Milestones and Memories

Many of the pictures in my mind were never photographed and the photographs I do have, help jog my foggy memory. I wish I could have hired some Hollywood cinematographer to capture every moment in the lives of my family. What few pictures we have, come with long stories that make up for the lack of actual photographs.

One memory my grandmother tells me about, takes place in 1950's Los Angeles. She remembers sending my mother to preschool by herself–age four. The walk to school was about five blocks. My grandmother said it was difficult but she knew she had to let go. She watched from the corner until her daughter's tiny figure could no longer be seen.

In order to piece together that story I had to ask for my mother's input. She said she must have had a whole lot of confidence instilled in her to have been able to make that trip alone. Otherwise, she might have remembered the trauma in later years, like when she was six or seven. But more than that, it was still considered a time of innocence as well as trust that the majority would not inflict harm. She does remember walking home from preschool. The evergreen tree in her front yard was the tallest in the neighborhood. It served as a beacon, her landmark to safety. She had walked the valley of no fear at age four.

Fast forward 30 years later when my brother and I ages seven and four, were sent to walk to the market. It was about four blocks away and one of the blocks was a dirt hill that we had to slide down. Fun, right? It's no wonder every memory of mine pre-1992 is coated in a thin layer of dust. My mother said she knew she had to send us off on our own and she thought there might be security in numbers. We returned home unscathed by the experience and happily ate our store bought reward for our bravery. My poor mother, however, was a wreck. Like her predecessor, she knew she had to let go.

Fast forward a couple of more decades and I find myself documenting on camera many firsts. I have photographs of my son's first haircut, his first ride on the bus to preschool, the first time he finally made a basket on the court. Any fears or tears on my part are diminished with the desire to preserve the memory. My mother, however, has been reluctant to go through that experience again with her only grandchild. Not that he hasn't spread his wings and gone off, she just can't watch. She can't even look at the photographs without becoming emotional.

Since then, of course, there have been many milestones we recount. Most of my childhood pictures were stolen from a poorly secured storage unit, so the photos remaining are precious. For consolation, my mother has a story for each of them. Why wouldn't a story accompany a picture? Otherwise it would just be a smiling face instead of, 'that time you learned to jump rope' or just a woman holding a baby, instead of 'my mother's usual way of singing to me'.

Maybe she didn't say it quite that way. or maybe it didn't happen exactly like that. Time and poetic license allows the storyteller—me in this case—to remember what we want the way we want.

The past is often filled with pain, fear and sorrow but there's a point where one has to place those details in the background. When we chose to recreate a happier version of our lives, we do so in order to spare ourselves. I suspect my mother is no different. It's possible she tells the same story over and over again because she's reworking it in her mind. To preserve her fleeting memories, she tells the stories as though none of us has ever heard them before. Many of her stories recount actual events, complete with embellishments, exaggerations, ironies, coincidences and sometimes even happy endings.

Her stories are from the heart. She lived them and can retell them, the way she wants to and from her unique perspective. It's her strength and the way she has saved the day many times over. She has passed storytelling on to me, either from genes or osmosis; I have it too, as my inheritance.

I still wish it all would have been captured on film and preserved in some neatly arranged archive. But I have something that won't get lost or stolen; memories—they're keepsakes and my mother has given me hers.