Some of my ancestors lived at a time when you might have a single photo of yourself. Those photos are about what you'd expect--the kind of images that flatten & deaden who they were. White starched shirts, dark wool coats, patternless black ties, sun roughened skin, a mustache & a direct gaze. Interchangeable in a way I hope never to be. With one exception. 

Papa Pedro was a blacksmith in what looks like a busy shop. In this photo, he's got three coworkers & three boys who must have been playing in or near the shop. The photographer on the far right looks at his subjects. The forge must be toward the back, buckets nearby, the hiss of white hot metal hitting the water. The men stand in a line. Papa Pedro is left of center, most in focus. It's Starr County TX in 1924, and it must be hotter than I can imagine. 

His forearms are defined & slick, his collarless shirt with sleeves rolled up to the elbow, a massive mallet at his side, angled like a broadsword ready to be drawn. A leather apron covers his lean body. He's young, and he's capable, and he's strong. 

What a blessing. To be remembered, to be captured exactly as you lived. 

PS. As far as we can tell, the blacksmith shop was here: