The year was early-2000-and-something and (almost) the whole of my dad’s side of the family decided to take a trip together to Cherokee, North Carolina. One of his other brothers found a bunch of cabins for rent all clustered on the side of one of the many Smokey mountains and we all decided to get them so we could be close and spend some time togethe00r, unlike we ever really had before… or since. We called it “Lowie Mountain” for the long weekend. 

On one of the last nights, Popi made a big deal about how he wanted us all to get together in Brett’s cabin for a special surprise. The adults knew what it was. Us six kids didn’t. We were told to sit on the floor and wait while Popi brought out his slide projector, prepared with snapshots placed in his special order. He wanted to show everyone photos of the family trips to Cherokee from my dad’s childhood. Before then, I really had no idea they even went on those trips. The slide projector caught my attention. I had never seen anything like it before. The wood-paneling, the distinct “click-clack” of a changing slide, the heat from the bulb, and the whirr of the fan were all so new to me. 

Like elder shaman in caves, thousands of years since, telling stories of heroes long ago and battles hard-fought, my grandfather told us about ourselves. Images slid across a textured white wall, stimulating our imaginations, like the small cave-children watching hand painted figures dance across rock as fire crackled and light flickered. Though it was impossible, they felt, deep down, that maybe the charcoal drawings on the wall really were moving or that the translucent slides the size of a living room may actually take them back to some age long before their time. 

It was that projector, those photos, that showed me that going to North Carolina for fall trips or Disney with your mom as a kid or airshows with your dad was just what a Lowie does. It told me about my family’s past, my heritage, my inheritance. What I needed to do when I had my own kids. I learned that I too was obligated to take them to the old sugar mill, the waterfall that takes thirty-minutes to hike to, and the Cherokee casino where they play in the game room while I gamble amongst the thick cigarette smoke. 

That was the first and last time that Popi ever showed me his slides, at least in that context. So, let me rephrase it then, it was the only time Popi ever presented his slides to me. I knew of them before, more as an intrigue. They were not viewable on a VideoNow or a GameboySP so there was no reason to spend my time on them. After the presentation though, I became obsessed with his photographs, understanding how important they were. It was through that experience that I learned what would be passed on to us kids. What Popi wanted us to see. But, as I quickly found out, there was still so much that he didn’t want us to see: some of the slides from Vietnam, the black and white photos in the brown box… the letters. 

When your family tells you about yourself, about them, there’s so much that you start to connect with. You naturally think to yourself, “Oh Popi has a lead foot, that must be where I get it from”, or “Wow, Mema always has coffee in her hand, that must be why I’m addicted to Starbucks.” We treat these things as our inheritance, almost as if our genetics make us compulsively sip caffeine or to speed, even when we aren’t in a hurry. We learn of the things we do just because it’s what a Lowie does. But what of the things we don’t talk about? What about the things we’re collectively ashamed of? What about the things we throw in cardboard boxes and stack at the bottom of a tall pillar of boxes in a closet that will certainly bring water damage to all its contents? How do these things get passed on? How do they become a part of ourselves? The stories may not get told but the slides still sit in their boxes. The letters, coffee stained and brittle, still wait to be read once more. 

The older I became, the more I learned about my grandfather’s struggles. That’s probably the best way to put it, his struggles. His alcoholism, his battle with mental illness, his abusive and venomous words, his pride, and his unending commitment to always “being a man”. The more I learn, the more I think to myself, “how much of this have I inherited? Is that why my tongue seems to be the only thing that gets me in trouble? Is that why my dad was always obsessed with making sure I acted like a man, in every single “teachable” situation growing up? Is that why it seems like so many people in my family struggle with substance abuse?” How did I inherit these things? Do these struggles get passed on in memory only? In practice? Did they run through his blood and do they now run through mine? Maybe they’re just part of the deal when you accept the slides as your own.  

There are gaps in the stories we tell ourselves and each other. These gaps are filled only by the imagination. Like the monster surely hiding under the bed of every five-year-old, these dark places present us with potent visions of terror but also intrigue. These gaps are passed down and the stories we tell ourselves gain a life of their own, separate from the truth. Why else would I be convinced that Popi was in the CIA after Nam and not on a tuna fishing boat avoiding his family? 

What was I allowed to inherit from him? Just the good? Just the slides of smiles in North Carolina or cannonballs into their above-ground pool? Or is it also my responsibility to inherit the letters, the black and white photos, the tenuous relationship with drinking? 

Once my grandparents had moved to Georgia and the trip to North Carolina was nothing more than a memory, Popi got interested in digitizing his slides but he didn’t focus on the ones of the family. He focused on the ones he never showed us, the ones from Vietnam. He bought a scanner, hoping to preserve them but soon became too ill. He only had the ability to eat, watch TV, and smoke on the porch, making sure to keep the O2 in his nasal canula held in one hand away from the lit cigarette in his other. Eventually, he told my grandmother to throw the slides out and yelled at her when she wouldn’t. But he never did it himself either. 

