We frequently took Sunday drives to my Grandma Stevens house in Inglewood. It was not the Inglewood of today - it was suburbia. Median grass strips where kids played. Few cars on the roads. Small houses set on lovely lawns.
There was a back bedroom in my grandparent's house. It was a large room as I remember it. Lots of windows. And lots of surfaces covered with photographs in frames.
And these photos always stood out to me - and somewhat defined how I thought of my mother in relation to her two brothers. My definition may not even have been correct. But my uncle Harry above - in the overcoat and bow tie - always seemed remote and somewhat Humphrey Bogartish. Turns out he was remote - in a reclusive kind of way. But at the time, I saw it as glamorous.
The one at the top is my Uncle Steve - and he looks happy and carefree - and he was a somewhat jovial fellow. In his later years, when I took Mom to visit him, he seemed a lot more churlish - but age and loneliness can do that to a person, so I withhold judgment. I loved being around him as a child - his household was always fun to visit.
As a young girl, I thought this photo of my mom was so different than the woman I knew. She seems so young and "other worldly" - like a heroine in a play or something. I wondered how people changed and became "mothers" instead of beautiful young things! (She was young - as in 18 or so!) Of course, I thought my mother was beautiful - the way all children see their mothers as beautiful - but this photo seemed to be another person - and so it intrigued me.
Images and reality - all a part of growing up - and a part of memories.
No comments:
Post a Comment