|
YEAR SIX BEGINS |
|
WITH US SINCE YEAR THREE |
 |
 Every family has one photo like this in an album: A handsome young man posing with his pride and joy--his automobile. In this case, it's Joyce's dad. |
Why keep photo albums?
To show how we lived
By JOYCE KIEFER
of TheColumnists.com
One afternoon when I return from work, I am delighted
to find a square bright yellow envelope addressed to me. Personal
mail adds such a refreshing touch to the heap of bills and sale
catalogs. I slit open the envelope and pull out a note and a
card with a muffin recipe, sent by a college friend in Southern
California.
“I found this recipe the other day when I was putting together
my family album for 1991,” she wrote. “You had asked
for it and I made a copy, which I lost. Now here it is, a little
late.”
It hits me: Thirteen years late! Not the recipe, the album.
The bright yellow envelope becomes heavy with guilt. The diligence
my friend shows in organizing her family’s pictures year
by year, no matter how long it takes, makes me realize how negligent
I am toward my own descendents. My snapshots remain in drug store
envelopes filed in chronological order, filling two chests of
drawers and a trunk. Extra pictures spill out of a box on top
of one of the chests.
Yet, like my friend, I want to create a legacy of freeze-framed
moments that tells the story of our family.
I’m grateful to my father and uncle who each composed several
photo albums of snapshots of their youth. By turning those rough,
black pages, I meet them as young men enjoying new automobiles,
girlfriends, buddies in San Francisco, life in the army of World
War I. Thanks to their record-keeping I know the persons they
were before I was born. I can picture the backdrops of the stories
they told over and over at family dinners.
 |
his days with PG&E. At right, that's Joyce's Aunt Sofie on the right with a glamorous friend. |
 |
I would like to do the
same for those who come after me–show how we lived our lives,
who we loved, what we looked like all dressed up or covered with
mud. I know I should mount these memories creatively in lovely
acid-free books worthy of preservation and reflective of a caring
Grannie.
Two problems cause procrastination: Time and space.
Composing artful albums by the year like my friend does seems
to require a daunting amount of focus and self-discipline. How
could I have time left to lead a life worth photographing? Why,
I’d barely be able to get meals on the table–if there
was room among the scrapbooking supplies.
And that leads to the issue of space for the albums themselves.
My bookshelves are full. I refuse to evict our favorite classics,
computer manuals, cookbooks or travel guides. The National Geographics
that cover most of the 20th century will stay put. Their photos
speak volumes about the century that gave me birth.
I think of my mother-in-law. Like me, her picture-taking accelerated
once she had grandchildren. When she and my father-in-law moved
to assisted living, her descendants filled nine big plastic storage
bins from Target with her albums. The bins take up most of the
space in my sister-in-law’s basement. Everyone says they
want to go through them and take or reproduce their favorite
snapshots. Someday.
 |
climbs a tree. That's his wife, Florence, coming right after him. less strenuous pose. |
 |
What’s inside these lovingly composed collections of memories?
Every family gathering. With a big family there were lots of
them. No birthday went uncelebrated. Every occasion was photographed
as if it were happening only once. Most of the shots included
as many people as possible. No odd close-ups or candids. No wacky
poses. Everyone smiled in accommodation. My scrupulous mother-in-law
would never crop a snapshot before slipping it onto the plastic-covered
page. She used 3 x 5-inch prints because they were less expensive.
“I suppose I could get the larger ones and take fewer pictures,”
she mused once. I threw her for a loop when I presented her with
prints of a special anniversary, all of them 4 x 6. Then I offered
to crop them.
I admire the conciseness of my father and uncle who left behind
just a couple of albums each. I pour through my dad’s pictures–he
developed many of them himself--and vicariously enjoy his canoe
trips with his buddies on the Russian River. I peek down the
hill from his favorite park in San Francisco for a view of the
bridgeless Golden Gate. I share the pride of his new Chrysler
Roadster. And I smile at the pictures of his new, beautiful girlfriend,
who becomes my mom.
As for my uncle, I open his pages and watch him mug for the camera
and get in the ring as an amateur bantamweight boxer. I enter
the lumber camps in the mist-laden redwood forests near Eureka,
California and watch the guys pose by the contraptions used to
transport the giant logs. I chuckle at the diffident poses of
my mom’s sister, who became his wife.
