I was looking for something else on my computer when I came across this picture from a 1958 Christmas, gleaned from a collection of my dad’s slides. That’s the one-and-a-half me in the red jumpsuit. That’s my mom sitting in the chair, and I’m pretty sure that’s her dad on the left.
My gifts included a ball, a train building set, and a classic Lassie dog. But in this moment, I was all about the red balloon on which my mom must have drawn something.
I think this is my grandparents house in northeast Philadelphia. The live tabletop tree, carefully decorated with individual strands of tinsel, is encircled by an O-gauge Lionel electric train. A tiny nativity on the table is surrounded by a little host of angels.
Mom’s ever-present ashtray and cup of coffee are perched on the arm of her chair. I’ll bet I’m the reason why she looks weary on this Christmas morning. She was twenty-four in this picture.
My earliest memories come from when I was six years old. This is a Christmas flashback by virtue of the fact that my dad caught it on film. This Christmas memory is one I don’t remember. These pictures tell my story, a story that fascinates me.
My dad’s slides included three or four pictures from each Christmas. Not many compared to the dozens of digital photos we take every year. But enough to make me want to sift through them to learn more about my childhood, memories I don’t remember.
Waite for it... 