Family Portrait

Growing up, my family was always on a tight budget. My father was an Air Force man and we were all proud of him when he made recruiter. As part of the recruiting effort, the Air Force sent us to a local photographer to be photographed as a family; we’d show everyone what a happy Air Force family looked like. The real bonus was that we would receive our own large print.

My mom was thrilled at the prospect of having a real family portrait done. That morning, she fussed over our hair, curling and combing and hair spraying us. Even my brothers looked good. My mother of course was the real beauty. I wasn’t sure I’d ever seen her look so beautiful as she did that day, coming down the stairs shyly with my father, who was all decked out in his dress uniform. What a good looking family!

The mood lasted until we tried to get into the car. Four kids, two window seats. The boys started hitting each other in their quest for the window. “Stop it!” Dad yelled.

The studio was only a short distance away, but it was a hot day and the station wagon had no air conditioning. Now we argued about the windows. My sister and I had long hair and didn’t want it messed up by the wind; the boys were hot and wanted the windows down. “The windows stay up!” Mom snapped.

A long line of other families greeted us. We tried our best to be good, but it was a long wait. By the time they were ready for us, we were no longer ready for them. They assembled us into our positions and snap! That was it--one shot. We drove home tired and quiet.

When the portrait arrived weeks later, Mom sat at the kitchen table and opened it. “Oh, my gosh! We look like The Munsters!” The four of us kids scrambled to the table to see what she meant. It was true. Our faces were grim, our mouths straight lines. We stood stoically, especially my dad, who seemed to be arching his back and tilting up his head. Mom slipped the portrait back into its envelope. It was never displayed in our house.

As the years went by, we’d think about that photo. “Remember the monster picture?” we’d say to each other. “Yeah, where is it Mom?” We’d be laughing even before she returned with the print. “Look at Dad!” we’d squeal, pointing to his stiff posture and the strange way he held his head. “He was trying to look taller!” Mom would roar. We’d break up laughing, and laugh some more, staring at our own somber little freckle-faces. That unflattering, never-displayed portrait became a cherished, full-of-good-memories family keepsake.