Pictures

Being so new at this, I've spent an inordinate amount of time clicking the "Next Blog" button, trying to find out just what people write in these blog thingies. Despite finding that two out of three clicks bring up something called firmata or someone's foreign language AdSense blog, I have found a couple blogs worth reading. One of those was Wayne Meadows' blog on Memories. His post asked the question, "Do you keep pictures of things that bring back bad memories or do you discard them?" It was a great question and made me realize that I view photographic prints as indisposable - I won't throw even the most mundane photo away. Digital images, on the other hand, are a different story. I delete these in bulk, wiping out dozens with a single keystroke and nary a wave goodbye.

This, of course, raises a good question. Why do I refuse to throw away anything developed on photographic paper? I think it's because I've found a lot of joy studying old photos, and there's a part of me that thinks maybe some day, someone will feel the same way looking through my old snapshots. One hundred years from now, maybe these will serve as some sort of chronicle of my life.

Of course, as is often the case, this answer only raised more questions.

What story will my photos tell 100 years from now? Perhaps I'll scan and post a selection of the photos that are tucked away in my little shoebox someday. Hopefully, someone who doesn't know the whole story behind these pictures will be gracious enough to write my story, so that I can get a glimpse of what someone might think a century from now. In the meantime, let me just tell you a little about some of what the shoe box contains. I'll try to describe these from an outsider's perspective, not with the life experience that goes hand-in-hand with having been present when these photos were taken.

Two or three rolls of film showing rolling hills from high above, several people folding up a deflated hot air balloon and a young, mangy me in a tee-shirt that reads "Go Dawgs!"

One picture of a brown horse staring straight at the camera surrounded by a thick fog.

An 8x10 black and white photo of a bluetick coonhound, laying with one paw draped over an empty Jim Beam bottle, his nose at the at the bottle's opening.

A few hundred people standing on a hill side (pictured in many other photos as well, and likely presumed to be the driveway to my childhood home), watching a parade go past on a gravel drive. Three elephants trail a firetruck with a five-piece band aboard (and looking to be playing their instruments, including a string bass, a banjo and a trombone).

One full roll of poorly developed (and more poorly shot) film showing a rock and roll band on a distant stage.

A handful of school portraits, with kids ranging from approximately 6th grade through high school. Most are girls. Two color portraits are of the same young man. In one his hair is spiked in a mowhawk. In another, it's flat to his head. His name, embossed on the senior portraits, is Scott.

A dozen or so photos showing a green pickup truck crashed through the front door of a brick home, plaster and brick dust coating the scene.

Several closeups of flower blossoms.

Various photos, obviously shot at different times of the year, but showing another brick home from many angles.

Photos of my wedding day. Some show hundreds of people standing on the side of a hill while my white-gowned bride and I exchange our vows in a flower garden. And some show me dancing, kissing and holding my bride, but in these she's not wearing her gown. She's wearing blue jeans and a halter top. I'm still in my tux.

A man with an Amish style beard, his balding head draped in those miniature streamers and confetti that explode from party favors.

Well, there are lots more, and most of them are as disjointed as these. There are a few common subjects, but it's hard to imagine what story someone who didn't know me might put together based solely on these images.

For now, my wife has convinced me that this post is further evidence of my narcissism, so it's time to stop the music. I'll leave you with this question - what story will your pictures tell 100 years from now?