Meet the Pinkstons

This picture is a million stories. It is the story of my loftiest dreams coming true, a homecoming, an unpleasant surprise, and an unlikely victory for traumatic anosmia.

I am quite aware of the fact that this looks just like present day Jenna (minus the fashion atrocity that was permitted to happen), but this photo was snapped and this moment trapped forever in the summer of 2007.

                

In her book “Family Photographs: Content, Meaning, and Effect” Hirsch claims that “The places we photograph are our roots” (47). She goes on to talk about neat scenes of fences and houses and streets: traditional, rooted places of belonging. Though at first glance, it may not look like it, this is a photograph of my, and more directly of my father’s, roots. This is not a street. This is not a home. And no, this is not just a random pile of rocks on a foggy day. This is a volcano, and it is located in Indonesia, the country my dad calls home. I had, for as long as I could remember, wanted more than anything to visit this place.

                

Unlike the “symbolic pieces of territory” that Hirsch writes about—stairs that families return to for Easter pictures every year or a front stoop for the first day of each school year—my family has only been to this volcano once and has spent the vast majority of its time on the opposite side of the globe. This, however, also communicates about my family. We enjoy new and unique experiences and have had the opportunity to visit lots of faraway places, even if only once. The lack of architecture in the photo also reflects my family’s preference for the outdoors.

                

My favorite part of this photo is something that would not jump out to a casual viewer. If you look at each of our faces, you will see hesitant smiles on each of us beside my sister Joely, who is beaming unashamedly and my brother Jack, who just doesn’t know better. When I’ve mentioned that I climbed a volcano, people’s first thoughts are usually of red hot lava and black igneous rock. As you can see, that was not the case. People also generally think about climbing up and not down to get into the volcano. This was a volcano with lots of gray rocks and hot pools of equally gray water.

               

 Last on people’s minds is the sense of smell. It was not even a thought that crossed my mind before going to the volcano, but it was my first thought upon arriving. The smell of sulfur was terribly pervasive and terribly unpleasant. It smells like eggs in the worst of ways.

                

My sister, however, has traumatic anosmia; she cannot, nor has she ever been able to, smell. She is anosmic, smell-blind. Joely absolutely reveled in the discomfort of everyone smelling this situation. “This is so fun,” she said beaming, taunting us. It was adorable and annoying.

                

This is my family. Travels, adventures, togetherness, and anosmia. I like it a lot.