Last week I had some time to spend photographing dolls that my great-grandmother made decades upon decades ago. They are beautiful, delicate dolls that once sat on the back of her sofa or on her bed. My grandmother gave these special works of art to me the summer before she died. Her gift to me was her generous grandmotherly love; she made me the richest girl in the world that summer day in 1981.

They stay safely behind glass at my parents' home so my mother can enjoy them, too. They really do belong to my family and are in the right place.

When I stopped by, my young nephew, a six-star general (his designation) in the US Army, came out of the officer's mess in the family room when he was done with his cereal and declared an end to the morning's war games with his primary playmate, Grandma. Without my asking, this little soldier, (who is also king of the flying-kick) took one after another doll out of the old bookcase and brought them to me to photograph. He posed them for me, too and several times let me know if he thought I got the shot. He handled the bits of lace and velvet, muslin and silk, like exactly what they were--bits and pieces of his own little story. As we worked, he asked me about them--who made them, when, and why; why did I want to take pictures of dolls anyway; why is this one made of porcelain and a little bit broken...

When he reached down further, he found dolls that had belonged to me and to his mother when we were about his age. Though I had not thought of taking their portraits and focusing strictly on the handmade dolls, I did take the pictures because he saw them as more of the same. In the same spirit, he brought to me with all the care in the world a very simple gingham-and-muslin doll I had made for my mother years ago.

As we worked, I thought of the many times my grandmother would tell me all the stories behind her curios. In that way, I learned a lot about my family. I also learned a lot about my grandmother. Many a treasure she had taped back together after if it had cracked or broken. She would simply turn the damaged side to the wall. To throw something away because it was slightly cracked would be to throw away a piece of the story that once belonged to someone special. She kept it all and she shared it all and when it was time, she gave it away.

Adam's trotting out of my far-from-accomplished handicraft made me think of the crafts I would make for my grandmother, too. Though they were the simple and somewhat crude work of young hands, she displayed them on her mantle in the living room with all the pride in the world. She made me a part of her big picture, a part of a story. Ever so innocentlyand unself-consciously, Adam did the exact same thing one rainy day last week.

On his resume some day, he might put Angel of Grace right at the top--above military chief and karate kid.

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