How To Decipher Stories In Old Photos
An old photo of Tante Bert walking along the streets of Seattle, Washington in 1944.
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Recently, I interviewed photographer Julia Mae Hunt who shared some insights as to what to consider when taking photos with a story in mind. Julia explained that it’s important to identify the story you want to tell before you hold up the camera to take the picture, and then consider how you’ll answer the questions of who, what, when, where and why.
In this post, I apply those “5 Ws” to some recently found old photos from our family collection to see how it can turn photo mysteries into stories of a value.
STUMBLING ONTO OLD PHOTOS
In our home we have lots of photos from our years raising children because my husband David is a photographer who worked relentlessly documenting our lives as the kids grew up.
We also have an abundance of old photos, some of which predate the whole household, because David comes from a particularly large family. There are literally hundreds of old pictures of his childhood, his 8 siblings, his extended grandparents and great-grandparents. And where he has hundreds, each of his eight siblings have held just as many. The total assortment is massive and includes scores of older photos of relatives dating back to before the 20th century.
David and his siblings have diligently harvested the more iconic images and share some important history of many of those pictures; but the volume of unknown images is still overwhelming.
I recently found a particularly mysterious stack of photos from David’s Great Aunt Ta. She was the Aunt of David’s father Henry, one of three sisters including Henry’s mother, Eleanor.
Ta, whose American name was Mary Burns, was the younger sister to Bertha. Bertha Mascharis, like her other siblings, had a much longer Dutch name—but, for David and his siblings, she was known as Bertha or “Tante Bert.”
AN ECCENTRIC FAMILY + BERTHA
David’s family home was an old mansion of former greatness located just north of Des Moines’ downtown. The nineteenth-century house had fallen into a state of decay over the decades, along with the neighborhood, and was positively dilapidated when David’s family of nine children moved into it in 1955. The entire neighborhood was challenged by neglect, and the diminished real-estate values provided a large and ready home, however decrepit. David’s father saw it as a good fit for such a large family.
In 1982, when I met Henry, he had already taught history at Drake University for almost 30 years. He was known to be an old-fashioned and tough instructor who gained additional notoriety because he only rode his bike (as opposed to owning a car). He was the professor most students generally hoped they wouldn’t get.
Henry rode his bike with his pipe propped in his mouth and was known in the community as “the professor” or “Santa Claus” due to his long, white beard. He was also identified for his eccentricities, as well as for being the landlord of a few additional ramshackle properties in the neighborhood.
When I met Henry and Ta, it was like walking into a Dickens novel. They sat in a dark, musty room with overstuffed and dusty furniture and looked like they were nearly as old as the house, which was 100 years old by then.
Henry’s family had come from the Netherlands by way of Canada, then to the United States when Henry was a baby. And though raised in the Seattle, Washington, Henry and his family were strictly European, and specifically Dutch in manner and attitude.
Henry had to learn English in order to go to school. Both his Aunts, Ta and Tante Bert (Bertha) lived in Seattle, too. Although I never met Bertha, she has remained a fixture in my memory because of the stories David has told me about her.
By the time Bertha came to live in the house on 10th street in Des Moines, it was the mid-1970s. Henry was in his late 60s and the aunts were in their late 80s. David and his sister were in high school at the time and almost ready to move away for college. David details stories of the odd dinners with the great aunts and his father, and in particular Bertha’s unusual questions and admonitions that had little to do with reality.
Bertha and her younger sister Mary
Here is Bertha (left) with her younger sister Mary in 1932. Bertha was born in 1890 so in this photo she was approximately 42. Another of David’s siblings says that he understood Mary to be generous, and rather progressive for a woman of her day. By the time David knew Ta and then Bertha, they were the odd and ancient sisters living in his house, seemingly from a world of the past.
Bertha was particularly unusual given her unbalanced and deteriorating lucidity, which family stories report was an ongoing issue throughout her life. But it was the topic of her dolls and the relationship she had with them that caught my attention from David’s stories.
Bertha, her mother, the dolls, 1930s
Here is Bertha (left) holding a doll in the early 1930s. Her mother is holding another doll. David explains that Bertha’s mother spoke of being a distant relative of a royal Dutch family line. David also heard the family stories passed down that Bertha’s mother was mentally unstable. From this photo, we can see that the dolls were important enough to be photographed with Bertha and her mother.
