It was the last time I saw my grandmother. We were sitting in her room talking and catching up after not seeing each other for quite some time. She knew I had graduated and finished school, and asked what I was now doing for work. I told her that despite all those long years in grad school, in the end I followed a different path (punctuated by a timely joke about all my student loan debt). I shared details about my life as a photographer and my passion for the craft. She replied, “Oh, just like my dad.” My response was a puzzled look and an absurdly long pause, then finally, “What do you mean?” She pointed to a framed picture of a man on her dresser, “That’s my father, your great grandfather.” As I looked the first thing I noticed was that we had the same haircut - no small feat for men separated by nearly 100 years in time. I liked him. She continued to tell me all about his life as a professional photographer where they grew up in Minot, North Dakota. How most of his family still lived in Norway, and how as a child she’d play in his studio, “I’d run and weave all around the legs of his tripods and light stands.” You could tell it made her happy to reminisce.