I read an article by Bill McClellan in the St. Louis Post Dispatch on Wednesday titled “No one to name faces in photos”.
Although I didn’t quite understand why the story was titled this, I read on.
I was touched by Mr. McClellan’s urgency to look at old photos tucked away in a corner of his home, after his father passed on. He cleaned out the mobile home his dad and his mother lived in, all the while wondering what items to save.
He sifted through photos of his sister, dog, and parents while living in Chicago over 50 years ago. There were photos of his grandmother from Belfast and his sister Sarah.
There were antique photographs – you know, the sharp and crisp kind, of days gone by. People got dressed up for special occasions. Or for no reason at all.
As he sifted through the cardboard box of memories, he realized that no one alive could identify mom and dad’s friends in the photos.
The line that struck me most from the article goes like this:
“They say a person is really dead only when nobody alive really thinks of them.”
I’ve been thinking about this statement for two days. I wholeheartedly agree.
Although my Mom and Dad have passed on, I think about them daily. I pray for them daily.
I often think about my grandmother on my Dad’s side, Mary.
I remember the Saturday morning drive to visit her in the Soulard district of St. Louis.
I remember walking up two flights of stairs, and the pungent smell of liver and onions wafting across the back yard.
I remember her opening the weathered and paint-chipped door to her apartment, and always being surprised to see us.
I remember her broken-Lithuanian accent and her frail, arthritic hands.
I remember she used to shake her fist at Dad, and curse at him in her native language.
I remember she used to call me “She-ree” and slip a twenty dollar bill in my hand, each time we’d visit.
I remember her smile, the wrinkles at the corner of her lips, and that sometimes she didn’t wear her dentures.
I remember she was short of stature, and had a huge heart.
I remember that she was humble.
Daily she’d trek to Soulard Market by foot for vegetables and fruits with her rolling cart.
I remember that when she passed on, my Mom, Dad, brother, and sister-in-law helped clean out her tiny walk-up apartment on 8th street. One of the interesting artifacts we found was a bag of birdseed, within a glass jar, within another bag of birdseed, within another glass jar. I suppose she couldn’t let go of the memory of her pet canary.
I remember a photo of my grandfather with a handlebar mustache. Although an illness took him early in life, I felt like we’d met. The picture hung above her dusty tattered sofa.
So I guess a person is really dead, if no one thinks of them. I don’t like the word dead. I try to use other synonyms when referring to ‘that’ word.
I think of all those loved ones who’ve gone before me – their spirits are still alive in my heart. And I can see their faces in front of me. Almost like I can reach out and touch their physical presence.
Thank you Bill McClellan for your article. Although the purpose of the article may not be what you intended, it stirred up great memories for me.