Who is that guy?
Let me bring out that old saw about a picture worth a thousand words... more like 735 words but you get my drift.
There’s an ancient picture of me that I keep on the wall in my work space. At different times it means different things to me. I get joy, inspiration, pangs of nostalgia and a host of other emotions from that photograph. In a lot of ways it keeps me grounded.
I look up at the wall and there it is: raw potential, energy, pride, maybe some ambition, a goofy stunt with that left hand and the chance to do anything you want.
It reminds me of my own children. You want so much for them to succeed and be happy while simultaneously hoping they stop growing up and somehow freeze in time at their most delightfully innocent, simple selves.
Almost for certain this photo was taken with my Mom’s Kodak Brownie 127 (produced from 1953 - 1959 with Bakelite body). That camera might have accompanied her to the UK on a choir tour. It definitely went to Europe on her and Dad’s honeymoon in 1957. Later, it appeared at Disneyland and on many other family functions before being demoted and handed down after the introduction of the Instamatic.
It’s spring. I know that because the venerable hydrangea just off the step is not yet in bloom or leafed out. I got pushed into that hydrangea in the middle of summer, back first. I saw the world disappear under a tent of green leaves while being poked most rudely by a number of old, dry shoots. It was a bit of a panic trying to get out. I couldn’t get my feet to touch ground and I felt like I was sinking further into the bush every second and every struggle. Terrifying for a five year old.
Meanwhile, where was I going on this sunny day?
I’m dressed up. I can’t say for certain what the occasion was exactly but if I had to guess, since it was springtime of 1964 in North Surrey, British Columbia, it was probably for Sunday school.
My perpetually pregnant mother -
(it seemed that way to me. I thought it was her permanent state. I was the first of four. My final brother appeared in June of the same year)
- was in a process of extricating herself from organized religion but still wanted to please her parents. Cedar Hills United was only a few blocks away from our rental on 98A Avenue. My grandparents were pillars of the Crescent Beach United (Gramps did the wiring of the new church!) but that was quite a hike on a Sunday morning.
I’m sure my Dad was dead against it in theory but given his experience with his even more cultish spinster aunts (Plymouth Rock Brethren, foot washers and such) he probably didn’t see any harm, in practice, in the banal United Church.
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