Memory Banks
The business of memories has been on my mind this week. My uncle asked me if I would compile a photo memory book of my grandma to give guests at her memorial service this weekend. Although he's been the custodian of the antique family photos dating back to the 19th century, he found himself either without the time, the energy or the wherewithal to do this. After working through this project, I understand. He overnighted a CD full of lovely photos of my grandma from her early hehood all the way through to her last years. What he didn't have I filled in.
Compiling snapshots of a life is a humbling experience. It isn't simply a question of choosing photos from each decade. I wanted this project to really represent who she was, and of course, that involved probing into my own memories of her, what I believed to be significant about her life, what I, as the ‘memory editor' wanted the recipients to take away with them. How can it be possible to capture 95 years, 6 months and 6 days in 8 pages?
So many photos were before my time, yet I could still find that piece of my memory in the photo that I wanted to convey. Some of those memories are of strength of purpose, kindness, high expectations, and yes, a flash of red-headed temper from time to time (red hair may be recessive, but in our family we all have shades of auburn in our hair and our personalities…).
The photos were scanned well and at a high resolution, but they bore the marks of time and damage. The first task was to edit and restore them. It was a labor of love: I took all of the specks away with a soft Photoshop brush as lovingly as if I'd been wiping tears from her face. Coming in so close to the detail of the photos meant seeing the slow effects of age, yet to me she became more beautiful as she grew older. From the fresh-faced girl in the her high school valedictory photo to the stately lady in her last portrait, she exuded dignity mixed with a pinch of mischief and adventure.
There were some that just captured her exactly as my memory does. Like these on the summit of Mt. Whitney after climbing it on her own at age 70 after battling back from cervical cancer. It mirrors my memory of her: triumphant, independent, free, and just a tiny bit defiant.
If I climb back through my memories of her I can find some where she was stern but I don't remember those very well. I remember going to Disneyland with her and finally being tall enough to drive the cars by myself, going Christmas shopping with her exactly three weeks before Christmas every year until I went away to college. I always knew what I was getting, but it was always exactly what I wanted, too. And she took those opportunities to have lunch, chat about what I was up to, and update me on the family in the Midwest and what they were up to. I remember her as someone who loved to read and write, to correspond with people. She always knew what was going on with all of her they, grandthey, nieces, nephews, sisters and brothers, and she was as proud of what they were doing as if it had been her own accomplishment.
The memory that is most pungent is her homemade strawberry jam. She made the best homemade strawberry jam ever — it was a special recipe and she always had at least one, and maybe two jars in hand at every family gathering to give away. A little jar of love.
The memory that will always be the most vivid was her passion about politics. She was a faithful Democrat from the top of her head to the tip of her toes. It was entirely personal for her — she had, after all, battled her way through a system that did more or less nothing to help her when she was struggling to work her way up through a man-dominated organization while paying her husband's mounting medical bills from the disease that eventually took him when her they were still in school. She voted in every election and taught us to vote in every election by her example. She was an informed and intelligent voter, which to her meant that the Democrats were always right and the Republicans were always wrong. However, she could back up her belief with a strong and compelling argument. She wasn't a blind follower by any stretch.
Liz writes that her memories were varied and different over time — "People were smells, like rose lotion, or Coppertone, or beer and aftershave." For me, those smells were of toast and jam, really nice strong coffee (she loved coffee!), and Estee' Lauder perfume, which she loved and viewed as a grand indulgence.
Even the day before she died, I massaged her arms with lovely-smelling aloe vera lotion and that is my sweet memory of our last day.
Memories have a way of becoming fragments of time, aromas, and snapshots. What I remember won't be what my brother will remember, or my daughter, or my mother. But we all have a common thread in our memories — a truly remarkable woman standing at the summit of the mountain, triumphant, independent, free, and just a little defiant.