My great-grandparents Charlotte and Harry got married twice. Once, in March 1918, they were married by a Staten Island justice of the peace before Harry shipped out to France as a corporal in the radio detachment of Signal Brigade Company A. After he came home, they were married by a rabbi in August 1919, presumably in front of friends and family. It’s a love story out of a silent film.
After this second wedding, they shipped off next to South America, to honeymoon from August through January. This was only the beginning of their travels: they took their firstborn Billy to South America as a little boy, spent winters in Florida, visited the southwest, went to Maine in the summers. I’m not sure if my own passion for going new places comes from them – it would be nice to think it did.
As I write this, sitting in a hotel room in Santa Fe, on an adventure somewhat less exotic than South America in 1919, I have a hard time thinking of anything else to say. But this photograph fills me with a kind of wonder – because of how young and cute they look, how informally they’re standing in front of those mountains, how immediate this scene almost becomes to seem, until you realize it was taken 88 years ago.