T
his was a project to create a family album with biographies, stories, memories or whatever from photos rescued from antique and thrift shops. Bookcrossers contributed the "biographies" to assigned photos without knowing how they would be woven together. Although the photos were originally loaded onto the site late in March 2003, the project was not completed until Dec 31 2003. What follows is the completion of that project.

You can get a closer view of each of the photos that accompany a journal entry by clicking on the photo.

The results of this project are reported here for those who contributed, and others, to enjoy. However, out fo respect for this being a book based site and a book-crossing site, the final product has been assembled into a book form and "released" to one of the contributors. The "winning" contributor was chosen through a blind draw of all the names of people who contributed. The winner is free, as in all bookcrossing releases, to either keep it or release it.

If you are viewing this while this text is visible then the finished project is not yet fully posted but is in progress. Check back periodically. i will make an anoouncement in the Announcement forums when it is finalized.

If you had a photo and text posted and you do not see it there now that is because I am moving things around as part of the completed project. Rest assurred..your contribution will be included !

M
y name is Professor J McCoy and the story of why I assembled this collection of photos and biographies begins in my undergraduate days at university. Like many a young man of my day I was electrified with Carter's discovery in Novemeber of 1922 of the tomb of Tutankhamen. I could not wait to bury my hands deep into the soil in the valley of the Kings; to wash them in the Nile, to reveal the further treasures I was certain were still buried there.

But I was one of of the many young men of my age with such dreams and with but one valley of the Kings and a gorwing local appreciation of controlling the excavations I found many doors closed to me. I wish I could say that I bore those early frustrations well; that I perservered in the face of daunting resistance fueled by the fires of inquiry and curiosity. But something else burned in me and within months I grew tired of the endless bureaucracy, the emerging hierarchy amongst those excavating, and I left the Valley for Alexandria to rethink my future. To recharge my batteries which had been too quickly and too easily depleted. It is a dry task to lick one's wounds in the desert.

They say God never closes a door without opening first a window. I've not concerned myself much with what God does and so I am in poor position to say that is what happened. All I know is that on one of the many walks I took through the outskirts of Alexandria my life changed. The journey began with the unearthing of a simple pile of clay scraps...such small things to bring such a total change to my life.

The new mission in my life would send me over all the continents. It would place me in great danger and expose me to great gentleness and kindness. Love, hatred, greed, generosity would all be made real as nameless faces took on solid idenities. I would sometime dine with royalty and other nights crawl through sewers and catacombs. I learned to discern the condescendng smile of indulgence from the curious upturned lip of genuine intrigue. And I am not proud to admit that, in the course of my mission, I have lied, stolen, decieved, and once almost murdered a man to obtain what I sought. What eventually I had no choice but to seek.

Do not judge me too harshly until you have read more. As my story unfolds you may come, if not to forgive me, at least to understand me and appreciate the awesome task I have passed on to to complete.

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t was, during my time there, my habit to take long solitary walks. I spoke little of the local language save enough upon which to survive. And, truth be told, I was so cloaked in self-pity over my failed dreams that it would have taken a master communicator to find me buried within myself and draw me out. I was fit company only for the sand and hills and patches of green and the animals that inhabited them.

On days when my strength would return I would occassionally taunt myself by digging on an interesting hill, pursuing some pottery shard or shiny bit of floatsom washed into the sand by the gentle waves of migrant ancients that I imagined passed through here at an earlier time. And usually dry and dirty I would later wander home with the light of my inquisitiveness setting faster than the evening sun.

But one day, in an area that had been much worked by archeologists before me, I chanced upon a handful of what I took to be pottery shards from some tablet or ancient sign. I tried to convince myself that even an ancient bit of commmon mail or totally utilitarian document would be exciting to the archelogical community. I know now that I needed them to be. But I did not know then just how great a document I had found and why I would never find the fame and fortune that had so consumed my earlier life.

That first day I had found the five pieces shown here. But for ten days I would return to that site and for ten days I would find one, or two, or sometimes more pieces, until I had nearly thrity shards. It would take me a year of intense study, secret consultations, and clandestine research to discover what I had. I would be delayed by the need to do meanial work so that I could eat, or buy supplies. I would grow weak and cranky bent over old books, ill breathing in the mold and spores that abound in some of those hidden libraries and, once, I stooped to stealing an old volume I needed to complete a difficult part of the translation of those shards.

I misled myself several times by combining them in the wrong way or making a false guess about the missing pieces. Gradually, however, I got better at it and in so doing filled in some of the missing pieces in my self-confidence. I would In time, I came to understand that I had found a portion of a record of what had happened to the books and documents lost when the great Library at Alexandria was sacked and burned.

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he Library at Alexandria had been a marvel of the ancient world. Indeed, Alexandria was itself an epicenter where over 4000 years of Greek academic, scientific, cutural and intellectual development combined to produce some of the most important thinking and discussions of the time. It is no surprise that the Librray at Alexandria would contain the documents, books, and notes that recorded that development. One can only speculate what marvellous texts must have bene held wihtin its walls. As any modern-day librarian will attest, there are always some interesting volumes tucked below stacks, downstairs, or in some no longer used office. And there are always the protected books that no one gets to see, for whatever reasons.

When, over 1600 years ago, the library was sacked and burned those treasures were lost forever. Or so everyone has thought.

But the careful analysis of my precious shards revealed quite another story.

The story that unfolded in my private rooms, by those thrity some shards, is one of intrigue and guile; of passion and device. And that story has driven me to madness pursuing the loose threads that it has left in th emodern world. Were I not at this writing dying, and likely to be dead and buried by the time you read this, I would devote my every breath to that search...but I get ahead of myself. First you must understand the story within the shards.

Days before the sacking of the Library, the chief Librarian recieves word that something cataclysmic is to befall the city of Alexandria. The Library is certain to be lost or at least severely damaged. The events cannot be stopped and there is no means to delays them. The Librariam shares this intelligence but in the confidence that superiority so often breeds, his concerns are dismissed, given over to a team of experts to analyze and report back upon.

Dismissed, but not disuaded, he chooses his own course of action to protect the treasures around him. He not only understands the importance of the Library's holdings, but like all good chief librarians he loves those holdings and their loss is a death he will not risk experiencing without a fight.

In secrecy, he assembles trusted friends....some scholars, some intellects, some artists, and some people of all walks whom he either trusts or are known for their love of books and the written word.It is not easy. Each passing day brings more and more rumor and ill news. More and more people are choosing to flee the city or "leave for a rest elsewhere" when they do not want to seem cowardly or unconfident in the local government.

Meeting hastily, he entrusts each of them with items from the library's collection and some simple instructions. They are to take the items with them in their belongings and leave the city. When all is clear and it is safe to return, they shall bring the items back to him and the Library will be reconstituted. If all passes as he suspects, they will in the long story be heroes. But for now they must be silent agents, use codes, keep secrets less they be thought theieves and cowards and traitors. And there are enemies who would enjoy these spoils, so they must be protected by these brave men and women until the government is once again stable and able to protect these teasusres.

Fearing that the process may take a long time, and that in the passing some of the original participants may be lost or may have to leave their goods with others, or in hiding, for safe guarding he devises a simple plan to code or number each item. Whenever one of the original particpants must release an item from their possesion they will write to him or trusted others and, using this code or identification number, let them know where the document can be retrieved.

Since his cohorts will scatter all over the known world of that time, he devises a symbol of a walking book so that those who-wander-with-books can idenitfy one another across cultures and languages or across generations if need be. His plan seems fool-proof and once placed into motion some of the treasures of the great Library at Alexandria slip out of his hands to be scattered across the world.

History of course records that his worst fears were realized. The Librray is burned to the ground along with much of his precious home of Alexandria. No doubt, some items secretly hidden in the city were lost. There is no complete record of how many items were saved, however, the shards I found indicate record some of the items saved and to whom they were originally given for safekeeping.

But at large those items have remained for the Library was never rebuilt and the librarian died during the invasion of Alexandria. In the decades that ensued, no leader came forward to reassemble the hidden treasures and so they have wandered the world since. Using the information in the other shards, not shown here, I have dedicated my life to tracing those items identified on those shards. And I have met with some success.

