Swaddled in oilcloth, the meticulously wrapped item had been purchased in a box lot at an auction. Deep within the recesses of an old cardboard container stamped Grapefruit, the decaying relic hid. The fragile, black leather album reeked of mildew and the upper right corner was earmarked with a single word – Photographs.
I placed it on the table with stacks of “treasures” found in the box. Things to keep such as silver spoons, glassware, and a gold plated watch were separated from things to throw away: broken dishes, wool, and opened spices. The photo album was vacillating between the two piles until female curiosity saved its tattered pages. The musty volume was placed on my bedstand until a peaceful moment could be found.
After the house quieted down for the evening, I sat in bed and began the journey back in time with a stranger’s memories. Eleanor was her name, and it was embossed in faded gold leaf on the inside cover. She was beautiful. The first photograph was a black and white picture with the caption penned “Eleanor 1924, Delaware Camp.” This young woman stood in the sunlight with her wide eyes, young and holding some mystery. Her hair was coiffed in a Gibson Girl style, and the tendrils that hung loose indicated a bit of a breeze. Although dressed in clothing for an outdoor adventure, she appeared modest and feminine and behind her the river sparkled white, while Eleanor stared at the photographer.
Below that picture, on the faded black paper were remnants of another photo. Glue dried brown with age and shreds of paper graced the spot where there was once a photograph. The only thing left, of that moment in time, were the words, “The Camp.” I turned the crumbling page to find four assorted remaining shots of life at the campsite. Two tents with mosquito netting were pitched alongside a stony beach. Between the two shelters was a campfire surrounded by wooden folding chairs. A fishing net and poles leaned against one tent side. Although there were no people in any of the four photographs, life at the river’s edge flowed from the prints.
On the next page Eleanor was laughing. Her hair was free as she scrubbed a frying pan by the water. Perhaps, the remains of fried fish or pancakes kept her occupied as she laughed up at the photographer. In the well-spaced pictures on these pages, she teased the lens with her light eyes and full smile. Her hair changed as the background varied. It was loose and flowing for doing the dishes, worn in a braid for going fishing, and pinned in a bun for sitting in a chair. The last photo caught Eleanor unaware with a pouting smile. She had raised arms above her head, pulling at her chignon, as her hair tumbled to her shoulders.
As I turned the page, two photographs that were pushed into the binding of the book, fell to my lap. Jagged edges framed both of “Bill at the Camp.” Even separated from the captions in the album, there was no mistaking the identity of the young man. With his feet extended in front of him, he lounged back in one of the chairs, smoking a pipe. He appeared to be in control of the campsite, yet teasing the photographer. The other picture silhouetted Bill against the white river. Even though his features were muted, he appeared preoccupied.
These were the last pictures in the photo album. Blank moldy pages that stuck together completed the book.
I carefully closed the leather bound volume, pensively stroked its cover, and sighed.
Wanderings and Reflections