Centennial cast photo

[fbhjr]

I grew up with almost no contact with my father’s family.

I remember meeting my grandmother, once, when I was about 6. She had moved in with my aunt and uncle at that point and we stayed in her house a few streets away for the visit. But, sadly, she didn’t really make a big impression on me.
(I remember my aunt’s dog, Steps, better than any of the family members I met at that time. At that age I still remembered my sister’s dog that had been put to sleep when I was 2, and Steps was a lot like him.)
I had actually met her many times more than that one time. When I was very young, she came up and visited several times. We had gone to see her when I was 4 as well. (Although I remember the trip when 4, I don’t remember the adults I met at the time. I could tell you more about Steps, the flamingos we saw, the alligator wrestling, the jellyfish on the beach, etc. People? No, they weren’t what I was big on at 4…)

Also at 6 I met my cousin Katie, her husband Tom and their daughter, mariness. I vaguely remember that. Mostly I remember the photo she had in her apartment of the solar eclipse that had happened earlier that year. Her husband had taken the photo off of the coast of Massachusetts. I had only been able to see the partial eclipse from my house and had not been allowed to go to Nantucket on my own to see the total eclipse. (A gross outrage to me at that age. I had, not for the first time, run away over it. I got as far as I usually did, which was the end of the road I lived on, before I came to the conclusion I didn’t know where Nantucket was. 39 years later, I’ve still never been to Nantucket…)
The photo is still in the home of Katie and Tom. I saw it again when we were at their anniversary party this August.

A couple of years later, I met my father’s cousin Van. I was maybe 8-9 years old. I was playing in the front yard one spring day. A very large car drove up. A man I didn’t know got out.
“You must be Frank,” he said.
I nodded. He opened the trunk of his car.
“These are for you,” he said, taking out a very large box.
I looked in it. It was full of electric trains.
“You take those and go play,” he said. “I’ve got to talk to your father.”
He went in the house.
I stood there for what (in my memory) was a very long time not knowing what to do. Finally I took the box of trains to the basement and started setting them up.
(I didn’t find out his name for 10 more years. He still, no offence to anyone else who might read this, has the title for “coolest relative ever” in my book for this event. It was like Santa was real, drove a Cadillac and knew my dad…)

I bring up these stories because for the first dozen years of my life, that was it for interaction with my father’s family.
In contrast, I saw my mother’s mother, father and sister weekly. We spent summers at my mother’s sister’s cottage. They only lived 20 minutes away and took care of us frequently. One of my mother’s brothers only lived 30 minutes away, and we saw his family almost as often. Her other brother was in the Navy and traveled with family a lot. But, we still saw them 2 or 3 times a year at least.

Despite seeing them a lot, I never felt a huge connection to most of my mother’s family. They, for the most part, didn’t like the things I liked. They didn’t think the way I thought. They didn’t care about the things I cared about.
There was too much evidence to the contrary to think I was adopted, but I really did wonder some times. And, to be honest, wish I could find evidence that I was adopted…

I finally started to get to know my father’s family when I was in college. It was a very different experience for me. I really enjoyed getting to know them. And, I’ve never wished to find evidence I wasn’t part of them.

My father played the violin most of his life. He performed in orchestras from his teen years until his early eighties. He stopped performing a few years before he died, but was still an honorary member of the orchestra.
Despite that, he never seemed to understand why I liked being on stage. Like him, I started with violin, but moved over to acting and such fairly quickly.
To say he disapproved of such things would be too strong. It was more of a “I don’t know why you’re wasting your time with that” sort of thing. He just didn’t see any point to that sort of performance.
He died the week after I joined a group that performs at Ren Faires, and my first faire performance was the day after we buried him. (So, there have always been a few “over my dead body” and “that would just kill him” jokes about it.)

So, for that sort of performance I still had that “don’t quite fit” feeling about it.

When his sister died the next year, we found a photo of their mother in her things.


This spring, it will be 100 years since that photo was taken. My grandmother is in the center, sitting down, behind two other women.
100 years ago, my grandmother stood in medieval costume for a performance.
My only memory of her is standing in my aunt’s house when I was 6. I don’t remember her voice. I don’t remember saying anything.
But, this photo makes me feel connected in a way I never felt to the grandmother I grew up with.
It will be 100 years this May since that photo was taken.
I feel like doing something to mark that.
Don’t know what yet. But, I’ve got some time to think about it…

Comments

[kismets-kiss.livejournal.com]

Thank you so much for sharing this.

[morgan-lafaye.livejournal.com]

Do we have a preformance that day? We could do something there, not in the " here's to you' sort of way. ( that can be tacky), but something meaningful to you to honur "Gramms".
I awlays like that story. You may not have known her well, but your grandma would have like all this I think.

[fbhjr.livejournal.com]

We've got one the week before. (Paladin CT)
I don't know. We'll see.