I realize I’m going overboard with my personal family archives but I’ve been on a scanning frenzy here in Chicago and I could stare at these Kodachrome images all day long. This color image of my parents from the early 1950s was a new find. I don’t know where the photo was taken but I’m dazzled by the unbridled youth staring back at me and I wish I could jump into the frame and get to know this young couple. The heavy plastic covering on the upholstered furniture looks familiar but this is not a house I remember from childhood. My mother’s hairdo is slightly uncharacteristic and her simple black dress wasn’t really her style. My father’s shiny black suit and silver tie indicates that they were on their way to some fancy event, but what was it? Why is it that my parents in their early twenties seem more adult than I do in my late forties? Except they weren’t really, certainly not emotionally. More like kids playing dress-up.
Although I’ve never seen that image before today, I admit that such photos are subject to interpretation by the viewer. Another brand new discovery was this photograph taken of my parents and sister at the 1964 New York World’s Fair. I gasped when I found it because it is the only photographic evidence of a trip that has haunted me for over forty years. My family drove out to Flushing Meadows in New York for the World’s Fair, with a chocolate-scented stopover in Hershey, PA. For some reason, at the age of 5, I was left at home with my grandparents. I have barraged my family members with questions about this decision for decades (with no satisfactory response) and I’ve written about it twice on this blog, causing my sister to leave the following comment: “Danny, the New York Word's Fair was 43 years ago. Do you think maybe it might be time to…I don't know...maybe…GET OVER IT?!” The secret truth is that I’m not sure I was the least bit traumatized by this experience back in 1964, my outrage came much later. But I’ve talked about it so much since then and laid such a guilt trip on my parents and siblings that I feel like I’ve reached back through time and given that little boy the makings of a persecution complex that otherwise didn’t exist.
I’ve only recently started to ponder the possibility that some of my memories of deep childhood angst have been radically colored by my adult perspectives. Readers of this blog who knew me as a kid have often told me how surprised they were to hear about some of the stuff I was going through back then since they thought I seemed like such a happy child. Certainly I had a lot of issues that were not evident on the surface—doesn’t everyone?—but is it also possible that my understanding of myself as a young boy is one that is continually evolving and maybe I’ve been creating a mythology of the younger me that is no more “true” than the perspectives shared by the people who claim life wasn’t as dark as I’m painting it?
Our most amazing find yesterday as we went through a cache of old family junk was a bag of reel-to-reel tapes recorded in the mid-1960s. As luck would have it, my sister recently found our old Bell & Howell tape recorder that miraculously still worked even though it hadn’t been plugged in since Linda Bird and Lucy Baines Johnson roamed the White House. I carefully threaded one reel of brittle magnetic tape and pressed play. My sister and I nearly jumped out of our skin when we heard the 12-year-old voice of my brother narrating a 1966 car trip to a family wedding in Toronto. There we all were, my 32 and 34-year-old parents, my 8-year-old sister and 6-year-old me. I had never heard this tape or even known of its existence, and I’d certainly never heard myself at that young age. My parents seemed playful and fun, my father doing riffs on old Calypso songs with my mother gamely following along. My brother Bruce has always been the broadcaster in the family, and even at 12 he described the proceedings with the skill of a young Edward R. Murrow. I am not heard very often on this tape—apparently I was far more interested in the coloring book that I had brought along for the trip. At one point, as only a big brother can, Bruce playfully taunts me about my activity. “I thought only babies color, Danny,” he says. “Are you a baby?” Listening to that now, I expected my six-year-old self to crumble under the weight of such a shame-producing comment. Similar mockery today can instantly induce a mood swing and I waited to hear the young me burst into tears or ask my parents to intervene. Maybe I’d even throw my coloring book out the window of the car, humiliated to be further associated with such an immature object. Instead, I heard a defiant high-pitched voice respond to my brother. “NO, Bruce, coloring is NOT for babies!” I shouted, completely unfazed by his teasing. “You’re crazy if you think that. EVERYONE IN THE WORLD COLORS!” Wow. Who is that self-assured kid and where did he go?
If anything, this ancient audio revealed a boy who was used to getting his way, who did not take kindly to negative feedback, and who had no problem telling people what he thought of them. How is it that this kid bares so little resemblance to my memory of myself at the age of six? Today we’re going to try to screen some old 8mm movies we found and I’m almost scared to look at them. Will I have to rewrite all of my blog posts?
God, how I love these posts of yours.
It's funny how skewed our perceptions can be.
I would love, love, love to be able to hear my mother's voice again. I don't know if I could handle hearing my own as a child, though.
Posted by: churlita | August 21, 2007 at 11:10 AM
Thank you. You have caught the joy and delight of rummaging in the family archives. And you may right in your analysis. It seems like a kid who went through a childhood of suffering would look at those family relics like they were a snake, not a treasure. And you see their treasure-ness.
Posted by: Pondering Pig | August 21, 2007 at 11:29 AM
Personally, I love coloring even today, and I am 33. I love these posts, so don't apologize for them -- I can't wait to find out what else you've excavated.
