MEET MY mother-in-law.
She was beautiful. I never knew her because she died at age 31 in childbirth with her fifth baby.
The baby was being delivered by my father-in-law whom I also never met because he died in 1986 at the age of 61. Heart attack.
He was a doctor.
This is a detail from a larger photo. I cropped and had it made computer-worthy. She would have been about 80 now.
The family never fully recovered from her death, and I imagine my father-in-law felt guilty the rest of his days.
The resemblance between my mother-in-law and my child bride, her third delivery, is quite remarkable.
Daughter didn’t fall far from that avocado tree.
CONTINUING THE old-photo theme I started Friday, we have here a shot from early 1966. That is me with my first wife, who went by the name of Ginger in those times, but not anymore.
She was, as the baggy blouse indicates, in a family way.
I was, as the beads draped around my head and neck and the Dixie beer can in my grip indicate, in an inebriated way. However, my fondness for booze did not really start till five years later.
We are standing outside a rooming house on St. Charles Avenue in Uptown New Orleans on Mardi Gras. A parade was passing in the street, which is how I caught those beads. I was 21, and she was 20.
This first marriage — for both of us — lasted a bit over five years. Ginger later married a more appropriate fellow, a great guy, and they’ve been together for decades. She had two more children. She’s now a therapist in New Orleans and, from what little I know, doing well.