This was my dad, Ken Weaver, in the late 70s, when we lived in Stamford Connecticut. My dad was a photographer his whole life, learning how to shoot and develop photographs at an early age.
A photograph of a “hobo” (his words) traveling through Ohio some time before World War II.
Ken and Dot Weaver in 1945 or ’46
He was drafted towards the end of World War II, parlaying his photography skills into a position with the Army Signal Corps in New York City. He made training films for the Army while in New York, working with another guy named Will Golterman. Will was newly wed to Ruthie Koch, a vibrant redhead from Queens. Will eventually brought him home to meet Ruthie’s sister Dot—my mother—because he wasn’t happy with the boys she was meeting at the USO. My parents married three months after that first date. Not too long after that my dad was shipped over to Germany with the Army of the Occupation, documenting the devastating destruction of Germany’s cities. One of his buddies photographed the Nuremburg Trials.
The original black and white photos he took in Germany are beautiful and so sad.
Once home, Dad continued to shoot roll after roll of film, documenting nearly every moment of his young family’s life. These weren’t just baby pictures, they were studio-quality setups of each kid, multiple poses (with varying levels of attention and success), as well as photos of his life on the road as an x-ray equipment salesman.
He shot an entire roll of color film at my uncle’s cabin, all staged, complete with studio lights.
Some of Dad’s work over the years was stunning, especially when he shot in black and white. We all knew he was talented, so much so that we took it for granted. Didn’t everyone’s Dad take tons of pictures of them, of everything? Didn’t everyone have boxes and boxes of Kodachrome slides from their vacations, and a bathroom that was sometimes a darkroom downstairs?
Contact sheets from a series of self portraits. We all thought Dad looked like the comedian Jonathan Winters.
Which is why it was so baffling when, as young adults, we wanted “our” photos, they were nowhere to be found. We all remembered the huge box of prints, mostly black and white, that had always seemed to be somewhere in the house. How could all those photos have disappeared?
One of many, many portraits he shot of me during my sullen teenage years.
When they got ready to retire, I got the call to come to Connecticut and “get my stuff.” I spent five days helping them sort and purge. My mom said, “Oh, by the way, we found some pictures. They’re in that cabinet downstairs.” And sure enough, in a cabinet the size of a very large dishwasher, they had stuffed all the photos as they unearthed them. Forty years of photos, jammed into that cabinet. I spent three days just sorting photos… one huge envelope for each kid, one enormous pile that my father promised would be a retirement project, making good copies for us all. I went home with my photos, made an album documenting my childhood, and mailed off the rest.
About six months before my father passed away in June of this year, they started cleaning out their home in Boulder, readying themselves for the move to assisted living. Photographs were sorted, many trips were made to the dump, and my sister began collecting envelopes of photographs to give to each of the five kids. Most likely these were the project that dad, ever busy, had not gotten around to. I was there for 10 days, helping stage the house for the realtor. Driving around town one day, I noticed a black plastic film canister in the car and asked my mom about it. “I have no idea. Just toss it.” It was a roll of 24 photos, 35 mm, 200 ASA color film. Since my mom never, ever used the camera, it was my dad’s. His last roll.
I couldn’t toss it, so I packed it along with two suitcases full of things that I either wanted to have or couldn’t bear to throw out. Last week, I took the film in for processing. I had to go to two drugstores; no one develops film any more. I imagined what might be on it… a last vacation, some sweet moments with mom during one of their impromptu picnics, bridge night, a party with friends from church?
When I came to pick it up, the girl said, “So, there was nothing on this roll?”
“I don’t know, it was my dad’s. There aren’t any photos on it?”
“Just one.”
The photo is of a portion of their backyard in Boulder partly covered in snow. It’s not a great photo, or even a good photo. It’s possible it was an accidental photo, or one he was taking to document some problem in their yard. I will never know why this photo, or why he didn’t shoot the rest of the roll. But I will keep the photo, because it was the very last photo taken by Kenneth Weaver, who lived 90 years and took many photographs of his world.
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What a lovely post. I managed not to cry until I read Scott’s comment.
I’m so very glad you have that last, most special, photograph.
I think your teenage picture is beautiful.
Was the last roll of film, when you got back the negatives, all black or clear? If it was clear, there could have been a reason for not shooting the entire roll, when one is shooting film and wants to interchange a roll for one of colour, black and white or a different ISO, one takes the shot(s) that he needs, not finishing that roll of film, then rewinds the film back into the canister to put the roll back in the camera later to finish it, i do this all the time and i write down the frame number i left off at to know whic frame to advance the film to so i can finish the roll, he may have taken one photo with this last roll, decided that he wanted to change out the film for another roll and never got back to finishing the first, ive done this too many times to count, and im only 16, shooting for only a year, so far, im sure this couldve been the reason for his one photo. Was the entire roll black? And which frame number was his one photo?
Justin, thanks for asking. It was all black except for the one exposure. I don’t know which frame number it was and I have tossed the film. Thanks for your comment.
stephanie,
what a wonderful and spirited remembrance of your father, highlighting what is clearly a single but important chapter amid a rich and diverse life. what i particularly enjoy, having read more than my fair share of critical photo theory, is how this essay functions as a very specific history of one photographer’s vision and gift to the world. no matter how far that world extended (which was geographically pretty far!), his influence on your and your family is palpable, and lasting, if i’m reading into things properly.
i do, however, take exception with one statement: that his last photo isn’t good or even great unto itself. i see this one image as a summation of a life well lived, holding secrets that will unfold over time, and reminding you that what you cannot see is always present: namely, kenneth weaver himself. to me the picture represents home, both from the shadow of the house, but also because of the bounding box we see in the foreground (which is physically connected to the home, and therefore an extension of your father’s heart). it is still and lovely, capturing just what your dad saw everyday… the ordinary beauty that defines each of our lives but too few of us consciously acknowledge. i’m a photographic omnivore (as you know) and find these kinds of images rich in their storytelling, symbolism, and capacity to inspire wonder. it could be, just perhaps, that this is the greatest photo your father ever took. one last gift that you had to work to see, and one that you get to enjoy with silent reverie for a man who held such influence, and touched your heart so gently. what a gift. and what a gift you’ve given all of us for sharing this story with such poetic grace.
thank you, stephanie!
Scott, thank you so much for this lovely, thoughtful comment. I now see that last photograph differently because of you.
Hey Little Sister,
That was the most amazing photo essay. I cried when you said you found the last roll of film. It brought back such memories of Dad. Thanks for sharing his talent with the world.
Thanks sweetie.
what an absolutely beautiful post. xo
Thanks Valentina, I appreciate you taking the time to comment.
Stephanie,
I wonder if you would consider it valuable for others to create a photo montage book of some sort for the future? Lovely, loving story and fascinating.
Joanna xo
Thanks Joanna.
Steph,
What a cool story about your dad. My dad too is obsessed with taking pictures so I wonder if it’s something generational. He is nowhere as talented as your dad was. But I remember a lot of filming with the Super 8 camera when we were kids, watching home movies, and to this day Dad is taking pictures of events, mostly people or family gatherings. He likes to give prints to people.
Love the photo of you – guessing early high school? Rockin the cowl neck look – oh, the memories. It’s tough being a teenager….
Thanks Donna. It’s nice to have people read the piece who know me from back then. Yes, that photo was from high school and I’m sure I made the cowl-neck top.
Beautiful. The whole thing.
Thank you Dorothy.
You gave me chills, Stephanie. What a beautiful story. I can not imagine you as a sullen teenager, but your dad’s portrait of you is amazing. Your eyes. Priceless.
Thanks Laura. Weren’t we all sullen teenagers?