When I was growing up, one of the places I enjoyed most was the cherry tree in the backyard. Behind the yard was an alley and then more houses. Every summer when the cherries began to ripen, I used to spend hours high up in the tree, picking and eating the sweet, sun-warmed cherries. My mother always worried about my falling out of the tree, but I never did. But I had some competition for the cherries — flocks of birds that enjoyed them as much as I did would perch all over the tree, devouring the fruit whenever I wasn’t there. I used to wonder why the grown-ups never ate any of the cherries — my father loved all kinds of fruit — but actually, when the birds and I had finished, there weren’t many left.
—Betty Burns
Photographs have taken me to places I have never been and have shown me people alive before I was born. I can visit my grandmother’s childhood home in Vienna, Austria, and walk down the high-ceilinged, iron staircase by looking through the small, white album my grandma treasures. I also know of the tomboy she once was, wearing lederhosen instead of the dirndls worn by her friends. And I have seen her as a beautiful young woman who traveled with the Red Cross during the war, uncertain of her future. The photograph that rests in a red leather frame on my grandma’s nightstand has allowed me to meet the man she would later marry. He died before I was born. I have been told that I would have loved his calm manner, and I can see for myself his gentle smile and tranquil expression.
—Carrie White