The photo album

Last night I e-mailed a photographer from Wisconsin asking permission to use his photo as a reference for a painting, and he graciously responded OK (very interesting photos from all over the world). Then I decided I needed a special folder for this, because I ask and then forget where I saved them. When I changed computers about a year ago, my e-mail didn't transfer. Sooo....one thing led to another and I started moving other files--it began to take on a life of its own--like when I clean my real office. Then I came across this story, written in November 2004 for NaNoWrMo. When I write fiction, I have no middle or ending in mind, only the first sentence, so I wrote what came to mind, saved it, and didn't reopen it for five years. At this point, the inspiration is gone, but here it is.

Paula Bearfoot. I knew her the minute I saw the old photos glued to the page of the crumbling scrapbook laid out on the table at the reunion. I’d seen her photo a few times back in 1959, and the scrapbook was from the 50s--the kind with the ugly black paper. Something like a shoestring provided the flimsy binding.

How prissy the girls all looked then in black and white glossies, caught and preserved by a little Brownie Kodak. Neat, straight, pencil thin wool skirts, a short sleeve sweater with stitching on the sleeves, a white collar “dickey,” and white anklets in saddle shoes. What pride they took in their appearance. Oh, the wasted hours in front of the mirror. Leafing through the album, I realized somewhat belatedly that teen-agers weren’t fat then, they didn’t wear jeans when trying to impress guys, and they wore way too much lipstick. I looked around the room. Times had certainly changed. Fat mamas, all. Pale lips. At least no jeans.

P-B they called her. With a name like Bearfoot, she probably got a lot of questions. I mean, I would’ve asked--if I’d known her. What do you suppose she answered? Did she make up something clever or tell the truth? Did anyone ever hear the truth from PB? She was my husband's steady. Even at the reunion, he heard of yet another guy who had dated “his” girl. Even after 40 years, I felt just a little sorry for him.

No one had seen her since college. No one knew where her family had moved. Did she even finish college? Occasionally, letters were read at these every decade affairs. No one seemed to remember exactly what they said when I inquired, discreetly of course. She was a social worker. She was a lawyer. She was a secretary. She’d never married. She married three times. Her step-daughter was in the Clinton administration. Her sister had drowned in Hawaii. She lived in Maine. She lived in Arizona. The stories were told in such an off-hand, quasi-authoritative way, I just gave up.

The guy who owned the photo album looked carefully at her pictures. “I think I dated her,” he said, “or maybe her sister. June? Julie?” (371 words)

And that's all I wrote. NaNoWrMo should have been a natural for me, but it means writing on command (it's sort of a contest to write a novel in one month), and nothing will kill my inspiration like someone telling what, when, where or how to write.