Photographs and Memories

Photographs and Memories

    A classic some would say, that title song by Jim Croce, a portion of his lyrics reading: Photographs and memories, All the love you gave to me, Somehow it just can't be true, That's all I've left of you.  Of course, working back at my mother's house, I've been finding piles of photographs, some of me as  a child, some of other relatives, and many of people I don't know.  This had all happened earlier as well when I found a trove of my step-father's photos in a chest, each carefully placed in a professional photographers paper frame (each beautifully done and framed, even if taken back in the early 1900s).  There were usually no inscriptions, no words or dates or names, only the photo.  And there were dozens and dozens, each person in the photo standing rigidly as if at attention and told not to smile.  Perhaps that is just how it was done back then, this new form of capturing an image on paper and then patiently waiting to use up the roll of film before taking it in to be processed, then waiting some more and being disappointed at the result, of how many of them had been over or underexposed and were of little use, especially since the film (and later, the flashbulbs) had cost so much.  Back then, one simply didn't have the money to experiment over and over with rolls and rolls of film.  Certainly, there are those who would later move further into that world of photography, learning how set f-stops and shutter speeds and never trusting or using a new setting called "auto-adjust," which would come decades later.  The mere fact that the camera itself had shrunk from a massive suitcase-sized feature to a small box the size of a dozen DVDs was revolutionary...now everyone could carry a Brownie and take their own pictures (this was still years before the flashbulb would arrive, a glass bulb that would ignite with light and burn your fingers if you tried to remove it too quickly).  Now, one would simply pull of their phone and "click" away (the artificial sound of the click being one of the last features to cling to the past)...instant photo, instant adjustment and also instant delete.

    With those earlier photos (my mother still being in rehab at the time), I was able to have her go over them.  Who's that, I would ask?  And she would show the same puzzled face that I had.  She didn't know.  What about this one, I would ask, only to have the same response.  Photo after photo, each garnishing a sigh and a saddened guess.  Even in her mind, the photos were likely my step-father's relatives or neighbors or close friends, people close enough to warrant a professional photo to keep.  But alas, to both of us, they were as close as sepia photos from a historical period long passed.  I kept one of the paper frames, an antique in itself, and the rest went off to a donation facility, ready to perhaps brighten up someone's day who delved and collected such things.  But my step-father was lucky, for his photos would move onward should someone rescue them from the charity store's shelf.  Looking back at the hundreds and hundreds of photos now almost haunting my mother's dresser in a jagged pile (many had already been culled, duplicates and such), I thought of them simply being tossed.  Certainly, a few dozen or perhaps a hundred would be saved, passed on to those in the photos (nieces and cousins and such); but after that, sadly, the trash.  For my wife and I, with no one to pass any of our photos to, the task will be even easier...hit the delete button or drill through the hard drive.  For us, thousands of photos will simply vanish, saving someone the dreaded task of repeatedly asking, Who's that?

    Still, some of this brought to mind (and here's a stretch but bear with me) the presidential election race currently going on (without end, it would seem) here in the U.S.  It's a lot of money (the Koch brother alone --whose fortune came primarily from their father who gained it helping Hitler and Stalin develop refineries for jet fuel-- have pledged nearly $900 million to help their candidates, none of whom have so far done well), a lot of time away from the job (here in the U.S., a politician can keep his job --be it Senator or governor-- while campaigning; imagine telling your boss at work that you'll be taking a year or two off to look for another job, but should you not succeed, you want your old job ready and waiting and not to have it replaced by someone else...makes one wonder who's minding the government store when these candidates can so easily leave their position for such an extended period, eh?) and a lot ot travel (in many state campaigns, travel to four or more destinations is the norm, each requiring going to a different city, then event, then speech, then back...and once done, onward to a new state or states).  It's exhausting, especially if you're 70 as several of our candidates are or will soon be.  Who would want such a position, for likely the grueling pace only worsens once in office.  Take time to stop and read a book or watch a movie?  Doubtful...too many pressing issues to study and meetings to attend (or so it would seem).  And not that my travel schedule is anywhere near that tough...but just the simple task of sorting through papers and photographs and battling my mother's insurance and medical regimen and phone calls, and repeated visits to her old house and taking care of that end (which accounts for much of my time on the road), well, all that alone is exhausting.  I cannot imagine, even at my younger age, wanting to meet crowd after crowd of people, hear the same questions over and over, have thousands or hundreds of thousands of photos taken and then jump on a plane and do it again, over and over.

    So, I am heading back onto the road.  Silence, if I want it, the hum of the tires lulling me into an almost-hypnotic state of scenery that slowly begins to blur together, my mind being the one truly free to roam.  I can think about things there, on the road.  How fortunate I am to be driving, to be getting out, even to view a pile of photographs.  On the road I can even think of how even the grandest politician, just like me, will soon be simply a blink of history, a person such as James Polk*, a child later looking at a photograph and asking, Who's that?

Archive photo of President James Polk

*From the History Channel site about President Polk: The stress of the presidency had left him in poor health, and he died that summer, on June 15, at age 53.