Holding On

It was inevitable. From the moment I gathered the boxes of family photos from my dad’s house earlier this summer, I knew I needed to go through them - one by one. Yesterday afternoon, sitting on the deck under a late August sun, I moved picture after picture through my hands.

As I looked at the photos, especially the older ones, I watched time stand still. These events, many of which are still floating memories within my mind, have been frozen into stillness. Due to being trapped on paper I’m now allowed to examine the moment in a way I couldn’t when the picture was taken; the photos that drew my closer inspection being the ones when I was younger. And in those pictures I was either: racing in front of the camera, posing sarcastically for the camera or staring gloomily into the lens. The latter being seen more often during my early teenage years.

This last summer has been a difficult one for me, and my brother. Our marriages ended (this is a good thing, don’t feel sad), our mother moved away and remarried (this is both good and sad), and our father passed away after having a stroke (this is very sad, feel free to cry along with me). So as I look at these photos, my face smiled in sadness, my eyes filled softly with tears, and I began to mumble to myself. As I sat alone, gazing at the still images from my youth, I talked about them. If someone were to have tip toed up behind me, I’m sure I looked as if I’d lost my mind. But maybe once they saw the pile of faded photos sitting on my lap they would have simply nodded their head in understanding.

Not all the photos made me blue. In fact, it can never be said that I'm not an award winning writer. The proof is in the photo. And that photo, once my hand unearthed it from inside the heap of one dimensional memories - is now sitting beside me as I type this. I was roughly ten years old when the picture was taken, and the book I held proudly in my hand had  just won first place. Let’s hope now, thirty-one years later, I achieve similar success.

No one takes pictures during the worst of times. I can’t imagine anyone, whipping their camera out during an argument, or while busy scolding their child and ordering them to their room to think about what they did. In this way the photos provide a slanted view of our past. And sitting on the deck last night I had to wonder, I thought we had a rough childhood – and we did. But, according to the pictures we were quite happy, even my parents. Growing up in an alcoholic home (and I don’t mean the mixed drink after dinner kind, I mean the fifth of vodka hidden behind the tree kind), my brother and I were kept on a constant roller coaster for all of our youth. As the years steadily climbed past, all we knew was the familiarity of chaos. Even the lulls held their own silent chaos. Much like the momentary leveling out and relief one feels during the short straight away on a roller coaster. Looking back we knew we just came off a tremendous drop, looking ahead we could see the tumultuous turn we as a family were about to take. But there were moments of balance, those lulls in which we could catch our breath, and release our white knuckled grip from the safety bar in front of us. And looking at these photos, I have to conclude, that's when the shutter blinked, and those moments of calm were recorded. And I am thankful for it.

Oddly enough, my brother and I do not regret growing up the way we did. Perhaps because of the way in which it shaped us. We are both very balanced people. We are the ones sitting on the bench beside the roller coaster now. In our marriages, we unknowingly grabbed the hands of people that drug us back onto the ride. But today, we only gaze up at the thrill ride from our fixed, safe position, and when asked if we want to get in line we say, “No, you go ahead. I’m good here.”

Sane