Filed Under:Blog, childhood, family, Featured Post, memoir
Posted By: Susan Rooke
Posted on: March 14, 2019 10:45 AM
Do you ever hear from someone in your distant past? Someone you haven’t seen or heard from since childhood and were certain you never would again?
This probably happens more often than it used to, thanks in large part to social media. Before that, the options for tracing people boiled down to, what? Private detectives, the Salvation Army and newspaper ads in the Personals section? (Are there still such things as Personals ads? I used to read them for fun. Sometimes I’d come across messages so cryptic that I was sure they were connected to drug deals, extramarital assignations or murder-for-hire schemes. ) Well, once in a great while, someone from the remote (as in decades-old) past will track me down and get in touch. It’s happened several times over the past five years, but one of the most recent was especially surprising.
About a year-and-a-half ago, a woman reached me by using the contact form on my website. I remembered her at once. We’d known each other for a brief time in childhood; she was a few years older than I. Our mothers were good friends. When I read her name, I had a vivid mental image of her as a girl: an intense and level gaze, beautiful skin, long brunette hair that was impossibly thick and healthy, often worn in a braid as big around as a man’s fist.
It developed that she was going through her late mother’s effects and found some family photos that my mother had given her. She wanted to send them to me. We exchanged a few lovely, cordial emails, and then, after not hearing from her for months, I forgot about the whole thing. So imagine my surprise when, a few afternoons ago, I opened my post office box to find a manila envelope bearing her return address.
Did I rip it open as soon as I got home? No. God, no. As I’ve written before (“Too Close to Home”), there are sizeable chunks of my past that are painful to look back on, and to do so can make me physically ill. The good memories, oddly, are more painful than the bad.
Instead, I put the envelope on the coffee table and watched it from the corner of my eye for several hours. But it stayed put, didn’t explode, didn’t lift its flap and begin speaking with the voices of the dead. Finally, I opened it. And, to my surprise, enjoyed viewing the contents. Kind of.
The photos were largely lighthearted and harmless: a badly faded, spotty record of a handful of people, most of whom are now buried, and some of whom dressed on at least one occasion in matching outfits.
For reasons best known (I’m sure) to my mother. My grandmother and I just put on what she told us to wear. The envelope contained nothing incendiary or toxic (but since when was I ever allowed to stand on the furniture?),
which was a big relief.
But still . . . No matter how pleasant the results, it’s such an unsettling feeling when a long finger reaches out from my history and taps me on the shoulder. A few weeks before the above photos arrived, there had been another tap. That time, the long finger was my own.
I had decided to reread a book I’d purchased and greatly enjoyed soon after its release in 1986: Perfume, by Patrick Süskind. But before I dove in, I lingered for a couple of minutes in pleasant anticipation (do you do that with books you’re really looking forward to reading?), studying the cover image, a detail from the Watteau painting, Nymphe et Satyre.
At last I opened the book. And this fell out.
I might have screamed just a little, but luckily I soon recognized myself. Thank heavens. Otherwise, I would’ve wondered who the dead person was. (But why did I stash the photo in that particular book? As a jokey contrast with the nymph on the cover?)
As I examined the photo, the circumstances came back to me. Early in our relationship, Glen had tried to tell me that I slept with my eyes open. That was so clearly preposterous that I refused to believe him. So he decided to prove it to me. I don’t recall how many nights he waited, listening to me snore, but finally he caught me in the act and snapped this Polaroid. Somehow I slept through the camera’s mechanical wheezing and clackety ratcheting. Not to mention the flash.
He told me I scared the daylights out of him the first time he woke up and found my corpse beside him. After seeing the evidence, I couldn’t blame him. And eventually, I even forgave him for taking the picture.
*GLEN: STOP READING NOW*
Or at least, that’s what I wanted him to think. Actually, I’m just biding my time until the night I rise up in the bed and bend over him, watching him with my creepy dead eyes . . .
Filed Under:Blog, childhood, family, Featured Post, memoir
that photo. is kind of creepy. I must admit but the others are lovely. You were such a cute little girl!!!
Thank you, Susan! 🙂 That photo IS creepy, isn’t it? Who knew I look like a corpse when I sleep? Now the whole world does, I guess! 😉
LOL. LOL. NO PROBLEM BABY. I’M USED TO IT NOW. LOVE YOU SPOOKY.
I LOVE YOU TOO! (hee!)
I neither snore NOR sleep with my eyes open. At least I inherited your adorableness. ^^
Which makes you pretty close to perfect, I’m thinking. 😉 And makes life WAY less frightening for Wesley!
LOL! That picture is hilarious!
🙂 Not the most flattering photo in the world, maybe, but I thought it was worth sharing. Just so everyone knows what poor Glen has been putting up with all these years!
oh wow this is extremely excellent! Both the story and I also LOVE these photos! You were so flipping cute!
The photo of you and your mom and grandma all in the same outfits is absolutely priceless. This sentence made me laugh out loud: “My grandmother and I just put on what she told us to wear.” Still laughing, in fact.
And that bottom photo – I always knew there was more to you than meets the eye (ha- see what I did there?). I bet you have superpowers like Cyclops from the X-Men and can shoot laser beams out of your eyes! (don’t piss her off, Glen!)
As soon as you learn to control your abilities we can start to conquer the world! Better start thinking of your new super hero name.
SUPERPOWERS!!! Yes, I want some! And Glen better darn well watch out, or I’ll zap him with the death eye! Hmm . . . my super hero name . . . Is that anything like my exotic dancer name? Because l think that was Fawndancer Moonbeam or some such. That’s not very heroic, though. I have to think about that. 🙂
That would be quite the photo to have fall out of the book! My youngest sleeps with her eyes open, too. So, we’re used to it.
And you were adorable! I just had someone poke me with an old photo from my high school years today. My oldest said, “Wow. I didn’t realize you were so old.” Not sure how to take that comment. But you’re right, some moments are fun, but sometimes it’s unsettling .
Hi, Tonja! Oh, good, I’m glad not to be the only frightening anomaly (and thank you for thinking I was adorable many years ago)! Katie has never made the “I didn’t realize you were so old” comment, but she did ask me when she was about 11 when I was going to stop dyeing my hair. She asked only once, however. Then she got older and more girly, and realized dyeing your hair could be fun for many reasons. (Maybe not for my same reasons, though. 😉 )
Yeah, I just prefer not to look back. I wish I could look at old photos without the risk of pain, but that feeling is always there, unfortunately.