The Stories That Sometimes Surprise Us

A rare family photo shows four generations of women in my family. In it, I'm barely one year old, yet the stories I can tell today about this image are endless.

Chicago, Illinois, circa 1968. Four generations. Left to right: My paternal great-grandmother, my paternal grandmother, my mother, and me.

As I outline and draft my memoir of sisterhood lost and found, I’ve been sifting through family photos. If you’re writing memoir (or if you enjoy reading books of this genre), you already know that writers must be willing to sit in the excavation sites of their pasts, curating the tangles of memories and weaving them into cohesive stories.

I’m in the thick of it all right now, covered in the (metaphorical) dust of multiple excavation sites. It’s not always comfortable, but as I constantly remind myself, it’s endlessly enlightening.

This week, I came upon one particular image, taken in my paternal great-grandparents’ home in Chicago. It was captured sometime around 1968, the year of my birth. Upon seeing it, I caught my breath to see four generations of women around one table.

I haven’t yet asked my mother what she remembers of the photo — or of the occasion itself — but I will. I have so many questions.

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For my entire life, I’ve been told that I am the eldest great-grandchild and the first grandchild on both sides of my family. I only learned in 2022 that a half-sister — older by a year and a half — even existed. We share a biological father.

Chances are, our father took this photo of our family, seated around the only table in his paternal grandparents’ Chicago home. I’d go on to spend time at this table until I was in high school. Then, my great-grandmother — having long been widowed — moved into a small apartment.

What I notice most about this photo

The fact that the image even exists is, for two reasons, remarkable:

1. When my parents divorced, I was seven. At that time, my (now late) father took most of the photos documenting my earliest years. As it was once explained to me, my father got the pictures, and my mom got us.

2. Of the photos that my father took, many were later burned in a fire that he started in a Chicago garage — an act (among many) for which he was later arrested and convicted as a felon.

What I see around the table that catches my eye (and why)

1. The tired smile on my great-grandmother’s face. Was she tired after, once again, making her fried chicken? What was life like for her and my great-grandfather as immigrants from Poland? Had she changed into that lovely outfit after cooking, or had she worn that the whole day, covered by an apron?

2. Beer and kielbasa. These two items were, without fail, always on our table. Of the two, only the beer caused serious problems with the law — problems that were, for the most part, topics off the table for discussion.

3. Those killer, late-sixties hairstyles. Oh, to know how to curl and tease and spray with such confidence.

4. My mother’s adorable, fashionable outfit. I’d give anything to borrow that delicate, sheer top with the Peter Pan collar.

5. The ball under the table, most likely meant for me. Did I play with it in the house? Did the adults toss it over the clothes line out back? Why was it under the table now?

What I see around the room that catches my eye (and why)

1. The shiny wood of the kitchen door. This was the only door we ever used. If I remember, there was an enclosed porch outside that door, with steps that led down to the backyard, then further down to the basement.

2. The holy water font, nailed to the right side of the kitchen door frame. As Roman Catholics, my family members always blessed themselves coming and going.

3. The pattern on the linoleum floor — a surface that was always spotless. I’ve been told that my great-grandmother — who kept the house spotless — used to lay sheets out on the floor for me to play on…as well as on the grass in the backyard to keep little-me (and my clothes) clean and free of grass stains.

4. The tiny wall calendar showing the outstretched arms of Jesus. Our Roman Catholic faith was ever-present, as were the gestures to reflect it. Saying grace before a meal, dipping a finger into the holy water font, making the sign of the cross, praying on rosary beads, taking baskets filled with ingredients for our Easter meal to church for a blessing before cooking… Being catholic was who were were then. It connected us as tightly as our DNA.

What I Don’t See In The Photo

1. A massive picture in the kitchen depicting Christ’s Last Supper hung on the wall to the right of the table. As I grew up, I regularly sat in the seat you see my Busia in, and whenever I ate, I felt the eyes of Jesus and his twelve apostles watching every one of my nibbles and sips.

Use your imagination! Photo by Lucas Hoang on Unsplash

2. The home’s front door opened directly into the living room, where the upholstered furniture had squeaky, cold, clear plastic covers, where the candy dish was always filled with fruity, caramel-esque, Tootsie-Roll-type candies (Brach’s, I think?), and where my sister, Beth, and I would often watch The Lone Ranger on the black & white TV during our visits.

