I found this book of photographs buried in a forgotten box in my basement. They were given to me at a flea market by an elderly lady. We had many friendly conversations of her reminiscence of the past. She told me stories about what it was like to be Black in America during 1930's through the 1960's.
She couldn't remember who's pictures these were. Memories get fuzzy that way over time. She would point to a few different pictures and say "that's her" but could not remember the ladies name.
"They all gone now." "Nobody wants these pictures." She told me that she tried to find someone who might of known her. "People come and go." "Seen a lot of that." "I kept the book for years."
It was as if she was letting go of the past and passing them on to me. She told me, "Take care of them." "I know you will." I kept my word that I would.
I saw her only one time after that and she gave another picture. I'll present that at another time. It was after a time that other vendors told me that they hadn't seen her in a long time.
"They call me Lizzy." "But that 'aint my name." "You can call be Lizzy." "That's alright." "I like your name."
Thank you Lizzy.
That's her bottom right picture
This is the lady up close.
as told by roman blazic_all rights reserved