THE LITTLE PHOTOGRAPH
“…to me the photo expresses so much of what he didn’t say.”
My grandparents were modest and never wasteful. They had the same feather pillows and towels my entire life. They reused Christmas wrapping paper. Grandpa wore a uniform for work—navy pants and a light blue shirt—and he continued wearing it long after he retired. They were still good clothes.
As a carpenter, he made dozens of toys for us grandkids, including pull-behind ducks, turtles, and cars. He turned candlesticks for my mother, and when I got older he built a coffee table for me.
Naturally, when he passed away his woodworking tools were sentimental to all of us. But all I wanted was a little black-and-white photograph he carried in his wallet every day. It’s a picture of my grandparents on their honeymoon to the Blue Ridge Mountains and Skyline Drive, taken in 1946.
Possibly because he had difficulty hearing, Grandpa was always quiet, but to me the photo expresses so much of what he didn’t say. My grandfather was proud of his family, devoted and loyal. He and my grandmother were married 61 years. I think he approached marriage the way he approached so many things in life: stick with what you have and make it work.
When my grandmother gave me the photo, I hung it at the front door of the home I share with my husband, so it could serve as inspiration to love like they did. When Grandma passed away too, it became a lovely memory of them both.
They shared a love of gardening, crafting, and caring for their tiny Methodist Church. Perhaps love can be that simple. I decorate the photo with ribbon at the holidays and marigolds in the fall, harvesting the seeds like they did.
—Jennifer Jones, in loving memory of Harold and Virginia Saxtan
Jennifer Jones is a former attorney turned park ranger.