I’m taking an autumn writing seminar sponsored by Mount Auburn Cemetery. Just for fun. Decided to share some of my assignments on the blog.

Assignment #1 – Write a story about a photograph that’s meaningful to you.

There’s a photograph of me, standing, in profile, leaning to the left side of the frame, pushing a pistol barrel into my mouth.

That description is accurate, though the picture’s not so violent as it suggests. For I’m a toddler; clueless about guns. Nevertheless, it’s a powerful image, at least to me, as it perfectly captures the joys and confusions of my childhood.

The snapshot was taken on Christmas morning, 1956, in the living room of our new house in Toms River, New Jersey. I am 22 months old, wearing a footed flannel onesie and a full-brimmed hat that’s some catalog conception of what a toddler’s cowboy hat might be. A gunbelt’s slung around the bulge of my diaper, and my holster’s shifted from side to front. A faux leather, totally unnecessary, codpiece.

I am not alone. My gaze is intent on the two boys standing upstage right. My older brother Bill, age 5, is wearing an actual cowboy hat. White, of course. Bill always fancied himself the good guy. His belt and holster are properly positioned over his pajamas, and he points his pistols directly at the camera, which I suspect is what photographer mom directed before setting off the flash. Next to Bill, center stage, stands Peter, age 4, crouching forward and thrusting his barrels like a true gunman. Peter’s dark hat cannot shadow his big, mischievous smile. He alone seems to grasp the true magnificence of these Christmas gifts.

One other person completes the tableau. My sister Sugie, age 3, sits on the floor in front of Peter, safely beneath his guns’ trajectory. She’s a round girl, legs splay, a new doll in one arm, the other reaching to a cradle. No gun for the girl, though she’s also got a new hat, more nondescript even than my own. The price tag still hangs from her brim. As if Santa forgot to cut it off. As if my parents might decide to return her.

Four children, very young, quite unformed. Yet, so much of our characters are revealed in this moment. My two older brothers know the ways of the world; what a boy’s supposed to do with a hat and a holster and a pair of guns, even as their presentation is different: Bill’s studied; Pete’s authentic. My sister is simultaneously central and extraneous. Physically centered in our household and childhood order (another son eventually followed me), yet always treated as a completely different species. We boys always received the same gifts, the same treatment, the same gruff parenting. She always got the frilly presents, the lighter touch.

And then there’s me, looking up, always, to my brothers. To demonstrate the right way to be a boy, and someday a man. But never quite being able to pull it off. Because right from the start, we were such different boys, who have grown into very different men.