By Tom Poland, A Southern Writer
TomPoland.net
Photographs speak if you listen to them.
That curling, cracked Polaroid of your deceased uncle and aunt tells a story as surely as the photos of Iwo Jima and V-J Day in Times Square images do. A world entire lives inside the four walls of a photograph, even one that seems ordinary. Deconstruct the image, then put it back together. You’ll see what I mean.
One Christmas my sister, Deb, gave me a black-and-white photograph of three hometown lads from yesteryear. I put it on my mantel. For a long time I ignored it. Then, thinking about my dad one morning and how long he’s been gone, I took the photograph and held it. I tried to imagine I was there. Then I said to myself, “No, you are there.”
I watched the photo being taken as the men cracked jokes. They revel in their youth. They’re assured, cocky. Dad stands between Leslie, left, and Billy. Dad’s arm is casually draped around Leslie’s neck, “C’mon, let’s go shoot some pool.” Winter light floods the scene. Leslie wears plaid trousers, wool. Dad wears a leather jacket. Billy’s collar flies above his jacket like a white-winged dove. Right, Stevie? The men wear leather gloves—pleather would not come until 1963.
The men stand in front of a large building. Just to the left of Leslie sits a homemade bench. Behind the men is a set of double doors, so most likely it is not Price’s Store, the country store of my life, razed, sadly, a few years back. Wherever the men are, it’s most likely in Double Branches, the farming community of my father’s people.
Dad died of esophageal cancer. Billy succumbed to a heart attack in South America. Leslie? Dead. I don’t know the cause, but I know this — their moment together lives on.
A photograph is a time machine. Eternity freeze-framed. As one writer put it, the clock holds its breath. The three men have passed away and yet they stand right before my eyes in an image where I am a time traveler literally going back to my future. There stands the man who will father me, an Atomic veteran.
My guess is that this photo was taken after my father returned from Hiroshima. That would be around 1946. He seems serious. Marriage is just around the corner, April 11, 1947. Most startling is his full head of hair. All my life I knew Dad as a bald man. In later years he wore a toupee . . . something I was never comfortable with but if it made him happy, fine.
I come back to now, now. What of this photo frozen in time. Who took it? And what kind of camera? Perhaps it was a Kodak Retina II or more likely a camera with a viewfinder on top because the photographer has cut the men’s feet off. That could be an Ensign Ful Vue camera. But wait, the focus is off. Perhaps it was a clunky Kodak Rangefinder. And what time of day?
Look at the photograph again. It appears to be a very cold day. It’s past noon, say 3 pm and yet the men wear gloves. We know this because the shadow from my father’s gloved right hand falls onto Leslie’s sweater. The shadowy fingers hardly slant nor do they extend themselves.
So is it February? Probably. And I’d hazard a guess it’s a Saturday. The men appear dressed for some event. A bit of sleuthing turns up a date: Saturday, February 15, 1947. It’s the day after Valentine’s Day. Perhaps these gentlemen are taking their ladies out later. Might my Dad propose to my Mom this very evening? Of course I have no idea if this is true but it could easily be the truth, and I will say that it is.
Two final details. A board warps out to the left above Billy’s head. The light slants in just so creating a pocket of shadow. The men face north. The other detail. A reflection. I found a way to hold my father again.
I sigh now . . . You can’t escape people and their cell phones. People so easily take photos now it fools them into thinking they’re better than they are. Focusing? Not necessary. Bracketing for optimum exposure, what’s that? Sending film off to be processed. What? You’ve got to be kidding. I can see my photos as soon as I take them. I can even photograph myself. Video too.
How easy today’s photographers have it. Deciphering a photo is more difficult, but Rod will tell you, every picture tells a story . . . if you listen to the image.
