Stories On The Ceiling

Has the past invaded my brain? Worry makes a commanding appearance as I pour over old photographs. It's past midnight and I'm just too excited to sleep. The images don't so much make me meloncholly anymore, like they did after my parents' died, but now they create a fury of stories.  Stories that bind our family together. I forget worry.

These tales never grow old. Despite the fact that the same stories have been retold through the decades-laughter swells and throats ache holding back emotion, realizing change is inevitable with the passage of time. Stories may just be the only constant.

(This photo was certainly taken by my mother, who was the slowest photographer ever. Her care in capturing the shot never translated to quality. My mother had a thing for ceilings! Inevitably intended subjects were cut out of the shots. This photo was taken at my great aunt's house. Auntie and Gene lived on Cumberland Avenue in Portland. We visited nearly every Sunday after church. This image is a New Year's gathering probably between 1963 and 1966. My Aunt Karen has her back to the camera, while my father smokes at the table (acceptable for this era) and my sister laughs distracting her from posing.