About one-third of the collection were slides that were pre-made gift shop types; the kind you’d have picked up on the way out of the Winchester Mystery House or Carlsbad Cavern. Of the remaining two thirds, which were all taken by my Grandmother or Grandfather and processed and delivered on these little discs, about half were scenic and the others were family.
Being the one seeming most interested in these and their content, I took them with me under the assumption that I would take the time to sort them out and see that anything of sentimental value found their way back to the three sisters and the rest of the family. I recently completed the initial separation of family photo’s v/s scenic. That was a harder task than I thought, actually, because as the pile of discards grew large with numerous images of flowers, desert roads, nondescript motels, and sunset shots, I thought of my own work in these areas, and those of my fathers. What might someday become of mine, and what will we eventually do with his?
Several years back I attempted to take on the overwhelmingly daunting task of sorting through two crates full of slides of my fathers, an assignment who’s breadth proved a greater commitment of time and emotions that I had either of to devote. But what did strike me as I made a random inspection of his photo’s was how he’d taken many scenic and even ‘artsy’ images… just like I had when I was passionately interested in photography in the 80’s. I felt a sort of connection in those photos, and it was bittersweet to realize that what I’d just discovered as an adult were the same things I’d been bored to tears with as a child, sitting with family and friends in our parents living room, the lights dimmed, a rickety silver screen placed across the room and the steady hum of a projector motor lulling me to sleep as these very same images would appear between flashes of white light and the harsh metallic clatter of a slide tray.
Now, as I have scavenged through the many tiny discs, and after a little maintenance effort into getting the battery operated viewer functional again, I’ve found a few very precious treasures capturing childhood memories I’ve never even known I should have. I still wonder where they went are, or if it’s even reasonable to assume or expect that I should have memories of being less than 3 or 5 years old, but a few photographs here and there feel like scattered jigsaw pieces to a puzzle who’s image I am hauntingly curious about. I know the image that tugs at me with a need to complete the picture is not one of just me, but one of my parents, and the few pieces I have stumbled upon seem to have an image of my father that peaks my interest even more.
When my father passed away, I’d found a great solace in the conviction that I’d said everything I could to him; that there’d been nothing left unsaid or unexpressed. It gave me a great deal of peace and it was also an experience that made me passionately preach to others about how important it was to never assume you’d have time to resolve a conflict when you really can’t be sure you really will have that time. There was a period of a couple of years following the divorce that my father and I did not speak, but after that passed and after we’d re-established a relationship, I’d felt, until his passing, that I’d made it clear that he mattered to me and that I appreciated him. But what breaks my heart is that was some time ago, and in the many years that have followed since his death I’ve become more aware of who I am, and of the world around me, and many new questions have arisen. I’ve developed a deeper respect for and appreciation of the efforts, whatever they were in working, providing, sacrificing, and attempting to bridge generation or communication gaps. I’ve become more aware that instead of being parents all my life, they were individuals all their lives, and there was a hell of a lot more going on in each of their existences both before I came along and all during the time I was growing up than I could have fathomed then. When he passed away it gave me comfort to know that the last time we spoke I’d told him that I loved him and I believed he knew how happy I was that we had talked. Yet now I wish he could have lived to hear me express a sincere gratitude for the sacrifices he did make and the efforts I might not have seen.
I know a good amount of my mother’s family history because they were all around us growing up, but his was not, and we knew little if anything about them, or if we did it was not something that stuck. I knew his father had passed away and that his mother had been institutionalized at some point after contracting a disease that affected and took her mind. Still, my knowledge and understanding about these issues were sketchy at best and I had little if any timeline to associate them. So last week I asked my mom for more information. At the age of 37, I finally got to know a little glimpse of my father’s childhood, finding out that his mother had been taken away when he was only 6 years old, that there were several live-in nannies that helped to raise him from then, that he’d held a deep grudge against his father for that for many many years and that when his father passed away within a year of my birth in 1962, he apparently handled it in a stoic fashion.
It’s so hard to imagine what those conditions might do to the shaping of one’s character, and not having had any idea of even that little bit of information seems a bit of a cheat from here. I would have liked to have really gotten to know the man if he’d have let me, and I’d like to have had the foresight to have been more curious or aware, or have really considered what lay behind the face I’d known only in a child-parent relationship and not an adult-adult one. What a gift it would have been to have understood as a child that your parents were once children too, and this was a part of their journey through life as much as it was one of yours.
Then again, the opportunity might have been there and I would not have had the slightest clue at that point, just as I had no idea I might someday look with attachment and warmth at the photo’s I had to be forced to endure so long ago.
I knew a man, I held his hand, I was just a little child.
He showed me his dreams, I watched him let them die.
If I could stand again by his side,
I’d tell him that love is why we’re alive.
– ‘Now or Never’ by Kenny Loggins : Now or Never