My take on #10
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During the War, the men were all gone. And it seemed stupid to worry about things like hair appointments and fashion when there were bombs falling.
"There's a war on," we told each other, consoling ourselves over things we missed. Like husbands and brothers and sons.
Still, when the cannery machinery broke down and we slipped out back for some fresh air, it didn't take much for us to turn giddy for the camera. There was a war on, and it was important to remember how to live.
For some reason writing that has made me terribly weepy.
For some reason writing that has made me terribly weepy.
Maybe it's because large parts of it are starting to apply to us again? In different ways, and differing degrees of magnitude, but still...
Maybe it's because large parts of it are starting to apply to us again? In different ways, and differing degrees of magnitude, but still...
That's some of it, but for me, I think there are various Mother issues starting to rear their ugly little heads. She was a teenager during WWII, and she told lots of stories about her and her own mother working in kitchens and laundries etc.
With apologies to Mister Sondheim
Photo #8
Follies of 1933
The photo had been taken in October, stiff, awkward, acting it out: Essie in her braids, Minnie with her broad cheeks, Gert with her cornhusker's calluses, Jean with her sensitive stomach, Glad with her homesickness.
They'd met at a casting call, five little girls from West Nowhere, Broadway baby wannabes, quavering voices, high kicks, laughter and hope and dreams. They took the apartment on West 48th Street together.
A decade later, they'd scattered and lost touch. Two had found jobs, one was dead at the hands of a back-alley abortionist, two had gone home, fleeing, seeking the solace of familiarity.
You're feeling cheerful today, deb.
Oddly enough, I am.
But these sepia-toned photos bring out my Big Bad.
Heh.
It's always fun to torture fictional strangers.
Photo 1:
The picture was all that was left of the fur coat, the fashionable hat and even of the square. He assumed the pigeons, or their great-grandchildren, survived. The picture lay at the bottom of a cigar box, with Cuban seals and flaking paper labels. The box also held a lead soldier, missing one leg, and a pile of letters with foreign stamps, letters asking about jobs, about visas, about connections. He dumped the pile in the barbecue grill and lit a match. The ashes swirled up to meet the ashes of the forgotten world, leaving a shining pool of lead.
