When my grandmother was no longer able to drive because of her failing eyesight, I moved in with her. I was a young adult, with a college degree and no husband. She was in her nineties by then and living alone, nearly blind and unable to walk even a single step without her cane.
Our favorite pastime was looking at her box of “Kodak pictures,” which she’d developed in their improvised darkroom in the barn while her sister, my great-aunt Helen, held a bowler hat over the light bulb.
Interspersed with my grandmother’s photos were family photos taken by professional photographers. In one of the earliest, my grandmother commented, “My mother showed us how to hold our lips, just so, so we wouldn’t look like Jews.”