In Lieu of Photos...Stories

My mother recently showed me a picture from her college days.  She is with her friends, Katie and Hazel, on the lawn of Morris College in Sumter, SC.   Like most college students, they look happy, carefree and hopeful.  Mom was so happy to receive this picture from Hazel over the summer.  She said that Hazel’s husband, and college sweetheart, had taken the picture.  Hazel came across the picture and sent it to Mom, along with a lovely handwritten letter.

I have not seen photos of my parents when they were young– no bundles of joy, no pigtails and missing teeth, no pimples and no diplomas in hand.   The most youthful picture I have of my parents is from their wedding day.  When they married in 1962, they were in their late twenties.    Over the years, as their family expanded, more pictures were taken.  As a school teacher, Mom would have her picture taken each year.  They were like my school pictures, a frozen smile and a stiff body perched in front of a bland background. These pictures served their purpose but didn’t reveal much.   

What I know of my parents, prior to their meeting, comes by way of stories they’ve told. My father is more of a historian and storyteller, so in some ways, I know more about his early life.   He could paint a good picture, like the day he left the South and headed to New York.  He went to the bus station with one suitcase and determined how far he could go based on what he had in his pocket and the location of his relatives.   I can see him in the bus station with a hat on his head and a brown suitcase by his side, asking “How much to get to New York City?”

  

My mother’s storytelling presents as brief commentary but her reenactment is quite compelling.  A few times a year, especially on her birthday, she tells of the inaccuracy of her birth certificate.   She reenacts the words of her much older sister, Parthenia:  Your birthday is on August 19th and not the 18th. Momma kept saying “I’m gonna die today…I’m gonna die today!”  You were born on August…the 19th!   Soon after, Mom breaks out into laughter – as if she is hearing of the day of her birth for the first time.  By the way, my grandmother did not die on that day but lived to be 89 years old.    My grandmother, born in 1889, had my mother at the age of 44.  Mom was her 11th and final child. 

These stories are not presented to me like a well-crafted biography that I can pull from a shelf.  As stories do, they arrive when they are ready to be told, often triggered by a present-day experience that takes them back to another place and time. These stories provide a glimpse into the times in which they lived, those they loved and experiences that shaped them.  In this way, I have come to know my parents.  

Katie, Rudell (Mom), Hazel - The College Years (1954-1957)