Painting used for cover image: "Drowning" by Thomas Tibitanzl.
San Francisco, California, 2003:
It took a lot of convincing from Imelda's friend Clive. But, she finally found herself attending a workshop at San Francisco's Family History Library. As Imelda scanned the faces of the attendees, she couldn't help but notice a redheaded woman in her twenties sitting beside the window. Although she was trying her best to be perky, there was a particular sadness in the woman's eyes.
"Good afternoon, everyone. My name is Richard, and I will be leading the workshop today. Hopefully, all of you received the email asking you to bring a box of photographs. We will begin with a simple exercise in which you label the photographs that you brought with you. Eventually, you'll be using your labels to chart your family tree."
It was like clockwork. Everyone in the classroom took out their boxes. Imelda took out her modest shoebox of photographs as well. She looked over to the redhead. Only instead of taking out a shoebox, the redhead took out a laptop. Somebody was smart enough to scan their photographs, thought Imelda.
"So, since we want to make this a communal activity, you will be put into groups. Miss…" Richard was addressing the redhead.
She looked up from her laptop. "Who me?" She asked in a girlish voice. "Willow. Willow Rosenberg."
"Willow…could you join…" He looked at Imelda's and Clive's nametags. "…Imelda and Clive at this table?"
"Certainly," said Willow. She gathered her laptop, and moved next to Clive. "Hi-ya," said Willow, as she gave a little wave.
Imelda and Clive greeted her.
"I'm envious, Willow. You were so smart to bring a laptop instead of a dusty shoebox," said Imelda, when they were able to talk in groups.
"Oh, I would've been shoebox lady too," responded Willow. "Except…my whole town was swallowed up into a Hellm…by a bad earthquake."
"Oh my god. I heard about that. I'm surprised that everybody got out alive in time," said Clive. "So, the only photos you have left are on your laptop?"
"No," said Willow. "These were the ones that I scanned from my mother's stash. Well, I joined this class because this was supposed to be a mother-daughter bonding thing. But, mom was called for a symposium in Denver, and she couldn't pass that up. Not when she lost tenure at U.C. Sunnydale, on account of the town, you know, imploding."
"That's too bad," said Imelda. "Maybe you can still work with her on this."
"True," said Willow. "I need her to decipher all the so-called intellectuals in our family line. Good news, though. No relation to Julius and Ethel Rosenberg. We're just a normal two-dimensional family tree so far."
By then, Imelda had scattered the photos from her shoebox on the table.
"Wow…your family is so interesting. Look at all these pictures," said Clive, as he goes through Imelda's photographs.
"I wouldn't say interesting," Imelda laughs, "but there are so many. I haven't looked through them in years." She carefully picks up a black and white picture of her grandmother.
"Hey, I see the family resemblance already," said Willow, as she looked at Imelda's grandmother.
Imelda laughed. "Yeah, the trademark eyebrow of disapproval."
"Here's my grandmother's picture. She's made up as if the Victorian Era never ended." Imelda looked at Willow's grandmother. It was a sepia tone picture of a bespectacled woman. She looked as exciting as an accordion.
"That's a nice picture. I so like your scanning idea a lot, Willow. With a little convincing, maybe I can get the key from my parents."
"Key?" asked Clive and Willow in unison.
"We have a storage locker filled with tons of photographs," said Imelda.
"Tons of photographs. You mean boxes and boxes that are collecting dust?" asked Clive, his eyes widening as he envisioned a mound of cartons.
"Yeah, I guess you can say that. My parents gave these to me a few years ago. At the time, I was studying photography. They said it was for inspiration, but I think it was because they were moving to Cleveland."
"Who is this handsome fellow?" Willow asked, as she holds up a picture of a sharp-dressed young man. The young man looked to be in his early twenties. Although short in height, his composure compensated—with its dignity and calmness. His light-brown eyes were wise, yet sad…like he was expecting a tragedy. His wavy black hair seemed caught in a breeze.
"Hmmm, I don't know," said Imelda, "he doesn't look familiar. Are there other pictures of him?"
Clive digs through the shoebox, holding up photo after photo.
"I'm not seeing anything," said Clive, "Maybe there's more in the other boxes?"
"Does it say anything on the back of the photo?" asked Imelda. Willow turned over the photograph.
"Let's see. It has the name Rafael written on the back," said Willow.
Imelda gave a confused expression as Willow passed the photograph to her. "Uh oh, the trademark eyebrows. Still doesn't ring any bells, huh?"
"No, not really," said Imelda, "I should ask my parents. It's such a nice picture…definitely worth showcasing in an exhibit. You know the Family History Library will be doing a display at the de Young."
Imelda studied the background: "I wonder what river that is."
.