Families logo

The Rebel

His History, My Future

By Suzanne BarberPublished 6 years ago 6 min read
Like

Shelves span the length of my bedroom concealing the grey of wall, thick with leaning books and mismatched baskets. My clothes reach out, stretching like cotton arms toward carpet. Resting above this organized chaos, two large cork-boards brim with photos. I think of the pinned pictures as recent, although they arenʼt anymore, and I know a slightly younger version of me looks out. Itʼs the face of a white-blonde boy, my brother, revealing how much time has passed—braces have now corrected his crooked grin, flat hair replaced with untamed curls.

The images arranged in this way, framed by one another, give a sense of singularity—the array of angled faces merge into the neighbouring photos, blending into solidarity. Looking at this “one” photo provides an essence of who I am, the people that I love.

Not all pictures are meant to be arranged this way, though. Certain images beg to be held separate, too strong to be placed among others. When done so, the image holds its edges rigid, rebellious. These types of photos never involve “hang on, letʼs take another, just in case” or “cheese”. Itʼs more like this: stumbling as the scenario unfolds, digging hastily through sunglasses, wallet, lip gloss, feeling for the cool metal shell of my camera.

The shutter blinks. Click. The image plants itself, the roots sprout and tunnel into memory.

Grandpa, at Joeʼs Crab Shack on the Kemah Boardwalk. The trademark brush cut stands tall and grey, martini level in his right hand raised in cheers, plastic bib tied at the neck, a lobster splashed at its center. “Time to get Cracking!” it reads. His serious demeanour is absent, and the clear tubes sprouting from his nose give away a new sense of vulnerability.

I guess I understood that his health was weaker than ever, although it is difficult at the time to feel an end looming; admitting moments like this are special because they will not repeat. I gave the photo to Dad after Grandpa passed away, nine months after it was taken. In hindsight, I may have known what I would do with that photo as the lens snapped. It now sits framed in dark wood, facing the entrance of our home in Regina Beach. Another copy—my copy—stays tucked inside an envelope, waiting patiently to be given an appropriate home (one day, I imagine the picture to look toward my own entrance).

I need not pull the photo from the envelope to remember what is there, but sometimes I do anyway. I brush my thumb over that "melon", as he called it—and it was. The arms of his glasses were always bent like the letter "V." I imagine rubbing my thumb against forehead until the skin becomes polished, so I can see inside, the working parts. The curtains draw and the show begins—a movie projected with each thought, the library of knowledge allowing for an endless reel.

I see the bone-straight hair of my teenage dad, his white shorts cut mid-thigh. I see Grandma, the watery blue of her eyes unchanged. I see twenty-seven grandchildren—my brothers, sisters, cousins—with hair that expose our relation, lit under a summer sun. I realize, these are the thoughts I imagine my Grandpa projecting into movies, but there is so much more to know, so many “movies” I cannot know, will never know.

I think of the photos of Grandpa as a younger man—portraits of Dr. Lloyd Barber hung on walls and framed behind glass. I cannot polish the forehead of this man, the skin is too thick, he is too far to reach. Although the physical characteristics are obvious (the needles of hair are mimicked by few) a different version of a man is present. The portraits, taken in the 70s, stare at you—not with the type of stare that holds any welcome, though.

He leans forward over the desk, pen in hand, elbows bent. His stare is held above a face unsmiling, looking at you as if to say, “You, yeah you”. The wide lapel of his jacket crisp and pointed, cracks in his skin above perked eyebrows. This man staring is unafraid to challenge. What would it be like to meet him? I assume intimidating. Dr Lloyd Barber is foreign to me. I know him in the sense that I know what he has done; I have seen the “gifts” that decorate the galley entrance of his home and I walk across an expanse of lawn named after him on my way to school. There is much more to him than this, I realize. Do I want to know him? Do I want to peel back the layers of these portraits in hopes of discovering Grandpa?

I like the man at Joeʼs Crab Shack. I admire him. The openness, the martini raised as if to invite me in to join him. It is as if someone pulled the string that holds flesh to bone. His jawline softer, the cracks in his forehead forced smooth from the weight of skin, his nose curved toward thin lips turned up in a smile. In this photo he is more human, reachable. There are no layers to be peeled back to expose, it is all him.

Placing the young Lloyd Barber next to Grandpa is overwhelming. I do not know the Lloyd Barber, but I need not know him, I need only to understand why he stares at me, questions me. This man has work to do, he is passionate and deeply immersed in the job at hand—whatever the job may have been. Then I look at Grandpa, surrounded by children and grandchildren on New Yearʼs Eve, ordering a martini at two in the afternoon. I can see him glowing in the presence of his greatest accomplishment. There is no doubt, this man can only be as he is in this photo because of the man he is in the other—he worked damn hard for that glow.

Next, I look at the pictures of myself from the same day, the same bib tied around my neck, dark Ray Bans concealing my eyes. It is not a photo that jumps out at you, it does not stare at you. Although, I can see it, the quality of closeness. I too am exposed, with no layers to sort. You can feel an openness in my posture—my arm resting around the neck of my Dad at my side, the mid-giggle smile and breezy hair. I look nothing like my Grandpa, as most twenty-year-old females wouldn't, but we are alike in our openness. So why is this photo of me able to blend with my pinned pictures and Grandpaʼs cannot? The difference I realize is history. He is near the end of his life, realizing what someone like me at the time canʼt. Sure, I am happy in my photo, relaxed, open. But, I am shallow. I look at the photos of myself on the same day and I am there, it is me. It is how little of me that is there that causes concern.

I want to look at a photo of myself when I too have features softened by time and feel what I feel when I look at Grandpa. He was able to accomplish a true appreciation, to sit back and enjoy what he had laboured for. One day, if I am lucky enough, my photo will rebel, fail to blend among others, undeniably me.

grandparents
Like

About the Creator

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.