When I was a kid sitting in a cabin in early-2000-and-something, I thought the projector was a relic, a piece of technology so useless and outdated, that only old men who wanted to relive their pasts would hold onto them. It was neat but it couldn’t beat digital cameras (or later cell phones) and frankly, it still really can’t. But that doesn’t matter. 

When my grandfather passed away, I made it a priority to get his projector. I didn’t want it just because it was his but because it was representative of one of the few times he was sentimental, he spoke, he wanted to share with everyone. My cousins and I all remember the experience and although we may not remember the photos or the stories that went along with them, we can’t forget the time that our quiet, demure grandfather opened up to us. 

The technology was limiting and doesn’t make much sense to an audience today, but it made sense to that situation, it made sense to my grandfather. It was the way he wanted to tell the stories he needed to tell, something he rarely did. It has its limitations but those are its strengths, it forces people to gather in person, to speak to one another, to ask questions. You become less of a voyeur, casually scrolling on your phone, and peeking into other people’s lives. Instead, you become a part of the conversation (different members of the audience often chime in with things like “oh do you also remember…” or “nuh-uh it happened like this…”), you don’t just experience seeing the photo but you remember seeing the photo, even if you don’t remember their contents. When all else is gone, that’s what you tie yourself to, that experience… that strange, once-in-a-lifetime experience of your grandfather speaking about something more than just the weather or a meal. You can go back to the photos, but you can never go back to the cabin and relive those experiences, so you better hold on to them. Just like you can never go back to Vietnam but you know that even if the photos are gone, you can’t forget. So why throw them out? 

Though you never get his presentation again, that doesn’t matter. Because you know exactly what he wanted you to remember, why he wanted you to remember it, why it was special to him and now why it’s special for you. You get a glimpse, not at just the trips your family went on long ago, but of the things he wanted to remember, of the person he might have been before he took the photos that he didn’t show you. 

Years later, when you’re sitting with your parents and grandmother in your childhood home that your parents have since moved out of, you can be the one to press the button, causing the distinctive “click-clack”. You can ask why someone was wearing a stupid shirt or why Mema always seemed to have curlers in her hair, even when camping. Your grandfather might not have ever given you much, but he gave you this. He let you be the one to give the presentation.  

The moment you realize this is transcendent. 

 

 

 

Hello, and thank you for listening to the introductory episode of Dearest Suzie, a podcast and photo series. I'm Alexander Lowie, an anthropologist and the youngest grandchild of William P. Lowie, a U.S. Army helicopter pilot who served during the Vietnam War in 1964 and 1965. Though he went by “Bill,” we called him “Popi.” He passed away in 2012 after a long struggle respiratory issues. 

  

So, what is Dearest Suzie? It’s a multimedia presentation of Bill Lowie’s archive from the Vietnam War, structured in an “on this day in history” format. As we near the 60th anniversary of the war’s official start, I’ll be sharing entries from his war diary and letters, posted to the internet on the same days he wrote them. Each entry will be paired with a photograph he took during his time there. He wrote over 100 letters and took more than 500 photos during his deployment. Each episode will feature a reading of his writing, a photo, and often a reflection from me or a bit of history to provide some context about his place in the war. 

  

Who is Suzie? Suzie is my grandmother, Susan, who we all affectionately refer to as “Mema.” She’s the reason this project exists and has encouraged me to tell Popi’s story. When she handed me the stack of his letters, I read the first one out loud. Her only response was, "I don’t even remember him calling me Suzie." That’s when I realized there was much more to uncover. It was a moment that captured the passage of time and memory, showing how even the most personal of histories can hold surprises. We can forget but we can also rediscover. 

  

What do I want to do with this project? Well, I don’t just want to tell you about history or simply present you with an archive—I want to share the story of discovery that I experienced while working through these materials. If I do my job well, you may soon find that the discoveries go deeper than just learning about my grandfather's service in Vietnam. It is my intention that through the telling of my experiences, you, the listener, will feel encouraged to share. Perhaps you're a part of my generation and you knew a family member did something significant and you've never asked questions about it. Hopefully you’ll be curious enough to now. Or maybe you yourself served and, though painful, you realize you have stories that can be passed down, which may help your family and friends better understand themselves. Through the expression of that pain, maybe you will find places to heal. 

  

I’m proud to call myself an American and even prouder to be a Lowie, for better or worse. After all, the stories, the letters, the photos, the genes, and the name are all things people have given me, just for being me. Who am I to deny the generosity of a gift? 

  

I hope I’ve piqued your interest and that you’ll join me between now and August 2025 as I share these letters and the few diary entries from the past, exactly 60 years after they were written. Please consider following Dearest Suzie on your preferred podcast platform, as well as YouTube, X, and Instagram, where I’ll post additional photos as they relate to the letters. You’ll find the links for these things in the description below. Also, please feel free to email me at dearestsuziepodcast@gmail.com if you have anything you’d like to say. I’d love to hear your stories as well. 

  

Thank you for listening and God bless.