How an Old Photo Can Provide Some Clarity on the Nature of Eternity
I discovered a picture of my grandma and grandpa when they were young and beautiful
Grandpa worked for many years as a doctor in a small community in northern Wisconsin. My mom would be the first to say that her home life wasn’t perfect, but she maintained a relationship with her dad until the end of his life. I saw him often.
Once my mom told a story from her days growing up. A child had been brought to the hospital with severe burns covering most of his body. Grandpa gave the child a shot of morphine. After he set down the syringe, he began to weep. “There’s nothing more I can do for you, I have to send you to the trauma center in Superior.”
I imagine it wasn’t easy being a small town doctor in the 50s and 60s. We lived a long way from anywhere and I expect he faced challenges getting the supplies he needed. Grandpa also served in World War II, but he didn’t speak about that.
I’ve heard that he was well-liked in town. He was known for waiting around at the homes of pregnant patients when their time drew near.
“I’ll just crash here, that way, when the baby comes, you won’t have to wait for me.” That kind of attention no longer exists.
Pain as a vocation
I suppose having to attend to children who are hurt begins to wear you down over time.
Grandpa drank a little too much. He wrapped the bottles in brown bags and stuck them way down deep in the garbage can. That was the way you did it back then. You had to put on appearances for the neighbors. There was such a thing as privacy. People didn’t feel a need to subject the world to every waking second of their lives.
Today we’re so connected that we hardly talk to anyone. We’re open about the things we should keep private, and we hide the feelings we most need to share.
We’ve put all our boundaries in the wrong places. Few people stop to ask what they can do for you. Fewer still succumb to tears when they realize they can’t help you with your pain.
The candle holders
Grandpa came home from the war with a pair of genuine Nazi swords. He cut off the blades and turned the handles into candle holders.
When grandpa passed away, those candle holders came to me. I kept them in a box for a while, but I didn’t feel right about having them in the house. The swastika was prominent on the pommel and I didn’t like the energy it gave off.
Eventually, I gave them away as a gift to a friend of mine who majored in history. I knew he would appropriately regard them as hazardous materials. They weren’t items to be displayed on a mantle, and grandpa didn’t display them that way either. In fact, he kept them in a box. For all I know, they’re still in that box to this day.
We pass through history, it often doesn’t make sense to us until decades later. Sometimes, it never makes sense.
Going to grandma’s house
My grandparents were young, handsome, and beautiful when Kennedy was president. They embodied that era. I have a picture of the two of them in a boat. That’s emblematic of that time for me, attractive people out on boats wearing shirts with collars and the sleeves rolled up.
People in photos are always smiling like everything is perfect. When the camera comes out, we put our pains in brown paper bags and bury them in the garbage where the neighbors can’t see.
Some smiles are genuine. They’re easy to spot.
When I went to visit my grandparents as a child, it was like going back to the 60s. The décor in their house was 1960s. They had booth seating in the kitchen and a view of the lake. Even the trim on the windows seemed like a relic.
Grandparents are time machines.
The delight in the nuclear age
Grandma was still delighted with the microwave. That was perpetually stuck in her mind as miraculous new technology. She used to take a hot dog, put it in a piece of bread, then wrap it in a paper towel. After a moment in the microwave, it came out steaming, but not so hot that you’d burn your mouth.
I gobbled down hot dog after hot dog at grandma’s house. She’d chuckle at me. I’ve never been able to recreate that flavor. Maybe it was the brand of hot dog, or the brand of bread, or the brand of paper towel, or her old-fashioned microwave, or the smell of her house. I don’t know.
I haven’t eaten a hot dog in years.
When grandpa died
I was the one who took the phone call when my grandpa passed away. My parents were already divorced and my mom was on a camping trip. I was home alone.
I got the news from somewhere and didn’t know what to do. I decided to call the hospital to verify. I called and gave my grandpa’s name, but the nurse was reluctant to provide any information. There are probably regulations about that.
“What did you hear?”
“I heard that he passed away.”
“That is accurate.”
So, then I had to figure out how to tell my mom. Should I go to her campsite and break the news?
Right or wrong, I decided to wait until she got home. “Why ruin her night?” I thought.
When she came home, I gave the news as best I could and comforted her as best I could. Grandma lived a few more years and mom took care of her too.
Photos in a box
I came across photos of grandpa and grandma when they were young. They were black and white photos of family events. There were pictures of other people including some young men playing basketball. These are members of my family who lived their whole lives before I ever came along.
There are so many stories that we don’t know, stories that we’ll never know. Many of these stories are hidden behind a smile.
Yesterday, I was out walking my dog through the woods. I thought of the dreams I had for my life when I was a kid. I compared them to the life I’m living now. By far, the thing I’m most proud of is being a parent. The most significant moments are the ones nobody ever takes pictures of: preparing pancakes on a lazy Saturday morning, reading a story at bed time, going on a family walk down to the river, doing a lap around the neighborhood with the dog.
There will come a day when all that’s left of me will be a photo of my wife and I standing together and smiling. Perhaps some child who is not yet born will look at us and wonder what we’re thinking. What is it that’s making us so happy?
Well, I’ll answer.
The thing that makes me smile is the thought of my children, and my children’s children, and all the wonderful people that form links right on down the line all the way to eternity. That’s what I see when I look at the picture of my grandma and grandma, young and smiling.
It’s a happy, genuine smile filled with hope.
I wear that same smile now.
