A Picture Paints a Million Memories
A friend recently posted on her Instagram that she thinks her kids and husband are growing tired of her taking so many pictures of them. Then said “but one day they’ll thank me.” I couldn’t agree more.
Somewhere along the way between my post-high school days and young adult years, I became the unofficial keeper of the family history, including pictures. I wasn’t as obnoxious as one of my sisters who “ready or not,” would shove a still or video camera in your face and take your photo or start filming, whether you wanted it or not, I believed in the “grab your lip gloss, straighten your shirt, pull your hair out of your face,” time to get ready before I capture a posed moment. Obviously shooting a sporting event, a theme park ride, or capturing the joy of a live concert was different. But I was all about keeping memories and family growth to remember, and future generations.
Several years ago when they used to air some specialty programming on decluttering on networks like HGTV and TLC, there was something that almost every host would say to the person they were working with; almost the exact wording each time. The phrase went something like this: “You don’t have to hang on to all of this stuff to remember someone, because you’ll always have your memories. And stuff doesn’t replace the memories.”
While this may be somewhat of a true sentiment, in terms of not hanging on to furniture, clothes, and dishes simply because it was passed down from parents and grandparents — I mean, no one wants to become a hoarder — I don’t agree with the assertion that “you’ll always have your memories.” First, you could experience a traumatic incident in your life that could alter your short or long-term memories. Second, with age, it can become more challenging to keep memories straight. Of course, those are dramatic examples.
But here’s why I ignore that principle when it comes to taking photographs.
All four of my grandparents passed away before I and most of my siblings were born!
My mother was five years old when her father died. The only photograph of him that we ever saw was a blurry one of him standing next to a train on the Railroad where he worked. You can’t even make out any details of the man himself. Even my mother struggled to remember him as the years passed between her young self and the decades since his passing. My mother was only 19 years old when her mother died. The only photo she had of herself with her mom, she’s sitting in the background on her family’s porch, with her mom looking down at my oldest sister, who was a toddler at the time. That photo was taken just two years before my grandmother had a stroke in church, and passed away. While there are three other photographs of my grandmother, none of them include my mother in them.
I never saw any photographs of my father’s parents until I was in my 30s when my dad uncovered a black and white picture of his dad, and a separate one of his mother. My dad was in his early 20s when his parents passed; again, before I was here.
We also never saw any photos of my parents when they were children. One day, while looking through a family photo album of a second cousin, twice removed, I came across a junior high school year book photo of mom. I have never been as lucky to find anything prior to the enlistment photo of my dad when he entered the Army at seventeen. It’s like their childhood didn’t exist, except what they verbally shared with us.
Growing up, my mom hated taking pictures. She wasn’t always like that, since there were photos of her with my older siblings. But I was number five, and there are literally no photos of me or my younger sister as babies or toddlers. And while there were a few of us as young children; there are almost none that include my mom or dad in them.
Thank God for school pictures beginning in elementary school!
By the time I got to college, despite my mother’s protest, I began taking pictures, as did many of my siblings. Family outings, reunions, church events…we took pictures! I often reminded my mother of what we missed out on — not having the experience of knowing our grandparents, nor any real pictures showing who they were — if she ever protested. I didn’t want the same thing to befall our future kids, is what I’d say to her.
Fast forward to 2005. My youngest niece was only seven years old when my mother passed away. And just weeks away from her 10th birthday when my dad passed. My two youngest nephews were only six and 3 1/2 years old when my mom passed. The older of the two turned nine years old three days after my father died; and his brother was barely six. But there are probably more photographs of my parents with those three, in their short years together, than all of the other 15 grandchildren combined; except for possibly the oldest. It’s fitting that the first grandchild is smothered with more photographs than anyone knows what to do with.
The younger three may not have had the fortune of having over 20 years spending time with my parents, as the two oldest grandkids did; or even 10 plus years, as most of the other ones did. But they have pictures to look back on; something to jog their memories when we say, “Do you remember when granddad took you took the barber to get your hair cut?” Or remember this dress grandma bought you when you spent that weekend with her?” And they can look at the photo as evidence.
Today, I was trying to get my CD player to work and looked up and saw a framed photo of my parents. Have you ever looked at a photograph, and could remember everything about what was doing on the day it was taken? My friend tells me I have a weird sense of memory for certain details. I do, when it comes to personal things (which I wish would have worked for me in school).
I looked at the photograph, and then stopped and stared at it for awhile. Suddenly I could remember everything of importance about that day.
The photo was taken outside my parents’ home, on the afternoon following my uncle’s funeral. My mom’s brother was the first of her family to go (after their parents), other than the passing of two brother-in-laws at two different times, a decade earlier.
Mom had changed clothes to join two of her sisters to go visit their other sister in the hospital. You see, my aunt had a stroke just a day after hearing of their brother’s death. Whether the two were related, no one really knows, but she was unable to attend the funeral services because of it. That just added ben more stress on my family, and everything that was going on.
My mom was hesitant to take this picture, perhaps because she’d already changed clothes and was so casually dressed. But with all of the cousins down for the funeral as well, there was a lot of picture taking that day. My uncle’s death was unexpected and the weight of that reality perhaps made us all want to capture even more moments like this, just because.
Even in the age prior to me owning a digital camera, or having the technology of the smartphone, blurred or not, I’m glad for the photos I have. For me, being able to look back at pictures, and remember moments with my parents, has actually helped during my grieving process.
And I think given the opportunity to go back in time, I probably wouldn’t shoo my pesty sister and her video camera away as often either.
