Laughter and Embarrassing Moments

As a balance to previous posts about my angst, I wanted to post about laughing.

I love laughing. I love when something tickles me so much that I can’t help but double over, tears streaming from my eyes and my breath coming in ragged snorts through my nose.

I recently picked up one of Taylor’s Teen Mags which regularly have a “most embarrassing moment” section. In these Teen Magazines, the embarrassing moment is usually about an audible fart or (oh the horror) leaking menstrual blood at an inopportune time.

As sophomoric as the reading material was, it made me think about my most embarrassing moment...which many of you have heard, but it is good enough to bear repeating.

Plus, I enjoy making others laugh, probably more than I like laughing myself.

Many years ago, I worked for a well-known adoption attorney. As you might imagine, our office was pretty serious, what with the business at hand. And it was made up almost exclusively of women.

I was newly divorced at the time, and to say that I was ready to dip my toe into the dating pool would be an understatement - I was ready to swan dive into the deep end.

I had gotten married and had my daughter relatively young and thusly had missed the dating craziness that many women experience in their early twenties. So I was ready to if not sow, but at least prune, my wild oats.

It was my job to sit at the front desk at the office. I welcomed clients, answered the phones and managed files on the computer and in the drawers.

One day, a group of electricians came through the office, to check on and replace lighting fixtures throughout it. Which is how a deliciously handsome, slightly scruffy, jeans-hang-in-just-the-right-way man was climbing a ladder right in front of me, in the waiting room, just outside of my welcome window, and just outside my grasp.

I craned my neck through the window and peered (towards heaven) upwards and asked “Would you like some coffee?” I batted my eyelashes shamelessly. He replied, “No thanks, Ma’am.” Non-plussed by this initial brush-off by my man candy, I continued to batter him with offers of coffee or (me) water. All of my offerings were declined and the young man seemed in a hurry to rush off, ladder tucked under his arm.

Through one of the office windows, I noticed the electrician’s van outside and its panels that were marked with the name of the company, and noted that they also offered air conditioning services.

During my lunch hour, I found myself riding in the elevator down to the ground floor with an older gentleman, who’s shirt bore the same company name as (the shirt on my heart’s desire) the van parked outside. During the elevator ride, I talked him up, asking about the young man with the (cute ass) brown hair and blue eyes. The older man sized me up and let me know that the (cute-ass guy) young man I was inquiring about , was 18 (EIGHTEEN) and was engaged to be married to the owner of the business’s daughter.

I coughed and stuttered and probably muttered, “Oh, that’s nice.”

Then I tried to really save myself.

Remembering the van outside, I thought I would tell him that I might need air conditioning work sometime (never) in the near future.

I opened my mouth. What I meant to say was, “When my Air Conditioner blows, I know who to call.”

What came OUT OF MY MOUTH was, “When my Air Conditioner goes, I know who to blow.”

The last four syllables of the terribly misplaced sentence were still being said, out loud like a cartoon character with the words hanging over her head...when the elevator doors opened - and the shocked, concerned (and frightened) face of my 18 year old man- candy was staring right back at me.

Man-Candy literally turned on his heel, and sprinted away. The older gentleman, sensing my need to be alone with my utter shame, quietly stepped past me.

I never saw either of them again.

So please, share your stories of complete embarrassment...let me know that I am not alone with my size 9 mouth.

Just Trying

My crazy, fast-paced, frenetic summer is coming to its conclusion.

I kicked off the summer with wedding celebrations for one bride (my friend Deb) and am finishing it off with the wedding celebrations of another (my sister, Michelle). I am Matron of Honor for both.

Sandwiched in between was Taylor’s Epic Trip (2 weeks at camp, several days in Maine and a glorious week in NYC), our family of 3’s cruise through the Western Caribbean and our Manhattan experience together.

Next on the agenda is our trip this weekend back to Maine to spend time with my husband’s family and friends during the Annual Pisquataquis County Fair, followed by a 4 day Bachelorette weekend for my sister in Key West, FL in late September.

October 2nd is my Sister’s wedding day which will punctuate the end of a whirlwind 12 months. It was just shy of one year previously that Deb got engaged and honored me with the request that I be her Matron of Honor. Michelle’s engagement and subsequent request came just a couple of months later.

