This picture was pulled up in a completely random fashion from a folder that is shared from our other computer to this one. The random part comes from the fact that I don’t rename everything, so this one is just listed as a bunch of letters and numbers in a series and the only way I could see it was to upload it. Well, probably not the ONLY way, but the only method my computer illiterate brain could fathom at the moment. Maybe I’ve posted it before, but it doesn’t matter.
I look to be about 9 or 10 months old, so it’s possibly March, 1950. How’s that for astute detective work. I could likely find a date on the original print, but that also doesn’t really matter, and sounds too much like work. A sunny Sunday, by the look of dad’s clothes. Warm enough for mitten-less hands. Disgruntled brother and dog, obviously interrupted from romping in the snow and anxious to get back to that. The surrounding snow is well trampled, and Ron’s snow pants are caked with it from the knees down.
When I was home in October we got together at my brother’s house with the minister who would conduct Dad’s memorial service. He had been a young boy when dad worked for his family as a hired farm hand, and he shared some lovely memories with us that we’d never heard before. One of them was how dad helped him get through the devestating time of losing his own mother, an experience Dad had gone through himself at a young age. He also remembered talking to dad after the still-birth of his first child, and how distraught he was, and that he had said sadly “I can grown everything but a family”.
Perhaps that explains the doting look on his face in this picture, and how proud he always was of us, and why we always felt cherished and loved. And why it was so important to him that we loved and cherished our mom. Even though she dressed us funny. I mean, seriously, what kind of strange helmut-like thing is that on my brother’s head??
I’m glad I pulled up this particular random photo. I like the warm fuzzy feelings it’s pulled up in me.