New non-fiction from Amy Clark:
Continue reading in Still
I have a
photograph of my great-grandmother sitting on a wicker bench, one long
leg tucked and her hands folded loosely into her lap, as if she is ready
to catch up on old times. She is young and beautiful in her willowy
body, those high cheekbones framed in dark curls. Her pale, sleeveless
dress flatters slender arms and a high neck framed in an embroidered,
V-neck collar. One long, shapely leg ends in a sexy pump. She has yet to
grow into the confident skin and cast iron will that I remember; her
shoulders are forward, her lips stubbornly set to hide the smile behind
them, and I can imagine that glossy shoe tapping impatiently on the
tiled floor as the photographer sets up his camera. This image of her,
cast in the dipped-in-molasses tones of the 1920s, is one that I have
never seen. I imagine it might have been taken during a visit to help
one of her sisters with a new baby or to nurse someone in the family
back to health. To venture out of the mountains of Dickenson County on a
train away from the watchful eye of her father would have been rare,
and caring for a sick family member was the best reason to do it. Maybe a
photographer came through the area, as they were known to do back then,
offering a photo in exchange for a few cents. Someone talked her into
it, convinced her that she was pretty enough to be immortalized on film.
Knowing her as I do, getting her to pose on that wicker bench could not
have been easy.
Her nickname, after all, was "Buck."
Her nickname, after all, was "Buck."
Continue reading in Still