All these collections of pictures tell stories and also sketch
the character of the photographer. I treasure them. But I’m
not sure my own descendants would do the same for what I leave
behind because there will be so much of it. I can’t stop
taking pictures.
I sidestep chronicling the family by making scrapbooks about
the trips my husband and I take.
Trips are easy. They’re finite because we don’t travel
that much. And they’re an easy focus because I record them
right away while I still recall where the pictures were taken,
set out to compose impressions, an approach at odds with record
keeping. My Alaska book has pages of sculpture-like icebergs
and colorful Russian churches.
The countless pictures that recreate Alaska place by place are
recorded on CDs and video and inside an album of digital shots
on my computer. But the ones my husband and I look at over and
over are in that album.
One day the guilt that started with the yellow envelope from
my friend vanished with the cookie tin from my cousin. She dropped
it by one day for me to rummage through.
It was filled with tiny black and white snapshots of our relatives
in Tucson in the ‘40’s. Lots of babies, great new clothes,
everybody young. They were absolutely delightful even without
labels or organization. I discerned who was who in terms of how
they look now. Sifting through that tin was like a treasure hunt.
How could I deprive my own descendants of the same pleasure of
discovery? I know my kids can handle clutter: their teenage bedrooms
come to mind. Forget shelves full of acid-free albums with plastic-protected
pages. Instead, I’ll leave behind a cover letter with a
few handy tips on handling the largesse.
Dear Children, Grand children,
and Great-grandkids:
I never could stop taking pictures. Most of you remember that.
I have friends who have done this. They no longer bother hauling
cameras and film, stopping a party to ask everyone look this
way please, or unpacking the camera while missing the wild animal
who chooses that moment to cross the trail. They think that collecting
pictures–especially of children–is an addiction that
conquers time and the good intention to avoid clutter.
Toss my travel albums. It was enough to have them remind Dad
and I of our adventures. I won’t haunt you with guilt on
this one.
Get started by taking a good look at those group shots of the
family. You little kids never saw your parents and grandparents
roll their eyes when I’d demand that we stand together while
I mounted the camera on a tripod or--worse--stopped a passerby
to record the moment. Look closely. Is the background a camping
trip or perhaps the house where a lot of us grew up? Look how
short the bushes were. Is there a physical resemblance through
the generations that show you where you got that characteristic
expression of yours? Aren’t you glad I forced everyone to
pose?
You will need to edit. No one could have basements big enough
for all the albums, envelopes, slides, CDs and videos I’m
leaving you. Was I a chronicler or a pack rat? You decide.
The main thing is our story. Keep only what you need to show
what made each of us look proud and happy.
Some of my favorite pictures are the ones we found in a box when
we helped clean your Great Grandma and Grandpa’s house.
They were a series taken of a family reunion at their place in
Fruita, Colorado in 1941. Grandma was very young, lovely in a
print dress, as she posed in front of the house with everyone.
Another shot shows her with Grandpa. Their love still shines
out of that scene. And finally, still wearing that dress and
wedgies, she climbs a tree.
Feel free to cannibalize whatever albums I’ve put together.
Maybe those doubles I never weeded out of the envelopes from
Longs Drug Store will come in handy if more than one of you wants
the same picture. Be merciful and toss the bad ones. Remember,
orderly archiving isn’t everything. Preserving the personality
of the family is what counts. Find the pictures that reflect
love and hang onto them as best you can.
Pour carefully over these pictures that comprise my legacy to
you. They show you what you’re made of.
©2004 by Joyce Kiefer. The photos are from the author's family archives. All rights reserved.
|
Florence Kiefer passed away December 1. She was 89 years old. Ever thoughtful, she "chose" to depart after Thanksgiving and before the rush of Christmas celebrations. Almost everyone who memorialized her at the service spoke of her photo albums. -- Joyce Kiefer |
You can comment on this column online. Please address your message to either "The Editors" or Joyce Kiefer. To send an email, click here: talkback@thecolumnists.com
| Home | About Us | Archives | Talkback | Shopping Mall |