. . . and Father's Day was Sunday, so let me remember them with a photo of the three of us. I think it was the year I turned three, making it 1959. I am the youngest of their eight children. Being forty when I was born they were old enough to be my grandparents. In 8th grade that embarrassed me when my classmates' parents seemed half their age at our school open house. Then again, when I was in 8th grade nearly everything embarrassed me.
One thing that strikes me about the photo is our three distinct facial expressions.
My father's smile seems stagy - the pastor, the preacher, the performer who had to please everyone and was ever diplomatic. He is the only one looking away from the camera. Maybe a 
parishioner caught his eye, one of the poor he cared for so well. Or maybe one of my brothers was acting up. He had just preached his weekly sermon and was no doubt exhausted. (I recall him practicing his sermons Saturday nights pacing the long upstairs hall.) He slept Sunday afternoons, preached again Sunday night and rested on Mondays. You can't tell of course, but his hair was red, and his voice Virginian - soft, lilting Southern with grace. I love the way he said, Mrs. Culpepper: "Mrs. Culpeppah."
Believe it or not, I remember feeling grumpy on this Sunday, after church. No doubt I needed a 
nap after playing hard in the nursery. I was normally a happy child, but I distinctly remember willfully not smiling for the camera even though I was being urged to. And I've remembered it because it got embedded in my Christian-guilt-ridden brain's memory. Nowadays I joke that I felt grumpy because I had to go to church at all - let alone three times a week. I wonder if my photographer brother Bennett shot this with a Kodak Instamatic when he was about 11. Or it might have been shot by a church member. I do know that ivy was growing on the side of our brick church in Grand Ledge, and this seems like a special occasion - maybe Easter? But where are my siblings?
My mother's smile is a moonbeam -- look how beautiful she is in her goofy '50s perm and 
nerdy glasses. I saw a family movie of her when she was 12 - called "Bobbie" then, and she flashed this same triumphant smile under a straight shiny bob - as she bounced like a puppy around her staid parents. She leaped into being Best Athlete in all her schools, including college - playing field hockey, tennis, swimming and basketball. In this image of her I see a woman who is spent after playing piano for the church service, leading the choir, being the perfect pastor's wife and mother of eight, on her way home to put dinner for ten on the table. I remember having either roast beef or roast leg of lamb on Sundays, and peppermint candy ice cream with real chunks of hard candy for dessert with every place set perfectly (by us kids) with the fork, knife, spoon and napkin in their proper positions. But that was only until I spilt my milk - invariably - and everyone grabbed their tableware and placemats out of the white river, letting it drip between the table leaves. Then I ran from the table bawling with embarrassment and humiliation. Is it any wonder I am only now becoming a confident person? (Thank you, friends and family.)
My father died in 1995 at age 78, Mom died in 1997 when she was almost 80. Bennett the photographer died the year in between at age 47. Today Mom would be 93, and Sunday Bennett would be 61. I feel them acutely, as if birthday balloons are bobbing inside, urging me to smile.
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