Reclaiming My Late Father

After receiving a treasure trove of old photographs, Wendy L. Dodek gets a glimpse into the father she never knew.

When I started school, I learned the word deceased. I watched my mother swiftly scribble it on my school documents, in all the blank lines where a father’s name belonged. I knew little more about him since my father died before I was two years old.

The few pictures in the bottom of a basement cabinet offered a glimpse of what he looked like: slender, dark hair, small features—an average looking man. Yet, these images were staged: wedding and army photographs where he stood stiffly in formal attire. They did not reveal anything about the personality of my father. Even on his wedding day, my father in his stiff tuxedo wore a Mona Lisa half smile, leaving me to wonder if he was genuinely happy to marry my mother.

But then unexpectedly, after over 60 years, a large padded envelope arrived in the mail filled with almost one hundred black-and-white photos of my father that I had never seen before. Here was a glimpse of a real person, an animated joyful young man. Not the figure in the tuxedo or the stoic man in an army uniform. In these grainy black and white snapshots, circa 1942, my father looks giddy as he hugs young women, who are wearing skimpy swimsuits on the sands of Atlantic City. My father was in his early 20s in these pictures, taken almost a decade before he met my mother.

But who were these happy young people and who took the pictures? No one bothered to write names on any of the photos. The cousin who sent the envelope is several years older than I am, but was still a boy when my father (his uncle) died. He could not identify the subjects in the snapshots he inherited and recently unearthed from his basement.

Unexpectedly, after over 60 years, a large padded envelope arrived in the mail filled with almost one hundred black-and-white photos of my father that I had never seen before. Here was a glimpse of a real person, an animated joyful young man. Not the figure in the tuxedo or the stoic man in an army uniform.

I heard few stories about my father in my childhood and often my mother’s words were harsh. But I knew, even as a child, that was not the entire story. She must have found something endearing, charming about my father or why had she married him? Occasionally, she would parcel out a scant few facts. He worked for the federal government. He liked the beach. He wrote poetry. He died of a brain tumor at age 39. Somehow, I was supposed to construct a father out of these few crumbs.

When my father died, his entire family also disappeared from our lives. Mom severed contact with his sister, nephews, cousins, and friends – all were gone. The man she had been married to for eight years was dead and she acted as if he had never existed. Yet here, in these photos, emerged clues of an earlier life, a time when he was young and playful, long before he died and left behind two young children and my mom, an embittered 29-year-old widow.

At some point, I stopped asking my mother about my father. Perhaps I lost interest in the mystery, or thought it could wait; there was no rush. But I was wrong, for little time was left before my mother died when I was 15 years old. Then I understood what it was like to lose a parent. A parent who was real, who laughed, who sometimes screamed at me but also loved me. Anger and guilt plus a profound emptiness, those were my feelings after my mother’s death. To ponder my father’s life seemed pointless. I never had a relationship with my father; he was just a curiosity.  

Here, in these photos, emerged clues of an earlier life, a time when he was young and playful, long before he died and left behind two young children and my mom, an embittered 29-year-old widow.

Now, over 60 years after his death, I can look at the pictures and glean aspects of his personality. He seemed fun and spontaneous. In one picture, he sticks his tongue out at me…of course, it is not really at me, but to the camera person, whoever he or she was. In another picture he opens his mouth wide and points to a tooth. What happened to that tooth? 

And for the first time, I saw a quality of my father in me. In how many pictures do I pose, flirt and act silly? Even as a 3-year-old, I pulled up my floral dress, revealing my blue panties for the camera while my older sister crossed her arms in disgust.

Examining my father’s photos, I felt an old but familiar tug, a yearning to know more about him.   Yet, who would be alive to ask? Anybody in these photos would have to be 100 years old. But perhaps, someone could recognize a mother or father, even a grandparent. And maybe they would have stories to share.

My first effort to find answers yielded little. Historical associations in Philadelphia, my father’s hometown, offered kind responses but no concrete way to identify the people in the photos. Post the images with Facebook user groups, they advised and perhaps, someone might recognize a face.

Image after image, I scanned and digitally circulated. As so many of the photos were taken in Atlantic City, that glamorous destination in the early 20^th century and just 60 miles from Philadelphia, I submitted pictures to Atlantic City Facebook groups, too.

While I waited and hoped for recognition, I studied my father’s face; picked apart his features and examined the expressions. His hair is not slicked back in these casual snapshots and I can see my own wavy hair. My father’s was dark and mine is light, but the texture is the same. And for the first time, I saw my father’s body—in his belted, waist high swim trunks; he is almost naked and is slender with skinny arms, just like mine.  