3. The tiny bathroom, just off the living room, was the only bathroom in the home. Always immaculate, it smelled of Listerine, Lava soap, toilet bowl cleaner, clean laundry, hard work, and years of living. The toilet, perched atop a box, of sorts, wasn’t easy to climb up to, and when I did use it, my left elbow often hit the bathtub faucet. Confession: I used to stick my hand in Busia’s jar of Pond’s cold cream and her jar of pink Dippity-Do.

4. The refrigerator, never referred to as the refrigerator or fridge, was called the ice box. Every time I went to my great-grandparents’ home, I’d open the door and hope to see red Jello chilling in a square, glass dish. Without fail, I almost always did.

5. My great-grandparents’ separate bedrooms. The room belonging to our great-grandfather, whom we called Dziadzi (JAH-gee), was directly across from the bathroom. On the same side of the home, Busia’s room shared a wall with Dziadi’s, and its door opened to the kitchen.

6. My Polish heritage at risk of slipping away. The Polish language echoed through the tiny rooms of this home, a language I was never taught or understood. My father and his two younger siblings understood and spoke Polish; my mother, of mostly Irish and Norwegian descent, didn’t speak the language. My sister and I never learned more than a few common phrases, including, “Dzien Dobry,” (Good morning/Good afternoon), “Jak się masz” (How are you?), and, our least favorite phrase (albeit, delivered good-naturedly), “Dostaniesz w dupę,” (You’ll get your ass kicked). My younger sister, Beth, and I went on to create our own “secret” language, perhaps in response to the “secret language the adults spoke around us. I occasionally use the word dupę, regularly serve kielbasa at family gatherings, proudly attend the local Taste of Polonia festival, and continue to live in a geographic area that has historically attracted Poles. Though I don’t speak Polish, I still feel my Polish heritage in the things I do.

7. The half sister I never knew existed. My older half-sister and I — and our younger sister, Beth — shared a biological father. At the time this family photo was taken, my older sister, Elizabeth, was 2 or 3 years old, living across the globe, speaking another language. For the next 55 years of her life, she believed she didn’t have any sisters. She also had no idea of her Polish heritage.

8. Evidence — and aftermath — of mental health struggles and addiction. By the time I stopped speaking to my father in 1991 (I was then a 23-year-old), I’d seen and endured enough. In the years after I cut off contact, my father (an attorney) was arrested numerous times; some of those encounters with the law included obstruction of justice, resisting arrest, destruction of evidence, driving on a revoked license, shoplifting, and arson. A convicted felon, my father served time in jail, then eventually died alone in 2010, with only a catholic priest at his side.

9. The card my father sent me in 1986 during my freshman year of college. My dad knew I was a fan of The Far Side (weren’t we all, back then?) and he sent this one to me in my dorm at the University of Illinois in Champaign:

1986: A card from my father during my freshman year of college.

Dear Chrissy —
Just a short line to let you know I’m thinking about you and looking forward to the weekend of the 8th. I hope all is well with the studying and social life. No more sick or injury, o.k.? [I’d had mono and a bike accident all within my first two months at school]. Let me know about the cost of the room for the 8th and don’t forget to make reservations for Saturday night. Please call information for Alexander’s Steak House. I hear you can see it from the Xway.

Take good care of yourself and write when you have a chance. Remember that I’m proud of you in whatever you do and love you a ton.

Love, Dad

I no longer recall what the occasion was — or why we were having a big dinner at Alexander’s — but if I remember correctly, he’d offered to come down to Central Illinois and meet my college friends. I can’t even remember if that dinner ever happened. The odds are 50/50, since my father was often one to make grand plans, then cancel at the last minute. As many memoirists will attest, it’s sometimes hard to know if we’ve simply locked certain memories away — or worked hard not to store them in the first place.

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What I do know is that I deeply cherish the photo of my family. It reflects a time in my life when I was alive-yet-oblivious to so many things. In those days, I was surrounded by love and wonder and hope and possibility. It’s a bittersweet thing to look at this photo. The sense of innocence is…startling.

I also know that my family did the best they could with what they had, just as I’ve done the best with what I’ve understood.

By digging into the archives of my past, I realize that the stories I can tell are endless, and that I learn something new every time I take a closer look.

An Invitation

As you write (or read memoir), consider what it takes to “harvest” memories. Think about the time and work it takes to observe, make connections, and reflect on the past. Think about all that’s seen — and unseen — in our lives.

Now, take a look at an old photo and consider asking yourself the following 3 questions:

1. What do I notice most about this photo?

2. What do I see in it that catches my eye (and why)?

3. What don’t I see in it?

Thanks for taking this trip down memory lane with me. I’m grateful that you’re here, and I’d love to know what it’s like for you to revisit old family photos.