By Lorry Myers
Like most of us these days, I find myself with unplanned time on my hands. I caught up on some reading and some writing and thank goodness, no arithmetic. I picked up sticks and sewed on a button, cut off some jeans and tried
my hand at cooking something new.
That is a story for another day.
I sat in my chair on my phone pouting until finally, after listening to myself whine and complain, I made a decision. Until now, I believed I had no free time to organize closets and cabinets.
Now, there is no excuse.
In the hallway closet, stashed in the back in an old box with no name, I discovered something I didn’t expect. It was a box of old photos found underneath my grandmother’s bed when we cleaned out her house. Other family members had no interest or knowledge about the people inside.
But I did.
There was my father’s mother, Goldie, on her wedding day, her husband, Walter, looking rakish in a felt hat. I touched the faces of my great-grandparents, Ben and Emma, who looked weathered and worn from the sun and hard times. Inside the same box there were photos of my mother’s mother, Ella, sitting stoically behind her parents with her brother and sisters. The framed picture used to hang in my grandmother’s bedroom and she would point out the faces and say their names.
Each one had a story.
Over the next few days, I took the time to write on the backs of those old photos, all that I knew about the people. My relatives were tough, they lost family and friends to cancer and polio and tuberculosis. They loved and lost, were knocked down and got back up. There was pain and perseverance, hurt and hope and a determination to make the best of what life gave them. The old photos of old relatives made me realize.
It can always be worse.
For the complete column, please see this week’s edition of the Centralia Fireside Guard.