I love looking back through pictures of my family. Pictures from when I was alive, and from when I had yet to be born. Not only to gawk at the absolutely wonderful clothing and accessory choices of my family through the years. (I have yet to understand the meaning of glasses that go down low enough to allow your cheeks to see clearly – but knowing fashion that’ll probably be “in” again next week. Cheeks have the right to prescriptive lenses too.) But also to hear the stories told by my parents, aunts, uncles, and my grandmothers (when I was lucky enough to have them).
Pictures are memories. They remind us of who we were and where we’ve come since the photo was taken. Pictures show us our history. I guess oil paintings do too, before 1826 – but do you really trust oil paintings? (Do you really trust photographs anymore either?) That’s neither here nor there.
The fact is a camera isn’t always handy. I haven’t had a camera available at every moment I would have wanted one. Maybe that’s not so important though. A camera can capture a scene, but does it always capture the feeling and emotion occurring? A camera can’t be relied on to remind us of every memory we have.
On this day, my father’s birthday, I’d like to share one of my earliest memories, that wasn’t captured on film.
As far as I can tell, my first memory was of being held by my father. Cuddled safely in his arms I was being fed milk. He stood with me by the kitchen sink, and I looked up at the, blurry with the passage of time, vision of lights above us.
While a short memory, it is one I often bring up with fondness. Over the years I have been carried by my father on countless occasions, and sometimes, when I’m really really tired I realize how good I had it when I was little. Carried up to bed after a long day of running around wildly.
Dad, I hope you have a wonderful birthday. Sit back, relax, and rest that back of yours, I’m sure it’s tired after years of lugging us kids around.
Happy Birthday Dad! You’d better like the present I got you.