The Story of Betty Jo

My grandmother, Betty Jo, was an extraordinary woman whose presence filled every room she entered, despite her petite 4'11" stature. Her personality was larger than life—vibrant, witty, and full of sayings that even now, years later, my family and I are still trying to decode. She had a unique way of blending humor and wisdom, leaving behind lessons wrapped in her signature phrases that continue to surface at the most unexpected times.

“Well siss on you pister, you ain’t so mucking fuch!”

Growing up, I spent countless afternoons at her house, captivated by her treasures from around the world. Her home was like stepping into a museum of memories, each trinket with its own story—a seashell from a beach far away, a carved figurine from a bustling market, or a delicate piece of pottery she’d found on one of her many adventures. She’d pick up an item and share its tale, transporting me to places I’d never been but could imagine vividly through her words. Those afternoons weren’t just moments; they were an education in culture, history, and the importance of cherishing experiences.

But what drew me in most were her photo books. Betty Jo had an uncanny ability to capture the world around her with her camera. She documented everything—birthdays, holidays, mundane afternoons that she made magical with her lens. Yet, there was a quiet irony in her photography. While her albums were brimming with the faces of everyone she loved, her own face was notably absent. Betty Jo hated being photographed. She’d cut her image out of photos or avoid being in them altogether. Her focus was always outward, never on herself.

Now, as a photographer myself, I understand the weight of her choices in ways I couldn’t before. The longer I do this work, the more I realize the most important photos are the ones we’re in. They’re the ones our families will reach for when they want to remember us—not just how we looked, but how we made them feel. I wish I could pull out a photo of my grandmother now to show my children her smile, her mischievous twinkle, the warmth she radiated. Instead, I’m left with the vivid but intangible memories of her voice, her laugh, and her lessons.

Betty Jo’s aversion to being in photos has become one of my greatest inspirations. It’s a reminder of why I do what I do—to ensure that the people who matter most are captured and remembered, not just in the background but as the heart of the story. Her absence in those photo albums has taught me a valuable lesson: our presence matters, not just in the lives we touch but in the memories we leave behind.

So here’s to Betty Jo—a woman who taught me the value of a story, the importance of connection, and the power of a photograph. While I can’t show my family her face, her legacy lives on in every story she told, every trinket she cherished, and every lesson she passed down. She may have hated the camera, but her impact is forever etched into the hearts of everyone who knew her.