Worth a Thousand Words

March 30, 2026

Greetings from the snapshot,

Every once in a while, my dad would say something remarkable to us kids, something that probably has never been said since then, in anyone’s house.

Sometimes I look at old pictures and think about the moments those people were frozen in time.  That conversation, the sounds around them, the seagull there, hung from the sky.  There is little to explain what had just been said, who felt what, or what happened next.

It is even stranger looking at prints of the vintage black and white images, grainy and dull, missing the context of color, of season. Many times, these have dates on the border, or things written on them.  ‘Grandpa at the lake, Aug 1961’.  Or, ‘Thanksgiving’, the rest left up to the archaeologist looking at the print.

These photos may evoke memories of the moment but just as likely provide other, unrelated moments. They are less a literal representation of life, and more of an open door, a nudge to ask: what does this make you think of?

My father’s children, of which I am proud to be a number, were a raucous group, even though the girls were in the majority.  But five of us, no matter the gender, made for an active house.  Dinners and homework and baths and gathering up to go, or coming back from having went, bickering, playing, complaining.  Clattering on linoleum and shouting and banging doors and announcing intentions. Ours was a lively sample of humanity.

There were pictures taken to record our adventures, usually artificial poses captured between less flattering moments.  We children were more typically blurred by motion, disqualified with ragged jeans or chocolate mustaches, so other photos were taken.  There were pictures of my dad, when the camera lens ached for sanity. Sometimes in his suit and tie, or more often, the paint splattered pants and tattered T-shirt he would wear to mow the lawn or burn trash behind the garage. 

 The photographers trusted that, somehow, we would know why the picture was taken and the importance of the moment.  This even in the face of experience, knowing that by the time the film came back from the drug store, bound in the little paper booklets gifted by Kodak, we would have forgotten most of what the picture commemorated.

Our family was packed in a house too small by half, but none of us knew.  Relatives would crowd in, friends would make a party, other kids dropped by, and it would expand to hold them.  But mostly it was just us, rampaging between our parents, inventing games, torturing each other, arguing, tattling.

And more than often, we would find ourselves laughing.  Sometimes for reason and just as often for none. We would be horsing around in the den, then sliding down the stairs. Someone would fart or say something outrageous, and it would set in motion a chain reaction of hysterical glee, breathless and wild and loud.

My dad would say; “Och, that’s a white laugh, that is.”  He was fond of highlighting some language with his Scottish lilt, sprinkling in words that would never be heard in our neighbor’s houses.  His children, numb to the uniqueness of the pronouncement, barely noticed.

We continued in our overstimulated cacophony, laughing in desperate squeals, piling on each other on the living room floor, ignoring the painful protests of whoever was on the bottom, who might still be gasping something that sounded like laughter.

The white laugh, as it was translated to us at one point, was the frantic expression of hilarity right before we were sure to collapse into tears. Or, as he may have described it: “It’ll nae long afore yer greetin.”.

The white laugh was one of countless things from my father we could easily overlook, this little gem from the midlands of the Auld Country.  Not out of disrespect, necessarily, but our lives were driven by far more primitive urges.  We never learned, of course, that he was right.  We would laugh ourselves past funny, into someone crying, and then my mom would say, “All right, that’s enough…”

The photos do not tell enough of the story, that has to be written in by those of us who have any memory of it.  Here are nameless dogs, anonymous streets, neighbors too young to identify now, and probably not around to correct us. And so, we add color to the black and white image, we write our own caption, select what memory matters.  When I see a picture of my dad from this part of life, there is usually no way of knowing what moment was captured, but the image brings so many other impressions, I can choose what to apply.

Not every moment in our house was fun.  There were homework tears and scary storms and unfair chores and frustrated parents. But mixed in with all of that living was moments with my dad. He watched his children laughing, smiling with us, but teasing with a sentence brought from thousands of miles and years away. It was not said in any other house on our street, or maybe anywhere. “Och, that’s a white laugh, that is.” It is an emblem of how special it was to be in our family.

If you look at a picture of my dad, you would miss this.  That connection is hidden between the pixels, a history that can only be conjured by those of us lucky enough to have witnessed it. The picture is just the introduction, an icon that reminds us to think about the person, about his life with us.  So I do, and I am grateful.

Hope this finds you looking,

David

This essay was written by the author and does not include Ai content.

Copyright © 2026 David Smith