But it has not been without difficulty and setbacks. But as I near the end of my life I must pass my work on to others. I have divided my holdings into groupings and sent some to Europe, some to South America, and what follows here is the last of my North American efforts.
I have, through various means, traced the linage of those originally released items to these people you will see below. What is reported here is both the infomration I could gather about them and some notes on how they fit into this great puzzle. What will do with this will remain to be seen.

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his is the photo assigned to N8an

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his is the photo assigned to LEESTER

My dearest Alex,

If only we could change history, change the fates, and live life according to our desires, with no thought to the affect on others' lives.

I remember when you took my hand that beautiful light day in June. I was unsure at the time of whether or not you felt the same longing, but I have since learned to understand. A man cannot renege on his commitments. I understand.

When I began writing these letters, I thought it would help me to let go. I thought that it would shift the intensity of seeing you in person. Instead, I find myself more attached to you than ever. When you are not in my midst, I gaze upon this one cherished photograph of you and smile.

Remember the times all of us would go down to the beach together? Molly would always wander off and we'd quickly form a search party! And wasn't she always found sitting with a perfect stranger who had given her some treat or other? Molly is such a delight that you can understand how she melts the hearts of anyone. It is almost as if she chooses to melt the heart of someone with something sweet to offer.

And remember the winter evenings by the Richardson's skating rink? How much Barbara loved to practice her figure skating when she would come to visit you. She is so graceful and such a natural beauty! I was always secretly jealous of her, wondering how many hearts she had broken. She always seemed to adore you when she visited.

It has been rapturous and torturous to be so involved in your life without being involved with your heart. I know that I cannot ever give you this or any other letter I have written to you. It is merely a foolish woman's attempt to salve the wounds. I will continue to write and I will continue to look at your photograph, but most of all, I will continue to love you..

With all my heart,
D.

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his is the photo assigned to OSMIA

I wrote this poem for Tante Solange after spending my best ever Christmas Holiday with her:

Tante in her apron was making a snack
While I used my twin to stand on her back
Reaching to the top of the bookshelf on high
I grabbed the Best Tea Set, Success!, with a sigh

As I drew in my hand and was turning around
Down came the books with a very loud sound
Patterns of knitting and photo albums too
Heaped in a mound, 'round Meagan's left shoe

When who to my horrified eyes should appear
But Aunty Sally looking much less than dear
As autumn leaves that float down from the sky
A last photo fluttered, on the mound top to lie

She sprang to the photo and came to it's rescue
My lost wedding photo! Found! Thanks to you two
She gathered us close in her famous bear hug
And told us her story as we sat on the rug

"I didn't always have these dimples", she dimpled. "When I was a young girl, I gave my life to God, and moved into the Convent where I could serve him best", she told us in a reverent voice. "It was a harsh and demanding life, but I was sustained by my faith. Mother Superior assigned me to work at the hospital and gladly did I go.

My sisters and I tended all of God's fallen sparrows to the best of our abilities. I was always getting sick and looked on it as a test from My Lord. Moving those great heavy beds was my most dreaded task. One day as I was pushing a bed into a freshly cleaned room as the janitor was exiting, I fainted. Coming to with Charles' eyes fixed worriedly on mine as he sat beside me on that dratted bed was like opening my eyes onto a new life. Not that I didn't fight
against it though, thinking that this was yet another test from My Lord.

As time passed, it seemed that every time there was something demanded beyond my abilities he was always there to lend some unobtrusive aid. But one day I woke up in one of those dratted hospital beds with not my Charles' eyes looking into mine with touching concern but with the Mother Superior's adamant gaze and matching tone telling me that I was languishing to the point of dying and not only would I have to leave my hospital work but would have to leave the Convent as well.

With a clash and a splash Charles catapulted himself into the room leaving a trail of dirty water and a slowly spinning pail behind him. He held my hand and promised to look after me for ever and make me well if only I would agree to be his wife. I agreed on the spot. Two weeks later when the doctor pronounced me fit enough to leave my bed, I donned my wedding dress and married your Uncle, God rest his soul.

Sincerely,
osmia (http://www.bookcrossing.com/mybookshelf/osmia)

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his is the photo assigned to PALMERSPAL

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his is the photo assigned to JACKSHOME

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his is the photo assigned to KEEPDRG

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his is the photo assigned to CLINDELL

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his is the photo assigned to HERRUNDMEYER




You're asking about the child in the front? I don't have a clue who she might be. The baby of someone very, very close to him, that's for sure. Certainly someone high up in the "famiglia". This must have been taken late in his life, and that would already be the period in which he didn't attend social events openly, so it's surely a private party.

Makes me wonder, why he allowed being photographed at all. Well, he looks like he doesn't notice that he's in the picture. And the photographer would have been someone who could be trusted, too. You know, his presence would have remained secret, everybody was keeping the silence, "omertà" and don't you ever betray the "famiglia"!

There weren't many who would dare talking to the other syndicates or even the authorities - always fearing the "vendetta". You wouldn't have lived to see another dawn.

And this photo is so dark in the back, you wouldn't be able to recognise him, if you didn't know him well. Smooth skin and all - you wouldn't believe it was him.

But I knew him. I really knew him well, and I was only 14 when I first met him in 1930. He still controlled the city, though nobody knew how. Most fascinating character I've ever met. Next thing he was sent to prison for fiddling with his taxes. They couldn't put anything else on him. Al has always been a clever chap.

But the girl on the chair? No idea, sorry.

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his is the photo assigned to ICABY


I found this picture and letter of Mr. Peter Checketzving in my great-grandmother's family album. No other letters followed.


17th of August 1939

Dearest Aunt Beth,

How are you? How are Eric and the boys?

I am apologizing in advance for this short letter. I have just learned a short time ago that Shloymaleh, Tzvi's son is on his way to Denmark and eventually to England. He offered to take a letter and send it for me, and since getting letters out of Germany is very hard these days, I accepted.

Things don't look good here. We are considering our options. My lovely Tziporah is insisting on leaving everything behind and taking off. As much as I agree that this is a wise idea, I cannot leave without Bubbi. Since his health is too fragile, we can't risk taking him on this harsh journey. But I am working fervently on a solution, and will contact you as soon as possible.

Tziporah has been sick during July, but is recovering well. As for me, I am trying to stay optimistic, but without a job and with the new hardships, it is difficult to maintain.

Despite the shortage in food, and the horrendous restrictions, the children are flourishing. Davie will be entering the fifth grade in September. Given the circumstances we might have to continue his education at home. Adrian turned eight last week. He is getting very tall and he loves to play with Do-Mi the dog. Little Fanny-Carolyn is a natural dancer. At 6 she is headed towards the life of a ballerina.

Just like you asked, I am attaching a portrait of my younger self for your project.

Goodbye,
With all my love,

Peter.



After a few months of research, the horrible fate of this branch of my family became clear. Peter was exterminated in Birkenau. His wife Tziporah and their younger son Adrian were sent to Treblinka and exterminated. David was transported from Birkenau to Maidanek in early 1940 and had died from dysentery. The fate of Fanny-Carolyn is unknown. Finally, according to the Breslau's town records, Bubbi had passed away On August 30th, 1939.

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his is the photo assigned to LILMZATAZ

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his is the photo assigned to THNXANDYC

***Note...thnxandyc has provided her letter on beautifully aged paper and the recipe that follows the letter is cleverly written in a child's hand on brown paper torn from a sack. I'm afraid my typing does not do its beuaty justice.....but in order to share the text online..a compromise was needed.*****

Kitchener, Ontario, Canada
Trestle Gate Farm
4th day of August
1919

Dearest Niece Victoria,

I hope this letter finds you in good health and spirits.

I am sending the photograph that you asked for in your last letter. It was taken about a year ago in our back garden. The photographer came to the house because my rheumatism is quite painful and I have days that I can hardly walk.

