The Day the Baby Fell in Love

by Julia Sneden

In our living room, there are two photographs, one on each side of a small bookshelf that hangs over an old family desk. They are pictures of my husband's great great grandparents, Sarah Pulling Lane French (1818-1899) and her husband, Joseph Henry French (1815-1876). These are portrait shots of only the head and shoulders, handsomely set off in deep oval mahogany frames.

The picture of Sarah shows her to be a slender woman, her hair parted in the center with two knots or coiled braids at the top on either side of the part, and the rest pulled back by a ribbon around her head. A rather skimpy ringlet hangs down one side, with a hint of one out of sight on the other. She is wearing a white shirtwaist, although all you can see of it is a plain neckband decorated with a pin that matches her earrings. The shirt itself is covered with a tightly fitted jacket decorated with braid and many buttons. Her face is turned slightly to her right, her light eyes gazing into the distance. She appears remote, without expression. She has a high forehead, thin lips, and a rather square, firm jaw. It's not a face to intrigue you, but neither is it as formidable as some I've seen. According to my own great grandmother, (born in 1833), one had to sit absolutely still with one's head in a clamp for several minutes when one posed for those early photographs, which probably explains why so many of them show us stiff ancestors with grim faces.

Joseph also looks to the right. He's a proper pater familias, with a beard neatly trimmed, but he has the same curious lack of facial expression. He wears a suit with a vest, and a bow tie (the real, hand-tied item).

We know quite a bit about them. They were New Englanders, born and reared in Massachusetts. Sarah descended from a long line of proper Puritans, including a Mayflower passenger. We don't know as much about Joseph's family, but he himself must have been a good businessman, because he supported a large family. Apparently he owned the whole block where they lived in Rockland, MA, because as their children grew up and married, Sarah and Joseph had houses built on the property for them. My husband's grandmother, Charlotte, grew up surrounded by aunts and uncles and cousins, all next door, through the hedge, or just around the corner. Her grandmother Sarah (Joseph was by then dead) kept a benevolent if stern eye on them all. She was a deeply religious woman, a devout Baptist. The entire family gathered at her house for dinner each Sunday after church, and following the meal, all were expected to sit quietly in the parlor, and not engage in any frivolity. Respect for the Sabbath was the priority. Charlotte later related to me that Jane, her mother, would think up reasons for her small family to leave such gatherings early, so that the children could go home and play (one assumes quietly and indoors, well out of Grandmother's sight!).

But the photos on our walls give no hint of such strictures and tensions. To us, they're just old family photos in pretty, oval frames. As such, they're part of our decor, and we're all so used to them that we've rarely thought about the people in them....that is, until the night the baby fell in love with Sarah.

It happened quite late on Christmas Eve. As I recall, the only ones in the living room were my son William, and his five-month-old son Adam, who was being walked and burped after polishing off his late bottle. I was in the kitchen, busily putting things to rights for the umpteenth time that day, when William called me into the living room.

"Watch this," he said. He stood in front of the desk, holding Adam on his hip, and moved slowly to the right. Adam looked solemnly at the picture of Joseph Henry French. "Now," Will said, "watch this." He moved to the left. Adam focused on Sarah Pulling Lane French. His eyes widened, and a big grin spread across his face. Then he began to jiggle up and down in Will's arms. He waved his hands. He made noises of utter delight. Will moved back to the picture of Joseph. Adam's face relaxed. He looked at the photo, scrutinizing it politely, but without much interest. William turned and walked slowly by Sarah's picture. Again, Adam all but leapt from his father's arms, his face wreathed in smiles, his eyes dancing. It was the darnedest thing I'd ever seen. We called in several family members to witness the phenomenon. There was no question about it: the baby was smitten by Sarah.

"It's enough to make you believe in reincarnation," someone said. I found myself thinking a private wish that if Adam had to be channeling anybody it might be the beloved and utterly charming Charlotte, Sarah's granddaughter, because I couldn't see much future for Sarah in this modern world.... not that I believe in such things, you understand, but just in case...

For the next couple of days, we observed that Adam continued to flirt with the picture every time someone carried him past it. We tried showing him pictures of other family members (just in case Joseph was somehow singularly off-putting). Nothing happened.

Then Adam's father, ever the reasonable one, figured it out. "Come over here," he said, "and bend down to the level of Adam's eyes." We did. And there, reflected in sparkling splendor off the wavy glass that covered Sarah's picture, was our Christmas tree. It stood directly across the room, and was magnificent in its own right, but the lights were magnified and slightly distorted by the glass of the picture, and any motion on the part of the observer made them dance and wink, not unlike the lights of a pinball or slot machine.

The skeptics among us gave a sigh of relief to have Adam's behavior so logically explained. The more metaphysically inclined were a bit disappointed. Adam, of course, didn't care, so long as someone was willing to walk him by that dazzling display now and then, and jounce him up and down in front of it.

As for Sarah Pulling Lane, I shudder to think what she'd have made of such a garish display over her face. And on a Sunday, too!