From the Fortress of Solitude
I walked to school today. It was a beautiful morning. The mountains were green and the air smelt of lilac and freshly cut grass. My walk home this evening was just as pleasant. Gray rolling clouds were settling over Mt. Timpanogoes and the air convinced me rain was close at hand. I feared I'd be caught up in torrents before reaching the Fortress. My fear was unfounded. If it had rained, then it evaporated before hitting the ground.
Tonight I'd like to share a few more pictures from the Mattson Ranch in Montana in the 1940's.
Would you like to venture a guess on the identity of this wee lad? He is the fourth born of Walter and Violet Mattson. His name is John Edward Mattson. Grandma Violet's handwriting in the photo album says he is 3 and 1/2 months old.
This wee lass should be easy to name if you know your Mattson history. Walter and Violet had five children, three boys and two daughters. One boy died as an infant. If Luella is the oldest child that leaves Linda as the only other girl. Linda Mattson is pictured here at 11 months old. I wonder what she's holding. Perhaps a shoe. I'm sure they had to quickly snap this picture before the shoe went straight into the mouth.
And here they all are a wee bit older. Marvin is the only one missing.
And now a special treat....... We step into our magical time machine, push a few buttons and suddenly the world goes from black and white to color.
Luella and John are older still. Ancient no, but older yes. Can you see the family resemblance?
I know what you thought first. Sticking right out for the world to see are two Mattson noses. How many of us were luckily enough to inherit such well defined genetic landmarks?
This picture was taken in 1999 at a wedding reception. They've come a long way since the days of kerosene lamps and an outhouse one stone's throw from their little home on the Montana prairie and Oh, the stories they tell of snow drifts so high you could reach out and touch the moon and winter nights so cold they'd have to find their frozen pets every morning and thaw them back to life in front of the fire. Stories that need to be told and recorded, and then, only then, can we read them and wonder how any of them survived those many years on the frontier of civilization.