Back in the spring, we gathered for a weekend with the Carter cousins. They are Smokin’ Hot Love Biscuit’s blood kin, but I adore these people. SHLB once suggested that the cousins loved me more than him, to which they replied, “It’s not that we love her more, it’s that she’s more fun.” See what I mean? They are the best.
If SHLB and I ever split, I’ve already reserved these cousins in the settlement, along with the Beaufort house, and Toast, the dog, of course, which leaves him without the S, H, and L. Poor ole hard, cold, lonesome Mr. Biscuit. Not that any of that is ever going to happen but it’s good to put clear intentions in writing and then publish them on the inter-webs as insurance. (Just last night SHLB reminded me that he’s a harmonica player with blues in his heart.) Lord Jesus, have mercy.
Now, back to the cousins.
During our weekend, we spent time combing through memories and re-telling vintage stories – much of these remembrances were of those who have passed on. I’m a sucker for old snapshots, (direct lineage not required.) I find looking at collections of photos, especially those stored loose in forgotten shoe boxes, to be both intriguing and entertaining. A few had dates and names scrawled on the back, but most were left for the deciphering of generations many times removed and in-laws that were, at the picture taking, far in the distance category of “to be determined.”
It’s not the same to stare at the face of a digital picture. Nowadays, there’s the Google machine and a few taps of the search wand and viola, I’m standing waist high in a social media account or for $2.99, I have access to warrant and arrest records. It’s downright boring how fast I can expedite the skinny on someone. Everyone is so out there that there’s not much flirting with mystery. With old photos, I get swept up chasing the minutia of clues and wrangling together the puzzle pieces. On a faded photo, it’s easy to be transported to a place of curiosity, wishing to know what the subject was thinking or that a wrist was caught in better lighting so that the initials on a cuff link were visible. Somehow a tangible print is evidence of what was, and who and what came before, and of how they shaped what was to follow. The image adds texture to what can be imagined and comprehended.
SHLB and his cousin resemble their fathers with their clean, debonair Carter man style. There were individual photos of young men in military dress, readying for war. Uncle Shorty fought in WWII and Uncle Harold, (the baby of the family,) was killed in Korea. The aunts were beautiful, poised in their poses with sleek curls and dresses of the 1950s. As the years marched, spouses and children stood in front of the flash, adding depth and breadth to the family tree. Then, as with life, limbs and leaves on that tree followed Uncle Harold, falling from this world to the other.
A specific relative showed up in several pictures. Dapper in a dark suit and tidily coiffed, his mouth made a straight line for the camera, more smirk than frown. When he appeared, the resident cousin historian noted, “That’s Uncle Ball. He was said to be mean.”
Uncle Ball didn’t have a mean streak or wasn’t mean at times or didn’t have a temper or episodes of meanness, it was his defining memorial. Uncle Ball was mean.
I took a picture of the photo of Uncle Ball, and I’ve spent more time studying him than is healthy for my psyche. I keep wondering and trying to discern what made Uncle Ball mean. Was it the classic “hurt people hurt people?” Did he like being mean? Was he unaware that he was coming across as a meanie? Was Uncle Ball an ironic nickname since he wasn’t having much of a ball in his human interactions? Did he ever gaze at himself in the looking glass and say, “Ball, you handsome devil, stop being so mean or a hundred years from now, it will be all that people remember about you.”
Uncle Ball, why you gotta to be so mean?
While many of the images of that weekend have started to wane, Uncle Ball and his brand remains. I suspect that he, (just like me,) toted around the palette of all the emotions, and used the ones that felt most fitting and familiar. Being mean, angry, and sarcastic were frequented emotions that I watched play out by adults during my childhood – go to companions in times of confusion and frustration. And the reality is it’s sometimes easier to choose these sentiments and reactions over the deeper, more honest ones – sadness, pain, betrayal, disappointment. But dang if they don’t cement you into yourself, blocking the exit of getting out of your own way, until you end up remembered as what you put out into the universe, whether you mean it or not.
I love “As the years marched, spouses and children stood in front of the flash, adding depth and breadth to the family tree.” – makes me want to go rooting through some old photos.
Love this, and especially your final paragraph. He "toted around the palette of all the emotions" like all of us. And, easier sentiments "cement you into yourself, blocking the exit of getting out of your own way." Whew deep. I inherited a photo of my great grandparents. I made a copy and took it to my mother’s first cousin, thinking she would love to have it. She took one look at her grandmother and said, "She was SO mean to us kids." She didn’t want the photo! My grandmother was such a dear, loving person, and I puzzle all the time about how she came out that way with a mean mother. I suspect it’s always a choice, at some level, for all of us.
Nice. Always an interesting topic, especially when you can get your hands (or eyes) on the old family photos. Sadly, it seems that the younger generations now are far less interested in the past (which may have always been the case).
If Uncle Ball was actually as mean as they say, he probably looked at himself in the mirror and said, "What’re you looking at?"
This post is vintage Emily. Thanks for the reminder what a treasure trove old photos are. I remember an old maid aunt whose nickname was "Aunt Matie." I never knew her real name until a few years ago when my older brother told me how she came by "Matie." She loved tomatoes and would tomato sandwiches everyday of summer. Thus, she became Aunt Matie to everyone. She was so sweet, kind and loving…unlike her sister, my grandmother. She was born without a hint of a filter. If she thought it, she told you–her husband, grandchildren and even the preacher. She had a knack for de-meaning others with no regrets. But I’m not bitter.
Love old photos and old names. My great-grandmother was called Dearie by everyone who knew her, and everyone knew her. It was such a natural thing when I was growing up (I’d never known her by anything other than Dearie), it never occurred to me to ask the origin of the name.
Why is it that in many old photos like this, you see a beautifully dressed, obviously well-off family, and they all look so unhappy. That beautiful little girl, the youngest, is obviously mad about something, but that can be expected of youngsters. But everyone else . . . what’s their story? No smiles, not even a hint. Did people of that era feel that they should pose stoicly for photos? Was that the norm? Or were they all just mean to each other?