For the past couple weeks, I’ve been scanning old family
slides for my dad—thirty-some years worth. From a writer’s perspective—especially
a writer who is particularly interested in character driven stories—it is fascinating
to watch history unfold in old photographs. I am the objective bystander,
looking in on the development of a family—my family. Not only that, but caught
on film are individuals in that
family. As one of seven children, it was easy to blend into the mass. We were the
Scheffer Tribe. A gaggle of children, close in age.
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| No, I'm not the nose picker; I'm the goofy one behind Mom! |
Understandably, it was difficult for others to keep us all
straight, especially us three older girls (Why, oh why did Mom do that to our hair!). It was too easy to think of myself as an indistinct part of a whole. I never gave much thought to distinguishing myself as an individual; it seemed best not to stand out. Yet, in my own quiet way, I struggled to find a safe means of expressing myself (yes, I was of the children-should-be-seen-and-not-heard generation, enabling my parents to take seven moderately well-behaved children anywhere). I found that 'safe expression' of self in drawing and sewing and writing.
In my author biography I mention that I have been writing
since I was a kid. I recall lying awake at night, thinking up scenarios. I have
memories of writing all sorts of convoluted stories and sappy poetry. I even
have old notebooks packed away somewhere, filled with mysteries and romances. Today,
I came across another bit of evidence that I have indeed been writing for a
long time.
This photo was taken on a family camping trip in Florida,
just before I turned twelve. I remember that red notebook so well…I wonder what
I had been writing that day.
And I had a real flair for fashion, don't you think?
You were a writer and an individual at twelve who didn't care what others thought! Too bad you don't still have that notebook. This is why I like to save things. An old picture, or a button or a postcard or a lunch box can trigger a whole host of memories.
ReplyDeleteI guess there was a little individualist somewhere in me, just screaming to get out--I mean, who wears a hat like that if not an individualist? (Okay, two of my sisters had the identical hat!)
DeleteAnd I do believe I still have that notebook, packed away. When I come across the box, I will have to peruse my early attempts and maybe even post a line or two.
What a lovely family photo. It must be an interesting project to scan slides, especially as they only reveal all their secrets when enlarged. And I love that pic of you with your notebook! Great hat. :)
ReplyDeleteHello Jayne! So nice to hear from you!
DeleteYes, it is an interesting--if not somewhat disconcerting--project. One forgets so much and it takes so little to bring back memories--most of them good, but they still leave me scratching my head. They also answer a few questions...(I'll leave it at that.)
I wonder what ever happened to the hat...it would make a great lampshade.
I probably have a picture of me somewhere in a similar hat. and yes, what was it with mother's and chopping off all our hair? Hope you find that notebook. I would love to see what's in it.
ReplyDeleteI highly doubt that I picked out the hat, seeing as several of us ended up with it--and the hair...hmmm...as I recall, we were told it was fashionable, but I know better--my mother simply tired of braiding all that hair.
Delete...and when I find that notebook, you'll be the first to know!
Ditto the chopped hair...mine was called a "pixie," no long tresses for me! I have diaries going back to age 15. The answer to everything was to write it out of me...lots of angst-y poems in those days. I lay in bed at night and made up stories too back then, although I didn't write down. Nowadays, I lay in bed and make them up, and I DO write them down.
ReplyDeleteYes, that was it--a Pixie haircut! Although I still tend to wear mine on the long side, I have cut it all off really short several times since then.
DeleteI think I kept a few angsty diaries when I hit my teens--like you, around 15 or so. Kind of painful to go back and read, now. My earlier writings were fictitious, but I'm sure when I come across them, I'll cringe just as much. ha! At least it made me comfortable with the concept of writing fiction.
,,,amazing...:)
ReplyDelete,,,s'not amazing, Glenn... ;)
Delete