I once served my father mulberries on a little pink plastic plate. The mulberry tree stood in the yard of a neighbor down the street. Most people rued the tree’s existence as birds ate the berries and then proceeded to stain laundry hung outside to dry. I do not remember why on that summer’s day I wanted to pick berries but I did and I guess I became quite vocal. In any case, one of my older brothers took me by the hand and walked me down the street. He helped me pick the berries from the ground. Upon returning home, I rinsed them in the kitchen sink and then carefully piled them on a saucer. My parents happened to have company over that day. Most of the adults sat outside beneath the shade of our plum tree. To each of them I offered my plate of sparkling fruit. I wanted someone to partake. All said no except my father. He looked me in the eyes and smiled. Then, he took the plate and the fork I offered. He smashed the berries just a little and then scooped them into his mouth.
Maybe eight years later when I was fourteen or so, I sat at the kitchen table. Across from me, my father read the local newspaper while sipping his instant coffee. I leafed through the Sears catalog. My mother called it a dream book. When especially young, my younger brother and I would sit side by side on the couch with the catalog draped over our legs. We would spin tales, pretending that we were drinking from the crystal goblets or playing with the toys and tools. But as time passed, and I began to attend school with kids from a very different socio-economic bracket, leafing through the catalog became less fun. It was a reminder of what I did not have. That day as my father and I sat in the kitchen, I flipped slowly through the catalog pages staring at young women dressed in clothes I wanted. At some point, I looked up. My father watched me. I will never forget the look on his face, the sadness. “I’m sorry I can’t get you those clothes.” I closed the book and said with a big smile, “I don’t need them. I was just daydreaming.” He shook his head, then smiled a bit tentatively and went back to his paper.
At his funeral many years later, a gentleman called my father “stick in the mud.” It was a complement. He was viewed by just about all who knew him as steady and as an anchor in my mother’s life. The concept of family as anchor and inspiration in one’s life has been on my mind a great deal lately. For many reasons but most especially because of a statement made by my younger brother. For as long as they could, our parents raised us like twins. Today we still chat quite a bit even though we now live thousands of miles apart. He is in a new phase of life, juggling a lot, raising his growing family, helping out other family and friends, while working overtime to make ends meet. After putting out several recent fires and taking a break to simply breathe, he said to me, “When I die, I don’t know if I will ever see our mom and dad again. If I do, the first words I will say to them, especially to Pop, are Thank you. I’m just learning how much he juggled, how much he sacrificed. We just never knew …”
Don’t get me wrong. My father was no saint nor was he a perfect father. He was simply a good man who believed in taking care of his family. He was no teacher but he sure taught by example. He did not speak often but he could spin a tale. My brothers have inherited his straight forward eloquence. I am less eloquent but I do love finding the story in words and in images. I don’t know what he would think of my photography, especially the more abstract images like these branches. But I do know that he would look earnestly at my work, then gaze into my eyes and he would smile. And should he see my younger brother one more time? My brother will say thank you and then I am sure our father will gaze into his eyes and he will say, “Son, you are welcome.”
Words + Images 