On a bright and blustery day last March, I went to an antique postcard and photo show. Physically, I traveled only ten miles from home, but emotionally, the trip took me to a time and place that existed long ago.

On any given day, my job as arts editor for a scholastic publishing house takes me in search of rare and unusual images. My workplace could be a well-ordered library, a musty museum, or an artistic materials archives. That day, it was an ocean-front pavilion in Belmar, New Jersey that was hosting an antique postcard exhibit.

Walking through the door of the pavilion, I met the sights and smells of old pictures nestled neatly in long, cardboard boxes. They were preserved in archival mylar sleeves and labeled and arranged according to subject matter and geographic area of origin.

On that particular day, I was like every other eager collector, shuffling and sifting through thousands of old images of bright-eyed babies, by-gone beauties, and successful men in their prime. Unnamed people, once immersed in the daily exercise of living, now only existed on colorless, two-dimensional time capsules.

The black-and-white tones of the photos were to me more colorful and captivating than most multi-colored, slick shots of today. It was hard to believe that these people were not living as they appeared on the postcards, alive and eager for what life had in store for them. But in reality, many of the wide eyes and innocent, youthful expressions on the photos had since shriveled with age, and others had turned to dust and ashes.

As I searched through the boxed and numbered photos, I couldn’t help but think that these photographs had once been treasured by families, and that each face was likely prominently featured in a family photo album. Now they were timeless treasures–yet nameless and storyless.

Three hours sped by, and I found that it was time to leave. But I had to have one last look. A large, crumpled box near the door beckoned me in its direction, and within seconds I picked up an 8" x 10" photograph of fifty-six young men, dated 1941 and labeled with "Long Branch," my hometown. I looked at the picture and, unlike the thousands of others I had seen that day, this one had a story and someone in it had a name. His eyes met mine, and for one brief moment my father was alive again. He was right there before me, not as the elderly, frail man who had died four years before, but as a strong, handsome, twenty-four-year-old with a tall stature and a husky frame, looking uncannily like my son Eric.

He and the other men in the photo were appearing, through the lens of a camera, alive and eager to meet the world. And meet the world they would–they were even called upon to save it. In less than a year, many of the men in the photograph would go off to foreign shores to serve in World War II.

It was a task they would be ready for, because these fifty-six men were accustomed to serving. That evening in 1941 was an indication of their dedication to community and good causes. They were being honored for volunteering in first aid squads, fire companies, and other local civic organizations. Little did they suspect what good training these hometown social and service leagues would be for the larger-than-life, worldwide cause they would soon be thrown into.

These fifty-six perfectly groomed gentlemen were preparing to eat a cele-bratory dinner that night in 1941, not suspecting they would soon be preparing for a far more important occasion. They were perfect gentlemen, perfectly preserved in this picture. Thanks to my fateful find at the photo exhibit, this youthful group now also had a story, and one among them had a name–George Talbot Williams–my father, to me the most perfect of all gentlemen. a

Sharon Hazard, an arts editor for a scholastic publishing house, lives in historic Long Branch, New Jersey. She has a journalism degree from Rutgers University and has been published in newspapers and national magazines.

Return to the Ancestry Magazine January/February 2001 Table of Contents.