In amongst all the wedding plans, special occasions and family trips, we have been living our lives. Sometimes I feel like we are barely holding onto them. The details have become buried under the avalanche of Important Events.

During these last twelve months, Taylor completed the 8th Grade, her final year of Middle School. After initially being denied for the High School Choice Program of her preference, she got in at the 11th hour and is now in her 2nd week at Boca Raton High in the illustrious STEM (Science Technology Engineering and Math) Program. In the last few weeks, I have become much more painfully aware of how much she is growing. Not in her height, but in her faux sense of maturity that can only worn by a young teen.

Donnie and I have both been nose to the grindstone at work. We are both exceedingly grateful for our jobs, but the increasing responsibilities, which are no doubt (and understandably) due to hiring squeamishness of our respective companies, have put us on professional full throttle.

This past year, I have also enjoyed a 6 month process of exploring my writing capabilities with a wonderful and wise writing coach. The process was extremely invigorating and enforced a discipline in me with regards to my writing. As I told her towards the end of our sessions, “I feel more like a writer now, and less like someone who is trying to write.” This was another small, but important milestone tucked into the crevasses of the Mountains of Important Days.

I am thinking of all of the other small, but important moments of the last 12 months. My Father losing his job, my Grandfather celebrating his 102 year, a cousin ready to deliver her second child, a friend in crisis, another friend losing her home, a sister dealing with unemployment, another sister in marital distress. All of these are important LIFE moments - and I hope that despite all of the ‘have-to’s’ that littered my calendar, I was an adequate enough woman, sister, daughter and friend to be present for all of them.

I really hope I was.

Me and a Model

Before last week, I had absolutely nothing in common with Gisele Bundchen. Actually, I kind of really disliked her.

Gisele was the leggy model who stepped into NFL Football star Tom Brady’s life when his former girlfriend, Bridget Moynahan was still pregnant. Gisele postured and posed after her boyfriend’s son was born and made very incendiary proclamations about how she loved the child “like her own.”

She and the NFL lothario got married and now have another baby. She then came under fire for proclaiming that childbirth was not the god-awful painful endurance that most women have believed it to be.

She said, “It wasn’t painful, not even a little bit. The whole time, my head was so focused—every contraction, the baby is closer, the baby is closer. So, it wasn’t like, ‘Oh, what pain.’ It was, ‘With every contraction, he is getting closer to me.’ I wanted to be conscious and present for what was happening ... I didn’t want to be anesthetized. I wanted to feel. The second day, I was walking, I was washing dishes, I was making pancakes in the kitchen.”

Reading her quotes was a bit unsettling, because all of a sudden, I have something in common with this freak of nature model who I had previously considered an insensitive interloper.

You see, I have always maintained (to mostly disbelieving audiences) that my experience during childbirth was (while not completely pain free) a really satisfying and exhilarating experience. Yes, it was hard work. Yes, there were some moments during it when I asked if I could take a break and finish later. But, I was an awake, alert and active participant in the birth of my daughter.

Just recently, Gisele exposed herself to more criticism when she stated in an interview that there should be a law that required new Moms to breastfeed their infants for at least 6 months.

The backlash and increased hatred towards her was immediate.

While a law for women to breastfeed for 6 months is certainly unreasonable and unconstitutional, I am now an unlikely ally of a widely disliked supermodel. (***Sigh***)

Because I kind of get where she is coming from.

First I will say that breastfeeding is not the easiest thing – it is a ‘learned art.’ Manipulating an infant’s tiny, searching and impatient lips into the “correct” position on your swollen, sensitive nipples within hours or minutes after delivery is just the first challenge. Continuing down the path of exclusive nursing is yet another.

It requires perseverance, patience and dedication to the goal of breastfeeding. But, once you hit 6 weeks, you are in the groove…in the ‘honeymoon’ phase. For some reason, nursing is pretty much seamless after that time mark and you and your infant become a nursing couple.

Obviously, I breastfed Taylor. It was more of a destiny than a choice.

My own Mother bucked the norm in 1969 and not only had her husband in the delivery room when I was born (during a natural childbirth,) but also chose to breastfeed. (Yes, my parents were wanna-be hippies)

My Mother went on to have 5 daughters. 3 were “homegrown” and 2 were adopted.

Mom decided when she was going through the adoption process for her 4th daughter, who she mistakenly thought would be her last, that she wanted to breastfeed. Just as she had successfully done before.

