Three of the four people in this picture are dead.
I think the tree is still alive.
The three adults in this picture were born in 1895, 1895 and 1928. I attended the funerals of the first two — my maternal grandparents — and I’m really not 100 percent sure about the third one. The last contact I had with him was in 1952, and I really have no memories at all of him.
I saw this picture for the first time a couple of weeks ago. It came to me in an odd way. My cousin Ruth was going through some of her late father’s papers and came acrosss this. She sent it to my sister, who sent it on to me.
As far as I know, this is the only picture of both me and the man who gave me half my DNA, That’s really the only reason I would call Wesley Whitcomb my father, and call the man who was the most significant male figure in my life from 1956 to 2008, Norman Rappaport, my dad.
It’s the second role that matters the most. My own children have a father they have known all their lives, but my proudest accomplishment is being their dad since 1992.
There’s one funny thing about the picture, and it’s not that the man holding the baby looks like he has no idea how to do it properly. You can’t tell it from this picture, but it was taken at Yosemite National Park in the summer of 1950.
Yosemite is a wonderful place, and I have great memories of it. Those memories came from July 2004, when I thought I was visiting the park for the first time, accompanied by my wife Nicole, her sister Josette Mischler and Josette’s husband Gerard. I thought it was my first visit to Yosemite, but it was actually my second.
My grandparents had made the trip all the way from Crestline, Ohio, to San Diego to meet their first grandchild. They probably made the trip by bus. There’s no way they would have driven roughly 2,300 miles in the years before the interstate highway system was built. I remember even 10 years later, my dad said you had to do pretty well when traveling to average 40 miles an hour.
Half a century later, I remember averaging 70 miles an hour going from Los Angeles to Bandera, Texas. Of course then it was interstates all the way and in West Texas, the speed limit on I-10 was 90 miles an. hour.
That’s what makes what must have been a car trip from San Diego to Yosemite in 1950 such a big deal. The distance was nearly 450 miles, and I’ll bet you couldn’t make 40 miles an hour as an average in 1950.
It’s difficult to learn much from a 70-year-old black and white snapshot, but my grandfather was not a small man, which means my father was a fairly large man. One person who saw the snapshot asked if he had been a football player. Not that I know of was the only response I could give.
I know so little about him. He was born in 1928, so it’s actually possible he is still alive. I don’t think it’s true, though. I think he died young, many years ago, maybe before I came of age.
My paternal grandparents died before I was born. Charles Whitcomb died in Atlanta, and is buried an hour south of us in Macon. I have seen a picture of his grave, and if the pandemic ever ends, I will visit the cemetery.
It’s strange for me to look at that picture and see a 22-year-old man, knowing that my son is 13 years older and my oldest grandson is just seven years younger. Heck, my grandparents — who I never saw as anything but old — are 15 years younger in that picture than I am now.
I wish I knew more, but the chances I ever will aren’t good at all. My mother never wanted to talk about it, and she can’t now. I suppose I could hope she left some written account for me to see after her death, but that doesn’t sound like something she would do.
I would like to know one thing, though. I’ve been to Yosemite, OK.
Have I been to the Grand Canyon.