her birth mother obscured), and that her birth mother's ancestry was Swedish and Native American. I know that my father's cousin, Joyce (who is of Swedish and Hispanic decent), gave up a baby for adoption in the years around the time Leslie was born, but that would be too much of a coincidence for me to believe, and the story around that baby's birth was too horrible for me to want it to be Leslie. But the way both Leslie and Joyce were so wild and beautiful, and that they both loved men who road Harleys, would sometimes grab my imagination and take it out on the open road of my fancy.
My son handed me back the picture, and I wrote on the back of it: Leslie Carol, circa 1957, 1 year old.
I handed him another one. "Here she is when she was bigger, see? She's got a birthday cake."
"I like that birthday cake," my son said. He enjoys rating everything he sees these days. He either likes something, or he doesn't. Birthday cakes are on his good list.
When he returned the picture to me, I turned it over and wrote, Leslie on her birthday, 1960 or 1961. I wonder how Jo got her to sit still enough to put those curls in her hair? Leslie's hair was naturally straight, but both of our mothers aspired to give us curls like Shirley Temple when we were small. I would guess Leslie hated curling irons as much as I did.
"She's a really big kid in this one," I told my son. "She's almost grown up."
My son studied the picture, but didn't comment on it. I wrote on the back: Leslie at 15 or 16. Not sure which, but it doesn't matter because she looks sweet, either way.
"Look, there's a baby in this one." My son is more interested in pictures of children than he is of adults.
"That baby has glasses on!" my son said. He thought this was funny.
"He does, doesn't he? I bet those are his Mommy's glasses he's wearing." Leslie and Cameron, circa 1974, I wrote on the photo. Cameron was born when she was 18, so this made the picture easy to date.
"That's silly!" my son said.
He wasn't interested in the next picture, which was simply of a grown woman he didn't know. He handed it back to me immediately.
It is my favorite of all of them, though, because it is of the quintessential Leslie that I remember: thin, beautiful, with a cigarette in her hand and an incredulous look on her face. I believe this was taken at a family gathering, the last Christmas before she divorced Cameron's father. Leslie, circa 1980, I wrote.
"Look at the pretty flowers in this one," I said to my son, "See, there's a little church and some little trees, too."
"That's a cute church," my son said. Small things are cute, or so the adults in his life always say. He assumes this is the correct thing to say about anything that is obviously tiny.
The photo is this display must have been taken in the early 1990's, I think, before Cameron's aneurism and the unraveling of Leslie's world in general. I doubt she had the time or the money to sit for a formal portrait after that. It occured to me that of all the pictures my aunt exhibited, not one was taken in the last 16 years. Looking at them, you would think that her life had stopped at the age of 35, rather than weeks after her 50th birthday.
I picked up my pen, hesitated for a moment, and then wrote, Photo and floral display at the memorial service for Leslie Carol Crawford. January 19th, 2008.
My epression must have worried my son, because he asked, "Mommy, you sad?"
I smiled at him, and said,"I'm okay, baby. Why don't we put these pictures away and go read some stories before bed?" So that is what we did.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2008-02-21 05:03 pm (UTC)