I have a rather tenuous connection to my roots, but continuity of place is vital to me and my sense of self. As a military brat, I lived in dozens of houses, but one building alone represents 'home'. In fact, I only stayed there for a few weeks when I was too young to recall it, but it's become a sacred repository of family memories.
A few years later, they are all arranged for a family portrait, sitting on the step. (My dad is the lad on the left at his father's elbow.) This seems to have been a rather more impromptu affair, no time to brush anyone's tousled locks, wash a face or two or find the baby's socks and shoes.
A generation on, and it was my turn to take to the step for a photo-shoot, probably early 1952. The door looks like it needs a coat of paint, but the step still seems to be a favourite sunny spot for family and pets alike. I'm not sure how to explain-away my rather pneumatic appearance. Granny seems to be feeding me titbits (first wiped on her apron, I see) and no doubt a chubby baby was thought of as a good thing in post-war, rationed Britain. Well, that's my theory!
Dad and sis