Suppose The Day Is Being Photographed

Have you ever taken a trip and, when you looked back at your photos, appreciated the remembering of the experience more than when you were actually there?

I recently went to Paris. It was what I expected and nothing of what I expected. I did expect fine art and architecture, flaky croissants and crisp baguettes, all wine and cheese to be good, and to wish I could better speak the musical language. I didn't expect the women to be wearing very little makeup or perfume, or for The Louvre to allow flash photography, or for it to be so crowded that one would have to use elbows to get to the Mona Lisa. Needless to say, who could really see it under those conditions?

I knew I would like the Paris Opera House. I knew I wouldn't care about going up in the Eiffel Tower. I thought I would find high fashion everywhere, but didn't. And while there, I was already making plans for what I would do differently if I ever went back.

I had a good time--I especially liked it when the French woman who sold me a scarf offered to tie it for me. And though it wasn't funny then, I now laugh about getting stuck in the turnstile at the train station. In reviewing my pictures when I came home, I found it curious that I had snapshots of so many doors. And I regretted I had only 1 of the 17 bridges on the Seine.

Doors. Bridges. I have done the same in other cities. Hmm.

And your pictures from your travels -- have you realized a pattern?

If a person from the other side of the world came to visit us, what would she take pictures of that we no longer pay attention to?

What about today or tomorrow, here at home? Suppose the day is being photographed. Are there things that will have passed us by until we look back?  Could your breakfast omelette filled with crisp bits of bacon and topped with snipped fresh chives next to three firm red-ripe strawberries have been  pretty enough for a picture? Maybe someone joined you at the table, poured your orange juice, and expressed thanks with a kiss on your cheek. Or maybe you remember the day it was so.

Perhaps on the way to do something as mundane as gettting the mail from the mailbox we see a rainbow in the puddle from last night's rain. The toddler from next door is trying to pick up a watermelon. His mother is laughing. Her husband is in Afghanistan.

Pick up the blue-black feather on the sidewalk. Listen. Look up. Note the exact blue of this morning's sky. Yes -- today is a photograph.

And before we step back inside, let's not forget to notice the door!

Cherish the Ordinary

Yesterday I was part of a large gathering. I saw more than a hundred people (maybe close to two hundred), many of whom I haven't seen in more than a decade.  It was a rich photo-taking opportunity, but I knew I would not be using a camera. I was at a place I didn't want to be.

For some people, a photograph is a picture of people, places, or things. For me, it brings back a memory. Often when I see a snapshot, I see not only the person or the place, but I recall the circumstances and the mood. I remember the event, and even sometimes those who were there but not in the picture.

I look at a faded picture of my grandmother and remember the clear gallon jar she kept the sugar in to sweeten iced tea, and how she emptied the pot of wet tea leaves around her rose bushes. My dad sits in a chair smiling for the camera, but I remember him playing the steel-guitar, or badminton, or checking my homework, and how he would let my brothers and sisters climb onto his back and take them for a ride.  On a side table rests a photo of my Dear Departed fastening a necklace for me, but I remember it as the year he gave me 3 Christmas cards because he couldn't choose which was the most special.

I look at pictures of my children when they were young and remember not only their antics and the joy of the moment, but if we were living in the rented house with the red carpet, or the one with the fireplace that never kept us warm enough, or the one with the vegetable garden, or the one where we had barbecues for friends most every weekend. I have a few pictures of my brothers and sisters and extended families taken two years ago, and wonder if we will all be able to get together for a happy occasion again. Pictures representing some of the dearest people and times of my life will be the first things I grab if I have to leave home suddenly in the case of fire or flood.

And so often, as I look at these representatives of times past, I realize I would not have anticipated how important the picture would be later. How often someone says I'm so glad you took (or have) that picture. How often our days seem unremarkable, until we look back. I pray that I will cherish the ordinary days and moments I have with my children and grandchildren, and other friends and loved ones. I pray that they will cherish the ordinary days they have with each other, and with me.

So most of the time, I feel free to take candid shots of people and places, realizing that they will mean more later than they do at present.  But not yesterday. We put to rest a truly great man. I don't want to remember yesterday at all.