Nonfiction by Margaret Morth
The print date on the black-and-white’s border says “Aug 60,” and that might well be spot on. Film processing was an extra cost in a household that afforded no extras, and our family photos were taken with deliberation, usually by my father. A roll of film could sit in the camera for quite some time. But here the corn is far enough along that I’m checking it for ripeness, so I’ll call it: late July-early August 1960. At that time in northern plains summer when everyone’s taste buds hum in anticipation of the first steaming platter of yellow-gold corn on the cob.
I hadn’t considered before who took the photo. But now it seems obvious that it was my brother, two years my senior, using the little “Brownie” camera that had mostly replaced the bulky, fussy flash cameras of our 1950s photos, birthdays and Christmas. Dad didn’t want us handling anything that could break or get mussed up, but the Brownie—casual, inexpensive, ubiquitous in its time—was of another, easier-going state of being. And my brother, longer-schooled in how not to upset our father, had access to this companionable camera, and took it out into our little world.
My father and I, together on a summer day. That sounds simple, ordinary enough. Though for us this is a singular moment, and that it was caught out of time is extraordinary too.
I am a month shy of my seventh birthday. My long French braids are pinned up in the warmth of summer. Already evident are the long arms and large hands, mark of the big-boned paternal line that bred me. It’s hard to see, but my father is smiling slightly, maybe talking about the ear of corn I’ve singled out. My face is hidden but the set of my head and my hands about to enfold the chosen ear show an intentness, a seriousness about something important to get right. Dad looks relaxed, pleased even. That in itself makes this a moment apart.
It must have been a Sunday, otherwise he wouldn’t have been with us in the middle of the day and not in work clothes. Still, it seems notable that he’d spend his brief time of leisure with us like that, just hanging out. Maybe that’s why my brother snapped the shutter. Aware of rarity, he documented it.
Throughout my childhood and beyond, “relaxed” was not a word often connected with my father. Later in life I realized that he, like his siblings and parents, struggled with what people didn’t have words for back then. Moody, they’d say, nervous. He’s such a nervous one. That tribe are all moody, you know. The hounds of anxiety and depression stalked them throughout their lives and passed into generations.
But not on this summer day in 1960. I can almost hear him, his voice low and easy: That’s a nice one, peel a little from the top, just a peek. No wonder I was so intent, almost reverent.
Dad is wearing his American Legion T-shirt, white with dark blue accents. Years later I found the shirt in a drawer, long packed away. I asked Dad if I could have it. He seemed surprised but said sure, take it. It was worn pretty thin by then but still up for the beer runs, impromptu volleyball games, and happy hour bars of college life. It had a good second run. I wish I had it now, even the remaining tatters of it.
Since retiring from a career in the nonprofit sector, Margaret Morth is immersed in a long-held passion for writing. Her work has appeared in Under the Sun, The RavensPerch, and TulipTree Review. Originally from North Dakota, she resides in Brooklyn NY, her adopted home of many years.
