I was strolling in an antique shop in Omaha, Nebraska. The photograph I have provided here caught my eye.   What went through my mind was the fact that these are relatives of someone; these are ancestors to some people out there who would love and cherish this photo as I love and cherish photos of my ancestors.  I decided to adopt these people. Whoever they are and whoever they were, they are mine now. They had this photo taken for some special occasion, but I do not know what? Neither do you nor does anyone else.  So, the facts cannot be known, I can make up any story I wish. I can tell you truths I have seen in others and I can lie to you about the rest but I have decided to do neither.  I will tell you my thoughts, truths or lies, you decide.

I know these people are dead. I know that they would love to know, if it is possible to know being dead, that I covet their images. That I bought this photo because I could tell they were good people and that I wanted to honor and remember them as they should be remembered.  They were once living beings and perhaps still are in some other cosmic realm, but now this photo immortalizing them has surfaced and is placed on the world wide web; the information highway of the 21^st century.

Oh, that they would be able to know that someone calls them Kathleen and Michael Mc Keenan and tells the story that they were city folks.  This photo was taken on their 3^rd wedding anniversary. They were childless; they worked together in a feed store, they had sisters and brothers, they had a home in town and they were honest, hardworking, polite, loving and caring towards neighbors, friends and to each other. The photo was taken on a Sunday, they were dressed in their Sunday church clothes, and they looked their best. They were proud, handsome, and praised God.

Kathleen Mc Keenan made tantalizing soups with vegetables from the garden to be eaten with slices of freshly baked bread. Michael made toys for his nieces, nephews and the neighbor’s children whittled out of wood from the old birch trees he had to cut down two years before he and Kathleen married. Those whittled toys still exist today in an attics and basements not far from where the Mc Keenan’s once lived.

I know they would be glad for someone to see them, talk about them; somehow immortalizing them and telling that they existed.  Now, perhaps just a speck of dust, maybe just a dewdrop, or a fragmented fleck of mist, but still remembered by me and now by you.  Thank you for reading and thank you for looking.