My mother was the family historian, and when she passed on, I inherited dozens of sepia-toned photographs. And then there were the "contemporary" albums of her family's new house with her 1955 BelAir in the carport, and dusty kids in keds camping in the Redwood forests of California. And the envelopes of odd-sized school pictures, because even back then you had to buy 24 wallet photos in order to get two 5x7s--one for each set of grandparents.
But of all the boxes of sepia corseted women, mustached gentlemen, and posed children, my favorite is a blurry film snapshot taken by a cousin at our wedding reception. My father, who spoke no German, is deep in discussion (about ankles? Argyle socks?) with my husband's Aunt Elfriede, who spoke no English. He was a Navy guy who grew up riding cable cars in San Francisco; she was a farmer's wife in a village in Swabia. And yet they are clearly connecting. When I asked each of them what they had found to talk about, they deflected. Dad said something about not needing language to understand each other.
They are both on the other side of the rainbow bridge, and perhaps now, free of any language barrier, she and my father can continue the conversation.
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