Who are these 48 teens standing in tiers, side by side, on the six broad steps of Forest Glen High in 1941? They are children, pipsqueaks who aren’t wet behind the ears yet. The photographer can’t be seen but I can still hear him. ‘Quiet. Everybody quiet. I want no laughter, not even a smile. Look straight at me. I’m ready. Don’t move.’ The shutter of his big, black Kodak clicks. We all relax. ‘Did I tell you to move? As you were.’ This time, to be spiteful, all the boys in the top row smile. Mr. Rogers rages. ‘Get silly just one more time and your class picture will not be in the yearbook.’ Our class president steps forward and warns us to follow instructions or we will take the consequences.
Dusting a place in the closet that really needs my attention, I had taken my yearbook from the shelf thinking I’d give it a quick swipe with my freshly washed dust rag but that doesn’t work. I sit down on the carpet, cross my legs and cradle my year book in them. Susan McDonald’s drawings fill the fly leaf and 2 more pages. We were in Art Major class together and I was, in retrospect, jealous of her talent. Now her work seems so amateurish I momentarily believe the art committee made a poor choice. I should have been the class artist. I’m being mean, like I was way back then because she was good and we were friends. Often we shared a twin popsicle, sometimes orange, sometimes chocolate.
I turn the colorless pages. Black and white looks so blah now that the world is madly in love with color. Ah, here are the Major teachers. They sit around a bare oval table. Most likely the photographer told them not to smile either. Without color, I still see Miss Nelson, the art teacher, wearing her purple dress with a bolero jacket. Never in two years had I, or any one in art class, seen her wear anything else. Did she have a dozen of them all the same? I wondered then and still wonder. Two pages stick together. Carefully, I get them apart. My god. There I am standing in front of an easel that holds my prize winning poster for our Junior show. I received two free tickets. Pages begin to move more quickly. Sports teams, shots of the gym, the track, don’t interest me. The next section begins with Pearl Harbor. My shoes are visible amongst all sitting on the floor in the school hallway, leaning
against the wall, our heads down between our knees. This was to be our bomb plan. We might be safe if we know what to do. Ha ha! Chills make me shiver. I put the year book down and start going through one of many photo albums. They are all well organized but many of the little black corners have dried up so the pictures are loose and cracked.
My grandmother’s photo I kiss tenderly as I had promised myself I’d do whenever I saw it. Over the years her wrinkled face has become pink from my lipstick. Her memory sends juices into my bones and my heart. She wears a dark brown cotton dress with little squares as the design. Her shoes have laces, the left one is undone. Long, soft silvery white hair is piled on top of her head. How we loved each other. I kiss the photo again and put the album back on the shelf.
against the wall, our heads down between our knees. This was to be our bomb plan. We might be safe if we know what to do. Ha ha! Chills make me shiver. I put the year book down and start going through one of many photo albums. They are all well organized but many of the little black corners have dried up so the pictures are loose and cracked.
My grandmother’s photo I kiss tenderly as I had promised myself I’d do whenever I saw it. Over the years her wrinkled face has become pink from my lipstick. Her memory sends juices into my bones and my heart. She wears a dark brown cotton dress with little squares as the design. Her shoes have laces, the left one is undone. Long, soft silvery white hair is piled on top of her head. How we loved each other. I kiss the photo again and put the album back on the shelf.
As I start to put the yearbook away, a picture, 4 x 7, falls on the floor.
Where did this come from? I don’t recall ever seeing it before. The young face stares at me. Neither the eyes nor mouth move, but the face talks to me. ‘Annette, why wouldn’t you walk home with me? Why didn’t you sit with me at the Junior show?’ Harold was the first senior in our year who didn’t graduate, who joined the army the day after Pearl Harbor and the first student we knew was killed in France.
Where did this come from? I don’t recall ever seeing it before. The young face stares at me. Neither the eyes nor mouth move, but the face talks to me. ‘Annette, why wouldn’t you walk home with me? Why didn’t you sit with me at the Junior show?’ Harold was the first senior in our year who didn’t graduate, who joined the army the day after Pearl Harbor and the first student we knew was killed in France.
I tell Harold that I wish I had been nicer to him, kiss his picture, get a tiny, tiny bit of lipstick on it and scotch tape the picture on the page it would have been had he survived.
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