That's Random: An Imagined History

Does this happen to anyone else? Whenever Nick and I are at the flea market or find ourselves poking around in a dusty old antiques shop, we're always drawn like metal to a magnet to the jumbled bins and boxes filled with old photographs.

This past weekend, in Alameda, we spent a good half-hour sifting through the contents of one such box and passing stacks of old black-and-white and sepia snapshots back and forth. How, we wondered, did these family photos come to be discarded like so much trash, tossed into a shoebox and set out for curious passersby to rummage through in search of nothing more than a few moments' amusement?

We chuckled at the strange, old-fashioned faces and the modest, voluminous bathing costumes. Whatever became of these rough-faced men standing so uncomfortable in their Sunday suits, to the young women with their elaborately marcelled hair, to the children in their home-sewn dressing gowns and short pants?

To fill in their unknowable stories, we whispered invented anecdotes about the nameless subjects of the forgotten images. "Oh, there's Aunt Beatrice chaperoning Helen's trip to the city. She was a battleaxe, that one. Nothing got past her." Or, "This was right before John shipped out. He was killed in the War, you know. Dorothy never got over it."

We goggled at the clothes and the hats and the shoes -- my god, so chic! Back then, going for a ride on the ferry or even taking a leisurely Sunday drive was an event to dress for. I tripped out a little bit on it, standing there under a flimsy flea market umbrella in my shorts and flip-flops, my hair pulled back in a sloppy weekend ponytail. Among the other hardships I'd be so very ill-equipped to deal with, had I been born in a different era, I think I would've had a nervous breakdown just trying to get out of the house.

We wound up buying a handful of the dog-eared photos. Our little game was fun, after all, and the pictures were only a few cents each. I'm not sure what we'll do with them. But somehow, these people -- strangers to us, every last one of them, and probably all long dead -- already felt like a part of the family.