Plaid Pants

Suburban Chicago, June 1975. Dad and his beloved Gigi visit my childhood bedroom. I was surprised to see Dad dressed this way. He had elegant taste, and he usually wore beautiful clothing. I don't know what happened here, but these style choices rattle my understanding of "stay-at-home" clothes.

On the top shelf rests a copy of National Geographic's dog book, Man's Best Friend. There also sits Watership Down (I didn't like that book—perhaps because I prefer nonfiction, and I don't care for fiction that is fantasy based) and The Gulag Archipelago. The books on the bottom shelf reflect an interest I had, at that time, in poetry.

Easy Chair

Suburban Chicago, January 1972. My paternal Grandmother, Tatjana, sits in the avocado-green, velour chair in our shared bedroom.

A Familiar Space: Our Shared Space

Suburban Chicago, June 1972. Here's another image of the bedroom I shared with my paternal Grandmother, Tatjana.

A Familiar Space: Tatjana's "Nightstand"

Suburban Chicago, June 1972. My paternal Grandmother, Tatjana, and I shared a bedroom. Two twin beds stood in the room, separated by my little desk. Here are Tatjana's things as she readies for sleep: the copper-colored alarm clock, her over-sized, square-faced wristwatch, and the pins with which she secured her hair bun.

64 Different Brilliant Colors

Suburban Chicago, April 1964. I'm in the bedroom that I shared with my paternal Grandmother Tatjana, drawing. Behind me is Tatjana's bed, draped with a pink, chenille bedspread. Tatjana has tucked her shoes—as she usually did—under her bed.

The Culture of Recording Convalescence

In the first half of the twentieth century, children often died. Mr. Irene's maternal Grandparents, Anna and Stanley, lost one child, Baby Jean, when she was an infant, and another child, Benny, when Benny was a young boy.

Death came into people's lives with little warning. A dog bite—like the one Benny suffered—could lead to a fatal infection. Pneumonia was life threatening. My Mom's maternal uncle, Edvardas, died of a ruptured appendix, and so did her paternal Grandfather, Cody Sr.

The expectation of likely death probably prompted people to photograph ill family members. Our albums have many snapshots of relatives in different stages of convalescence—from people resting with the flu to those enduring the last gasps through cancer. It's a genre of snapshots, and it resembles the series of funeral photos that I wrote about earlier.

My Mom fell gravely ill as a young girl. Initially, the doctors were unable to diagnose the ailment. They recommended that she drink large quantities of heavy cream and the nectar squeezed from an aloe vera plant. Later, the same physicians realized that they had misdiagnosed Mom's condition, and they put her on a restricted, no-fat diet.

Kaunas, Lithuania, about 1935. Mom rests. The medications stand on the bedside chair. You've seen a photo of my Mom's childhood bedroom earlier.

What's different here? Not only do Raphael's adorable angels still hang on the screen; now, someone has clipped holy cards featuring the Madonna and Jesus Christ to the screen so that they can watch over the sick child.