And Then I Spilled the Milk

or, "What pictures don't tell us"

My daughter's 6th birthday was about a week ago; my father's (her Papa) turned 65 two days later.  We celebrated family-style with her grandparents, aunt, uncle, and cousins.  Camera ready, she and her Papa blew out the candles for a picture-perfect moment.

And then I knocked over a glass, onto my sister and everything on her lap.

After the mess was cleaned up and everyone was happily devouring chocolate cake, it made me think:  What are the stories that pictures don't tell us?  Are there tears following the ripping open of gifts, screaming children fighting over the candies, parents grumbling about the mess?

In a word, yes.

We don't really capture those moments, though, do we?  I suppose it's because we want the happy ones, but do they tell the true story?  Unlikely.  Then again, who would want to sit with their grandchildren, recalling the fights at the dinner table? 

I am lucky.  I have more happy memories than not.  Maybe that's why I have so many photos.  Maybe that's why many of us take so many - we want to freeze those moments when life is good.  It feels good to look back at those pictures, to share them with family and friends.  Life has its fair share of sadness and unhappy instances (we have only to look at the latest news story for them); maybe that's why we tend toward smiles in portraits. 

Later, we want to remember laughter and love, accomplishments and adventures.

I know I do.

Family Pictures

It's snowing (yuck).  The groceries are done, bills are paid, and my kids have no activities or birthday parties today. 

So we are not leaving the house.

It is a great pleasure for me to stay home for a day.  The weeks are busy with work and other commitments, and often the weekends are time to catch up on everything that does not get done during the week.  But yesterday, I braved the lineups in the stores and got all my running around done so that I could enjoy my Saturday at home.

One of the things I picked up yesterday was a couple of pretty new photo albums.  One of the other things about film (see post below) that I miss is that I used to send them off immediately, pick up the prints, and place them in albums as they came in.  With digital photography, though, they spend much too long in the waiting room of my computer. 

My goal for today is to organize about 200 of them into albums, then send more off to be printed.  These are the family photos, Christmas and summer, camping and playing at the beach.  While I couldn't do without my artistic photography, these are the ones that truly matter.  They are a record of my children's lives, carrying with them joyful memories of time sweet and short.  They are family and friends, who we are and who we were.  Most of all, they are reminders of how lucky I am, how full my life is and has been.

And I am looking forward to giving them a proper home.

Time Flies

A couple of nights ago I dug out some old photo albums. It had been awhile since I'd taken the time to look through the kids' baby pictures. My son, my daughter, and I curled up on the couch with these memories on our laps. Even though I know time flies, and I feel every day how fleeting their childhood is, I was amazed at how quickly they've grown. The baby faces have turned into child faces, their eyes a little more knowing and their bodies growing.

My children were keen to talk about the things they remembered, and hear stories about the ones they didn't. The pictures speak of moments of laughter and love, smiling faces and silly ones too. Firsts: First Christmas, Halloween costumes, visits to the beach.

We will add to these albums as they grow; as time moves on, we will continue to run for the camera to captures those moments.

So we can remember,
together.

End of Season

I've always loved the colours of November.

Everything turns gray and gold, the sign of one season ending and another soon to begin. The lushness of summer has dried into mere allusions of what was, not long ago.

And yet...

The parched and withered leaves hold the promise of summers still to come.

They are memories of times ended, and hopes for times not yet begun.