Recapturing Our Lost Riches [Guest Post]
JoAnne was one of the first people I “met” on twitter. Her story is compelling and she has a heart of gold. When I issued the invitation for guest posts a month ago, she responded with this post. For some reason, it did not get published when it was supposed to. I blame the gremlins. Or Obama. Or Bush. Whoever it was, it clearly wasn’t user error. Because that’s not possible. At. all. 😉
Enough with the finger-pointing. I’m honored to be able to share JoAnne’s beautiful story.
Recapturing Our Lost Riches
By JoAnne Bennett
As young children, my brother and I, who are close to the same age, would sneak out to the garage when my adoptive mother and stepfather weren’t home and find the “hidden pictures.” It was as if there was a sign on the door at a kid’s eye level stating, “PRIVATE – KEEP OUT,” but the temptation was just too great. I remember staring in awe at each black and white photo tucked away in the unlabeled box like a couple of wide-eyed kids overwhelmed by a bigger-than-life chocolate sundae.
“Oh look,” I would whisper as we held close for that moment … one more picture of memories that weren’t ours to keep.
In the early ‘60s, my adoptive parents’ marriage ended. Back then, it seemed to me that children of divorce were few and far between. After being placed for adoption at birth, and then to have my adoptive father suddenly become absent from our lives, only added to my feelings of abandonment. I did not understand why family photos from my first six years of life had to be taken away from me as well. An unspoken vow of silence by my adoptive mother created negative feelings that images of the past were somehow supposed to be a shameful secret.
I never knew what happened to my displaced childhood memories. Someone must have caught on that my brother and I were trespassing into that box. The “forbidden pictures” were then placed completely out of our reach, like a cookie jar sitting on top of a high shelf.
There have been times in my life when I needed to recapture those lost pictures. I’ve longed to know how much my daughters resembled me as a child¾from that first glimpse of a brand-new life to our five-year-old toothless grins. As I recall, I didn’t analyze the pictures to find someone to blame for my adoptive parents’ failed marriage, but rather to find good memories that a child could hold onto. For me, the harmless pictures were proof that my adoptive father once loved his little girl. If only I could sneak into our family’s garage one more time, and find the snapshots of him teaching me how to ride a bicycle, I might to be able to find closure for the permanently erased chapters of my life.
Sometimes the deepest desires of our hearts are answered years later in unexpected, triumphant ways.
“Don’t forget to ask my brother if he found any more photos,” I yelled out to my husband as he drove off on a business trip that would include a short visit to the home of my relatives.
Mumbling, “A few pictures are not quite enough,” I walked back into our house. It had been over a year since my adoptive mother’s second husband passed away and she was now living in an assisted care facility. My oldest brother had the task of sorting through their wealthy abundance of material possessions and finding new homes for the coveted belongings. For me, their monetary riches represented only a mansion of emptiness. What I hoped to reclaim were the lost keepsakes … the valuable memories that I believed were rightfully mine.
After returning home from his trip, my husband handed me “little snippets of my childhood” that my brother thought I would cherish. One of the estate items that he had set aside for me was my stepfather’s old fishing pole. Teary-eyed, I held on tightly to the sentimental memories while reminiscing about those special times we had shared together. While I was lost in a little girl’s dreams, my husband then placed in my lap a small cardboard box. Printed neatly on the top in my sister-in-law’s handwriting were the words, “For JoAnne.” All that this gift seemed to be missing was a bow and wrapping paper. I slowly opened the box, wondering what long-ago treasures might be inside.
“Oh my!” I squealed as if my brother and I had been playing pirates and he had just discovered part of our lost riches. I felt like I was sifting through sand as I cupped a box full of our family’s photos in my hands. With a giggle, I would take each small slide and look up toward the light to see if I could recognize the images. I do recall having seen some of the snapshots when we begged our parents to darken the room and occasionally have a family slide show with our old projector. But many of these slides, which I had never known existed until this moment, brought back fond memories that were savored with a click of the camera.
I was completely overwhelmed by this kaleidoscope of pictures that abruptly started from the age of seven, when my adoptive mother married my stepfather, and then sporadically up until I was pregnant with my first child. My daughters will take me more seriously the next time I tell them that I was in water ballet. I can’t stop laughing when I see myself as a young girl sitting on the side of a pool all decked out in my swimming cap decorated with artificial flowers, or when I am practicing casting out over the side of the hill with my new Zebco fishing pole.
I would trade all the money in this world to get back the rest of the photographs that I presume were discarded. It’s the little things in life that are so often taken for granted that have always meant so much to me. I want to hold on to the good memories with the pure and innocent heart of a child. I need to remember the happy times and the love, despite the losses.
With this new legacy, I find a soothing sequel to the beginnings of my life story.
* Note: this story was originally published on Stories by JoAnne Bennett.
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