As you can see, your “little” cousin Emil is not so little anymore. He is growing into a strong and sturdy fellow and seems well suited to the farmer’s life he will one day inherit. He is also blessed with a kind heart and an insisted on carrying my favorite chair into the garden so I could be comfortable for the long time it took the photographer to adjust all his picture taking doodads. We are pretending to read one of Emil’s schoolbooks so that we are looking intelligent.

Your Uncle Josef refused to pose with us, saying he was too busy finishing up the new barn. You can see the peak of the barn just behind us in the photograph. It is a real beauty. Emil and me, we do not look too bad either, ay ?

I miss you and your family. I am sorry that Josef and your Albert could not get along. Pennsylvania USA is such a long way away. Do you miss the farm or are you learning to like the City life? Kitchener, as we must call it now since the war, is growing bigger everyday. The old farm families are selling out and new people arrive every day to work in the factories.

I am also sending you the recipe for Opa Hecht’s dumplings. It is a family secret and Emil will write it down the way we remember it. Let me know how they turn out.

I must go now to hire a new dairy maid. Hildy, who was with us for five years, has run off with the photographer. She was a lazy one anyway.

I remain as always,
Your loving Aunt Vyrl

Opa Hecht’s Dumplings

Potatoes – cooked and mashed with no milk or butter added
Flour
Eggs

Mix mashed potatoes with 1 or 2 eggs (I egg for 3 or 4 potatoes). Add enough flour so the potatoes form a large ball. Roll the potatoes on a floured cutting board. The roll should be 1” in diameter. Cut into 1” pieces (my favorite job). Drop into boiling water. Take out with a slotted spoon when they rise to the top. Don’t overcook. Drain then well or they will get gooey

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his is the photo assigned to ATENEA-NIKE


Atenea-Nike has taken me up on my offer that since the project was an international one people were free to write their submissions in the language of their choice...whatever they felt suited them or their photo.

However, she has also generously offered that a translation for english readers will be forthcoming. In the meanwhile, there is a short synopsis in English at the end.



Del paso de mi tía por el mundo sólo quedan unos pocos retazos físicos: algunos dólares y unas cajas llenas de papeles y chucherías. Es lastimosamente poco, apenas las migajas del banquete que fue, los retales de un vestido digno de una reina. Me hace pensar en los restos de un
naufragio que la corriente ha arrastrado a un brazo muerto del río. Sin el barco del que formaban parte no son nada. Voy a intentar reconstruir ese barco en los astilleros de la memoria, para que pueda volver a surcar orgulloso los mares de mis recuerdos. Es lo menos que le debo.

La única pieza del naufragio que reconozco es esta fotografía. Es lo único que vincula a esta mujer que acabo de enterrar con la que habita en mis recuerdos. Esta foto se tomó hace cincuenta años, el día del bautizo de mi hermano, en la sala de nuestro piso en Pamplona. Pero la historia comienza antes. Aunque esta foto sea el eslabón perdido, el inicio de la cadena es mi nacimiento.

Mi parto fue complicado, tanto que mi madre pasó varios meses muy débil. Su hermana vino del pueblo para hacerse cargo de ella, del bebé y de la casa. Cuando mi madre se recuperó, mi tía estaba tan encardinada en el paisaje
doméstico que a nadie se le ocurrió que se fuera. Además seguía siendo necesaria en la casa, porque en cierto sentido mi madre no se recuperó nunca. Yo, su primogénito, fui el más astuto de los Caínes, puesto que en vez de matar a mi hermano me aseguré de que ni siquiera llegara a existir.

Mi parto dejó a mi madre incapacitada para tener más hijos. Este hecho, junto con su larga convalecencia, le agrió el carácter. Su hermana, en agudo contraste con ella, era como una brisa de aire fresco soplando en la casa. Tenía una reserva inagotable de buen humor. La recuerdo siempre
cantando con una hermosa voz de soprano. Cuando no cantaba, reía, y su risa sonaba como cascabeles de plata. Mantenía la casa limpia, me cuidaba a mí, atendía a los caprichos de inválida imaginaria de mi madre, y aún le
quedaban fuerzas para ponerse un poco de carmín por las tardes y salir a dar un paseo, del que siempre volvía con una historia divertida para compartir en la cena.

Era como si las dos hermanas fueran los dos platos de una balanza: cuanto más subía una, más brillaba, más alegría derrochaba, más se hundía la otra en un pozo de oscuridad y amargura. Parecía que mi tía consumiera la energía de mi madre. Para mí mi madre era una señora fría que apenas salía de su cuarto, que respondía brucamente a lo que se le decía y que olía raro. Ahora sé que eran los medicamentos que tomaba, pero entonces me parecía que el acre olor era su esencia, su alma, que la envolvía en una nube de resentimiento. Procuraba no acercarme a ella por temor a que ese olor se me metiera debajo de la piel y me infectara de la misma enfermedad que se estaba comiendo su espíritu.

Años más tarde, al leer Yerma, lloré como un niño al ver el sufrimiento de mi madre reflejado en la obra de teatro. No puedo culparla de que se asqueara de su cuerpo estéril, de que se encerrara en su habitación de enferma y bloqueara el paso de su marido a su corazón y su cama. Tampoco puedo culpar a mi padre, un hombre joven que no entendía quién se había llevado a su mujer y la había reemplazado con esa bruja de lengua viperina, por preferir la compañía de mi tía a la de mi madre. Y mucho menos puedo culpar a mi tía, jovencísima, apenas una niña que jugaba a las casitas,
encantada de haber cambiado su monótona existencia en el pueblo por una familia y una vida en la ciudad. El drama estaba servido. Ninguno de los actores lo sabía, pero el destino les empujaba hacia el inevitable (y previsible) desenlace. Me inspiran una ternura infinita. No puedo leer a
Sófocles, ni a Shakespeare, y ver a sus personajes golpeados por las olas que implacables dirigen sus vidas a su antojo sin pensar en nuestra pequeña tragedia de modestas dimensiones.

Lo que tenía que suceder, sucedió. Mi tía había ocupado todos los papeles de mi madre excepto uno. Sólo era cuestión de tiempo que también ocupara el último y se instalara en la cama de mi padre. Creo que mi madre lo supo
desde el principio, pero no dijo nada. Se había rendido hacía mucho tiempo, y sólo se aferraba al veneno que lentamente le corroía las entrañas. ¿Qué más daba una traición más? Se creó entre ellos un lazo de silencio y ocultamiento: mi madre no decía nada y los amantes mantenían las apariencias.

Tampoco fue culpa de nadie el que se rompiera este precario equilibrio. Mi tía se quedó embarazada. Se armó de valor (¿cuántas noches sin dormir le costaría?) y se lo contó a su hermana y a su amante. La noticia fue como un mazazo que sumió a mi padre en el estupor más absoluto, y que al mismo
tiempo despertó a mi amdre de su letargo. Ella lo organizó todo: se irían al pueblo, donde mi tía daría a luz, y mi madre lo adoptaría como propio.

Nadie se opuso a ese plan: mi padre, porque la sorpresa le había dejado atónito y paralizado, y mi tía, poque parecía haber agotado toda su energía al atreverse a comunicarles la noticia. Se puso a las órdenes de su hermana, obedeciéndola ciegamente, sumisa como una oveja camino del matadero. Dos fueron al pueblo, y dos volvieron. Mi tía murió dando a luz al que sería mi hermano. Yo no entendía por qué misterio de la alquimia mi tía (mi madre en mi corazón) había desaparecido y en su lugar había aparecido ese montoncito rosado de carne. No lo entendí durante muchos
años, y mi desconcierto a veces asomaba a mi mirada, como en la foto.

Me alegro de poder decir que las circunstancias de su nacimiento noempañaron en absoluto mi relación con mi hermano. Los niños, afortunadamente, son muy flexibles; ello me permitió adaptarme a los cambios domésticos sin problemas. Mi madre volvió renovada del pueblo. El
nacimiento de mi hermano le devolvió lo que el mío le había arrebatado, y volvió a ejercer de madre. Su relación con mi padre también mejoró. Creo que ambos tenían mucho que personarse: la ponzoña de ella que pudrió su relación y la inconstancia de él que la sustituyó por su hermana, así que
en cierto modo estaban en paz. Sus cargas respectivas se anulaban.

