the past
I've spent the entire evening uploading family pictures for my sister to make into an album for my dad in his nursing home, to remind him who he is. Or something. I've just emailed about 70 pictures to her (and to the aunties, I'm a good girl).
This is my grandfather, Clifford Bush, holding Baby Papa Baroque, in 1928. It's probably a hot hot day in June. They were in upstate New York, and the Depression hadn't yet hit. I'm not sure if that's their pickup truck or a neighbour's; I never saw Grandpa drive anything even remotely like a pickup.
All the stories I've ever heard from my dad about his childhood are of hardship and poverty: one old saw (as I had it in my teens) involved my infant dad dragging his sled across the snowy hills after school, returning to its owners the washing Grandma had taken in. He'd get home after dark and have to eat whatever there was for dinner without complaining. If he left anything on his plate it appeared again at breakfast-time. He seemed to think we were spoiled! I'm sad to report my adolescent retort: "Well it's not my fault!" I'd say as I stomped up to my huge room. " You made me this way."
In a way, he had: he had got out of there as fast as he could get. By the time he had me he was a breezy guy in rectangular glasses and a checked jacket, with an MA on TS Eliot under his belt and a glass of bourbon in his hand. (Pretty much grafted to it, actually.) I grew up in a succession of enormous houses, thinking I was Lady Muck.
Both my grandparents had known poverty before; it's that part of the world, the top end of the Appalachian Mountains, a region of small towns, farms, a bit of dreary industry. My grandfather worked in a factory that made airplane parts. Grandma had umpteen brothers and sisters and left school at 14 so she could work. They used to cut the toes out of their shoes to get more wear out of them as they grew. She swore at 14 that she would never live like that again, "and" - as Daddy put it - "she never did." When I was a tiny kid they lived in a trailer which I remember as being colourful, spotless and fascinating. I remember plastic flowers and decorative white gravel.
I've never seen a picture of Grandpa looking happy. Even when young neither he nor my grandmother ever managed 'carefree'.
But he looks pretty proud here.
And a bonus:
3 comments:
My parents are the same vintage as Papa Baroque and there are stories in my family like that too. My uncle still talks about going with my dad out to orchards and spending the day picking fruit and my mother had to milk cows before school - to which they all seemed to walk, or ride horses or bicyles at least an hour each way.
Yes, and my kids won't walk ten minutes if there's a bus!
Then again, neither would my dad have done I suppose, if there'd been one.
Hi Kate,
Just like to say thanks for sending a couple of photos to your sister, who has very kindly sent them to me. I am sorry to hear about the declining health of your dad. Mine also is not in the best of health recently so I can really sympathise. I check your site every day and has inspired me to start a blog myself. Take care.
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