Fiction logo

Through the Lens

Images of a Family Tree

By L. Lane BaileyPublished 3 years ago 10 min read
8
Through the Lens
Photo by Randy Fath on Unsplash

Sarah wiped her hands as she walked out the front door of the large farmhouse. It had been weeks since she’d seen her husband, and he’d left with the crops in the fields and her with three children under five. She wanted to be angry, but seeing his goofy grin, she couldn’t help but smile back at him. After all, he had arranged for his parents to sit with the kids, his father also working the fields, and his brother-in-law lending a hand.

“What have you gotten into, my love?” she said, crossing the front yard toward the covered wagon he was driving relentlessly toward the front door.

“Photography,” he said with a dramatic flair, his arms sweeping across in front of them as if outlining the words on a marquee. “I struck a deal for a complete photographic assemblage. Lenses, a camera, and materials aplenty.”

“So, I suppose you think you will make thousands and be the next Mathew Brady?” she said, a stern look crossing her countenance.

“Don’t be silly, my beautiful bride. I was drawn to the process which is almost as magic in its ability to capture our reality. I hadn’t meant to be gone so long, but while I was training with Mr. Eastman, we figured out a new dry emulsion upon which to create the latent image.”

“I have no idea what you are talking about, but I do know that there is some field work your father would like some help with.”

“Of course, my dear… I’ll just have him help unpack when we are done in the fields. We are entering a new day,” he finished, his dramatic voice making another appearance.

By Johann Siemens on Unsplash

James flew down the stairs into the old root cellar, his arms heavily laden with film holders from his morning’s activities. Once in the old dirt room, the seasonal canning load on one wall, his darkroom on the other, he barred the door from the inside so as to not have anyone ruin his work. He set about the development of his plates.

“James?” Sarah shouted, beating the cellar doors with the pitchfork that had been leaning against the house next to the cellar entry, “it’s almost dinner. Come out and get cleaned up.”

A moment later, a disheveled looking James Hammond crawled up the ladder from the earthen cellar. He balanced a box in one arm as he climbed.

“Let me help you,” Sarah said, taking the box.

“I can’t wait for you to see,” he exclaimed. “Although, I must say, I had no idea the time had gotten away.”

“After dinner. Go get cleaned up, you’re as bad as the children,” she laughed.

“Yes, dear,” he said sheepishly.

He gathered the box back into his arms and cradled it as he entered the house. Leaving it on the coffee table, he headed to the lavatory to wash himself off. He was practically vibrating with excitement through the whole ordeal. More than anything, he wanted to show his family what he’d created.

The moment dinner was done, James leapt from his chair at the table and rushed into the living room. He arranged half a dozen print plates along the back of the sofa. All were eight by ten inches, the size of his camera’s film plate holder.

“Come see, dear,” he shouted back as his wife cleared the table.

“Let me see to the children first.”

James paced the room, his impatience growing. In his excitement for his wife to see his creations, the work of life had been cast back into the depth of his mind. He struggled the reel those concerns back in as Sarah bustled about the house doing her womanly duties.

“James, these look wonderful,” she finally said, scanning them in a manner not unlike she would a child’s picture.

“Please, Sarah, this is important. Really look at them.”

She gingerly picked up the first plate. She held it up to the oil lamp, examining the detail.

“Is this the pear tree we planted when we married?” she said, looking at the printed image. Morning fog swirled around the lower branches of the tree, still too young to bear much fruit, but filling it nicely. The light was soft, and even in the print, the detail of the trunk’s bark could be seen on close examination. The branches and leaves had blurred slightly from the motion of the gentle breeze. “This is truly lovely, James. Almost surreal.”

She picked up each in turn and examined it in the same way. After seeing all of them, she went back to the first, the pear tree. “This is my favorite, James. They are all nice, but this one moves me.”

“Thank you, my dear. That is my preferred, as well.”

By Artin Bakhan on Unsplash

Looking out the kitchen window, Sarah spied James standing in snow above his knee. Next to him, Martha and Teresa, the twins were in snow almost to their waists. Martha held a series of film holders, and Teresa another. The two girls were learning the craft and helping their father. The camera he’d brought home when they were four years old was sitting on a handcrafted tripod in the sitting room, replaced a few years ago by a new one with more movement in the standards.

In ten years, his enthusiasm each time he captured an image had not diminished. Now, though, he often had help. He loved to patiently explain to whichever of the children was assisting him at that moment, each painstaking detail. It bored Sarah to tears, but the girls especially loved it.

She thought that the poor pear tree looked sad blanketed in snow, but she also knew that her husband’s eye would find beauty in the tree. She smiled, thinking about the tree they had planted on the day of their wedding, and the fruit it bore for them.

Later that night, Martha and Teresa each rushed into the kitchen holding a photograph, their father on their heels with his own. Martha’s was a shot of the barn, snow blanketing its roof and covering the fields around it. Teresa’s was a still life of the old plow rig in snow, its worn metal contrasting with the white blanket it wore. Finally, James showed off his newest picture of the pear tree. Sarah’s breath caught as she looked at the detail of the tree. Intricately carved into the trunk were the names of her and her husband. Each of the four main branches held the name of one of their children. Snow packed into the depressions made the names all stand proud.