Mirándolo en retrospectiva, mi tía parece el hada buena de un cuento infantil, que rescató a la princesa del sueño en el que la malvada bruja le había sumido. También nos dio a mi padre y a mi una mujer y una madre cuando no la tuvimos, pero el mejor regalo se lo dio, sin duda, a su hermana: el hijo que no podía tener, la ilusión que no encontraba, la vida
que se le estaba escapando de entre los dedos.

Durante muchos años creí que había recibido la muerte a cambio, hasta que hace unos días me comunicaron que soy el único heredero de Isabel Moreno, fallecida en Nueva York la semana pasada a la edad de 75 años. Entre sus efectos personales se hallaba esta foto, prueba de que al menos una vez mi madre le escribió al exilio al que la condenó. Esta foto es lo único que le quedó a mi tía de su hijo, que falleció hace unos años, y jamás supo quién era su verdadera madre.

El gran interrogante de esta historia es mi tía y su vida en Nueva York. En mi mente, como el hada buena que fue, supo que había hecho algo bueno y hermoso y se sentía orgullosa de ello. Prefiero recordarla así. Y puesto que soy el único que queda para recordarla y mi mente es el único sitio en
que sigue viva, así es como sucedió. En vida, ella conformó mis recuerdos. Muerta, mis recuerdos la conforman a ella.



----synposis -----------------------------
I'm sure you're curious, so I'll brief you on the plot: my entry are the thoughts of a man who encounters this photo depicting him and his little brother among the personal belongings of his deceased aunt in NY. He is
from Spain, and he thought his aunt had died long ago. The story is that his birth left his mother very sick, so her sister moved with them to help take care of house. Eventually, she ends up becoming the husband's lover,
gets pregnant, goes to the country to give birth and suppossedly dies. Only she didn't die, she emigrated.
It sounds like a drama, where the aunt is the villain, but in fact she is a good influence in the household. It's a story about how "bad" deeds can create "good" consequences and it's permeated with a feeling of tendernessfor the three main characters in the love triangle; they can't break free of their destinies, and in fact there's little to blame in them.

I've tried to make them human, and therefore lovable. And there's a little bit of melancholy in the end.
Ok, it's very bad, but I feel so proud :))

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his photo is assigned to ZMRZLINA

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his is the photo assigned to MARINAW

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his is the photo assigned to TEXAS-WREN

***Note..Texas-Wren has produced a wonderfully complete newsletter looking final product. Unfortunately, to make it small enough to upload to the site it needed to be too small to really view easily. While it will be properly produced in the final product, I have retyped the text for you to appreciate the hard work she put into the story of this remarkable lady. *****

Roebuck Review
Publisher: Bulldog Alumni Association
Vol 47 Issue No.3
April 1945


We welcome the opportunity to become reacquainted with our classmate Clara Elizabeth Johnson nee Bolivar. Many of you may remember Clara as the wise George Washington in the Junior Class Play. Others may remember her for her grace and athleticism on the basketball court. I feel sure that we owe our victory in the 1922 season to her rebound skills.

Most of us, however, remember her for her charm, wit, and enduring kindness, qualities which still shine today.


With Clara’s kind permission, I offer this brief biography. Clara was born in Roebuck, Illinois on June 20,1905, daughter of William and Anna Johnson. She has an older brother Hester, Class of 1921, and a younger sister, Mae, Class of 1925.

While attending Roebuck schools, Clara was an honor student and a friend to all. She was always willing to lend her myriad talents to all school endeavors. She played the lead role in the Senior Musical, as well as lesser parts in many theatrical productions. She was President of the Shorthand Club and a member of the Girls Rowing Team and the Fishing Friends Club.

Clara attended Mrs. O’Hanlon’s School of Business in Rockford for two years after graduation. She returned to Roebuck to work for her father in the Marine Supply store, where she met the charming man who was to become her husband. Clara and Silas Bolivar were wed on October 20, 1927.

Clara and Silas are the proud parents of one son, Mark, 14 and twin daughters, Beth and Laura, 12. The Bolivar children attend Roebuck schools, as did their parents and grandparents before them.

Clara is currently Chairman of the “Mother’s Day on the River” committee. Those who have left our fair city might be interested to know that this event is sponsored by the Roebuck Area Commercial Fisherman’s Association. Clara’s husband, Silas, is this year’s President of the RACFA. On Saturday, May 12, all mothers are invited to the Pier 4 Picnic area for a community-wide picnic. Clara says that each mother will be given a flower as she signs the Park Garden Book. The RACFA has offered to pant one spring bulb in honor of each mother in attendance. They are hoping for a large turnout, which will result in a more beautiful community park.

Clara has offered us this photo (see above) taken on her husband’s boat, Mississippi Magic, at the last Mother’s day picnic.

Please remember that our annual Roebuck Bulldog Pie Supper will be held on June 5 at the High School Cafeteria. Proceeds will go to maintain the work of the Alumni Association.

If your address changes, please notify Cornella Turner at Box 4, Roebuck, Illinois.

Until July, hope you will be well and prosper.

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his is the photo assigned to GORYDETAILS




Item: Photograph of three men, with several pages apparently torn from a small loose-leaf notebook. Transcript of notes:

"5/2/71, Old Pioneer's Home. J.C. still napping; no point taping the snores. Third time he's slept through an appt - almost like he's avoiding me. Old codger in the next bed giving me the eye; looks amused, damn him. Don't care what the nurse said - if J.C. doesn't wake up in the next 5 mins I'll drop a bedpan.

5/9/71, Old Pioneer's Home. Just great. J.C.'s not in bed - nurse says he's in physical therapy. What good's that for a guy his age? Bet he's mad at me for waking him up last week, but I paid him good money for those interviews, and he can do his exercise on somebody else's dime. That wretch in the next bed's grinning at me now - bet J.C. told him all about it. I'd be out of here except I need the damned sequel, and where else am I going to get memoirs that colorful? Hey, I wonder if old Jack did tell any stories to this guy. Won't hurt to ask, and if it's crap I can erase the tape.

(Later) Didn't want to put this on the tape in case the old buzzard heard it, but I think maybe there's a real story here. I'll do some checking on the things he told me and see if it matches that silly picture, just in case J.C.'s "indisposed" again next week.

5/16/71: Bloody hell. J.C.'s gone, God knows how; looked like he'd break if he tried to stand up. H.P.F. sitting there grinning at me - I'd like to bust his. It's not as if I believed any of that tale he was telling me last time. Wrote to the town clerk in Arkham to confirm the family records but haven't heard back, so it might be true. Can't let the bastard know what this could be worth, though; at his age he doesn't need much money anyway. He's playing with that photo now, daring me to turn the tape on; knows he's
got me hooked.

(Later) It's got to be a scam. How many sets of triplets survived birth in the 1870's? Not damned many, I bet - could look it up, though. He clammed up when I pushed him about the picture maybe being fake; better leave that alone. Doesn't matter anyway if I can find any records. Claims he's the one in the cowboy hat, from Buffalo Bill's Wild West Show - bet he got that idea from J.C. Or maybe every old codger was in the damned thing. Seemed
sad enough about "brother Darryl," the ringmaster for Barnum's circus (bet I can find records about that - no, wait, damned fire took most of those records). Awfully canny about the third one, though. Good story there, or is he stalling so he can make something up?

5/23/71: H.P.F. (what kind of name is "Futterman" anyway?) looks sick today; nurse says he's not sleeping well, blames me. Aren't I doing the guy a favor, giving him somebody to talk to? No word from Arkham yet about the family, but I did find a Futterman on the Wild West Show payroll lists, around 1910, the farewell season. Got to get more facts that I can check, and before the old guy pegs out.

(Later) Can't put this on the tape - the typist might talk - but the guy's gotta be bats. Not surprising at 90-something, but does it mean he made the story up or that the story turned him bats? [Might make a good cover blurb out of that - not "bats," though. "was his mind warped by." or like that.] Didn't want to talk about the third brother, Asaph, and got all cagey about everything else, muttering about how he shouldn't have said anything. Turned the tape off right after the bit about A. driving for Diamond Jim Brady - should be able to check that - and before H.P.F. said "don't you tell anybody about this".

