It unsettles me nearly 52 years after these pictures were taken to see that I appear only as some invisible 6-year-old participant in the family’s Christmas tree getting extravaganza. Where am I?
John is 7, Cindy is 4, Sharon is 2 — with my father dragging the Christmas tree up the little porch and into the log house Christmas 1957.
Will my mother’s 1957 letters to her mother shed some light on why I wasn’t included here?
Hey! I found myself! Here’s a picture of us, even with Dad including me as a member of his family, as we headed out to cut this tree in the first place. Why I disappeared before the tree was taken into the house I’ll probably never know — but glad to see I am in this one!
That’s me on my father’s right, the Sharon, Cindy and John
I feel like I am retrieving myself from the lost-and-found! Here’s a beautiful picture, while the tree was still alive in the woods:
Link to back side of log house photo taken winter 1957
*1957 Christmas – Back Side of the Eagle River Log House
5 thoughts on “*Age 6 – Where Am I? Not In These Xmas Tree Photographs”
It’s hard.Even as a small child you were inhibited, depressed and anxious.You can see it in the pics.I have professional pic where the photographer actually dropped me…there are two takes where I’m falling!!!
Oh how awful, how NUTS!
The latest: This is the cut-down version by half!!
I need to find proof readers to help with the next stage for this manuscript, but the main work on the abbreviated version of my mother’s Alaskan homesteading tale is finished — for now:
This is a large file, so may take a bit longer to load on your screen. Comments welcome.
Maybe you are missing because you are taking the photo?
Naw, M would have taken the pic. There are lots and lots of family pics (i.e. the wheelbarrow pic) where I am missing — or am in the pic but still ‘way out of the picture’ like standing on the big rock, the family BBQ, etc. — long story, mine, yet to be written.
I am making good progress shaping/sculpting ‘just the homesteading’ story out of the four volumes, though.
You are the first to be reading the bulk of these writings from ‘the past’ but not as a ‘part of the story’. Two of our Alaskan neighbors are reading Mildred’s 4-volumes. One has also offered interviews with us about my mother. She was M’s longest standing ‘friend’ — it was she who found my mother dying in her pitiful Anchorage motel room, who got her to the emergency room (against M’s strong protests) where my mother died.