Yesterday I took some photographs from my mom's house. Photos of my dad's side of the family. Theoretically, I should give these to my dad, but there are two problems with that: 1. I am not speaking to my father and 2. In all honesty, they will just end up in my hands anyhow after my dad dies. Morbid? Yes. True? Yes.
So these photo...
Images of my dad when he was a baby. Even a few photos of my grandmother pregnant which is something very cool to see. The baby pictures of my dad are nice, but I start to get sad when I see the older pictures of him; the photos when you can start to see the sadness in his eyes. But, that is a story for another blog, or really, a therapy session or three.
My absolute favorite photos are the ones of my grandfather. The ones of him serving in the war. Photos from Paris, images of him in his uniform. This is my favorite picture of him, oddly enough he wrote a little note on the back of this picture to his mother, "I don't like this one much. What do you think?"
He used to tell me stories about the war, censored stories, I'm sure. But I used to love to imagine these places and people. Sadly, I don't really remember any details. I see fleeting visions that I concocted in my mind as he spoke: him sitting in a canoe opening a metal box with cigarettes, ham sandwiches, and m&ms. Now, I am fairly certain that none of those pieces fit together correctly and are just a byproduct of my childhood imagination, but they are there. They are imprinted in my memory and therefore, associated with my grandfather and his kindness.
I also found some postcards from my grandfather to my grandmother:
I'm enjoying myself by drinking and thinking of you. I can't wait until we are together and tell you all the things I saw and did. Darling I love you and hope to be with you soon.
Always your Honey, JoeP.S. I got some picture made in Paris. They will send them to me in two weeks.