My friend Eugene sent me a digital image of a photo from the mid 50s. We were probably 7th graders, a group of 4-H boys, virtually every male from the class was a member. We lived in rural northwest Harris County. Although I grew up in a rural setting—we had horses, rabbits, chickens, some cows—I don’t recall ever having a 4-H project. I do recall raking leaves, playing café with the hard pears from the prolific trees in our yard as the only produce in our offering, riding bareback, running naked with Reggie Grob playing wild Indians in the woods at the back of our three acres. I also remember planting corn at school in the 4th grade, but I don’t remember harvesting it. That makes sense, of course, because the corn would have matured after the school year ended.
The photo has taken on sepia tones. It’s been 53 years. The cuffs of my blue jeans—cuffs, why were my jeans long enough that they would have had a 3” cuff—betrayed that the jeans might still hold some of the sizing that makes new fabric stiff to the feel. For years now lots of jeans styles are “stone washed” to make them soft and give them that “lived in” look and feel—chemically-induced comfort trying to take the place of time and life. There we stand, 50 plus stinky little boys, some of them posturing in preview of the time when testosterone kicks in and bodies harden for those who are physically active—sometimes even for those who sit on the sidelines of athletics, and rowdiness. When I was well into adulthood, I heard my mother describe, smiling, a bunch of boys as little ruffians. It made me think of Spanky and his buddies, but not of myself, what I watched but not what I did. I smiled at her smiling.
I don’t know whether I have the photograph of these 4-Hers, but it may be in the Arnold Jr. High yearbook from the academic year of 1955-56, the one my sister Joan found when she cleaned out Mother and Daddy’s reproduction early American desk so that our sister Sue could take it home with her in mid-April. Why didn’t we do a better job of keeping our memories together? Instead, they’re scattered here and there, evidence mostly lost. I have a framed piece of crayon artwork, maybe from 1st grade at Ben Milam Elementary, Houston, the West End, Texas. “To Mother Daddy Joan and Sue Love”, but it isn’t signed. The artist from our family is obvious—the only name missing from the dedication.
I love what age does to objects, including the sepia tones of old photographs. Everything takes on resonance with age—wood, metal, stone, leather, fiber, flesh—a cloak that testifies to time and the elements, and life. Age can even make things old become new, like friendship, rich with meaning and purpose, even for people whose paths have only crossed, maybe intertwined, before, 50 years ago. I am a lover of old objects, historic buildings, cemeteries that speak of that about which I could only have read or imagined, gardens swept and not, cherished recipes, memories of dozing on the floor and catching pieces of the conversation of my elders and their generations. I love having the gift of friendship made new, yet resonating timeless, like the glorious rain falling on this ancient land in the high desert this day in May.
Life in Sepia Tones—Santa Fe New Mexico (May 22, 2008)
R. Harold Hollis
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