Your Grandmother Is So Damn Hot!!!

A few weeks ago I was presented, by a close friend, with a shoe box and a large manilla folder just crammed with photographs along with the challenge to restore and repair them. I was asked to then create 5 X 7s or 8 x 10 images out of every viable picture. This wasn't just any collection of photographs this was a family's heirloom treasure with the most recent photo taken about 20 years ago.

Looking through this collection I found every conceivable size and format, all in black and white with the exception of two color pictures. Both of the color photos were of large family groups. Some of these pictures were stuck together, some folded or creased, nearly all faded and many stained. The dates these pictures were taken ranged from 1904 to 1985. Many had descriptions or captions on the back, some in pencil, some pen.

As I sorted the pictures and tried to put names with faces I was able to identify and follow babies, young children, teens and adults as they journeyed through their lives. I never met any of them with the exception of one young boy, 8 at the time his picture was taken, now 39 years of age. This was a picture of my friend.

At first I had so many questions to ask, who was the woman in the wheelchair, what happened to baby Harry, photographed until he was about 6, where are Uncle Frank's photos post 1962, etc. I had problems getting in touch with my pal so I just kept categorizing, sorting and making notes.
As I did, a history of this family emerged that was both tragic and fascinating. Uncle Frank committed suicide in 1962, baby Harry (I call him that because there were at least 50 photos of him as a baby all labeled "Baby Harry") drowned shortly after his 6th birthday and the woman in the wheelchair was Grandma Frances, the matriarch of the family.

More questions emerged. Was the family wealthy at one time and then lost everything? After seeing the oldest photos and the homes where the pictures were taken as well as the way they dressed, it was obvious they were very well to do. When these same people appeared in photos dated after 1930 they were all modestly dressed with much more humble surroundings. I found out later that they lost almost everything in the stock market crash of 1929.

How did I learn about baby Harry drowning? There is a picture taken at a cemetery with Grandma Frances and two other unidentified women looking at two graves, side by side. One was baby Harry's gravestone and the other, his father, Uncle Frank. On the back of the card it said, "Here is a picture of your Uncle Harry's grave. He drowned shortly after his 6th birthday. Next to his stone is your Great Uncle Frank's. He never got over losing Harry and finally shot himself". I spent a few hours restoring this picture. Previous to the restoration most of the text on the headstones could not be read. Now all is legible. I'm not sure if this is a picture my friend will want to look at but it is indeed part of his family's history.

Of all of these pictures there was one that seemed to come alive and speak to me. After all the restoration work we actually ended up in a fine relationship. To the great grand kids, the grand kids, the members of the family that were members by marriage and others, she was a very old woman in a wheelchair with an oxygen tank and a little plastic hose running up to her nose. To many she was the crotchety, gravel-voiced old woman who forgot nearly everything you told her and was always calling for someone to fix her something to eat or help me out of this damned chair. To me she was Frances, Fran, or Frannie and most importantly the "Hottie" that needed her story told. To her I would become the person who reminded her family of how they got here, why many of them looked as good as they did and why there was such a foundation of love, manners and elegance in this tribe.

As I began the restoration I started with the group shots hoping that I would be able to identify some of the family members in other pictures through similar looks or captions. It is amazing what is revealed with a high end scanner and some great graphics software. I was able to see things in pictures, backgrounds, surroundings and by making facial comparisons that helped me trace the progression from young to old.

The last photos I worked on were the ones of Frances. I started with her as a baby. Remarkably enough this picture, dated 1904, came out clear as a bell. There were pictures of her taken almost every year. I watched her taking her first steps, dressing up for Sunday school, her first day in grammar school and then as a teenager. It was at this age that I realized how beautiful she was. Her clothes were exquisite, her posture graceful, her smile charming. She seemed to have an aura around her that no one else in this collection of photographs did.

Then I fell in love. There was a photograph taken of her in 1922 in a beautiful gown that was tailored to show off her incredible figure. This was the period referred to as the Roaring 20s. Her feminine silhouette, which emphasized the natural form of her body, bosom, waistline, and hips clearly defined by the shape of the dress, was enough to make me roar! Was this the woman I saw in the wheelchair? It was! She was now alive in my mind and I hate to admit but while working on her pictures I experienced more than a moment or two of tingling sensation. But, I digress.

As I proceeded to restore her photos I noticed an abrupt change in her clothing. As I said earlier I learned that the family had been devastated by the stock market crash. I noticed within a few years she had started to smoke. This aged her quite a bit. Her look became more serious, her style more conservative. She was still a beauty but life was taking it's toll. By now she had married, lost a husband, remarried, divorced and remarried. I then came to the stage in her life where she found out she had lung cancer. There were no more shots of her with her characteristic long black cigarette holder in hand but the slumped posture of someone trying to make it through the sunset of her life. I couldn't help but feeling sad. Then the pictures stopped.

Two weeks ago I gave my friend back his family's collection of photos (along with a modest bill for services rendered) and asked if there were other photos. He said there were plenty but they were all in albums and not in need of any repair work. I started to tell him the story that had unfolded during my work but knew, or at least thought, it was old hat to him. As I felt the need to end my tale of restoration, illumination and ultimately sadness a thought occurred to me. I needed to help Frances begin telling her story. I had arranged the photos in folders with links and some captions on a CD that would help that story unfold.

I handed my friend the CD along with a few prints I had made and said, "Man, I've got to tell you something important so pay attention! Your Grandmother Is So Damn Hot!!! Go see for yourself".