Photos

PHOTOS

Pictures. One is worth a thousand words, or so the advertising executive, Frederick Barnard, wrote in 1921. 

By my estimation, my wife and I have a whole novel’s worth of pictures waiting to be sorted out and organized. Maybe a whole library’s worth. You see our stash of photos number in the tens of thousands.

Yes, we have a ton of photos. Many, in photo albums labeled by year, sit on a shelf. in the living room. We don’t look at them enough. Some older photos are less accessible, sitting in trays stored in a closet. Slides were popular back then, but, honestly, I don’t know when I’ll see them again. Probably not any time soon. I don’t want their stories to get lost. I’ll have to do something about that. Something to add to my to-do list.

The happy thing? There are also photos that are on display. All the time. Every day. From where I’m sitting in our breakfast nook, I see our refrigerator covered in photos. I see a wall calendar of family and summer adventure photos. And through an opening to our dining room, I spy a hutch whose two glass doors are plastered with photos. Then there’s the hutch shelf occupied by myriad faces in small standing frames.

Much of the hutch’s array documents my wife’s years as a physical therapist, first at Easter Seals, then working exclusively with differently-abled children in a school setting. I see photos of kids in wheelchairs. Kids with crooked bodies and trusting smiles. Kids whose names and stories I’ve heard through the years. I know these innocents have a special place in my wife’s heart. Some are no longer on this earthly plane, yet each has left an indelible impression, captured on film and preserved. Some parents might be surprised to know that photos of their children hold places of honor in our home. Thousands of words speak their stories through our photos.

Our refrigerator door shines with faces. I see Millie, from the Bronx. She visited us once a month, as part of a spiritual group we all belonged to. She was funny, smart and a bit irreverent. If I dare to sneak some dessert today, I can hear her voice sarcastically asking, “Is that your new diet, Gail?” Her eye roll is captured on the face that stares from the refrigerator. She passed ten years ago, but I know if she were still here, she’d join me for that extra piece of pie, and maybe even add some ice cream on top, all while laughing at her diet quip. We shared secrets. Her stories carry on with her photo.

I see Leonie, holding a rabbit cradled in her arms. We were visiting her in Wyoming when that photo was taken. She lived alone on the edge of the Big Horn Mountains, a few miles out of town. The little rabbit had fallen into a window well at the back of her house. Independent, smart and quirky, Lee rescued it and sent it scurrying back to its home in a ravine behind her home. We met her, years before, at a gathering in Montana, reconnected with her in Rhode Island and then again when she moved to Wyoming. It was holiday time when I received the phone call that she had passed. Her photo triggers memories of times we shared. 

There’s a photo of Aldona, who was blind when we first met her. She was a remarkable person, who made the best of a compromised body and let her spirit shine. A handful of us took turns sitting with her when it came to the end of her life. Here’s one story that sweet face stirs, of my final interaction with her at the hospital. We were alone in the room, she was on morphine and not making much sense. She implored, “Gail, help get me out of here.”  I tried to be nice and keep her calm, while making excuses for why we couldn’t leave. Knowing I’ve studied for years with Native American spiritual teachers, her reaction to my lack of cooperation with her wishes was to accuse, “If I was Native American, you would help me!”  She was sure of it. She couldn’t see the broad smile on my face, triggered by her lament. Now, I’m left to smile when I focus on her photo. A thousand words only begin to tell the story of how courageously she lived and what she accomplished.

I even have a photo that tells a ghost story. We had friends from Nova Scotia visiting us for several days. Cheryl, one of the guests, wasn’t feeling well, so we set her up in a small room at the top of the stairs. She napped off and on most of the first day, then emerged in the evening to tell us she had seen a small elderly woman with white, stringy hair, come up the stairs and walk past her room into the larger guest room. We were puzzled, knowing no-one living here fit that description. Our skepticism ended when she identified the woman, from a photo on our refrigerator. It was Oh Shinnah Fast Wolf,  our teacher and mentor, who had passed a year earlier. 

But the story doesn’t end there. 

A few weeks later, my wife was cleaning in the larger guest room. She moved a couple of framed photos off the bureau as she dusted, tossing them temporarily on the bed. One, a favorite of mine, pictured my son and I with a large Halloween pumpkin. As she tossed that photo to the bed, it landed with a noise as the back of the frame fell off. There behind the pumpkin picture was one of Oh Shinnah standing between my wife and me. At some point in time, it must have been relegated to the back of the frame and the Halloween photo put in front of it.

It has its own frame now.

Don’t get me wrong. Not everyone pictured on our refrigerator has gone to the great beyond. There are several photos of my son. One of him dancing. Why dancing? It was at the bonding ceremony Oh Shinnah officiated for Barb and me. At the reception, he danced with Oh Shinnah, who loved to flirt with young, handsome men. That photo stirs warm fuzzy feelings for me. There’s picture with his wife on a visit to Disneyland, the two of them standing with life sized Mickey Mouse between them. An integral part of my present life, their stories and mine intertwine, to be added accompanying more photos going forward.

I wonder, if I had to choose one photo to tell my story, what would I choose? 

I see two photos of my wife and I posing with our bicycles. One taken in Alaska and the other in Colorado. The photos captured an important chunk of time in my personal life; one of growth, hardship, and triumph. The second biking photo, us smiling by a sign for Monarch Pass in Colorado  reminds me of the grueling nineteen mile ascent and I realize it might take chapters to tell the stories that trip alone generated. Tales to be told after the touring days were over.  A thousand words? No way. Maybe twenty thousand.

I look around the house and see photos of animals, framed, on our walls. What stories do they tell and how are they connected to me? Up until now, I’ve only shared photos of people, but we’ve had pets over the years, dogs and cats, who have been cherished family members. Their stories are my stories too.

Judd, a large mutt, came to us after being impounded for chasing sheep on a local farm. He allowed Fuzzy, our cat, to sleep on his back, lounging in the sun in the front yard. That was quite a sight, one that caused my son to complain, “The kids on the school bus laugh at our dog, when the bus pulls up in front of the house. They say he’s a wuss!”  Judd and Fuzzy were followed by Pitin, Spot, Raven, Beau, and Shuey, spread out over the years. Their photos grace different rooms in our home. If you’ve ever had a pet, you know they have their own stories. You have their photos framed, too, I’ll bet.

And so, I’ve written a bit over one thousand words and (according to the number of photos we have) owe you many thousands more.  

Which leads me to the question, “What stories do your photos have to tell?” Are they tucked away in albums, like some of mine, that don’t get looked at nearly often enough? Are the story-telling ones on display, like some of ours, where visitors to your home may see them? 

Our lives are made up of significant experiences, people and animals.  I encourage you to look at your photos and see what stories emerge for you. Write them down. Share them!

How many of us have regretted not knowing more of our parents, grandparents, and ancestors stories? Taking a photograph was a big deal back then. Now, we are lucky enough to have phones that record moments with little effort. It’s all so accessible, and yet, the stories that go with the photos often disappear. We take  pictures because the subjects mean something to us. The day at the lake. Grandma in the kitchen. The dance recital. The wedding. 

Each provides a chance to follow up. Finish the stories that your photos started.

©2024 by Gail Greene Ouimet