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The Waltons Richard Thomas Will Geer 1970s Family Cast Vintage 8x10 Color Photo

Richard Thomas

The Waltons Richard Thomas, Will Geer, Judy Norton, Ellen Corby, Kami Cotler, David W. Harper, Michael Learned, Mary Beth McDonough, Eric Scott, Ralph Waite, Jon Walmsley 1970s Family Cast Vintage 8x10 Color Photo. This is a rare vintage color photograph that was printed directly from the original transparency. Near Mint Condition This item is a Vintage 8x10 Inch (20 x 25 cm approx) Color photograph from the historic archives of Silver Screen Mementos. This vintage photograph was produced directly from the original transparency or slide on real photographic paper around the year of release or up to the 1990's. This is not a digital print. This is being offered from one collector to another, no rights given or implied. Silver Screen are gradually releasing thousands of Original Photographs,
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'The Waltons' Photo - | Art.com
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Karen Green: Frail Sister - (Hardcover)

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Karen Green: Frail Sister - (Hardcover) : Target
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Unidentified farm family near Springwater, New York. Circa 1910. Photographed by Floyd Ingraham. Colorized from his original glass negative.
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Two Brothers Look at a Christmas Tree in their Living Room in Germany, Ca. 1949 Premium Photographic Print | AllPosters.com

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1949....Two Brothers Look at a Christmas Tree in their Living Room in Germany, Ca.
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Порция грустинки. Ездили с плановой проверкой в деревню где жила бабушка. Трава конечно... И кто-то снова залазил в дом.Сорваны замки.Но внутри ничего не тронуто.Не намусорено. Нам кажется это местные бичуганы какие-нибудь 🙈
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Clare - The Mail Order Groom - Slope County, North Dakota, 1919 The Halvorsen family homesteaded dirt. Norwegian. Sigrid Halvorsen was 32, widow. Her husband, Ivar, died in the ’18 flu. Left her 160 acres, four kids, and a debt at the general store. Her boy, Leif, 14, tried to plow. Her girls, 12, 10, and 8, picked stones. 1919 was the year the bank said, “Prove up or lose it.” Needed a man’s name on the patent. Needed 40 acres broken. Needed a well. March. Sigrid wrote a letter. “Widow. Good land. Four children. Need husband. Must work. No drinkers.” Sent it to The Lutheran Companion. April. Letters came. Twenty. Drunks. Old men. One boy, 17. One man sent a photo. Hans Berg. 38. Minnesota. Lost his farm to hail. Lost his wife to childbirth. Lost a hand to a corn picker. Left one. He wrote
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1932 r. Polska
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Old - 1932 Euna Tuggle was nine and there were tickle fights in the big bed in Oakhollow Trace, Indiana, six children packed for warmth, giggling wildly every night before sleep. The fights were a ritual, joyful and necessary, and Euna was the undefeated champion tickler, her fingers quick as lightning, her victims shrieking with laughter. The winter of 1932 was grim outside, the Depression deepening, but the bed was full of fun, and Euna grew up joyful, carrying that laughter with her. She became a clown as a woman, bringing laughter to sick children in hospitals, her red nose famous. She always said her joy started in those tickle fights, in the giggles under quilts, in learning that laughter heals. She kept the laughter in her heart, and she told young clowns that giggles are warmth, real warmth, measurable. Her shows delighted thousands of children, but she always remembered the bed, the tickles, the shrieks, the joy, the quilts shaking, and the lesson that laughter, shared with people you love under warm quilts, is the very warmest thing in the world, warmer than stoves, warmer than sun. #TickleFights #EunaTuggle #OakhollowTrace #IndianaHistory #SixToABed #GreatDepression #GigglingWildly #Winter1932 #OldAmericanLife #RuralIndiana #ChampionTickler #Undefeated #HopeInHardship #DepressionEra #FunDespiteCold #GrewUpJoyful #BecameAClown #JoyStarted #GigglesAreWarmth #ShowsDelighted #LaughterShared #WarmestThing #BedLaughter #NightlyJoy #QuiltsShaking

