Joe and the photo

Schubert - Liszt: Ständchen (Serenade) performed by Tobias Sing

A few days from now is the birthday of my father’s mother, Elsa. She was born in the year 1880 and passed three days before her 98th birthday. I was 22. Every year around December 18th I think of her and remember......

She came to live with my parents when I was in my mid-teens. I was her youngest grandchild, born 20 years after the first. I was the grandchild of her old age.

One day, I asked her if she would please tell me something about life in Ohio. She told me the most beautiful and magical story of how she met my grandfather. Not so long ago, I shared this story with my mother and sisters, and surprisingly no one had ever heard it before. I must have caught my grandmother in a weak moment.

When Elsa was about 19 or 20 or so, she sat for a portrait in her village of Glandorf. This was the era of beautiful high collared lace embellished blouses and long hair held up with combs and pins. (Elsa was an accomplished seamstress and had a love of finery.) The photographer was so pleased with his work, he asked if he might display the photo in his storefront window. She of course, was flattered and agreed.

Joseph was an up and coming young man from a neighboring village, also of German descent. His father was a hard working saddle/harness maker, and the family scraped together just enough money to send the oldest son to medical school. With no means to pay for law school, Joseph studied law on his own while working for an attorney who mentored him. Joe happened to be in the village, walking down the main street, when a photo in a storefront caught his eye. It was a portrait of a young woman with dark hair and smoky eyes and a certain je ne sais quoi. Dear Joe was instantly smitten-love at first sight. He immediately went inside and asked the shopkeeper about the young woman in the photo. Resourceful and determined he found out her name, Elsie Kolhoff, where she lived.....

Sometime later, Elsa’s church sponsored a picnic type social. The women would bring a box or basket filled with culinary works of art. They would have a raffle of sorts for the boxes prepared by the unmarried women. Single men would bid on a box lunch and then have the pleasure of eating it with the lady who brought it. A young man she knew asked Elsa to accompany him, and she agreed. The poor man of course, assumed he would be eating what Elsa had prepared.

Joe lived in the town of Lima, about 20 miles from Glandorf. He somehow found out about the picnic social. It was the opportunity he had been waiting for. The girl in the photo was sure to be there. He was a man on a mission. Now, traveling 20 miles on horseback is do-able, but traveling in a small horse drawn buggy would take some time. Joe showed up at the social with a horse and buggy. Perhaps he rented it in Glandorf. There was no reason for a single man to need a buggy, except if he was hoping perhaps someone would be sitting beside him. Buggies were built rather narrow, and one had to sit very close, perhaps even touching. What an optimist, that Joe. What must have gone through his mind as he made his way to Glandorf. Was he rehearsing what he would say to her? How his heart must have quickened at the sight of her in flesh and blood. Did she see this stranger in the crowd and wonder who he was? Did his face betray him? When did he approach her?

She had absolutely no idea anyone had noticed her photo, let alone had gone through some considerable effort to meet her. The dear girl was clueless. I do not know what Joe told the photographer for he did not run and tell Elsa about the young man who inquired about her. Glandorf was a small village, and no doubt he knew Elsa’s family as her father owned a small sawmill. Had Joseph appeared less than worthy, the photographer would have told Elsa’s father. Of this I am certain. Perhaps he was just an old fool who loved the possibility of such a love story, especially one in which he and his photo played such a pivotal part.

As my grandmother told me, to make a long story short (I would have given anything to have heard the long version), she did not return home with the young man who took her. I remember her pause and the sparkle in her eye. The sparkle was a mix of remembering her own youthful coquettishness and of a tear starting to well. Completely shocked and dumbfounded beyond belief (this was my very proper and correct grandmother after all), I blurted “Do you mean you dumped your date for my grandfather?” “Yes”, she replied simply. “Please tell me more” I begged. “Well” she replied, “Joe had a horse and buggy and we took the LONG way back to my house and Joe drove REALLY slow..., and you are a smart girl and you can fill in the blanks”.

Some memories were hers and hers alone. Too precious to speak. Elsa got up and went into her room. Following her, I watched her pick up the framed photo of my grandfather. In that moment and for the very first and only time, my grandmother and I were in perfect harmony. We both loved Joe.