Bertha with a real child identity unknown, c. 1930s
Here is Bertha in the 1930s pictured with a real child. There is nothing found to help document who the child was, but Bertha appears to be happy to pose with this little girl. Can you see the longing in Bertha’s eyes? I wonder.
Bertha’s father with a doll, c. 1930s
Here is Tanta Bert’s father pictured with one of the dolls. Clearly, the family was complicit in supporting her relationship to her children figures.
Bertha with her husband, family dog and of course the dolls, c. 1930s
Bertha did eventually marry but she and her husband were unable to have children. Here they are with her dolls.
I thought her attachment to dolls was unusual, but it turns out the phenomenon of attachment to objects – such as dolls or stuffed animals – is a form of self-care practiced by people probably as long as dolls (and people) have existed.
An article titled, “The Women Who Mother Lifelike Dolls,” from The New Yorker, by Naomi Fry, details some of the stories of mostly women (and some men) who have formed connection with inanimate objects. The attachments permit these individuals to deal with loss and anxiety that help permit them to remain rooted and productive in their lives.
Bertha walking on the streets of Seattle, Washington, 1944
Here is Bertha in 1944, when she would have been in her mid-50s. She is walking along the city streets in Seattle, Washington where she lived most of her life. At the time the picture was taken, WWII was close to a conclusion in Europe. Bertha had experienced The Great Depression, but on this day she is shopping. Perhaps she maintained a job and earned some income during these years.
Who captured Bertha walking with such determination in this candid moment? Maybe it was one of her sisters. The floral pattern of her dress bursts with daisies and she is wearing white shoes. There were rules about when it was appropriate to wear white, so this was probably taken some time between Memorial and Labor Day of 1944. Bertha was a woman with a large frame. She is buxom. Her carriage and size suggest she is a woman with “big bones,” as they used to say.
THE STORY IN OLD PHOTOS MAY MAKE THEM KEEP-WORTHY
By the time David met Bertha, she had just come from living in a nursing home in Seattle (where she had been for several years). Apparently, the nursing home had issues with caring for Bertha, so Mary went out to bring her to live with Henry in Des Moines.
By the late 1970s, it was Henry, Bertha, Mary, David and his younger sister all living together. The seven other children had already left the house. David shared stories of Addams family-like experiences; his odd great Aunts and his aging eccentric father, which to me always sounded other-worldly.
The consensus within David’s extended family recollection is that Bertha did struggle with mental illness throughout her life which intensified with aging. I had thought the dolls were a manifestation of mental issues, but it is possible it was just Bertha’s way of dealing with something painful.
I found another article, this one from Psychology Today, by Joseph Burgo Ph.D., titled, “No Shame in Adult Comfort Dolls.” It’s a compelling review of the role inanimate objects can play in providing comfort. The idea that people automatically transition at some point between childhood to adulthood from needing tools for self-care is at best, an arbitrary one. People continuing to take solace in the snuggle of something soft could actually be exhibiting a healthy way of dealing with anxiety.
In a recent study conducted of 6000 brits by the hotel Travelodge they found that 25% of respondents admitted to traveling with a teddy bear as a means of reducing anxiety. And yet, only 26% said it was “acceptable” to have such a comforting tool.
PHOTOS AS KEEPERS?
Whether the backstory to these photos of Bertha makes all these images “keepers” for our family is yet to be determined. But I do think there is a story of perseverance in these memories that offers pause for reflection. Our family, like others, has dealt with the issue of anxiety. Acknowledging the need for others to address it too—with healthy outlets—is a good thing.
Perhaps Bertha provides one more reminder that mental health needs to be talked about honestly in our families, and on a regular basis. We need to shed more light and less shame on how mental well-being is manifested in our family’s past, so we can help address it more honestly in our present. And the photos which have been largely forgotten, maybe a few more are worth keeping so long as they come along with the stories that have been uncovered.
Postscript: Once you start organizing a targeted project such as photos the floodgates of organizing may open up to working on other projects as well. If you need help and inspiration though, I recommend the Get Organized Gal’s courses for support.
I used her course to organize my office, and it is in pretty good shape these days. Success in one space has lead to cleaning channels to other rooms and photos as well. Check out he courses here.
Sherry and Alexandra Borzo together in Lima, Peru
Sherry is the founder of Storied Gifts a personal publishing service of family and company histories. She and her team help clients curate and craft their stories into books. When not writing or interviewing, Sherry spends loads of time with her grandchildren and lives in Des Moines, Iowa.
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