My eldest brother sends a very minor correction to my last post: “The car with the fins was a 1960 DeSoto. I always loved that car as it had quite a large V-8 motor and had lots of pick-up. I remember cruising in it when gas was 25 cents a gallon.”
Actually it was not a cousin, but a cousin’s husband who gave me the photo you see in my last post. Here is a link to his photo archive, which will mostly interest family, but also history buffs. When Dave sent me the link to his archive, a treasure trove of doozies of my sisters on really bad 70’s hair days, I also found this graphically and sartorially pleasing image from the 60s:
I love the horizontal cladding of the garage ontrasting with the vertical lines of the sleeveless blouse and the harmony of blues. But above all I like the shorts and top set in that Mondrian print in the back corner. Three of the girls here are my sisters (including the one in the striped top and the one in the Mondrian outfit); my brother is here too. The others are some of our 88 first cousins.
When my father died a year and a half ago, a cousin brought this photo to his wake and pressed it into my hand. I had never seen the photo until then. It was taken by my uncle. I love this picture. It is one of my favorite photos of all time, and perhaps the most beautiful memento I have of my father. That’s me on the right and my little sister Theresa on the left. Typcially, I look goofy. My nickname was Pookie. I had an imaginary friend called Maggie who lived across the street. I was freckled and skinny and skipped around like a kelpie. I have a framed copy of this photo in my living room, and people who don’t know my family often think it is quite recent. “Is that your husband?” they ask. Many German friends are surprised to learn that the photo was taken in the mid-1960’s, when color photos were still unusual in Germany. Others find it contemporary because of Dad’s brush cut and polo shirt.
I don’t remember when or where this photo was taken, but I remember the feeling of protection I had just being with my father, either on his arm, or beside him. On Sundays he would take us out for a ride in the country, and show us where the deer were likely to congregate, or where one might spot a fox, or where an old Scottish settlement could be found in Lanark County in Ontario. When I was very young he drove a pale blue Chevy with fins. Later, despite his height, he even drove a Mini.
The night of Dad’s funeral, my mother gathered her children and grandchildren, sons and daughters-in-law around her and held a speech. There were probably 50 of us in my sister’s grand parlour. All immediate family. Mom had told us that she wanted to say a few words after the funeral. I assumed she would talk about the estate, and flippantly remarked to my sister as we settled down to listen that we wouldn’t be needing any more tissues. Instead, Mom surprised us by telling us the story of their life.
She and my father were married in August 1945 when the war in Europe was over, but was still raging in the Pacific. Dad, who had spent most of the war as an educational officer in England, volunteered for active duty in the Pacific Theater. But before flying to Japan, he took six weeks’ leave to marry my mother. They spent their honeymoon in a remote cabin in the Gatineau hills near Ottawa, with no newspapers, no radio, no phone, and no other contact to the outside world. When they emerged after several days alone, they discovered that the war had ended. That was the lucky star under which their life together began. It wasn’t always easy, she admitted, having so many children, and yet, she said how proud they were of all of us. It was when she revealed that Dad had told her every single night of his life with her that he loved her, that we were most sorry we didn’t have tissues.
Yesterday my parents would have been married 63 years. And my mother misses Dad more than ever.
The list of things I wanted to do this weekend was the same as the list of things I wanted to do last weekend but never got done.
I didn’t get any of these things done. Instead I:
Now here’s something you should know about me, and it will explain my WordPress moniker: I am one of seven sisters. The reason I feel compelled to post this today is because three sisters were born in the month of March. Here’s to them! As soon as I get my Flickr account figured out, I intend to upload photos to this space and display vintage photos of my sisters and our cousins. We also have five brothers. And innumerable cousins. An even dozen children in the family. I read recently in a pamphlet that I picked up at the cathedral in Speyer that the number twelve is the symbol of perfection. There are twelve months in the year, twelve signs to the zodiac, twelve disciples in the bible, twelve times two hours to the day. But no one has ever been able to explain how the birth order works in a family of this magnitude. We have one firstborn, one baby, and ten in the middle. Does that make us all sandwich children? I don’t think so. We were born in clusters. Or gangs.
However. In Germany, eggs are sold in cartons of ten, not twelve.