5/30/71: Confirmed payroll listing for an Asaph Futterman driving for Brady in New York around 1910. Even found a few pictures but they focus on Brady; chauffeur's always in shadow, but it could be him. Good enough for me! Need more on all three, though; what happened after 1910? H.P.L. doesn't look good at all - hope the bastard holds out a little longer.

(Later) Got a little more, but can't let anybody hear the tape - poor guy's half-nuts, whining to himself like I'm not there. I'll transcribe the gist of it myself, the bits I can spell anyway. Did get that brother Darryl came to NYC to work with Asaph after the Wild West Show folded - drove for Brady too, for a while; looked so much like his brother they could switch off and make everybody think the same guy was on duty all the time, creeped folks out. But Darryl started drinking, got to talking wild in bars, and something bad happened to him - old H.P.L. started whimpering and put his hands over his eyes. "Mustn't tell!" he said. "Asaph will be mad!" What the hell Asaph could do about it he didn't say; asked him if A. was still alive and he just moaned. Don't think he's got much longer - if he lasts another week I'll have to be firm and get what I can out of him before the nurse catches on.

6/6/71: Damn, damn, damn. Got to the Home and found the bed empty; old bastard kicked off last night. Nurse gave me the hairy eyeball and said it was all my fault for digging up the past; poor guy hadn't slept all week, but seemed to go quietly enough. Wish he'd screamed himself to death if he couldn't wait one more day and finish the damned story. And just when I'd got the confirmation from Arkham - three sons born to Adelbert Futterman and Adeleine Whately in 1883, Asaph, Darryl, and Howard Phillip. Found out what kind of name "Futterman" is too - Amish. Family pulled out of Pennsylvania in '16 after the Year Without A Summer ruined the flax crop - landed in Arkham, poor bastards (the clerk's words, not mine - seemed awfully amused by the whole thing). Well, a little humor never hurts a story. "Three Amish Boys Make Good, See The Passing of the Golden Age" - something like that. Except it went sour, didn't it; Darryl disappeared, no news about Asaph after Brady died, and H.P. finished up in this place telling his family secrets to me.

(Later) Got the nurse to chat a bit on tape; told her it'd help with funding or something, and she got pretty friendly. Asked her if she'd go call a cab for me, and while she was gone I checked in the nightstand where the old buzzard kept his stuff - and I found the photo, stuck in the back! Just the thing for the cover. Oh, driver's here - I'll be glad to see the
last of this place. Old people give me the shivers."

[From evidence folder in the disappearance of Ralph Fielding Snell, journalist and author, last seen getting into an old-fashioned limousine outside the Old Pioneers Home on 6/6/71. Additional case notes provide background on Snell but little else about the photograph or the handwritten notes, except for testimony by hospital staff to the effect that the limousine had been seen in front of the hospital before, for several weeks prior to the death of Mr. Futterman and the disappearance of Mr. Snell. No description of the driver was provided. An attendant claimed to have seen a man of about 30 wearing a cloth cap walking away from Futterman's bed the night he died, but the attendant had a history of drinking while on duty.
Snell's overcoat was found near a deserted cemetery, with the notes and photograph crumpled in one pocket; the tapes referred to in the notes were not found.]

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his is the photo assigned to YOBERO

This photo was assigned to mojosmom






Aunt Miriam! Help!

Rachel and I have finally finished going through bubbe's boxes of family photographs. What a chore! The next thing I'm going to do is go through all my OWN photos and make sure they are properly labeled. Name, date, place and any other important information. I sure don't want my
grandkids (if any) to go through what Rachel & I just did.

There were so many people we didn't recognize. Last week, we went to visit Uncle Aaron, and he was able to help with some of them, and Rachel is taking another bunch back to California with her. We're hoping Aunt Sarah will be able to identify them.

But this one has us flummoxed. We thought you might know something, because it was in a folder marked "David". (Though this was the ONLY thing in it!) Why did bubbe have a photograph of three priests? And what's the connection with Uncle David? And where was it taken? Uncle Aaron didn't recognize the building (or the people), and it doesn't show up in any of
the other photographs.

Don't feel bad about not coming to the service. We know it's difficult for you to travel these days. The girls missed you, but we've promised them that, if their grades hold up, they can come along when Max and I come to New York in November. (I have that legal conference to attend, but I plan to take a couple of extra days.) Do you think you'll feel up to seeing a show? In any case, we'll spend plenty of time together.

All my love,
Deborah

Dear Deborah,

I'm so sorry, dear, I can't help with the picture. I've never seen it before, and you know what David was like about the clergy (of any religion)! It was all I could do to get him under the chuppah with a rabbi, but, as it was the only way I'd marry him, he went along. So why he'd have a picture of a group of priests, I can't imagine.

It's hard to picture you making speeches at a big conference. I remember you as a little girl, though; even then, you liked to talk and argue. A regular Clarence Darrow, David called you!

Do me a favor, Deborah. Let the girls come even if their grades don't hold up (though I can't imagine a child of yours not getting the best grades). My health isn't too bad for my age, but I don't know how long I have, so I grasp at every opportunity to see the young ones. Humor an
old lady? I get around alright, between cabs and car services, so tell the girls to look in the New York Times and pick out a show they'd like to see. (And I'll get the tickets; don't argue because this one you don't win, lawyer or no!)

I'm going to show that picture to one of David's old friends; maybe he'll know something. It will be good to see you all!

Love to everyone,
Aunt Miriam


Dear Mrs. Blumenthal,

You wouldn't remember me, as you were a very little girl when I met you and your sister Rachel. I'm a very old friend of your late uncle, David Fein (old in age, and in the years of our friendship!).

Your aunt Miriam showed me the photograph you asked her about, and I'm sorry to say I don't know the people either. Judging from the clothes, the photograph must have been taken at about the same time that I first knew David. I have breakfast a couple of times a week with some fellows from the old days, so I hoped they would know, but no luck.

Miriam tells me you're a big shot lawyer now, representing the labor unions. David would have been so proud. That's how I met him, you know, with the union-organizing in the garment trades.

I'm sorry I can't be of more help with the picture.

Yours truly,
Sid Weiss

Dear Rachel,

Well, it looks like that picture will remain a mystery. Aunt Miriam didn't know, and she passed it on to one of David's union colleagues, who showed it to some other friends from that time, and no one recognized it. At least Sarah figured out the rest.

I guess this is a lesson to all of us. I mean to take it to heart and, as I told Aunt Miriam, get my family photographs organized and labelled!

Hug the kids and hubby for me!

Love,
Deb

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his is the photo assigned to AWESOMEAUD

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his is the photo assigned to XANA

She looked at the photo and then turned it. "Ma chambre dans Glenthorne
Hotel 1944 Westgate"

"Strange, this photo" she said, facing him as he picked up a box and was
already going down the spiral staircase. He looked at it for a moment, something passed his eyes, but it was too dark in the attic so she couldn'tt quite figure it out.

"Nothing special, just a job I did when I started out as a photographer."

"But you never write anything in the back of your photos, you always said
its as criminal as writing down dreams, remember? Why this one?"

Silence

"I wanted to make sure I remembered."

"Tell me."

"It's a simple story really", he started very fast, "Boy meets girl in
strange city, boy and girl spent a week together. Girls leaves without a
trace one morning."

"And this photo?"

"She took it with my camera. Its the only memory I have of her. Ironic
isnt it? I'm the photographer and the only proof I have of her existence
its a blurred photo, of me."

He turn and left. She put the photo back inside the old edition of the
Odyssey and closed the book.

Still waters run deep and she felt guilty about asking him to share what
was obviously a deep and personal memory.

She smiled, thinking about the man who had shared a train cabinet with her,
so long ago, and that she never saw again."

