04/27/2023
As I've said umpteen times, sometimes it's not the photo, but the story. Traces of Texas reader Jim Bob Sims kindly sent in this snapshot and, when I first opened up his email and looked at it I thought that I wouldn't post it because, technically, it leaves some stuff to be desired: clarity, colors, noise etc... Then I read Jim Bob's caption:
"This is a very poor quality photo... probably a snapshot of an old Polaroid. But it is the only picture I have of me, my brother, and my dad all together. This was taken west of Happy, TX on the family place probably sometime in 1965. My dad, Wendell, died of a heart attack on July 3, 1971. My brother, Wendy, was killed in an auto accident on April 22, 1978. Besides the fact that it is the only picture I have of us together, the other things I love about this picture are the headache rack on the pickup, the hat creases of my dad and brother, the Pall Mall in daddy’s hand, and the rain gauge nailed to the top of the fence post behind us. It all takes me back to a simpler time.
I don’t really expect you to post this photo, I guess I’m just reminiscing and you’re the lucky recipient of my memories tonight. My brother’s death anniversary was just a few days ago… 45 years, and my dad will have been gone 52 years come July.
They still have a roping in Happy every year, the Wesley-Sims Memorial Roping. The Wesley part is in memory of Bowie Wesley from Happy (Wayside). He was RCA Rookie of the Year in 1968. He was killed in an auto accident in Montana in 1970 traveling between rodeos. The Sims part of it is in memory of my dad. He loved to rope steers. We spent many Sunday afternoons roping with Tuffy Thompson who had a place just south and east of Happy. Tuffy was a 2-time World Champion Steer Roper. "
Jim Bob's words put a lump in my throat, and I realized that I couldn't live with myself if I didn't post this. I also pondered how there are things that we possess that have intense meanings to ourselves and only ourselves. Just yesterday I read a story about a letter that Marilyn Monroe sent to Joe Dimaggio, to whom she was married for a time. The letter was found in Joe's wallet after he passed away. It had been folded into four sections and was so badly creased and had been opened and refolded so many times that it's practically in four sections. And I thought about Joe Dimaggio, one of the most famous people in America, keeping that letter in his wallet and opening it up from time to time and reading it. And I realized that even Joltin' Joe Dimaggio no doubt had regrets, lost loves that he mourned, a private inner life that nobody else could fathom.
Of course, when you're not famous, nobody really cares about your stuff when you're gone. There are things on my desk right now that were given to me by friends who have passed away. I'm surrounded by them and haunted by their memories. But their special meaning is known to me and to me alone. Whoever is tasked with cleaning up after I pass away won't know about those special meanings. To them it's just stuff to be given away or thrown away and yet, to me, it's everything.
Thank you, Jim Bob. I love what you wrote here and the thoughts your words inspired.