Ordinary Photographs

My son accuses me of posting way too many photos on Instagram. He points out how much the quality varies--from pretty good to nobody cares, and enough with the trees already.

Occasionally, I go back and delete the ones that do not spark joy, but I still have over 3,000 photos on Instagram.

Before Instagram, I uploaded photos to Shutterfly.  Last week, I went through those photos (hundreds) and ordered prints of everyone and everything I love, including people, dogs, cats, and places where I've lived and worked.  But mostly people, dogs, and cats--in that order.

150 prints, of which about 135 are really good.

I also have photo albums that reflect my usual level of overzealousness. Today, I paged through several albums and ruthlessly culled the wheat from the chaff.

In the process, I found many dozens of photos that hadn't interested me much when I took them, but they're treasure to me today:

Two photographs of  K, in her 20s and glamorously turned out for B's wedding.

Today, in her mid-40s, K is in a hospital, fighting to recover from an unexpected medical disaster.

I IM'd the photos to K's partner, probably sitting by K's bed or in the hospital cafeteria, staying strong and taking encouragement from K's every incremental advance toward wellness.

I found a photograph of my friend M, in her early 30s with her daughter L, then two. I sent it to M, who was driving home with her husband when she received it after visiting L(now in her 20s ,and living in NYC) for the weekend.  M hadn't planned to go see L this weekend, but she had been missing L so much, she decided they just had to go.

I sent a photograph to P and L from 20 years ago.  "We don't look like that anymore," P texted.  "To me, you do," I texted back.

I found a photograph of my uncle G and his wife A. I suppose neither ever looked better than they do in that photo.  Anyone could be forgiven, looking at them, for experiencing a twinge of envy--not just because they are so attractive, but also because they are so evidently in love.  They are not newlyweds.  They have been married for over 10 years, have two teenage boys.  They had had several dogs and a few homes.  They have been through good times and bad.  And yet, there they are, gorgeous, and absolutely bonkers for one another.

G passed away unexpectedly from a DVT related to a tennis injury at 58.

I sent A the photo. She said she had never seen the picture before, and my timing was perfect. (I suspect my timing would have been perfect no matter when I sent it.)

I sent a photo of myself to my best friend in California.  I have crazy thick auburn hair grown out past my shoulders, and I am wearing a sleeveless jersey.  You can see that I tried to wash off the ink drawings cover my entire right arm, but the drawings are in deep and fading slowly. My bff had drawn all of them.

I sent her a photo of herself, too.  She's at Philip's Beach, with windswept hair from an Atlantic breeze.

"We had so much hair!" she texted.

"We did!"

I also sent her a photo of the kitten that is now 18 years old, curled up in a basket on my desk.

I sent another friend photos of her daughter and my son from when they were three and one year old, respectively.  The 35 mm photo hasn't aged an hour.  You might think that our children, now 18 and 16, could still be many years away from flying.

Photos of my father happily cavorting with my then-four and five-year old son will prevent J's memories of his grandfather from fading.

The only photo of my Basset-Lab  that accurately depicts the odd charm of her peculiar anatomy: a  Black Lab on short legs, with big, turned out muffin paws.  (How I loved her!)

Photos of me with my step-mother, step-sister, and step-brother--whom I continued to see after the divorce, but not nearly as often as I'd like.

Photos of F with my mother that reveal the great depths of their attachment, that developed without benefit of official social designations.

The list goes on, but these are the highlights.

Of course, my son doesn't appreciate how precious and important ordinary photographs can become, over time.  Nor would I want him to feel such a bittersweet affection for photographs, at only 16.