From the special box

I sorted through some more pictures, waiting for the Thanksgiving crew to assemble, and scanned a motley assortment.  There were a lot of notes from Aunt Flo.  She was always popping things in the mail.  Old photos.  Clippings we were sure to find of interest.  I opened a note today with several old photos (from the thirties and forties) and her note said she found them in a special box.  How sweet.  How Aunt Flo.  Made me think of all the pictures I would keep in a special box.

These two are of my daughters, in the very early eighties.  80, 81ish.  I was an aspiring photographer then, even had my own darkroom.  We each had an Aran sweater like Shelly’s.  Mom made one for me when I was I college and I made one for each of the girls.  Shelly played the clarinet and marched in the band.  When the clarinet was boring, she traded it in for a flute or a piccolo.  I don’t recall which; have no idea who she traded.  One day she was practicing a different instrument.

Beth probably was sixteen or seventeen in the picture.  More than a little of her black hair was turning silver.  She hated it and used some “you’ll wonder where the grey went” stuff.  It stayed black for about ten years and then she just busted out.  Purple.  That was interesting.  Henna.  I think she was married in some 1920’s red.  Occasionally I would wonder out loud if she had that beautiful grey hair women might kill for.  I didn’t try it often; the look was scathing.  Then she did it.

This is the only photo I have of the hair to die for.  She’s more concerned with grandma giving the new baby a watermelon rind than with having her picture taken, as you can see.  It didn’t last long; one too many people at the West Side Market remarked on her grandchildren.  And one of them old enough to be tugging on her sleeve and saying “Mom.  Mom!  Mom!!!!”  They ruined it for all of us!  Now it’s red again.  The baby, by the by, is Caroline of pink highlights last summer.