I'm trying valiantly to get back to being more productive after the foofaraw of the Christmas season. Hence the photo. This is a somewhat adjusted version. I worked on it tonight, but it's still not very good. The original is here on Flickr if you're interested.
I think it was taken in 1919 near Montreal. The squinting girl on the right is my mother, the curly-haired boy my uncle. The baby, Ruby May, didn't make it. By the time this picture was taken, her twin sister, Ruth, had already died, probably just before this photo was taken. Ruby lived for the best part of another two years, succumbing in July 1921. Those were hard days.
These early deaths are part of the reason why my family is so small. Also, my Uncle Charlie (the boy in the photo) didn't marry and died in his fifties: not only that, but my father was an only child, and so am I. Sheesh! There are some relatives but I'm not close to any of them — either in terms of geography or relationship. I think more and more families are like that nowadays, but we're smaller than most.
However, more than once I have said: "We're a small family but a great family."