Old Photos

In my continuing efforts to clean out the basement, I found a bin with old photos, yes, from real film, before digital took over the world.  The only question I can ask myself is how did I allow myself to get so fat!

All my life I’ve considered myself fat.  That’s my self-image.  It wasn’t helped along by walking to elementary school and having other kids call me “fatty.”

However, when I look at old photos from teen years on, I’m not fat. I’m just disproportioned with my slight top and my peasant hips, thick thighs but slim ankles.  Oh, how I wish I had a better handle on my image back then.  Maybe I wouldn’t have felt so inferior in the looks department.  I mean, when your husband-to-be tells you objectively he thinks your sister is prettier than you—well, you have to wonder:  Why are you marrying this guy!

But fast forward to fat in the fifties.  My fifties.  I’m blaming it on menopause where there was an almost immediate gain of forty pounds.  No joke.  And, of course, let the good times roll in the food and drinks department in dear old Atlanta.

I’ve lost thirty-five of those pounds, let my hair grow, moved out of the deliciously enticing deep South, and look slightly decent—for my age.  At least that’s my story.

But note:  I’m only focusing on myself.  There were three garbage bags full of old photos.  My husband and I were lucky enough to travel the world for his job.  And I have to ask myself:  Is there a waterfall I didn’t take ten photos of?  What about boats in the harbor?  Or waves crashing against rocks.  Or beautiful displays of flowers.  And a koala thrown in here and there.

All these are photos no one wants to see, so they have been tossed.  However there are so many I’ve kept and am parceling out to the children.

There’s my daughter graduating from Wisconsin; my daughter on our graduation trip, just the two of us.  My daughter and her horse.  And then digital came along and I don’t have my daughter and my grandson. Those are saved on the cloud, as I must call it.

My older son, how he hated having his photo taken.  He never smiled, even during his college graduation.  He was a shy one.  I remember him having his bar mitzvah in Israel, reading his parasha at his father’s synagogue.  The men kept shouting, “Speak up!”  Poor kid.  Even in the digital age, I have so few photos of him.  But I think I remember what he looks like.

My younger son.  Such a handsome boy in his younger years. High school, he was so thin.  Actually, all the kids were thin, and I had to search for skinny jeans.  He had the longest hair and the sweetest smile.  Now, he loved having his photo taken, maybe because he looked so good in them.  I have all his graduations and the time spent in Israel, especially our hike through Ein Gedi.  What happened to him?  He’s lost some of his hair, he’s no longer thin, and he wears these ghastly shirts from France.  He says he doesn’t have time to take care of himself.  True, he’s busy with his disabled child, but honestly—  Well, maybe some time in the future—that I probably won’t be around to see.

Photos of friends, how they bring joy to my heart.  My dance group in Maryland, where we went up on toe when I was forty.  It was the delight of my life and, yes, I was thin then.  Otherwise how could I wear the leotards and net stockings for my tap routine.  And there was my friend Rita with her baby, who is now well out of college.  How delighted Rita looks.  She almost gave up hope of having a child.  Then there’s Judy and Peter from England.  They’re one of the few couples I could travel anywhere with they’re such good company. Here’s photos of Judy and I, roaming the wilds of Alaska, or funning around in Barcelona.  Oh, the joy of it all.  It warms my heart just to look at them and remember all those wonderful times.

My husband.  It’s been ten years now since he took that fatal fall and suffered his brain bleed that left him not all there.  But the photos bring life back into him.  All the hikes we took, at his insistence, the cathedrals we visited, the lighthouses he absolutely had to have a photo with.  And, yes, the waterfalls with him standing proudly by.  So many photos of him.  I’ve saved them all.  So I can remember what life used to be like.

Oh well.  Time passes and I will too.  Someone cleaning out the house will toss all those remembrances. But for now they’re mine to cherish—in my dotage.