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#3 Witnesses
It was a time when women did not wear white before Memorial Day and Brownie cameras were all the rage. My grandmother, Carol Joy King Heckman, held her camera at waist level, peered down into the lens, the fractured, refraction of mirrors and light, to capture my history.
“Smile, Erma! You look so sour. Try not to squint, Frances.”
It was a time when sunlight pierced through on an early June day to illuminate Great Aunt Frances and her companion Erma Holzhausen. The women stand a step apart, outside their Nashville home; Erma is on the lower step most likely because she is at least a Scandinavian head taller than Frances, yet she still wears two inch pumps. The sunlight casts a shadow of the spruce tree on to Erma’s practical, shirt-waist dress and Erma casts her shadow on to Frances. Together, their shadows mingle on the front porch as naturally as their lives, joined for thirty years.
There is an ease, familiarity between the two women; they are at home in their sprawling, fieldstone house, at home in their nurse-white, Sunday-best shoes, at home with my grandmother, Frances’ baby sister. Frances and Erma are at home with each other, their shoulders nearly touching, not quite heart to heart, breast to breast; they have breathed each other’s air for many years and they are at home.
They smile generously, openly toward the camera, welcoming me in from the shadowed margins of the photograph. I found the photograph in a banker’s box marked “Frances” in my grandmother’s hand. No mention of Erma, but nearly every photograph includes Erma, the letters too refer to Frances’ constant companion of over 30 years. These women were referred to as the Gertrude and Alice of the family, which immediately tied me to them (ask to read essay Finding OUT). My grandmother must have sensed this because she gave me all their jewelry, some clothing, and ultimately this genealogy material. While unlayering the stacks of letters, photographs, and journals, I discovered that Frances was a devote Christian, studying and reflecting on the Bible every day. She and Erma served as nurses in several healing ministries and Frances was also an avid poet. I met her once in my adult life. Although generational differences kept us from recognizing all the silver threads of connection in our lives, I know she paved the way for me on so many levels and I owe her my witness in return. Eventually, I plan to write a creative nonfiction memoir that bears witness to their life together as well as my life. For now, I feel their presence like a nurturing cloud of witnesses while I move forward with my writing, spiritual journey, and healing ministry.
