The Stories my father left behind

Old clippings, quiet memories, and the stories that stayed.

This winter seems to be taking its sweet time letting go. And if I’m being honest, so have I.

I haven’t really been out shooting for months. The cold just doesn’t agree with me the way it used to. Aside from a few snapshots for the camera club and photo community challenges, my camera has mostly been sitting quietly, waiting for a day when the weather—and maybe my motivation—finally cooperate.

What I have been doing, though, is something I’ve put off for years.

I’ve been going through boxes.

And boxes.

And more boxes.

Old photographs, slides, albums…a lifetime of them.

My goal is simple: to organize it all into something meaningful. Something my kids—and maybe someday my grandkids—might actually sit down and look through.

It’s a work in progress, but for the first time, it feels like it’s moving in the right direction.

And in the middle of all that sorting and remembering, I’ve been working on something especially close to my heart—a book. That story deserves its own post (Part II coming soon), but today I want to share a small piece of it.

A handful of newspaper clippings.

The fact that they even survived is a minor miracle, considering how they were stored. But somehow, they did—and I’m grateful for that.

My dad was a photographer. He worked for the Associated Press, and later as a staff photographer at Idlewild Airport—what we now know as JFK.

His job was to photograph dignitaries and movie stars as they arrived and departed. Not a bad office, if you think about it.

Every now and then, I’d go with him to the airport. When things were quiet, I’d watch him work…or hang out in the darkroom with him, which felt like its own kind of magic.

And on those slower days, I had a starring role.

I was his model.

He’d photograph me in different little setups, then make up stories to go along with the images. Those photos—and his stories—were published in the airport newspaper, and sometimes even in some of New York’s major papers.

Looking back, I realize he wasn’t just taking pictures. He was telling stories. And, without knowing it, he was teaching me to do the same.

Below are a few of those clippings, along with what I remember from the days they were taken.

 “The photos were real. The stories… not so much.”

Apparently, I had just returned from Los Angeles and was heading to the St. Patrick’s Day parade.

News to me.

I was never in Los Angeles, and I certainly wasn’t attending any parade that year. What I do recognize is the background—I’m standing on those rolling stairs they used to bring out to the planes on the tarmac. That part, at least, checks out.

That was my dog, Gypsy.

And yes… I actually wrote that poem. Which probably explains why I never pursued a career in poetry.

I remember this one clearly.

It was taken at Zorn’s Turkey Farm in the fall, right before Halloween. The outfit and those black braids? That was my Halloween costume.

What I remember most, though, is being absolutely terrified of those turkeys.You can probably see it on my face—this was not where I wanted to be.

This one I remember vividly too.

That is Vincent—at least I think that was his name—and I had never met him before. He was the son of another photographer my dad worked with.

Despite what the caption suggests, he was not heading off to the West Coast, and I was definitely not heartbroken about it.

What I do remember is being posed for the shot. Just before Vincent was told to kiss me on the cheek, my dad raised his voice—loud enough to startle me into crying.

Yes, it was a little mean. But as I’ve learned… some photographers will do just about anything to get the shot. 😄

Once again, I was apparently flying in from Los Angeles to see my grandparents and heading off to a parade.

Also not true.

I’m starting to think my dad enjoyed writing these stories just as much as taking the photos.

It was just after my second birthday, and I do remember that little medical kit—it was a gift, and I loved it. I guess no dramatic story line needed for this one.