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Suzan - “Did you regret it?” she asked me, with flour on her wrist and my whole life between us. I had been telling stories all morning. Not grand stories. Not the kind folks dress up for a newspaper. Kitchen stories. The kind that come while cream turns to butter and bread dough sticks to old fingers. The kind a woman tells because a younger woman is finally old enough to ask and still young enough to need the answer. The day started with two pencils. My granddaughter had hers out before I was even dressed. I heard the chair scrape from my bed, then the single tap of pencil on the table. That sound carried me backward so fast I had to close my eyes. I was twenty-three again, diary in my lap, wagon wheels turning west, my heart full of questions I would spend sixty years trying to answer. When I stepped into the kitchen, she was writing hard, her dark hair slipping from its pins. I knew enough not to trouble her. A first line is a tender thing. I stirred the stove instead. The kitchen smelled of ash, cream, and last night’s cooling iron. Outside, the Nebraska morning was already brightening toward heat. June can look gentle when it first opens its eyes, but by eight o’clock the sun was flat and white at the east window, pressing on everything. The low grass beyond the yard had gone straw-colored where dust had drifted in. The rise still held green. I found comfort in that. Holding on is a kind of beauty too. We had planned to churn and bake, and so we did. She took the churn with strong arms and no complaint. I mixed bread from the starter Bess gave me in 1903. Thirty-one years I have fed that starter. Bess has been gone twenty years, but every loaf still carries a little of her hand. I cannot explain why that matters so much to me. It just does. “You never measure,” my granddaughter said. “I measure. Just not with a cup.” The churn thumped. The dough gathered. A meadowlark sang somewhere in the grass, pouring out music like the world had not grown tired. Then she asked about my youth. I chose carefully where to begin. Some memories are doors. Open the wrong one first and the whole house gets drafty. I began with Nate Ashford. He was the kind of young man who made a girl’s breath catch before she knew better. Restless. Bright. Always looking west of west. California lived in his mouth like a promise. He spoke of it so often I could nearly see the orange groves he dreamed of, though I had never seen an orange tree in my life. He wanted me to go. For a little while, I wanted to be the kind of girl who could. But my land was here. My claim had been filed. My first sod had been turned. That prairie had already put a claim on me too, though I would not have said it so plainly then. I told him no. I watched his wagon until it disappeared. Only then did I shut myself inside and cry. I remember the latch. That little iron sound was the sound of one life ending and another beginning, though I did not know it then. When he came back in 1891, he brought the old ache with him. He had done well. He looked fine. For three days, my heart behaved like a foolish young thing. But love is not only feeling. Love is also whether the road beneath it still reaches anywhere. Ours did not. He left again. I fed the chickens. My granddaughter smiled at that, and I did too. Then I told her of James Hale. James was not California. James was Nebraska ground after rain. Quiet. Firm. There. He did not sweep me off my feet. He set my feet under me. It took me time to find the word. Words hide from me now and again, slipping behind the curtain just when I reach for them. But it came back. Steady. That was James. He gave me a steadier love than I knew to ask for. Then fever took him in 1879, when Josie was three and he was only thirty-one. The churn had gone quiet by then. My granddaughter had moved to the butter bowl, pressing out buttermilk with the paddle. She stopped working for a moment when I said his age. Thirty-one is too young to be a memory. I told her I had been angry. I do not dress that up. I was angry at God because He was nearest to blame. Angry at the land because it kept needing me. Angry at the fever because a word so plain should not be allowed to ruin a house. But the next morning still came. Josie still needed feeding. The claim still needed proving. And I was the only one standing there to do it. Then she asked about Eli. I sat down because Eli’s story is not one I tell while reaching for flour. Eli Cade lived half a mile off. He had a quietness about him that was not empty, only guarded. After James died, firewood began appearing by my door. Split clean. Stacked neat. Left before dawn. I did not know for two years that Eli had done it. Two years. There are men who say love loudly and leave a woman cold. Eli said nothing and kept me warm. Still, I did not come to him quickly. My heart had been cracked once and buried once. I had Josie to think of. He had old pain of his own. The town had tongues. I had stubbornness. Between us stood every reason fear could find. My granddaughter sat across from me, listening with her whole face. Then came her question. “Did you regret it? Loving them? Knowing what it cost?” I looked toward the window. The old glass bent the outside world just a little, making the grass look as if it were underwater. I have watched grief through that glass. Joy too. Ordinary days most of all. At last I told her, “Grief is only love with no place left to go.” She did not move. I said I would pay the cost again. For Nate, because first love taught me to choose my own road. For James, because steadiness saved me. For Eli, because patience found me when I had nearly locked every door. My granddaughter reached across the table and laid her hand over mine. Hers was smooth and strong. Mine was stiff, spotted, and swollen at the knuckles. I looked at those hands together and saw the whole span of a family. After noon we ate biscuits, drank cold buttermilk, and cut into the first loaf while it was still warm enough to steam. Fresh butter melted into the crumb. For a little while, all was simple. Then she went back to her tablet. I washed dishes with my hands deep in warm water. I had just dried the last bowl when she said, “Gran.” Something in her voice made me set the bowl down. “When you’re gone,” she said, and her pencil lay still beside her hand, “who is to keep the deed to the land?” The house seemed to quiet around us. The deed was under my bed in the tin box. One hundred and sixty acres. My life’s labor folded into paper. The land that had taken so much and given more. The land she loved too. I turned toward her, dish towel in my hands, and saw she was not asking for possession. She was asking for belonging. I opened my mouth to answer. When did you last have to choose between the safe love and the exciting one? That June afternoon still holds the words I chose, waiting on the blog.

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Nebraska, USA. 1886

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Four Young Cowgirls Photograph Rodeo Western Life Ranch Montana 1930s 8X10

Vintage Photos

Four Young Cowgirls Photograph Rodeo Western Life Ranch Montana 1930s 8X10 | eBay
Victorian & Regency periods

1898