A moment in time

By Christine Tailer
HCP columnist

My father was many things, longshoreman, clock maker, superintendent of a rooming house, inventor and patent attorney. He moved easily from one livelihood to another, never totally letting go of what he had been before.

When one of the "boys" from the docks would stop by, he'd slip into a thick New York accent as they exchanged slaps on the back; yet when welcoming a client into his office, located on the first floor of our 17th Street brownstone, he'd speak with a crisp voice and offer a firm handshake.

I remember one day when he was dressed in his soot-covered repairman clothes, working on the basement furnace, a client rang the doorbell. Dad opened the front door and ushered his client into the office saying, "Pete'll be right with ya. I'm his brudda. I work around on da place." 

Dad dashed upstairs, washed up, put on his lawyer clothes, and returned to the office, extending his firm handshake. "I see you've met my brother. Now, what can I do to help you?"

Through all of Dad's many careers, he was always a photographer. He owned every camera imaginable, from the first Polaroids, to the large box cameras that he set up on tripods. He had lights, back cloths, and always carried a camera or two, where ever he went. One of his favorite things was to "scrounge" around the stores along 14th and Canal streets. He'd dig through the shelves and boxes looking for broken cameras that he would then bring home and repair.

I now realize how fortunate I was to have had a photographer for a father. There are so many wonderful moments that he captured, times that would be blurred memories if not for his crisp black and white images. Every now and then I'll pause in my day, sit down at my desk, open the bottom drawer, and look through his eyes at my childhood. The images are all so special. I often hold one for minutes, taking in the details, remembering each small point.

I opened the bottom drawer the other evening. I leafed through the images until I came across one that struck my fancy. I laid it in my lap and looked, and for the first time, I saw so many things that I'd overlooked before. My sight lingered on every single tiny detail. My heart drank it all in.

There was my mother, beaming at the camera. Her long black hair was pulled back from her face, yet windblown whips had sprung free. She wore a black sweater and cardigan, one of her "sweater sets" as she called them. White buttons stood out against the black. A costume jewelry necklace shined brightly around her neck. Her skirt was a white and black checkered weave. A black belt cinched her waist. She was beautiful. She looked so happy.

And the story of the street behind her was as striking as my mother. She stood on the sidewalk in front of Stuyvesant Pharmacy. The large front window of the pharmacy's left was stacked with goods. Neon lights proclaimed, "First Rate Drugs" and "Cut Rate Prices."

A man wearing a cotton button down shirt was holding a bicycle on the sidewalk in front of this window, looking back over his shoulder. His shirt was tucked in, but unbuttoned to his waist. Perhaps he was hot, or perhaps like my mother, he too was making a fashion statement. His bike was beautiful. It had wide chrome-rimmed wheels and a large chrome luggage rack. If not for the chrome, I would have thought him a bicycle delivery man. Perhaps, though, he was a delivery man who was extremely proud of his ride, and his chest.

Through the large window on the pharmacy's right, I could see the counter. The photo did not show the full wording of the letters on the window, but it likely proclaimed "Shakes."

The Coke sign was clearly visible. I remembered back. I would climb up on a vinyl-topped stool and twirl around while I waited for my ice cream. Perhaps my little brother and I were inside twirling as Dad led Mom outside for a photo shoot in the city's perfect late afternoon light. I don't really know, though I do know that Dad's photo not only captured an image, but also my heart six decades later.

Christine Tailer is an attorney and former city dweller who moved several years ago, with her husband, Greg, to an off-grid farm in south-central Ohio. Visit them on the web at straightcreekvalleyfarm.com.