Our Family Photograph

(This is a story I entered in the Florida Weekly week 10 contest. Unfortunately I was unable to include the photo. It was a of a family taken around the late 18 early 19 hundreds. They all had very dour expressions including the twin infants on the mothers lap. The father was literally not in the picture.)

         Believe it or not, I remember posing for this picture all those years ago. I suppose the day stuck in my mind because we never wore our Sunday clothes unless there was a special event happening. Of course, back then anything that didn’t involve chores could be considered a special event as far as I was concerned.

A normal day for me consisted of gathering eggs from the hen house for breakfast. On good days we each got three, but as the hens go older and egg production dropped, we were lucky to share two or three between the five of us. After breakfast, I was sent out to weed the garden. This chore took most of the morning because our garden was one of the biggest in the county. It was hard work but it had its benefits, especially when the strawberries started ripening. Breakfast might be sparse, but as long as I was by myself in the garden, I could eat my fill.

Afternoons were usually spent tending to the animals or going fishing, hoping to catch supper. Sometimes I would complain about having to do all the hard work while my sister got to stay in and take care of the twins, but my griping fell on deaf ears. Mom would remind me that while dad was away, I was the man of the house and needed to pull my weight.

My father had left shortly after the twins were born to find work. The country was in what the adults called an economic depression and jobs were scarce. We received a letter from him a few weeks later with ten dollars in it. He said he had found work in a goldmine somewhere out in California—I don’t remember the town’s name. If all went well, he would send for us. He asked my mother to use some of the money to take a family picture and send it to him so he could look at it while he was thinking of us.

Taking a picture back then was a big deal, which is why we wore our Sunday best. We went into town to a place called a studio where pictures were taken. A photographer, that’s what I was told he was called, brought us into a room and asked my mother to sit in a chair holding the twins. He placed my sister and me on either side of her and told us to remain very still.

We all stood rock-solid as the man stepped behind a wooden box resting on a tripod, placed a towel looking thing over his head, held up a T-shaped object and counted 3-2-1, and flash! A bright light shot from the T thing and the twins began to scream. It made me jump and my sister clutched my mother’s shoulder. The man was upset because he said we ruined the picture by moving and he would need to do it all over again.

Mother got the twins calmed down and we all resumed our assigned positions for picture number 2. The photographer was not happy about having to retake the picture and we were angry with the man for scaring us, so nobody smiled. The flash once again scared the twins, but mom, my sister and I knew what to expect and remained rigid. The ordeal was over and we climbed into our wagon and returned to the farm.

Several days later I was sent back to the photographer to collect our picture. When my mother unwrapped the photo, she laughed until tears ran down her cheeks. Looking back at us were five very angry looking people.

She sent the picture to my father, but after several weeks it was returned to us along with a note. There had been an accident at the mine and my father was killed. The people in the photo now had a real reason not to smile.