Today I was teaching a documentary storytelling class. I like to get students to think about storytelling by telling a personal story. Their first assignment is to write a short flash memoir. Most have not ever heard of the concept of a flash memoir. It is an exercise that gets them to focus on a very short moment of time that yields some insight into a deeper meaning of life.
“The flash in “flash memoir” refers to its brevity, yes, but it also—and more importantly—refers to its “flash” of insight into human experience.”
I told them a story of my own and then I remembered that I had this short memoir piece I had written several years ago while participating in a writers group. It’s a story about a memory I have of a photograph I only saw once.
Unfortunately I don’t have a copy of the photo. However, today I decided to experiment with using AI tools in Photoshop to construct an image that resembled what is in my mind. It came out pretty good and makes a nice illustration for the story I wrote.
My Grandfather’s Picture
I have only ever seen one photo of my grandfather as a young boy. It was taken when he was 10 or 11 years old. In it he is standing next to a wooden sled with a medium sized dog tethered to it, like an Eskimo sled dog. It is a winter scene in the middle of nowhere North Dakota.
My Grandfather is wearing a plaid wool jacket, probably a Woolrich, and a fur lined cap with ear flaps pulled down. I try to imagine him as a boy with a dog, like I was at that age.
Was he out playing in the snow? Did the dog bark at him playfully? Was his father smiling as he took the photo? Or was it his mother holding the camera?
In this photo I try to find his innocence. I try to imagine my grandfather smiling, laughing, and making up stories to tell at the dinner table about the adventures he and his dog had that day.
I wonder what kind of imagination the stark emptiness of the vast icy landscape of the Dakota plains inspired in him?
Shortly after that photo was taken my grandfather’s father died suddenly. My grandfather was forced to leave his dog behind in North Dakota when his mother moved him out west to Spokane to start over with a step father.
My mind slowly drifts back from these questions and returns to my own memories of him: stern, devout, and gripping my arm like a vice as he forced me up to a strangers porch to sing a church hymn to a man in a wheelchair.
