A Little While Longer

Have you ever walked through a history museum where the walls were filled with pictures from the past? Each picture shows a person or persons either posing patiently or in the midst of some part of life. Some may have names listed (though they mean nothing to you), or the description would say person doing…

As a passer-by, you stand there looking at the faces looking out. You wonder just who they were, what the reason for the photo was (unless it is obvious), what happened to the people after the photo, and, possibly, whether anyone remembers them.

Yesterday, I started a project that I had been promising my wife I would do for the last five or more years. I began digitizing our past. As we begin to pack for moving, we are looking for ways to cut down on items. Photo albums actually take up a lot of space and weigh quite a bit. So the project had to happen. We also did not want to return to the East Coast with photo albums that we had brought from the East Coast—they had traveled enough.

The first albums on my pile came from my Aunt when she was cleaning out her house. The albums belonged to her, my mother, and my Nana. I grabbed the first one without ceremony. It was a big, black book with some pages falling out. The pages were thin sheets of black paper. Photos filled each one. I opened the book ready to grab the photos for scanning but found that I had to pause and appreciate the book itself.

Each page was filled with different-sized pictures, each held by four little corner tabs secured to the sheet. At first glance, I wondered why you would buy a book with such specific sizes predetermined. Then I realized, since some of the back pages were empty, that the owner actually created each page. The tabs were in an envelope secured to the back of the album. The user (funny—I didn’t know what else to call the person filling the book) would place the photo and then glue the tabs to secure the picture in place. This made me admire not the photos, but the thought that went into each page. Each was unique and told a little story of how the person wanted others to view their life.

I carefully started pulling the photos from their tabs. Much like a person sent to clean an attic and then getting caught up with the books or other things found up there, I started to be drawn into the photos. Some had the year at the bottom or on the back; most had no additional information outside of the picture itself. My mind was blown at the first date I noticed: 1925! I was holding a picture that was over 100 years old. Page four offered photos from 1917. My hands held the memories of people who have long since left us. But people who lived. People whose history is my history. People who could be part of the reason that I even exist.

The people stared out of their black and white world. There were the obligatory ‘stand by the tree in the front yard’ photos, but there were so many candid shots of them living life. I started looking carefully at the faces, the young faces, for signs of the older cousins that I used to know. Could I figure out who I was looking at? For some, it was an easy task; others remained unnamed. I saw my grandmother as a child of two. I saw her stand proudly in cap and gown on the day she graduated from high school. I watched her romp around in the lake with the man who would become my grandfather.

I am now determined to work with other cousins to put names to these faces as best as we can. I scanned hundreds of photos from these albums. So few with any information. So many just photos that will not mean anything to future generations. I will try to change that if possible.

I moved on to my parents’ albums. Those are marked a little better, but those faces, for the most part, have names in my head. As I digitize these, I am making sure to make notes on who, what, where, and when. I want my daughter and nieces to be able to know their past.

When I finished for the night, I started thinking about our generation and photos. We started like our parents. We had cameras containing film that had to be developed. We thought twice about whether something was worthy of a picture. Today—I do not know anyone who worries about whether it should be a picture; we snap away. The intention is to take a ton of pictures; we can go back and delete them later. I, for one, have never really gone back and cleaned up my pics. I started to wonder about all of those photos. There is no real information about them. Well, at least the camera gives a date stamp, but nothing else.

Who will know us in the future? Will anyone past a generation or two know our names; will they care about who we were? As I sat with my coffee this morning, I pulled up the family photos. I slowly clicked the right arrow as I went through my youth. Then I hit those old black-and-white photos. My finger did not push the button as fast. I found that I just wanted to linger a little longer on each one. I wanted to take in as much as possible.

I ended up with a photo of what I believe is my great-grandmother holding a child. The child might be my mother; I don’t know. It did not matter who they were; I just wanted them to know that they will be remembered, at least for a little while longer.