The Bummer Line: Them Days

I was recently reminded that hard copies of old photos in dusty albums are not good enough. Such images need to be scanned and preserved electronically, too... embarrassing as they may be. So, let's start with the '80s... the 1880s:

This is one the oldest images of my family. It's from my mother's side. Fuzzy data. No one is sure who they are exactly. Mainers, for sure though. From the research I've done, I suspect they're of the Isle-au-Haut clan.

This is the oldest dated image of the Bummer line I have, taken in 1895. It's my paternal Great-great-great grandparents, Jeanne and Chrysologue. Crazy French Canadian name. As with most of my Father's side, he was born in Quebec, migrated south to Maine and is buried there in my hometown. He was a farmer, from a long line of farmers. She made rugs at home. They were poor.

This is a fragile funeral card for my paternal Great-great grandmother, Emma B. Along with the standard Holy cards, most of the Catholic families had these personalized mementos printed up for their deceased. Not sure how they afforded it. Maybe the church paid for them? Probably not.

The dude in the middle is my paternal Great-grandfather, Jean-Baptiste. I actually knew him, at least a much older, very bald version of this bad-ass biker. The RR bridge behind the Harley threesome is still there. As a teenager, we used to play "chicken" with the freight trains. I think the old-timers did, too. Not much else to do. Good clean fun.

This is a precious pic of my maternal Grandmother, Ruth, with her Grandpa, my Great-great. He was a seaman who operated a private charter ship off New Brunswick in his later years, so the story goes. The image is in pretty bad shape - some sort of flaky Ferrotype.

Portrait of my maternal Grandpa, Udalric, as a young prankster. Friends called him "Pat." He grew up in far east region of Maine, near the now depressed Eastport, and played his violin in the streets. On the weekends, he was an altar boy at the Catholic church on the neighboring Passamaquoddy reservation.

This is one of my favorite childhood images of my paternal Grandmother, Claire. I knew her well. She died a few years ago, but she gave me some good stories. She was the oldest girl in a brood of 13 siblings, so she had to quit school before the 8th grade to work in the local textile mill. She didn't quit working until she forgot how.

The love of Claire's life: Joseph B., my paternal Grandfather. Handsome little guy. I only got to know him for a short time - he died when I was 8. Unlike every other Frenchman in town, JB did everything he could not to work in either of the town's mills. As a boy, he delivered papers, then worked in a laundry shop. Soon, he'd run his own place.

My Great Uncle Russell (on the left, in the white T). He was Claire's brother, and everyone's favorite - including mine. Through the war, he saw more of the world than most of his family would ever see. Although he rarely spoke of it, he was one of the scarred survivors of the torpedoed USS Indianapolis in the Pacific. Russ took me hunting and fishing and entertained me with endless stories of "them days" - even the repeats were good. He died several years ago. For me, he was the patriarch of the Franco clan.

I love this picture. My Grandmother Claire is in the middle. The only one without a bathing suit. Classy.

This is one of the earliest photos I have of my paternal Grandparents, Claire and Joseph B., before my Dad was born. I love how young and happy they look here.

And then there was three! At the time of my Father's birth, my Grandfather Joseph was on his way overseas, stationed halfway across the country. Although his request for a week-long pass was denied by the US Army, he was granted a 24-hour furlough to see his new son. He snagged a Cessna and flew himself hundreds of miles to Maine, drove home to see Claire and Joe Jr., snapped off this photo, then had to turn around and fly back to the base.

Claire with my Dad as a babe, 1942. She's crossing the old swinging bridge in the dead of winter, probably to visit relatives on the other side of the Androscoggin. (Notice the carriage is actually a sled with steel runners. Cool ride.)

This is a great promotional shot my Grandfather Joseph had taken to advertise his new drycleaning shop. I recall the ad highlighted "Radio dispatched delivery trucks!" Big shot, indeed.

I have many photos of my Dad as a child. I picked one. It really is the best of the bunch. The hand in the left side of the pic belongs to my Great Uncle Donald, Claire's youngest brother. He used to troll my wee Pa around town on his bike in this basket.

My Mom spent the first years of her life in a little village across town called Pejepscot. My Grandfather Pat worked at the paper mill there. (He always wore a plain white T like this one. Pretty much his standard work attire as the interior of the mill was sweltering hot. He told me stories of having to hang his lunch pale up on a hook so the roaches could get at it.) As a girl, my Mother was shuffled off to a French-speaking Catholic school. Unlike 90% of the town, her family were not Canucks. That didn't work out so well, so my Grandparents eventually moved her to an English-speaking school.

My Dad is the only person I know who loved his teen years. To this day, he's trying to re-live them. He did have a fashionable flat-top haircut and he owned a cool '63 split-window Corvette! I guess that would help make for fond memories.

I used to think Robert Frank visited my Grandparents' home in the mid-60s on his way to Nova Scotia or something. Turns out not. My Grandmother Ruth actually took this picture! Pure genius. The two lovers - soon to be married - sitting on the couch, watching some TV. And there's Grampa Pat in the background, in his white T, nursing a Colt 45.

The year before I was born, my Dad shot his first deer. It was also his last. He did follow through with the customary skinning of the carcass, consuming of venison over the winter months, and mounting the head on the living room wall. But I think he kept the trophy there to remind him not of the kill, but of the killing. I do remember going hunting with him when I was a boy, but we never had a "clear shot." Instead, we just walked slowly through the cold Maine woods, trying not to scare away the other animals.