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.

a fighter

i like to think of myself as a pretty stalwart being. Someone with dukes! Someone who can fend shit off! My mother seems to think i am made of puppy sneezes and tissues, however, illustrated by the fact that everytime I leave the house, she tries to arm me with some sort of self-defense tool. It's usually mace, and it's usually attached to a keychain, but this last time she shook things up. Tried to pawn a small flashlight with the most godawful siren you've ever dreamed of hearing. There are at least 37 million reasons I don't take these things (come on, I live in SEATTLE. people aren't dangerous, they're just weeeeird.), not the least of which being, I am my usually own worst enemy. So much so that a few years ago when my aunt sprayed herself with her own mace, I was actually relieved that I hadn't done it first. The siren would have been a disaster. I would have reached for some trident in the middle of a harry potter movie, flipped that thing on and scarred a theater full of 7 year olds for life. Me hurting myself is way more probable than some skeeze waking up from his stupor long enough to steal my bus pass. Truth. "Olive, I don't appreciate it when you put your butthole on my hand." - Me, to my cat, just now Good night.