Old photos of people I've never met

My favorite spot at the Fremont Market is a booth in the covered area full of old things I always promise myself I'm going to buy and do cool, artsy things with (haven't once yet, c'est la vie): old watch faces, typewriter keys, Victorian-era French postcards, oversized Dick and Jane books. What really draws me back to this spot, Sunday after Sunday, though, are the boxes full of old black and white photographs. Hodgepodge boxes of other people's photos with lovingly written descriptors on their backs: "Sue and Davy at Nana's House, Christmas 1947" or "Joe: Wish you were here! Fried chicken better than aunty's. Love, Chug and Zipper, Tennessee 1962"

I've a bit of a thing for old photographs.

So, when my mom sent me home this weekend with a CD full of old photos of people I'm related to, yet have never met, I popped that thing into my mac with the same perverted curiosity I impart on the boxes of other people's memories every Sunday afternoon. She was mostly right; I don't have a clue who most of these people are. What I did find, though, are some incredible shots of my grandpa (one of them is up above).

My mom's dad died a few years before I was born, so my knowledge of him is pretty scattered, and before these pictures, I'd maybe, MAYBE encountered five pictures of him total in my entire life. What strikes me though, is how much we look alike. It's actually little bit freaky, staring at a picture of someone you don't know and seeing yourself. Actually, my mom looks exactly like him, but I also happen to look exactly like my mother, so, two and two, well ... Anyways, I made Claire confirm this last night, and though there was wine involved, we concluded that the resemblance is actually pretty weird, and I think we're totally right. Case in point:

I mean, look at those profiles! Now I know who to thank for this nose, this square face and this pouty chin.

I also love this picture of more people I don't know, plus my grandma and grandpa there on the far left.

I think this one sums up why I'm drawn to old photographs, and I realize, I'm totally projecting here, but whatever. Something about this smacks of a time when people weren't so fucking distracted and self-involved and were okay working hard and being happy and in love. I love it. I want it.

And here are a few more, thrown in for good measure. My grandpa was kind of a handsome devil.

christmas time is here

I had every intention this evening of taking you on a virtual tour of my Christmas tree. Instead, I laze-d out and decided to lie on the couch and read "Atonement." I am reading "Atonement" because the movie is about to come out, looks totally hot, and I hate being "the girl who hasn't read the book." So, I'm sitting here reading the aforementioned hot book and it begins to get extremely hot. Hott, you might say/type. Flushed, I diffuse the situation by turning on the television. It is turned to "A Charlie Brown Christmas."* Woah. Suddenly the moment feels quite, um, inappropriate. The crucial lesson here being that when faced with the decision to choose between "A Charlie Brown Christmas" and some hot nudie scene of Ian McEwan's imagination, I will always, always choose Charlie Brown. This is because I love Christmas. So, back to my tree. I was taking pictures in preparation for the tree tour on my bazillion year old camera, which I haven't used since this time last year for the very same purpose, when I discovered some very old pictures of my cat. If you've not met her, you should; I'm quite in love with her and she will change your life. Last year was her very first christmas. I was having second thoughts about showing the pictures I found, but then though, fuck it. If you don't love cute, you are no friend of mine. And so I present, Olivine, aged 4 months. You can now die happy. And this one because, well, obviously. Right, the tree. Here's part. A kiwi from New Zealand. *It should, for some reason, be noted that when I turned on the tv, I was actually kind of secretly hoping Dancing With the Stars was on, because I'm fucking obsessed with Dancing With the Stars of late; and not so secretly kind of hoping that Marie Osmond will break her face mid-ridiculous-too-old-for-cute-uncomfortable-for-all-involved-hip-shake.