We share a laugh.

Suburban Chicago, November 1972. My paternal Grandmother, Tatjana, gets a kick out of one of the photos in her birthday album.

Related by Marriage: Movement

Suburban Chicago, August 1960. Mr. Irene's Mom called this photo "First Step." That's Mr. Irene's maternal Grandfather, Stanley, steadying Mr. Irene.

A Recovered Image

My Mom's friend Joy sent this photo in the early 1990s.

Kaunas, Lithuania, 1923. This is my Mom.

*     *     *     *     *

 On the back of the photo, Joy wrote:

 Dearest [Irene's Mom],

This is you!

This photo is historical. It was with me in Siberia in my photo album. It endured all of our sufferings along the shores of the Laptev Sea. It was there for all 17 years of the deportation. Then the photo returned with me to Lithuania in 1958, and now it is in America! 1991.

Another Look

Suburban Chicago, December 1961. A family friend pauses on a favorite page.

He finds a different spot along the river.

Utica, Illinois, October 1963. I imagine Dad instructing Mom about the camera settings.

From an Outtakes Box

Downers Grove, Illinois, Autumn 1963. I was shuffling through one of Dad's outtakes boxes, and I ran across this photo. I don't know why Dad didn't like it; I find it more appealing than the ones from that day he had pasted in the photo album.

A Selection from Dad

Utica, Illinois, October 1963. Dad chose this photo of himself at Starved Rock as one of the images to preserve in the "'little Irene' photo album."

Camera Shy

Brookfield Zoo, December 1975. The cubs are growing. This image is from Dad's last, zoo-photograph album.

Something New to Share

My Dad took most of the photos I post here. He loved photography. After he retired, he spent a lot of time on the hobby. Even when he fell ill, he continued to tinker with his photos. Shortly before Dad died, he slipped his favorite Brookfield Zoo shots into an album. Dad had had a series of strokes, and he no longer had the acumen or dexterity to organize the images. He simply slipped them—unfastened—into the album's plastic pages. If I handle the album, the photos shift and slip out. I won't take the album apart to organize the images. It's in the state in which my Dad left it.

When we entertained at home, Dad often shared images with our family friends. After dinner, many parties moved to the Rec Room, where Dad set up the screen and projector to show his large-format, vacation slides. I don't remember people being bored or annoyed—in that stereotypical way—during the slide shows. Perhaps that's because Dad primarily captured landscapes and animals, and few of the images focused on people. Or maybe people tolerated the slideshows more than my dancing.

Dad turned to slide photography after he acquired his Hasselblad. Before that, he shared our photo albums with friends.

Suburban Chicago, December 1961. A dear family friend leafs through an album.

An Organized Arrival

Isarhorn, Germany, August 2, 1948. Lithuanian scouts from the Displaced Persons camp arrive at the third National Scouting Jamboree.

Today would have been Tatjana's 115th birthday.

Suburban Chicago, November 1972. My paternal Grandmother, Tatjana, sits in her favorite, living-room chair and studies the photo album that my Dad put together as a gift for her seventy-fifth birthday. On the left page is this 1916 portrait of Tatjana, and a 1917 head shot of her husband, Vytautas, is on the right page.

The Last of the Jamboree Snapshots

Isarhorn, Germany, August 2 to 14, 1948. I've posted most of the photos from the third National Scouting Jamboree that my Dad had saved in his scouting album. If you're one of the readers who comes here to see DP-era scouting snapshots, don't fret; I still have a few more things planned.

Thrill Ride

Suburban Chicago, 1962. I take the hamster out for a spin. This is one of the photos that my Dad decided deserved placement in the "little Irene" album.

Scouting Pyramid

Probably near Schweinfurt, Germany, about 1948. My Dad does not appear in this photo, but these fellows must have been his close friends. This shot features prominently in Dad's scouting album.