But there were so many unknowns in this packet of photographs. Among the many young women in the pictures, who were friends?… family?… girlfriends? Like a detective, I studied the amount of body contact and came to believe only one woman was likely a serious romantic interest. She had curly light hair and the sweetest smile. So young – could she have even been 20 years old? She snuggled close to my father in several skin-to-skin poses. In one photo, my father is on all fours giving her a piggyback ride in the sand. She wears a wide grin and I can almost hear her giggle as her hands grip my father’s shoulders.

By the time my father married my mother in 1949 he was almost 31 years old, close to being considered a confirmed bachelor. Perhaps he was scolded that it was time to settle down. But what happened to the other women from the happy Atlantic City summer just before World War II took away so many of these men? I am especially curious about that sweet-faced young woman. Why did they break up? It could have been anything. Maybe her family did not like my father? Maybe she was a different religion? Or something totally different separated them.

Another picture is perplexing, something about the pose and the expression demands interpretation. My smiling father sits in the sand, his arm slung over another man’s shoulder as he leans into him. It is the same man I have seen in the group photos with women. He is thin, even thinner than my dad, and looks like a double for the actor, Jake Gyllenhaal. The first few times sorting through these pictures, I assumed he was one of my father’s male friends. But this other man’s expression says more. He looks lost, gazing towards some imaginary distance. Could it be that this person was my father’s true romantic interest? Were the women just subterfuge, hiding who he really was? Or has my imagination taken me beyond what is a reasonable assumption?

There were so many unknowns in this packet of photographs. Among the many young women in the pictures, who were friends?… family?… girlfriends? Like a detective, I studied the amount of body contact and came to believe only one woman was likely a serious romantic interest.

Mom never said anything but then again, she wouldn’t have talked about such matters to her young children back in the 1960s. She told me they did not get along and would have divorced but could this be the reason why? Maybe that young woman on the beach saw something that my mother did not realize until it was too late. Or maybe none of my suspicions are correct; my father had close male buddies, that is all.

I posted my father’s pictures on Facebook with the hope, however slim, that somebody might recognize one of the people. I have read about so many jubilant reunions. Why couldn’t it happen to me?

Almost immediately after posting my photos, a torrent of pithy comments appeared. My father was a “good-looking guy” according to William. “Looks like he was popular with pretty girls,” typed Tom. Over 150 people “liked” my father’s photos. But after a few days, the responses petered out. There were no connections to the women or men in the pictures. People stopped marveling at the swimwear and stopped gushing over familiar Atlantic City landmarks. There were no more exuberant comments. Nothing.

My spotlight in social media passed. I exposed my father to the world in a way he could never have imagined in his lifetime. People studied him, picked him apart for no benefit. One Facebook reader gushed, “These are treasures,” then added that she put some in her album, with a heart emoji. She took my father’s photos and placed them in her own album?  Maybe my father would have been pleased to share these photos. Or maybe not.

My father, along with all these women and men, are back in the manila envelope and destined for my basement. The mystery would not be solved. Or, so I thought. But then on a recent trip to Philadelphia, I met with the cousin who sent the photos. Over scrambled eggs and pancakes, stories emerged from his childhood. And I learned about a cousin, Joe, who lived near my dad and they shared a close relationship. A few clicks on the phone produced an obituary; Joe died 11 years ago but his children’s names appeared on the screen.  

I sent digital images thousands of miles away to Joe’s daughter and one major mystery was immediately solved. The man my father embraced was her father, my dad’s cousin, Joe. That slender young man who so resembled Jake Gyllenhaal was not a secret lover. No, it was his cousin. That is all.  She could identify some of the women but not the romantic pictures. The young woman who cuddled up to my father, remains unknown.

On a recent trip to Philadelphia, I met with the cousin who sent the photos. Over scrambled eggs and pancakes, stories emerged from his childhood. And I learned about a cousin, Joe, who lived near my dad and they shared a close relationship. A few clicks on the phone produced an obituary; Joe died 11 years ago but his children’s names appeared on the screen.  

With one major mystery solved I should feel success at this kernel of information. My father enjoyed his family, spent beach time with cousins and probably loved to flirt with attractive young women. Yet, I feel slightly deflated, listing like a balloon slowly losing air, descending slowly to earth. I learned some truth but I lost something intangible. I did not care if my father was gay or not. I preferred imagining my father as an enigmatic character who harbored secrets. It has been many years since I dreamt that my father had been secretly married and I had half brothers and sisters out there, somewhere. Even more years since I fantasized about my father as a WWII spy against the Germans. It is easy to conjure up stories when so little about a person is known. The newly found pictures fed into a new fantasy, albeit briefly.

And now the search is over. But maybe these photos will not go into the basement. I smile when I look at them; the innocence, the jubilation and I can almost feel the warmth of my father smiling back. With these pictures I gleaned something from an early chapter in his life and a small part of his personality was revealed to me. He would succumb to a brain tumor before he turned 40, but now I have tangible proof that, at least for a short time, my father seemed to be a light-hearted and happy man. Yet, one who will always hold shards of mystery for me.