By Liv Bruce on Unsplash

James Junior tapped another nail into the wall of the sitting room. There were a dozen photographs of the same pear tree, going back fifteen years, to when his father had first brought a camera… the first to be owned by anyone in the valley. There were another dozen pictures displayed in the room, but it was the newest pear tree image he was preparing for with his nail.

In the image, his mother stood between his two sisters. Each of the younger women held their new babies. James Junior had laughed at the news. Both women announced their pregnancy on the same day, then had their babies mere minutes apart, despite living on opposite ends of the valley. And the babies could have been twins themselves.

His mother positively beamed in the picture. Her pride showing through the lens. Junior had been standing behind his father as the older man prepared and made the image. He’d taken his magnifier and with his head under the heavy blanket, he’d examined every portion of the ground glass before slipping the film holder into place. The pear tree stood strong behind the women, full of ripening fruit.

“You get that picture up yet, son,” James asked, walking into the room.

“Yes, sir. It looks good, too.”

“I think it might be the one of which your mother is has the most pride. Speaking of pride, son… when are you going to marry Annie? Her father catches you in the barn with her, and you won’t have a choice.”

Junior blushed deeply.

By British Library on Unsplash

James set up his camera in front of the tree. He busied himself with the preparations, which took his mind off why. Junior was sitting on the porch, looking smart in his uniform. This was the last day of his leave before shipping out to Europe. Annie sat at his side as James Junior bounced his baby girl on his knee. Sarah busied herself with making fresh squeezed lemonade and serving the family. Henry sat on the other side of his brother.

A few minutes later, James triggered the shutter, capturing his smiling son looking down at his infant daughter, his wife looking up into his face. A tear ran down the old man’s cheek as he worried for his son. He’d seen the papers, and knew that even if he made it home, his life would be forever changed by what he experienced. Before pulling his head out from under his cloth, though, the tear was gone, replaced by a smile showing strength.

By Bernard Tuck on Unsplash

Fifteen-year-old Theodore Hammond set his Speedgraphic camera up on the tripod behind his house. His grandparents were visiting their old home, and he wanted to capture it, as well as the old pear tree… the one his grandparents had planted fifty years before. It had stopped producing fruit, but a few of the trees they had planted from its seeds gave them lots of pears each year.

James and Sarah shuffled in front of the tree, the old man’s beard hanging halfway down his old-fashioned vest. As Theodore photographed his grandfather, the man that had taught him how to use a camera, among other things, he could swear that he saw a younger man in the dim viewfinder. After capturing a couple of frames, children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren started piling into the frame.

That night, Theodore developed the pictures in the old darkroom under the house in the root cellar. He made a few prints to hang with all the old pictures in the sitting room. After tapping a hanger into the wall, he went back and looked at the shots progressing through time.

There were pictures of much of his family tree, in front of their family tree. He started to weep as he realized that the old pear tree wouldn’t stand much longer. It could be replaced by a younger tree that would produce fruit again, but it would never be the same.

“The offspring of that old pear tree are carrying on in its stead,” his future wife Mary said, walking up behind him and putting her hand on his shoulder. She knew what he was thinking. It seemed like she always knew what he was thinking, he mused.

A few years later he would look at the pictures from that day, noting that they were the last family pictures with his brother Henry before he went off to war, never to return, leaving a son and widow in his wake.

By Valeriia Miller on Unsplash

It was twenty years later when that son, eighteen-year-old Henry Hammond III took up his own Leica camera to make another family photograph. Dozens of Hammonds gathered for a reunion at the old homestead that Uncle Ted had lovingly restored.

The old pear tree was gone. Great-grandfather James had taken it down himself when his Sarah passed away in 1949. He smiled through the tears as he told stories of their life together.

Standing in front of the field of trees, he was a bent shell of his former self, but as Henry developed the pictures, in the same old darkroom, he could still see fire in his eyes. His great-grandfather and uncle had spent countless hours teaching him every aspect of photography and telling him stories of his father and others.

Their tutelage had set him on a course to becoming a historian and avid photo-hobbyist. He would begin classes that fall.

Historical
8

About the Creator

L. Lane Bailey

Dad, Husband, Author, Jeeper, former Pro Photographer. I have 15 novels on Amazon. I write action/thrillers with a side of romance. You can also find me on my blog. I offer a free ebook to blog subscribers.

Reader insights

Be the first to share your insights about this piece.

How does it work?

Add your insights

Comments

There are no comments for this story

Be the first to respond and start the conversation.

Sign in to comment

    Find us on social media

    Miscellaneous links

    • Explore
    • Contact
    • Privacy Policy
    • Terms of Use
    • Support

    © 2024 Creatd, Inc. All Rights Reserved.