 "Photo:")
My mother and I looked through a box of old photographs one weekend over the summer, dropped off by my aunt moving to Florida. A hodge-podge of photos, dating from the 1950s until my cousin's wedding in Atlanta in July. Strewn together, the photographs irregularly documented the lives of my mother's family, the Yoder's, and my own, the Skotzko's. They held no order, were of no particular theme and were just pieces of my mother's life.
There was one photograph of my mother that stood out in particular. A long, slim blond-haired young woman in a navy shirt. She was looking beyond the camera, smiling slightly. Her hair was gracefully surrounding her shoulders. She couldn't have been more than 18.
And her face, well, it was me.
I wanted to take the photo, store it in my dresser drawer, and have it for safekeeping forever. But I was too embarrassed at how much I loved seeing my mom like that-free, youthful and without a care. Not that she was old or worrisome now-very far from it actually-but it was nice seeing her at an age to which I could relate. I wanted to tell her that I too have sat with the wind blowing in my hair. I too have been with friends, family, laughing on a sunny afternoon.
And I too had a navy shirt, strikingly similar.
Were we really that much alike?
I flipped through more photos of my mom at weddings, at family parties, posing for the picture with my dad. She was lighthearted, so extremely happy. Her skin was usually tan and her style one of a classic, early 80s. Nothing over the top, but chic enough to sport the popular shoulder pads or the cropped pants.
But she looked like me. Her face shape, her hair coloring: It was me. My mom and I have always looked similar-you couldn't erase the fact that we were mother and daughter-but it was always a strong similarity, not much more. Yet you could almost interchange us in these photos. Make my hair a bit longer, a bit darker. Have me take off about 10 lbs. And add some big bangs and a baggy sweatshirt.
Odd. Quite odd.
When do we start becoming our parents? Does it start with a simple gesture, our views on the world or simply the way a comment is spoken? I have often wondered how much of my mother, how much of my father and how much of, well, just plain and simple me I hold. I know I have my mother's appearance, that photograph was proof enough. But how do I find out where the rest of me came from?
As I ponder leaving college, I wonder how both of my parents entered the world at this time. They didn't know each other and would not for years. How did they decorate their first homes, their first apartments? How did they enter their first jobs?
Thinking about it now, it strikes me how lucky I am to have these pictures. I can divulge into my family's past. Nothing catastrophic has happened to my home or to these physical items. Even though I don't know much about it, I still have a box of photographs. I still have family members. I still have those pieces of me within reach, even though I don't always extend my arm that far out.
For my family at least, we don't share those pieces of the past regularly. It doesn't typically come up as a main point of conversation, rather tidbits in passing. My uncle will share a little anecdote or my aunt would make a reference to a conversation that was held, years and years prior.
But for one sunny afternoon, without an agenda or real purpose, I was able to flip through a box of memories I didn't know existed. My mother on a pool deck. My grandfather holding me in the snow. My sister, weeks old, in my mother's arms. My father riding a bike, me in a bike seat behind. It was oddly refreshing and entertaining.
This past summer I spent a great deal of time at home. I worked longer hours at my internship and with commuting into Chicago from the suburbs, I would be exhausted when I came home. And I knew that this could very well be my last summer at home. Ever. It scared me a little. So I stayed in, watched a sinful amount of crappy television and relaxed. The weekends we full of errands, shopping and 5 p.m. glasses of Chardonnay with my mother.
Slowing down, I was able to truly spend time with my family and realize who they are and what makes us tick. I learned my sister shares my odd dislike for board games. I heard some stories from my father at work-who is now retired-and the random pranks he and his coworkers pulled. I learned my mom had quite the green thumb and had potted plants all over her tiny apartment.
By slowing down-and for a type-A aspiring journalist, that is very difficult-I learned a bit more about who I am and where I come from. A year ago, I would not have stopped to look at that box of photographs. But that afternoon I did. And I hope I can look at other boxes, on other afternoons, because I have a great deal of unanswered questions. Maybe I'll discover more than a simple photograph. Maybe I'll really answer some of those questions or hear a completely new family story.
Or maybe I'll just enjoy some more glasses of Chardonnay with my mother.