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his is the photo assigned to THANKSMOM

Dear Bill,

Thank you for forwarding the photograph of the unknown men to me. I was most surprised to be able to identify the place almost immediately! It was very obvious to me that the picture was taken in front of one of the "cottages" owned by the South Fork Fishing and Hunting Club. This is the group responsible for the dam that broke causing the great Johnstown Flood of 1889. You can see a larger view of the club buildings at http://www.nps.gov/jofl/theclub.htm if you are uncertain of what I am speaking of.

You may be wondering how such a photograph made its way to Canada. Louis Semple Clark owned the most extensive known collection of photographs of the South Fork Fishing and Hunting Club. Clark descendents living in New Hampshire found the collection in a recent cataloging of their attic. It is possible that one of the photographs got separated from the collection and made its way to Ontario. The collection was discovered and identified only in the past decade, who knows where more of those Club photographs may be hidden?

Once I knew it was a club member I began looking up the membership rolls. As many of the club members were powerful, and reclusive, men in 1889 it is difficult to find photographs to compare your mystery man to. Happily, I was able to eliminate all known members and by this process come to the conclusion that the man in the foreground of the photograph is none other than A.C. Crawford. Your photograph is of a very rare subject indeed! Being a most conservative government employee I wrote as little about A.C. Crawford as possible for posting to the Internet ( http://www.nps.gov/jofl/members.htm ) but in this private letter to you I can confess the entire story.

A.C. Crawford was NOT a simple Armstrong County lawyer. Oh, he did business in Armstrong County, and spent a fair amount of time in the courthouses, but it wasn't due to his lawyering talents. More like his lawyer trying to defend his talents. Mr. Crawford was, to put it succinctly, a scoundrel. So much so that A.C. never went anywhere without his trench coated bodyguard, as seen in the background of your photograph.

Where to begin the story of Crawford… A.C. Crawford was born Athol Chaiwat Crawford, named for various Important ancestors of the Crawford family. For obvious reasons, young Athol immediately acquired nicknames by the bucket full. The most popular nickname the child responded to was "Chat-What", due to his constant spate of childhood babble and the corruption of his middle name. By the time young Athol entered prep school his nickname had changed to "At-All" since he could be found at all the social events offered. It was the beginning of his wheeling and dealing, a habit that lasted a lifetime. Also the start of his womanizing ways, another life long habit.

Connections to the big time were forged during A.C.'s business years at the Pennsylvania Railroad where he developed friendships with Andrew Carnegie and others who later became members of the South Fork Hunting and Fishing Club. Never did these powerful men address Crawford as anything other than A.C. as per Mr. Crawford's request.

The Crawford family, tired of baling A.C. out of one philandering charge after another, finally picked a trophy wife for him. Young Lamya Wiebke Harmes, daughter of A.G. Harmes of boilermaker fame, became his wife in early 1880. Lamya, or YaYa as she was affectionately called, was an impressive beauty and used to a life of wealth and privilege. Always at the front of fashion and oblivious to gossip, YaYa seemed a good match for A.C. but the marriage lasted less than 10 years. One of the reasons listed for the divorce was animal cruelty, A.C. was said to use his walking stick to beat on YaYa's prize Spinone dogs (http://www.css.edu/users/kmcgrew/spinone.html ) because "they were spying on him." It is perhaps one of YaYa's dogs curled into itself in the corner of the photograph.

A.C. and his fellows had a difficult time recovering their reputations after the Johnstown Flood. The death of some 2209 men, women, and children, was investigated but no blame was ever attached to a specific person or group. The Crawfords divorced in 1890, perhaps some of the stress of the flood investigation precipitated this event. The two children of A.C. and YaYa Crawford, daughter Orsolya and son Viltoriano, were raised by their mother until they went off building their own families. A.C. Crawford died in 1923, a bitter and hermit like old man whose own children burnt any family pictures or memorabilia that was associated with him. It is truly a wonder that you found the photograph you have.

To follow up on your new interest in the Johnstown Flood there are a number of books you may wish to read. Some straddle the line between fiction and non-fiction, I must warn you. The most popular non-fictional book would be The Johnstown Flood by David G. McCullough. It is a very readable book; you reminded me I needed to register my copy with BookCrossing ( http://www.bookcrossing.com/journal/630827 ). A more extensive bibliography of Johnstown Flood related books can be found at http://www.nps.gov/jofl/biblio.htm but certainly there are other books on the topic. A fictional book about the Johnstown Flood, In Sunlight, In a Beautiful Garden by Kathleen Cambor, is said to be very readable. I am not personally familiar with it, however.

Again, it is a pleasure and a privilege participating in your photo project.


Thanks,
Mom



THIS IS A WORK OF FICTION. ALL DETAILS ABOUT THE JOHNSTOWN FLOOD ARE CORRECT BUT ANY STORY DIRECTLY CONNECTED TO THE MYSTERY PHOTOGRAPH or A.C. CRAWFORD IS TOTAL FICTION.

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his is the photo assigned to DDRAGONGRL

Of all the children in the family, Aubrey always had the best imagination.I remember one Easter when she saw the baby bunnies at the feed store downtown and decided she just had to have one. For weeks she wandered around, telling everyone that she was going to have her very own baby
Easter Bunny, and no matter how many times Ma tried to dissuade her, she just insisted that when she woke up Easter morning her new rabbit would be there. Well, the day came and we all waited with heavy hearts for Aubrey
to discover that her dream was not to come true. Bright and early that Sunday morn, Aubrey woke, dressed herself in her Sunday best, and bounced her way down the stairs to hunt - not for eggs, but for bunnies. Shelooked under the table and in all the cabinets. No one had the heart to
tell her to stop. Her little eyes would light up each time she found a new place where something small and furry might be hiding, but each time there was nothing there. With the house fully searched, Aubrey moved outside to the porch and Papa's vegetable garden. Ma made sure we were all wearing
coats, and warned us against soiling our good clothes.

We all filed out of the house behind Aubrey, each secretly wishing that a bunny would be found. Suddenly there was a gleeful cry from the far corner of the yard near Ma's rosebushes. All of us kids took off running toward her, and Papa led the pack. I didn't learn until later what had made Papa move so quickly. He was afraid our little Aubrey had cornered a live jackrabbit and was sure to get bitten. When we all reached her however, little Aubrey was sitting
cross-legged on the grass, clutching something to her chest.

My breath caught in my throat and for a moment even I believed. But the thing she was rocking and petting was neither live, nor fuzzy. It was her little white purse that she had carried through the house all morning and evidently brought outside with her on her search. With her eyes shut
tight, Aubrey was picturing a tiny baby bunny, and to her it was there. All day she held and rocked her new "pet" even right through the Easter Services at church. She looked so sweet and innocent, her chubby little legs dangling over the pew and her hands ever stroking the white silk purse
Ma had made for her. She introduced the bunny around, telling everyone about how it was her Easter miracle, and even had the good Reverend in on the act before the day was out. No one argued with Aubrey. No one told her that there was no bunny. No one declined to give the "rabbit" a little pat when Aubrey invited it. Aubrey's dream had come true - if only in her mind.

Sincerely,
ddragongrl (http://www.bookcrossing.com/mybookshelf/ddragongrl)

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his is the photo assigned to GRENOUILLE1

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his is the photo is MOTHERCAT.

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his is the photo is assigned to HRAIROO.

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his is the photo is assigned to LOSTNOMAD.

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his is the photo is asigned to THNXANDYC.

Ode to Moog

This unsmiling young woman in the red ruffled dress,
This was my mother looking like a princess.
Sitting so still in a green wicker chair,
Curls and stiff ribbons adorning her hair.

A feather for a sceptre, held tightly in her hand,
Reigning over subjects in some magic land.
With a far away look,and wrinkled brow,
Seeing the future,not the here and now.

She was destined to a life of sorrow and regret,
Widowed too early,always living in debt.
Her hands rough from working,back bent in pain,
So many worries,she hardly stayed sane.

Her real name was Mildred, but she was Moog to her friends .
Hands now resting empty as her sad life ends,
She ruled over me with mop,spoon,or brush,
Face never lit with either smile or blush.

I'm so glad for this old photo that caught her young face.
Within the lines she wears now,I can still see a trace
Of the mother,the woman who might have been
If life had just dealt her a hand she could win.

