Who The Hell Are
These People?
My husband is selling his parents’ home in Maine. Part of
the property is a large barn that has been used by his mother’s family for over
one hundred years. Inside, there is over one hundred years of stuff: Christmas
do-dads, magazines, furniture, farm equipment, etc. We found ancient wooden
pulleys five-feet wide. Iron wagon
wheels too heavy to lift. Plates, old
glass bottles, not-so-old glass bottles, and shoes that have been feasted on by
some barn beast.
In one box, we discovered a collection of old letters, postcards,
and other documents that managed to survive with only some damage. It’s
teaching me much I didn’t know about Jim’s family. His grandmother Irene, whom
I never met, was only tardy twice in 1917 (according to her report card). And
she got a score of 80 on “deportment,” whatever the heck that is.
Some relative named “Miss Evie” got two gold fillings in
1905, at the cost of $2.50, by Dr. W. S. Fogg. (A convincing argument for time
travel, don’t you think?) That same Evie got straight 100’s on her 1900 report
card. Smarty pants.
What’s been frustrating are the pictures. Very old, some
crumbling, but each wants to tell a story. And too many are unlabeled. Here in
lily-white rural Maine, where my husband never even saw an African-American until
he went to college, we find this fascinating photo. Who is she? How is she
connected to the family?
Most impressive is the two immense pictures, in heavy gold
frames, that must have hung in prominent display in some ancestor’s living
room. But we have no idea who they are. (Please, people--- go through your old
family photos and WRITE DOWN THE NAMES!)
These two pictures fascinate me. The man has that dapper parted-in-middle,
side-poofed hairstyle. I want to call him Oliver.
Maybe Oliver Merryfield
Pendexter. This picture was taken right before he boarded the Titanic. Knowing
he was about to die, he herded women and children to lifeboats, and his last
words were “I told you that was a damn iceberg!” He left behind a grieving
widow, Sylvia Truworth Pendexter, whose portrait is here.
Lovely Sylvia grieved for a while, but then went on to marry
a railroad tycoon. They had three children, the middle one a son she named
Oliver. The railroad tycoon proved to be a philanderer, so Sylvia left him, sneaking
out in the dead of night with her small children, only stopping to steal four
hundred dollars from her husband’s safe. She moved to Maine to rebuild her
life. She purchased a cranberry farm that remained in the family for several
generations.
This is what happens when you don’t label pictures, people.
Some writer comes along and creates names and narratives. We can’t help
ourselves.
Some documents that Jim and I found did have names. Jim’s
mom’s poem, written when she was probably seven. The program for his uncle’s
sixth grade recital.
And a piece of history we didn’t know: Irene Cross, his
grandmother, worked as a part-time journalist for the Portland Press-Herald.
She kept copies of her articles about her little town of Hiram. She worked in a
mill, and raised two children, but had the time and talent to work as a
correspondent—probably not that common for a woman in the 1940s.
I never met Irene, but I’d love meeting her now.
What has been your experience with family photos? Any
stories that needed to be written?
I now have the family records and can’t tell you how frustrating it was for my father and now for me (because he did the same darn thing) to see something labeled as “Uncle Joe” or “Aunt Agnes” when we have no Joes of Agnes’s in the family that I know of. Were they more distant relatives, cousins who by they age were called aunt and uncle, or close family friends? I could make up a story and no one would know I had . . .
ReplyDeleteWhat a wonderful cache of memories!
ReplyDeleteWhat a great source for stories and characters in your family barn.
ReplyDeleteSo true, Carla. We saved a bunch of old photos from my husband's family home. Even though I have no idea who these people are, I cannot bring myself to toss them. Funny that my husband would have no trouble discarding them. He hasn't been bitten by the genealogy bug yet.
ReplyDeleteWe have a joke in our family about how our old framed photos might end up in a Cracker Barrel restaurant. All around the restaurant hangs framed photos of people from long ago. It's a shame that family photos end up there, but at least they are being viewed and not buried in an attic somewhere.
ReplyDeleteI agree. I've seen family photos that none of us can identify. Grrrr.
ReplyDeleteI love it that the pictures were treasured and kept. But it is frustrating! But of course, as Margaret said, they can be a source for stories.
ReplyDeleteWhen my mum-in-law passed away, we found a box of old photos that had to have been from her childhood in Poland. But since she came to American by way of a Nazi forced labor camp (she was taken prisoner at age 16) and several refugee camps, we have no idea how she still had them, or where they came from. About half had first names penciled on the back but no relationships so my husband had no idea who was who. Very sad.
ReplyDeleteHow fascinating, Carla. Yes, you can use them for a story someday. My mother died a year after my father, and when my siblings and I got together, we went through the pictures. Many of them we had no idea who they were. If we wanted the picture we put our name on the back. If we were the only one who wanted it. We got to keep it. If others wanted it too, my youngest sister made copies of it so we could each have the picture. There were so many pictures we didn't know. It was the same with letters mailed to my grandmother, that my mom had kept. Some of them we'd heard of, others we didn't.
ReplyDelete