Way-Back-When Reunion

Suburban Chicago, 1960. My paternal Grandmother, Tatjana, hosts a visit from her friend, Paul's wife. Paul's wife lived in New York after she emigrated to the United States.

The two women had been friends since the 1920s. My Dad included a print of this photo in the album he created as a gift for Tatjana's seventy-fifth birthday.

Related by Marriage: Veronica

Near Panevėžys, Lithuanian Soviet Socialist Republic, about 1957. This is Mr. Irene's paternal Grandmother, Veronica. You've seen her also here and here.

Veronica pasted this photo of herself into a handcrafted leather album that she sent to her son, Mr. Irene's Dad.

An Honorary Relative

I don't know this man's first name, but I will call him "Paul." Paul was the best friend of my paternal Grandfather, Vytautas. Paul and Vytautas served together in the Lithuanian Army.

Paul and his wife had no children. His wife and my paternal Grandmother, Tatjana, also became close friends. After both women were widowed, Paul's wife sometimes traveled from New York to visit Tatjana at our home in Suburban Chicago.

When Tatjana celebrated her seventy-fifth birthday, my Dad added snapshots of Paul and his wife into that photo album of cherished family that he created for Tatjana.

Tatjana wept when she saw this photo:

Kaunas, Lithuania, about 1933. Here is Paul, as a young officer.

Related by Marriage: Write down what you think is important.

A few years ago, Mr. Irene asked his Mom to gather the historical family photos in an album. My Mother-in-law pasted the photos onto the album's black pages. She used a silver scrapbooking pen to number each album page, and she assigned a letter to each photo.

Mr. Irene had suggested that his Mom provide the location, date, and a short explanation or story about each photo. She wrote the photo annotations in a simple, black spiral notebook. It's easy to follow the explanations in the notebooks, and most of them provide clues about why Mr. Irene's Mom thought the photo merited inclusion in the album. For example, one of the picnic culture posts derives largely from her notebook entry for that photo.

I noticed that the album carefully records the family's history of auto ownership. There's a photo of Mr. Irene, from the late 1970s, standing next to his Grandfather Stanley's last car, a 1969, teal Plymouth Valiant. Mr. Irene's Mom noted that it was significant that Mr. Irene drove that Valiant after Stanley died. 

You can get a taste of the importance my Mother-in-law attributed to the cars here and here and here.

When I came across this adorable photo of Mr. Irene and his Mom, standing in front of their house, I anticipated that a cute story might accompany the image.

In the notebook, my Mother-in-law wrote, "1956 Chevy—Bel Aire." And that's all she wrote.

Suburban Chicago, March 1963. Mr. Irene and his Mom stand in front of the family car. Look! That might be my Mom's turquoise Ford Customline behind them.

*     *     *     *     *

Suburban Chicago, Summer 1977. Mr. Irene sits on the hood of Stanley's Plymouth Valiant. He's in the alley behind his house.

Mr. Irene and I went on a date in that very car in March 1977—to "Dingbat's," a disco in downtown Chicago—and the car wouldn't start when we set out for home. So there I was, on Michigan Avenue, knowing that my strict Parents would spit bullets if I missed my 11:00 pm curfew.

A Strong Connection

When my Dad was dying, I drove from Ohio to Suburban Chicago to spend Thanksgiving with him and my Mom. Dad had been ill for a long time, and the family knew he would die soon. He managed well during that holiday weekend; he was bright, lucid, and he even walked downstairs to eat the turkey meal at the dining room table.

While I was with Dad, he showed me a photo album that he'd recently created. Like the scouting album, this one preserved special memories. Into the album, Dad pasted reprints of old family photos. These were photos that Dad had restored and rephotographed over the years. There were photos from his childhood, photos relatives had sent from Lithuania, and photos Dad found especially interesting.

Dad had wanted to annotate each black-and-white print in the album. His handwriting, however, had become illegible because of his illness. So he asked me to do it for him. We sat together, at the mahogany desk in the master bedroom, as Dad identified each person in the photo, provided a date, and sometimes told a story. I recorded what Dad said in the margins of the photos, writing in pencil. I recall, however, that I found the work tedious, and I was a bit agitated about the task. It seemed like a trivial activity for such a heavy time.