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his is the photo is assigned to PALOMARANCH.

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his is the photo is assigned to K-J-H.

***Note: Kevin has provided some preferrences for the font and format to be used when the final version of the letter is included in the project...but I have included the text of letter here for now. *****

April 14, 1930
My dearest Suzanne,

Enclosed are two photographs of my darling Helen on her wedding day. She looks so young in the pictures, I can hardly believe that she is seventeen. And does not her Matthias look handsome in his suit.

It was such a pity that you were unable to be here for the joyous occasion. Helen and Matthias make such a beautiful couple. The church, St Anthony's in Glenhuntly, was decorated with roses and white carnations. We were even able to find a three layer cake for the reception, which was held in the church hall.

I cannot recall what I have told you of the groom, so please forgive me if I repeat myself. Matthias is a sales clerk in the menswear department at George's, in the city, and has just past his nineteenth birthday. He comes from a good family, with his father being a banker and his mother a retired nurse.

As you know, the new house is almost finished, and William and I will be moving in at the end of April. It is built opposite the Caulfield racecourse and William is very happy with the view from the second storey.

I hope that you and Robert are happy in Montreal. How is Jacques settling in at his new school? You mentioned in your last letter that Michael was having a problem with a neighbourhood bully. Has he been able to overcome that? Please write and tell me all your news.
Your loving sister,
Meg.

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his is the photo reassigned to Ottawabill.




Dear Diary,

How can it be that such a simple thing has taken so much of my life ? I had so very many minutes and now they are almost all gone ? And what have I to show for them ? When my moment of judgment comes will my devotion have been enough to make me seem worthy of an eternal reward or have I simpled practiced the hell that awaits me ? I think that if I knew I could be more at peace, but perhaps I am simply still in the bargaining phase.

It was a summer vacation, the first of many my parents would take me to in Europe. At seventeen, I was too young to realize I knew nothing of the world yet held a world of opportunity in my hands. Instead, I thought I knew everything and was constrained by the narrowness of my parents leash and tiny imaginations. And then I met "R". My life has never been the same, in fact it was rarely ever my own life after then.

Bored one day, waiting in a café for my parents to return from a walk along the promenade, I sipped lemonade and imagined being an artist living in a garret above the busy street. I couldn't paint, and didn't really wish to, but I wanted to be tragic, dramatic, bohemian, and full of adventures...as though I had some inkling of what any of those things really were. Soon I would.

In a voice, like warm water running down your back in a hot tub, "R" invited himself to join me. I no longer recall what he said, just that I smiled until my cheeks hurt. The hairs on the back my hand stood at attention when his palm grazed my hand as he reached across the table. Without ever having experienced love or sex or carnal yearning I understood in that brief encounter all that I had been created to be, my life had purpose, I existed, I was.

We became inseparable the remaining six days of my vacation. My parents thinking it nice I had made "a little friend", but I suspect now they enjoyed being able to have more of an adult vacation free of trying to entertain me. And when I think back, they did seem happier in the brief moments they entered my thoughts at all. There really was no room for much else in my thoughts those days. My brain was fully occupied with the way "R" breathed, the way he drank water, or walked, or rolled his r's when he spoke, or put his arm across my back and gripped my shoulder pulling me into his side.

I had to choose between breathing and recalling that first kiss, stolen on a stairway in the hotel when he walked me home late one evening. Although it was followed by so many more the next day in his room, even today 63 years later, it is that first one that flutters my heart and quickens my pulse. Even today I close my eyes and smell that mix of soap and after shave that is forever his smell. Long after medically-assisted arousal became my lot the memory of his fingertip tracing a line down my chest still worked its magic.

But vacations end. There were tears and stiff upper lips. Promises and commitments. A picture captured on our last walk together. But there were no one-hour photomarts, no email addresses, cell phones, or even the frequent use of long-distance calling. Just letters; and promises.

He found a scrap pf paper and wrote out his address. I planned to burn the information into my heart. I would study nothing else on the long ship ride back across the Atlantic. But I was young, and foolish, and it is only the crystal clear memories of old age that allow me now to see myself reaching down to the floor to pick the paper from where the wind had made it flutter like a fallen leaf. He said something that made my heart ache for him, I don't recall what...that he loved me, we'd be together again soon, the day of the week, it did not matter...his voice made me forget all else that existed. Only now do I see myself place that same paper down on the table and write my own address on the back and pass it to him. I can see his hand fold it and slide it in his pocket. I saw so much ,and so litle, with the very same two eyes.

It would be later at the hotel I would make the panicked discovery that the secret to my everlasting joy was not in my pocket as I thought. I would be petulant and bitter at my parent's refusal to let me go and say one more goodbye to "R". Their chiding chuckle at my enthusiasm sharper than glass ground into my heart. I would have thrown myself from the side of the ship in mid-Atlantic were I not so certain that bound for my home, at the same time, as me would be his first letter and surely the return address would be proudly on the envelope.

But no letter met my return, just dust on my belongings... the toys of a child they now seemed. I made a mantra of saying "It will come soon" as though I could will it through the air. I waited. I made excuses to enjoy the time that crept by so very very slowly. I talked to the picture once it was developed. I made an alter of it in my soul and prayed. I tried forgetting. I tried being angry.

I tried searching the same streets when we returned to that same city the following year, and again two years after that. I showed strangers his lovely face and implored them to search their memory. Neighbors recalled only that the family had moved..somewhere..no one knew where. No one recalled a name. It seemed none cared, save me, but I so needed them to care so that I could save myself that I am sure I seemed a mad-man and they wished it was me that would disappear.

I took a year off after college and wandered Europe. There were only so many places one could be, I thought. How odd it seemed that when I had been with him the world was so small..it barely could contain "R" and me and those necessary to keep us alive and amused. But now, without him, it was vast and empty and full of hidden places.

I returned home. I made a career and inherited the family business. I visited that same city every summer and walked those same streets, sometimes with a confused lover on my arm wondering why I had such infinite curiosity for this one place and none for any for the rest of the world. Patient lovers hearing once again about this bridge, visiting once again, this spot, never knowing how I hoped a jealous "R" would spring from the bushes and take me to task for my absence and seeming infidelity.

I imagined he died of heartbreak first. Then I resurrected him and killed him off in a war, a rebellious defense of a great principle. But he rose again, and I dedicated his life to the search for a cure of a troubling African ailment which took his life in a lonely hut in a distant jungle village. Then I breathed life back into his bloated body and sent him to be blown to bits removing landminds from rice paddies. As each new cause arose in the world so did the Phoenix "R" rise from his ashes...anything to keep from thinking he had simply forgotten me and moved on.

I tried to move on. I made other people happy and at times believed I was myself content. I grew old without living...how was that possible, diary ? I grew weak and sick and, in less time than I care to think, it will be over. But I have not forgotten and, as I imagined it was with him each time I killed him off, I smile peacefully knowing his name will leave my lips with my last breath to announce my arrival in the hereafter where I am certain, in my heart, he waits for me to find him.

T
his is the photo is assigned to JGRALIKE.

T
his is the photo is assigned to BLUENOSER.

A local newspaper reporter's account of a special night.

"A MEMORABLE PERFORMANCE"

This reporter decided to attend the opening performanceof "Nymphs and Gypsies", a musical drama performed by the young ladies attending Mrs Worthington's Finishing School for Young Ladies. A musical play written and
directed by that epitome of local achademia herself, seen here in the centre of the photograph, surrounded by her aspiring young thespians.

All the young ladies acquitted themselves handsomely, cavorting around the stage as nymphs and gypsies. Special mention must be given to the performances of Daphne Rayne-Smith and Caroline Wolsey, in the roles of
Lady Ashworth and Lady Carlton (seated and standing on the far right), their magnificent duet "Nymphs away now" will not be forgotten quickly.

The evening appeared to be a resounding triumph until Mrs Worthington and her cast took their positions on stage after the final curtain, so that I might take this photograph - that was when Marcia Dodsworth, playing Zelda the tambourine gypsy, seen here in the back row, holding her tambourines
aloft, dropped one on the row of nymphs, seated in front of her. A nymph fell off the stage into a large bucket of water(placed nearby in case of fire). The water flowed across the floor of the little theatre, causing two small boys, jostling their way out, to slide into a large alabaster column upon which the bust of the school's founder was proudly displayed.

