Picture, Picture, Tell Me a Story

Near the end of her life, my mother, being my mother, thought it only fair to divide up some pictures she’d been hoarding of our early childhood. They were given out equally between my sister and I. Unfortunately, there were no stories to explain the pictures nor any kind of narrative that might have shed a light on the where, when, and why of those scenes of domestic bliss.

That’s the way Hildegarde LaComb (Noll) operated. It was always very secretive, almost as if she was afraid that the truth, in whatever form, might leach out between narratives sometime in the future. Unfortunately, it never did and my sister and I were left with two separate collections of black and whites glued to a scrapbook we never knew existed until near the very end.

Raised in a good German Catholic household, feelings and emotions were never addressed. I probably got more feedback (and affection) from our pet cottontail rabbit named Nosey than I did from my mother. That’s probably why I escaped into my own fantasy world influenced by television, the movies, comic books and pre-teen angst.

My rampant, wandering imagination revealed itself in drawings of medieval knights, cowboys and Indians and Tarzan. Short comic books and other sketches filled out the imaginary world I lived in most of the time.

I’ve saved those drawings and some vague remembrances of my motivation for their creation. Unfortunately, these new black & whites just discovered don’t have that background of reflection. They leave only questions unanswered and motivations unsolved. So, I blinked on my detective’s eyes and tried to examine carefully the new pictures to see what they might reveal…beginning with my father, Arthur LaComb. It was the only trail I had to follow.

There were no pictures or other mementoes of my father in our house when I was growing up. It was as if he never existed in the first place. By the time I had finally matured and became curious about my lineage those memories of my mother’s distant past had become a fog clouding her mind. Her stories of my father were often confusing and contradictory.

Looking closely, there were clues in those pictures…in the clothes, posture, location and a hundred other enounces that spoke volumes about the man that gave me life. By reading into those images with the inquisitiveness of a writer and a curiosity of past traits passed down to me, I hoped to find some answers (unconfirmed, of course) in what those pictures were telling me.

So, without being maudlin or clinically antiseptic, I began to study the clues. There were stories in those images that said so much and yet revealed so little. I did my surgical inspection without the benefit of any oral history pasted down from my mother. And I was cognizant of her refusal to recognize that part of her past life. If there was any prejudice, hard feelings or hidden shame in her relationship with my father it had slipped away with her last breath here on earth.

Who was this man that was a part of my life for less than two years then was gone forever? Who was this Arthur LaComb whose lineage could be traced back to Quebec, Canada but little else beyond that?

For one thing, he seemed to like to dress me as he dressed. Today he’d be called fashion-wise, nattily attired or very smooth. Back then perhaps even labeled a ladies’ man. That trait ended with him.

My grandmother (on his side) was only in our lives for a brief period of time. Marlene said she visited us once then disappeared after her son (my father) died. From research on Ancestry.com, my wife discovered that my uncle (his brother) lived in Los Angeles until he died in the mid-70s. Obviously, our uncle never bothered to ever get a hold of us when we were growing up.

My father was a smoker and liked to hang out in bars. My mother commented on his drinking only once or twice and left it at that. A cousin once said he was a pleasant drinker and funny when he got drunk…as opposed to a mean drunk, I suppose.

Turns out, I have/had a step-sister. I think her name is Beverly. I knew my father had been married once before. That came up when I saw a picture of a young girl with us way back when. Then my mother remarked once back in the eighties, “Oh yes, you have a step-sister who lives in a trailer park in Florida. She came to visit us once.’ I guess I was in the fourth or fifth grade at the time but I don’t remember her visit. We never heard from her again. My mother never explained why she also disappeared from our lives and I was too young to ask.

The story of his death is also a vapid cloud that kept changing tones and colors as it was retold over the years. It seems in the winter of 1948 my father was traveling back from the West Coast to be with us for Christmas when he stopped in Missoula, Montana. The next morning, he had a massive heart attack in his hotel room and died. End of story, figuratively and literally.

I’m grateful for those old pictures of my dad and me. Not because they answer any questions. They certainly don’t. And my mother’s refusal to talk about that part of her past has left a huge hole in my life where fond memories are supposed to be. Despite that I can’t complain.

It’s been a good ride over the long haul and I have few if any regrets. Yet, it’s interesting to think that for a very brief period of time back on Smith Avenue in old Saint Paul, it looked like we were a family… a family just like everyone else. It’s tempting to let my ‘writer’s imagination’ go with that image but honesty won’t let me.

In retrospect, it’s been a lifetime of unanswered questions with a shadow that wore the cloak of my mother and a vacuum where a father was supposed to be.

Such is life.