As we collaborated, Dad showed particular attachment to two photos from 1936. One was a photo of his father, Vytautas, in Belgium. The other was of a street in Kaunas that had flooded during the month of March. 

I wasn't able, then, to determine why these photos had touched my Dad so deeply. Today, I looked at the back of the original photo of the flooded Kaunas street, and I made the connection. My paternal Grandfather, Vytautas, was on an extended business trip in Belgium when the Kaunas flood occurred, and my Dad had sent a photo of the flooded street to his traveling father.

Here is what my Dad wrote—in a child's penmanship—on the back of the photo:

March 17, 1936.

My Precious Daddy!

I am sending you a photograph that my cousin took. He took this photo on Maironis Street during the time of the flood. This year, there was a very big flood in Kaunas. The water had risen above the seven-meter mark. Now, the water is gradually receding, and things are beginning to dry out. It seemed like spring already was about to begin, but then it began, unbelievably, to snow again.

Wednesday I will take the examinations for the second scouting level. The exams will test knotting, thatching, and weaving. On Thursday I'll be tested on Morse Coding. I've already worked on the photography test, and I've seen the negatives. 

Lately, I've been coming home from school early because the homeroom teacher has been sick. The Lithuanian class teacher also is ill.

Goodbye, I kiss you many times.

Your little sparrow,

[Irene's Dad]

It's a potent mix: boyhood, longing for an absent Dad, exciting events at home, and … scouting.

This is the 1936 photo of my paternal Grandfather, Vytautas, traveling in Belgium: 

Here is the 1936 photo of the flooded street, Maironio Gatvė, in Kaunas:

And here is a 1957 postcard featuring a view of the Nemunas River, the cause of the flood, as it runs through Kaunas:

*     *     *     *     *

UPDATE: Here is a view of the seven-meter mark, showing how high the water levels rose:

Kaunas, Lithuania, August 2011. Tourists walk by the water-level marker. Thanks to my Toronto Cousin for making this photo available to me.

Rec Room Tree

My Dad created a photo album for me when I was little. The album differed from the two annual albums—one color and one black-and-white—into which he arranged the year's family photos. The "little Irene" album featured photos that my Dad thought I, as a little girl, would enjoy seeing repeatedly. For example, the album had a photo of my favorite toys. There was a snapshot of me hugging a cherished doll. Dad even included several photos that he took of the television screen while Dr. Kildare aired because he knew I had a crush on Dr. Kildare. The album had multiple black-and-white shots of zoo animals.

The "little Irene" photo album is in rough shape because I flipped through it a lot when I was a kid. Photos are missing, pages are frayed, and the cover is worn. But the album remains a goldmine because each time I spot a photo, I remember something about way back when. It also gives me a special feeling because it causes me to reflect on what my Dad found important and interesting in my childhood.

Today I ran across this photograph of a Christmas tree. The tree stood in our Rec Room before my Parents redecorated the room. It's easy to see the avocado-green floor tile and the hot-water heater registers. The lamp on the left had appliquéd butterflies on it. My Parents were tight with cash, and they couldn't spend money on artwork. So on the walls, they hung paint-by-number canvases that my maternal Grandfather, Jake, had done. I remember that one of the paint-by-numbers was of two Springer Spaniels alerting to some ducks in flight. I fixated on that image. After the Rec Room got updated, the paint-by-number artwork moved to the basement.

I don't remember that a Christmas tree ever stood in the Rec Room, so this photo didn't trigger any holiday memories. I think Dad included it because one of my little handpainted chairs from the play table stands in front of the tree. Who knows—maybe he was trying to get a picture of me sitting in the chair in front of the tree, and I bolted.

Suburban Chicago, December 1961. The next year, the tree stood in the living room.