The bust toppled onto the foot of Major James Smedley. That poor gentleman was obliged to hold up the injured appendage whilst hopping around in pain, and in doing so knocked Mrs Beecham's lovely new rose-brimmed hat (purchased especially for this occasion) over her eyes, thus compromising her vision.

Mrs Beecham unhappily blundered into Peter Thomas, the lighting manager, who threw out his arms to save himself, catching a corner of the beautiful pastoral scenery (painted by art teacher, Camilla Miller). The scenery fell, like a row of dominoes, upon the unfortunate cast of singers and
dancers, frozen in horror like statues I am happy to report there were no fatalities caused by this tragic sequence of events.

Two nymphs and a gypsy remain in hospital suffering
from concussion and a broken arm. The only other casualty was this photograph, the corner of which was bent, when a strong breeze swung the hospital door upon my right hand, whilst I was visiting the injured early this morning.
The remaining performances of "Nymphs and Gypsies" will be postponed until the cast members have recovered and the scenery is repaired.

This reporter will not be writing reviews of forthcoming, local attractions until my right hand is out of its plaster cast.
-----------------------------------end -----------------------------


P.S. It was very clever of you to pick this photo for me. I have a photo of my mother in a school play back in 1936, dressed exactly like one of these gypsies!
Sincerely,
bluenoser (http://www.bookcrossing.com/mybookshelf/bluenoser)

T
his is the photo is THANKSMOM.

***note..this one is a work in progress. I have included here the first of a series of emails that have been exchnaged between ThanksMom and myself in whcih she has reported the subsequent events arising form her intial meeting with the medium. Once the series of letters are completed I will rpeort their entire contents. *****


Bill,

I must warn you that the reply for the latest picture
may take a bit longer. It seems that the photograph
may not be of a mill worker. I thought it was, it
reminded me greatly of the 'uniform' my father wore.
But local research does not match.

I was wishing that I could ask my father, but he died
in 1968. Mother died in 1989, so she's not available
either. Or, well, I saw an advertisement in the paper.
There's this lady, Madame Zorinna, who should be able
to contact my father, mother, or at least my aunt
Nancy since she has more recently passed, and get the
confirmation we need.

I had my first appointment with Madame Zorinna
yesterday. She said it may take a bit before we
contact the spirits we need, but she would meditate on
it. When I called today to ask about any insights
Madame may have gotten overnight I was told that she
was unavailable. Today's afternoon newspaper says
Madame Zorinna is in the hospital in a coma, so it may
delay our contacts for an unknown length of time. If
Madame Zorinna continues to be unavailable I have
heard her clients are being referred to a Ms. Brotch
for the interim. I shall wait a few days to see how
Madame fares then consult Ms. Brotch if necessary.

I trust this delay will not cause you any undue
concerns. I shall update you with any solid
information I gain concerning the latest photograph.

Thanks,
Mom

T
his is the photo is assigned to FROM-THE-COAST.

T
his is the photo is LADY-SYBIL.

Hello ottawabill,

I am presenting to you: Professor James Graham Allen, distinguished professor Emeritus of Utah State University. (Photograph # 41 in your collection is a graduation photo that was taken after he recived his BA degree from the University of Nottignham in 1934 at the age of 23)

Short synopsis:
James Graham Allen
Distinguished Professor Emeritus

Prof. Allen received his B.A. degree in 1934 from the University of Nottingham where he studied archeology and geology. He earned his M.A. in Anthropology in 1937 and worked at the British museum for the next few years. His experience at the British museum whetted his interest in the
mysteries of daily living in ancient times. Prof. Allen earned his PhD from Cambridge University, graduating in 1951. He taught for three years at the University of Sheffield before joining the University of Edinburgh in 1955.

His early interests focused on pastoral cultures around the Black Sea where he led several excavating expeditions and made groundbreaking discoveries about the intricacies of daily living in the Bronze Age. After a very successful sabbatical visit to the University of California-Santa Barbara
in 1961, Allen became interested in the daily lives of the Native Americans that lived along the California coast 1500 years ago. To fully focus on his new interest, Allen relocated to the United States in 1964 after accepting a position at Utah State University. He wrote several seminal texts on the
agricultural systems used by the early inhabitants of the North American continent.

Allen also served as a consultant to the Smithsonian Institute
and was instrumental in the development of a more efficient cataloguing system for their collection of ancient artifacts. Prof. Allen chaired the Department of Archaeology at USU from 1969 to his retirement in 1974.

During his period as departmental chair, he successfully lobbied for new laboratories and better field equipment. In recognition of his achievements, the new laboratory was dedicated to him at its official opening in 1978. After retirement Prof. Allen fulfilled a lifelong dream of traveling to the city of Xian in central China and spent several months as a consultant there at one of the archaeological digs. Being one of the most notable experts in the field, his special lectures and interesting slideshows was much in demand.

During his career, Prof. Allen wrote more than 150 academic papers for a wide variety of journals. He authored several textbooks, and other non-fiction, including the ever popular
"Ancient paradise: The hardships and joys of life along the California coast, 1500 years ago". He supervised more than 50 PhD students and led several research teams, influencing and inspiring many young lives.

Sincerely,
lady-sybil (http://www.bookcrossing.com/mybookshelf/lady-sybil)

T
his is the photo is assigned to OTTAWABILL.



I am saving this one to possibly work together a couple of the submissions if some fit that approach. if not will submit an other story.

T
his is the photo is assigned to KIPTRIX.




"This is a picture of my husband, Luka Boskovic, taken in 1947. We were visiting Dubrovnik, Croatia, and were planning to enjoy our lunch here, overlooking St. John's Fortress on the Adriatic Sea. While Luka was clipping his fingernails, I took a photograph.

We were on a brief holiday in this beautiful city, known as the Pearl of the Adriatic. The city beach was nearby. Luka's parents had been married here in 1900, in St. Saviour's
Church, and he has a special devotion to St. Blaise, the city's patron saint, because he was born on February 3rd, 1923, on the saint's feast day.

Dubrovnik is a walled city with a turbulent history, but the spirit of its people has always prevailed. We had a wonderful holiday here, and nine months later our son Ivan was born. I would encourage everyone to visit
this lovely place if you have the opportunity.

Sincerely, Anna Boscovic"

T
his is the photo is assigned to AVANTA7

Aunt Beth put on her good cloth coat. It was still chilly in Nebraska in early May.

Clara's wedding was that afternoon, and Aunt Beth stepped outside to fetch the flowers from the back porch, where they were keeping fresh in buckets and pails. She gingerly picked her way along the cobbled path by the side of the house. She wasn't used to wearing heels: she was a plain country
woman, but her only daughter was getting married that day, and so she'd wear those fancy shoes because that's what Clara wanted.

Aunt Beth stepped out of the shadow of the house. Thank the Lord, it was a bright sunshiny day. She stood on the lower step of the back porch and looked out over the back yard. Benches and dining chairs borrowed from several neighbors' kitchens were set in rows and hung with ribbons. In another hour or so, the yard would be filled with people come to see Clara get married. Rev. Whitsun had arrived a few minutes ago, and was out in the barn counseling the nervous groom. Clara was upstairs with her cousins, getting her hair put up and her skirts put on. Uncle Hank was
nowhere to be seen, but Aunt Beth figured he was in the wellhouse having a nip or two. She only hoped he wouldn't be too tipsy to take his daughter to the altar.

A pretty day for a wedding, and none too soon if Clara's slightly less slender waistline was any indication. Aunt Beth hmmmpphhed, shook her head once, and gathered the pussywillows out of their wooden box. The table in
the front hall still needed a centerpiece and she had just enough time to put one together.

THE END

avanta7 (http://www.bookcrossing.com/mybookshelf/avanta7)

T
his is the photo is assigned to BEACH-BEAR.

T
his is the photo assigned to MONADO.

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