PHOTO BLOG | My Father's Slides

Opening My Stocking, 1962

Photo of five year old opening her Christmas stocking

Opening stockings is still my favorite part of Christmas morning. And here I am at age 5, diving right in. It’s the details that speak to me in this photo—the Jordan Marsh Christmas box behind me, the pole lamp that always burned too hot, the baggy knees of my footed pajamas, and my hair—flyaway, stick straight, resisting my mother’s best attempts to roll it up in those little rubbers curlers.

Christmas in America, 1956

By the time this photo was taken, by grandparents had been in this country for nearly thirty years. But one of the treasures we have (thanks to family in Northern Ireland) are copies of a few of the letters my grandmother wrote back to folks in “the old country” when she was newly arrived. Among her observations in the late 1920’s: that this country is altogether different from Ireland; that people here think the Irish fight all the time; that people here have no home life, and that they have all their food outside the home. A few years later she would write “Thank goodness Xmas is over,” and go on to describe the extravagance of American Christmases. How the trees in people’s homes touched the roof, how many toys people had brought her young son (my father), and how every single one of them was done up in fancy paper. She concludes her letter home: “Many a time I worry that the present generation will be no good for they get every luxury without working for it.” She needn’t have worried–her children and grandchildren worked hard for both the basics and the luxuries that came their way, and subsequent generations seem to be on track to so the same. (Note: My father is the one in the black and white checked shirt and my Aunt Jean is wearing the green suit. The painting in this photo now hangs in my own living room).

Two Clifton Park Court, 1968

I am posting a picture of my childhood home in Melrose, Massachusetts, the scene of so many of our Thanksgiving gatherings. It was a lot of work, but my mother loved to host these holiday dinners. And there were certain things you could count on: Aunts and great aunts (who far outnumbered the uncles in our family); a children’s tables; black olives which we were allowed to put on our fingers (quite out of character in a family where playing with food was frowned upon); a turkey centerpiece made out of a pineapple; stuffed celery; my mother’s pretty holiday aprons; butternut squash; leniency from my father who allowed us to snitch turkey in the kitchen while he was carving; plain, but really good stuffing and gravy; too many pies; jello salad; half-dipped mints; “the good china” and the Waterford crystal; a box of chocolates from Russo’s and lessons from my mother about how to identify the caramels; and jigsaw puzzle. This my first Thanksgiving without my mother, but how lucky I was to have had her for sixty of them.

First Child Syndrome, 1960

In honor of today’s early season Nor’easter, I took a look at some of the snow scenes my father photographed. Although this isn’t one of his best shots, I couldn’t resist posting this photo of me sledding when I was three. I remember those hats with pompoms that tied under the chin (and still have my grandmother’s knitting patterns for them), but what I didn’t remember was being tucked in with blankets even on my sled. I guess that degree of overprotection is what you get when you are the oldest child.

Happy Birthday, Dad

Today would have been my father’s 87th birthday. It’s hard to believe that he has been gone for 14 years. Hard, also, to fathom that my mother is gone now as well. It has been difficult for me to post much on this photo blog since my mother’s death in June. So much of what this was about (given its origins as a present for her 85th birthday) was the conversation it stimulated. I would post a photo and my mother would follow up with further thoughts or pieces of information I never knew. For the last year of her life, it was a rich part of our life together. But there are more photos to share, my mother’s ten grandchildren to share them with, and a rising generation beyond that, so (however slowly and irregularly) my plan is to keep going. But for today, just a simple Happy Birthday, Dad. Love you.

Fun Flowers, 1968

My mother’s notation says that the occasion was Joanne’s Adult Birthday Party in July of 1968. It must have been hot, because the birthday girl looks a little sweaty. The detail not to be missed, however, is the pins that both my sisters are wearing. I’m pretty sure I made them, with what was one of my favorite (and most toxic) childhood toys—a Mattel Thingmaker. These pins came from the “Fun Flowers” set, although we also had the “Creepy Crawler” version. It was essentially an open heating unit with a set of metal molds (think burns), into which you poured a liquid plastic molding substance called “Goop” (think toxic fumes). Then you would bake them until they congealed into various little rubbery doodads. There were two parts of the process that were remarkably satisfying—mixing colors (I still like to play with color that way) and that moment when you got to use a little wire tool to pull them out of the die-cast molds. Almost as satisfying as pulling dried Elmer’s glue off of the palm of your hand.

Santa’s Village, 1966

Santa’s Village still exists. Here in New Hampshire, we see ads for it on our local television station throughout the summer. In this photo, we are posing in front of a fiberglass whale. What the whale’s connection was to Santa, I’m not sure, but fiberglass sculptures provided photo ops and were kind of “a thing” back then. I’m sure Santa’s Village today has more attractions and better rides than it did in 1966, but even then, our annual visit was something we looked forward to. We would usually go when we were in New Hampshire anyway, vacationing at Geneva Point Camp on Lake Winnipesaukee. We would pick a day when the weather was iffy, and swimming and canoeing were off the table. You can see the nod to inclement weather in the umbrellas my sisters and I are carrying. And of course there was plaid, alway more plaid. We wore it all the time.

Bermuda, 1976

In the late 1970s, my family took several trips to Bermuda. By that time, I was away at college and did not travel with them. Thus, I have no particular memories of the scene recorded in this slide, and by then, my mother’s notations had become more cryptic. If I had to guess, I would say this appears to have been taken on some sort of boat or ferry, but her notes only say “Bermuda, April 1976.” It is a photo of my mother and brother, who would have just turned four.

This photo and the reflection we have done as a family since her death a month ago remind me how long a stretch my mother spent in the enterprise of childrearing. Because my own children are relatively close in age (just 26 months apart), my season of active mothering was never the marathon hers was. She started in the 1950s and did not finish up until the 1990s.

Although arguably, there is not real cut-off or finish line for this job, she spent parts at least of five different decades raising children. And decades in which there were lots of cultural and societal changes to navigate. Even her hairstyle in this photo reflects this. It is a much more relaxed cut than the ones I remember. When I was a child, she had a weekly (and sacrosanct) appointment to have her hair done at Chatelaine Coiffures, a beauty shop in Melrose Highlands. And for the seven days that followed, there would be an arrangement of curls and loft to maintain with various rollers, nets, hairsprays, and a foul smelling gel called Dippety-Do.

I suspect that’s how motherhood went for her, too. Certain things got simpler and more streamlined, but other things got more complicated with the loss of familiar routines and the explosion of options in the 1970s. But from first to last, Priscilla Murch Copeland (1932-2018) gave it her all and did an amazing job (despite our adolescent complaints to the contrary). RIP, Mom. Your work is done.

Fourth of July, 1958

Remember when we decorated our bikes for the 4th of July? This is my cousin Teddy showing off his bike, all decked out in red, white, and blue. My father took this slide in 1958, probably outside the Parsons’ home in Everett, Massachusetts. Happy 4th of July!

My Beautiful Mother (Again)

I could comment on the wallpaper style, the coffee served in china cups and saucers, the ice cream served in slices, the old school box of Crayola crayons on my feeding table–all the things that place this photo in a different era. But today, on a Sunday afternoon, as I sit at my mother’s bedside in a Hospice House, I can’t help but think how lucky I have been to sit beside this beautiful woman and that shy smile for so many years. You’ll never see this post, Mom, but I’ll say it anyway…I love you. Always have and always will.