my careless contagion

With this post, I wrap up my photo memories (and, soon, this blog). I was originally going to share this photo with my Christmas memories. However, something caught my eye. And I'm not talking about whatever is on the surface of the photo. It's a great shot, probably taken by either my grandmother or a family friend. I was very young, and this was taken at our first house. I've ruined my fair share of family photos. I was always the one making faces or putting bunny ears on someone. It was typical lastborn stuff, though not always appreciated. No one cares anymore. But this photo is darn near perfect. Except I'm looking at my mom while everyone else is looking at the camera. I was enjoying the fact that everyone was happy for a moment. And that's what we forget: photographs are just moments. They don't always tell us the whole truth. But I can tell those smiles are genuine.  What I like about this photo, and this is why I chose to close with it, is it sho...

Herein lies some random memories in no particular order. These are some of my earliest memories, so they took place at our first house in Hot Springs.  The above photo (why am I always half-naked?) shows me and Jon picking some beans at our neighbor's house. I recall they went on vacation or something and we picked some of their produce. This really made an impression on me, as I still recall the strange feeling of being somewhere we normally weren't allowed to go. That was probably my first experience with a garden. I was the only one in my family who had a garden growing up. I was very responsible and took care of it, watering it every day and weeding when necessary. This is something I've come to realize about myself: I've always taken care of things. Had my life been a little different, I probably would have been an even more nurturing person, but I still do take care of things.   A lot of old pictures, I am marching to the beat of my own drummer. The abo...

I have two older brothers. We are each separated by about 3.5 years. My oldest brother is seven years and seven days older than me. My blog has commented a lot on my childhood and what I now know were abusive aspects of it. However, it wasn't always abusive. There was a lot of love in my family. The photo dump in this post shows much affection. My father cradles a sleeping baby Joshua. My brothers are feeding me, playing with me, bathing with me, and, in general, doting over me. It may be a case of "they're cute when they're young," but it's hard to ignore this part of my reality. I was genuinely accepted and loved on when I was little. At the top, there appears to be some play-acting. I'm about three years old and wearing a diaper (without a cover) which I don't need. Am I baby Jesus? Is Jon Joseph with his coat of many colors? Something odd is going on, but we're having fun. And I'm thankful my diaper stayed up. Jon and I often took b...

The above photo shows a bit of family togetherness, with my dad's Honda road bike (a short-lived financial excursion) as the glue. Considering the financial difficulties at the time this photo was taken, it makes sense the bike was not a permanent fixture in our lives. I remember the one and only ride I took on this bike with my dad driving me home after school, me clinging for dear life, bobblehead helmet on, looking like some sort of alien. Hotel room stays always meant I got the rollaway bed or cot. Youngest children frequently get the short end of the stick, and not just genetically. Older siblings (especially the oldest) get the best of everything. Youngest children get leftovers if there are any. But I didn't know that at the time. I just thought I was special to have a different bed. I think the above photo was taken on our family trip to Disney World in the mid-80s. An awful lot of old photos show the three boys not wearing much. We must have been tremendously h...

Christmas. The word conjures so many memories and so much meaning for so many people. Christmas to me always meant family. Even though my family stopped celebrating Christmas when I was pretty young, we still did things like family trips to Florida (one year it was Omaha, but that was fun, too).  This post contains images from Christmas past. You see the living rooms of the two houses in Hot Springs we lived in. The first house had some pretty amazing red carpet. And red drapes and a couch that had a red floral pattern. Boy, somebody went overboard. Even the walls seem to be glowing red. The other house didn't have any carpeting that I recall. Maybe in one or two areas. Some of my scans are missing, and I'm not sure what happened to them. But they showed one of my most memorable Christmases, which is when I got the LEGO police station. I was thrilled about that, stayed up all night playing with it, and didn't even want to get up in the morning to check my stocking...

The above photo was taken when I was pretty young. I'm the one on the left and my oldest brother is next to me, and then the middle brother on the right. This was taken in the first house we lived in on Minnekahta Ave.  I don't know when my family stopped celebrating major holidays like Easter. I think some of my family still do celebrate. Maybe we stopped after realizing we had a million eggs to eat. I remember eating hardboiled eggs days after Easter, their flesh unnatural colors like pink and blue and green in spots.  This photo is funny for many reasons. I am particularly taken with that egg I'm holding. I'm also half-dressed in what looks like a sort of tutu. My oldest brother is wearing an animal print robe, which no child should ever wear. My brothers look like they are so over decorating those eggs (was it early in the morning?). I look like I want to marry mine.  I recall the little cubes or whatever we dropped into the cups that had the spoons in them...

I'm going to try something a little different with my blog. Okay, maybe it isn't that different. I'm going to talk about some of my memories. They won't look like much at first, but pieced together over time, they will take shape sort of like a mosaic.  The above photo was taken the day after I caught my first fish. My dad got me up early (see my uncombed haystack of hair?) and took this photo along with one of me on my red bike (not pictured in the background; that was my oldest brother's). The picture was taken in the driveway of our Hot Springs home on the hill, so I was between seven and ten years old. I recall being very tired. Mornings, apparently, were not my thing.  My mom cooked the fish after I begged her. It really should have been thrown back, which my dad suggested, but I also begged him to let me keep it, it being my first fish. I believe it is a trout. The Black Hills waterways are stocked with trout, and this fish was caught at Sylvan Lake.  ...

  This is a long post I've been working on since last year. A lack of time and health issues kept me from finishing it. I apologize for the haphazard way in which it is written. This is hopefully the last time I will write about this subject in detail. It is entirely too much introspection, and I don't believe God wants me to see myself as a victim (because that can lead to a wrong attitude), though He does want me to understand the problem. Trigger warning: this post contains content about childhood abuse/sexual abuse. I frequently have the opportunity to review books. This one, Being Mean: A Memoir of Sexual Abuse and Survival by Patricia Eagle, came across my desk last year. Patricia's father sexually abused her from the age of 4-13, but the thing about abuse is that it lives on, informing the rest of our lives. It's that legacy the book explores. It's that legacy of abuse that I, too, am attempting to deal with, and will most likely deal with...