Saturday, August 24, 2013

Digital photos dont't work!

We all have mountains of digital photos that are stashed here and there on our computers and cell phones and on Cd's and in the cloud and god knows where. We just dumped them wherever, and when we changed computers, these photos became ever more distant. (But they were there! Somewhere.) It's supposed to be the modern way and accessible through time.

Last week when many members of my family were visiting, my daughter hauled out a huge bin of actual family photos. Some of these had been handed down to us by our families. Many others were snapshots I had printed out over the years since I had at one time carefully made annual photo albums of family doings.

The kids were hunkered down on the rug in the living room, pawing through these photos. "Look at this! Me when I was a baby!" So I had to tell this grandchild about the day he was born, how cute he was, and how his brothers and I went to Publix and bought him a birthday cake. His older brother remembers this event.

We see photos of relatives long dead and photos of people no one can identify. We see photos of events we all remember fondly and extend upon. This is such a family bonding. Everyone is talking at once, asking questions and explaining. "This is Daddy?" And I have to tell the story about this newborn son of ours who was born during the race riots in D.C. in 1968 and how it was.

These are the family stories. So many times these come up by looking at old photos. Our grandson, Quincy, who spends so much time with us, often tells me that he loves these family stories! He especially loves me to tell him about my adventures in the Amazon (where I went several times). He loves to hear about Grandma climbing up trees to visit parrots and seeing huge snakes.

When my kids send me dozens of their beautiful photos on line I am charmed and extend the seconds of the slide shows. I am in the loop. But what I truly treasure are a couple of real photos of those lovely grandchildren that I carefully download and print out.

I think we are in overload on photos. The photographic details of our life become meaningless when there are so many!

We have one wall in our house plastered from ceiling to floor in family photos- all framed. We all look at this! From time to time new photos are added, some deleted. Of course, anyone could see these and thousands more on my computer. But they don't.

I have a good friend who is the most amazing photographer! He posts many of his photos on line and documents everything in our community. His pictures have an immediate purpose and we all love them.

He has given me a couple of enlarged photos and I constantly look at them, and they inspire me. So much more relevant to my life than looking at slide shows from the web. I think we have to be able to really take time to look at photos, really pay attention. And who can do this in one second?

Thank god for iphones and the cameras and instagram and all the rest. But do keep on printing out some of those photos. Those are the stuff of family history.

Saturday, August 03, 2013

Cat Man

Many years ago, when we first came to Florida, we were cat people. From the north we brought our cat, Rosie, a huge black cat with a few white markings and extra toes. Along with the box turtle and some small rodents we arrived at our new home here in Florida.

Eventually, Rosie died, having lived through orthodontia, small boys,  and many close scrapes with cars and critters. We buried him in the yard and I read the kids that wonderful Judith Viorst book, "The tenth good thing about Barney".  I mourned that cat who was the most beautiful creature with his long hair and swishy tail and willful personality.  Several months before Rosie's death my father died, much too young. It wasn't until Rosie's death that I could cry, really cry, and shake my fists at whatever god that was so unfair.

Sometimes our beloved pets give us permission to accept the inevitable and the unthinkable.

Last week we visited dear friends who live ten hours north of us in North Carolina. We had thought we would be going to help them deal with a recent knee surgery. We were up for helping out with the cooking and errands and needed household stuff.

The real agenda was the death of a beloved cat. This cat, one of two that live in their house, is a Siamese. He and his beautiful brother were adopted as kittens. From the start, one of the cats was clearly the one who cleaved on to the man. They were tight for so many years. Of course, the two cats were a pair, but this particular one was this man's special friend and delight. Nothing was too much to do for him.

Over the years when we visited our friends, we came to know these lovely cats, so different in personality.  This year we knew that the man's cat was in an end stage of renal failure. When we arrived this cat was looking beautiful as always but was not eating. The vet thought he was done for, no hope at all.  The vet gave the cat a shot of antibiotics and some fluids and sent him home to have a few last days. So for the whole visit this cat was seemingly o.k. He presided on out hosts' bed.

Sometimes I checked up on him and he seemed alert. But everyone knew that he was failing. Each night we hoped that he would just die peacefully. But, no, he was waiting with his man, his best friend, for the last crumbs of affection and life with the one he loved best. The man made an appointment at the vet for euthanasia. This was so hard. The man's wife was so tender, knowing how much this pet meant.

The night before the death of this amazing cat, we sat out on a porch looking out at the Blue Ridge Mountains lit by moonlight and the fading of the day. And we talked about our children and grandchildren in revealing ways we had never really spoken of before. We spoke of the tragedies of the deaths of children and young adults. But mostly, we heard stories about the wonders of being able to really enjoy every moment we had the privilege to be with them.

It was the last night for the wonderful cat to be alive. While we talked the cat was comfortably ensconced on the bed in the place his master slept. Seemed he was giving us all permission to speak our hearts.