The only tape I have of myself and my brother is of us reading "The Best Christmas Pageant Ever" aloud and playing Christmas songs on the piano between chapters. It was a present for our Great-Grandmom and I guess we got it back after she died. It's pretty cute. We had southern accents because we lived in NC at the time, but I guess we lost them when we moved "home" to Baltimore in 1987.
Posted by: Heather | August 21, 2007 at 12:23 PM
For various reasons, I'm following this thread with interest and empathy. I don't know about watching the 8-mm films. Hmm . . . When my relatively "new" sister-in-law thougtfully converted some from the same era for us at a family reunion (without consulting anyone first) about seven or eight years ago my mother's reaction upon seeing 1950s footage of her biological father was positively venomous and I was the only one (i.e., "the oldest") who seemed to know/remember why.
This is a period of my life (the very same years but in a different town that looks strikingly similar) that I don't generally care to re-visit and don't have audio tapes to recall from . . . nor do I possess the photos or 8-mm. That's all with my "bro" in Colorado as far as I know. Nevertheless, it's been a good experience to think about from your perspective and I am appreciating your insights thus far (for *my* future writing projects, eh?).
Your Pittsburgh reader.
Posted by: Pam G | August 21, 2007 at 04:29 PM
"I wish I could jump into the frame and get to know this young couple."
Danny, what an interesting remark; I'm sure you equally would like to somehow zap back in time and befriend the kid that you were.
Many times I've thought it would be neat to somehow "meet and greet" my childish self and see if I would like her.
Keep bringing on those photos -- and memories -- Danny!
Posted by: Pearl | August 21, 2007 at 06:20 PM
I agree with Pearl. Sometimes when I do see photos of me and my two younger siblings as children I wish I could "jump in" and
be-friend/help us.
PG
Posted by: Pam G | August 21, 2007 at 06:54 PM
excellent insights... or fantasies. doesn't matter to me. all interesting, very real to me. and evocative of my own mixtures and concoctions about what was... and maybe, what is.
Posted by: tamar | August 21, 2007 at 09:15 PM
I find it fascinating to reflect on childhood, from the viewpoint of an enlightened adult. I've generally remembered a happy childhood with some unhappy events. In recent years as an adult when I've looked at an overall view of those years, I've wondered why I wasn't a lot more unhappy than I thought I was. I certainly had plenty of reason to be so. Guess that sounds strange. Anyway, thanks for sharing your experience.
Posted by: joared | August 21, 2007 at 10:59 PM
"the possibility that some of my memories of deep childhood angst have been radically colored by my adult perspectives."
Exactly what I am dealing with in today's blog post. I assumed that my memories were accurate, but a reader who I respect posited that they are colored by what I'm going through now. I don't know. If you get a chance to read my blog, let me know what your take is.
Posted by: By Jane | August 22, 2007 at 04:33 PM
Little Danny was right. Everyone in the world colors!
Posted by: Mindy | August 23, 2007 at 02:28 PM
Heh. My mother sprung one of those on me before she died, a cassette tape from a trip from Denver to Tucson that I narrated as part of a home-school project. We listened to it once and the next time we tried it snarled hopelessly, my 10-year-old voice lost as quickly as I had regained it. Powerful stuff, sounds.
Posted by: rankin' rob | August 23, 2007 at 05:44 PM
Why is it that my parents in their early twenties seem more adult than I do in my late forties?
I once cracked my dad up -- I must have been in my 30s -- by saying, "You know Lauren Bacall in 'To Have and Have Not'? She was nineteen -- and she was older than I'll ever be!"
Posted by: amba | August 23, 2007 at 10:50 PM
I love the way you look back at childhood with an adult, honest, pespective. Not sure I'd have the guts to blog so openly about my childhood and family. Maybe... One day...
Posted by: neil fleischmann | August 28, 2007 at 12:40 PM
I had this childhood neighbor "Nicole" who according to my mother, refused to play with me. When my mother inquired as to my specific offense, she very adamantly stated that she disliked me as I "didn't color inside the lines". Hopefully a young Danny Miller would have shown a higher degree tolerance as although everyone in the world does color, not everyone colors inside the lines :-)
Posted by: Andrea | August 28, 2007 at 07:48 PM
Danny, every time I see old pictures of your Mom and Dad, I could only plotz (especially of "My Judy") I have to tell you my father passed away out here in Az where we now live, and we buried him back in Chgo, the Old Jewish Waldheim Cemetery, to be near my Mother, who we lost 29 years ago,while I was working at the mart with your Mom and Nancy, anyhow, I was telling Leon how every Friday my Dad would call me at work and Judy would tell him to remember and pick up a challie for me...and how I wish I could talk to your Mother about my Dad s passing...They really liked each other, (who didnt like your Mother?) and my dad was a fabulous guy (the last of the Old West Side crew) Danny I love you and your sister and brother and I miss Judy so, so much....marsha
Posted by: marsha fineberg | August 29, 2007 at 08:51 AM
Love it. Keep those retrospectives coming. The photos are divine.
Posted by: sistasmiff | September 03, 2007 at 10:05 AM
Very neat. Isn't it so much fun to go through old photos and videos and relive things that you have forgotten about?
Posted by: Rebekah | October 27, 2007 at 03:06 PM