During the excruciating and invasive adoption process, she used a breast pump to reawaken her body’s reflexes. By the time our family welcomed 3 month old Lara into our home, Mom had successfully gotten about 50% of her milk supply to come in.

Baby Lara became part of our family, and Mom breastfed her with the assistance of the Supplemental Nursing System (SNS).

3 months later, my Mom learned that Lara’s birthmother was pregnant again, and requested that the new unborn child be placed in the same family as the first.

It took about 5 minutes of discussion between my parents. They wanted this newborn – who would be blood related to the daughter they already called their own.

After Lydia (the 5th sister) was born, my Mother then tandem nursed two babies, who had not been born of her body.

So of course, when I birthed my own baby…there was no question. - I would breastfeed.

My nursing experience was 22 months in length and not without challenges. But, I look back and am so grateful.

When I went to Taylor’s pediatrician’s office for her first illness, he commented on the fact that her file was so slim. She was a stranger to the doctor’s office…a robust and healthy 3 year old. (I quietly and secretively attribute this to breastfeeding.)

When I went to a birthday party for one of her friends when she was 6…I casually polled the other Moms, whose children were all in the Gifted program – they all had breastfed. I felt momentarily vindicated.

Now that Taylor is 14, and I am far removed from baby discussions…I get way less validations that my choice to breastfeed was right.

I look back at Gisele. She is a model, a Mom and she breastfeeds and she is outspoken about it.

While her sound bites may be incendiary, I applaud her and her convictions. I myself have had friendships challenged due to my convictions on the subject.

May every baby just get a moment at the breast.

Happy Breastfeeding Month

Camp

Taylor loved Camp…I mean, she really, really loved camp.

I was nervous as all get out to send her away, to a remote spot in Maine. For 2 weeks. Without a cell phone. Without computer access. No communication with the outside world.

She was in charge of her own decisions, laundry, oral hygiene, cleanliness, appropriate attire, manners and daily general direction. Did I mention without cell and computer access? (AKA without my ever vigilant and vociferous reminders of what to do and every day love affirmations.)

She apparently blossomed during her stint at camp. She made friends with campers and counselors.

She tried new things, new activities, made friends that she would have never made before. (Including new friends from France.) She went white water rafting and sailing. She did crafts. She signed up for sports that I would have never previously believed she would be interested in.

She became a new, more experienced, more daring, more open version of her former self than the one I put on a plane in early June.

Even her Grandmother (Her Mimi, who is my own Mom) said after she returned, “Whatever you paid to put Taylor in that Camp, it was well worth it. She is a different and more amiable and happy girl.”

Taylor said to me (when I FINALLY talked to her after she left Camp), “I didn’t want to leave, Mom!”

I was never sent to sleepaway camp, so I am among those who “don’t get it.” But, I have spent a lot of time listening to what Tay has shared as well as listening to ‘This American Life – Thoughts on Camp.”

From the moment she left camp, Taylor has been begging me for a 5 week long stay next summer.

I let the thought germinate. Next summer she will be almost 16. She might have a High School boyfriend by then.

Suddenly, sending her to camp (that non-communication, won’t be able to affix my stink eye on her while she enjoys outdoor activities) seemed a whole lot more palatable.

The sticker price is not.

This summer I sent Tay for the early (relatively cheaper) session in the beginning of June. It was less expensive than the other sessions as most children (with wealthy parents) don’t get out of school until a couple weeks later.

Her camp sent me an e-mail announcing that if I signed her on NOW for next summer – I would get another $700 discount.

So, not knowing if I would get a bonus next year, or if I could save up the necessary funds, I put the decision in Taylor’s court.

(Note – same 2 week early session is $1300 as opposed to $1600 from this year. All 5 weeks she is requesting would be $4995)

My prerequisite is that Tay must get a job (note – she is only 14) for me to consider putting her in camp next summer for 5 weeks.

At first, she was all onboard with the idea. “Of course Mom, I’ll get a job and help!”

Then, this week, reality set in when I took her to Publix to apply for a job.

Publix has a convenient employment application lobby kiosk. Initially, Tay wanted to skip this week and start the next one because of sleepover plans. I quietly acquiesced.

But, I told her later in the car that I would take my cues from her. If she felt that getting together with a girlfriend took precedence over work, then I would see camp as a secondary priority and would conduct myself as such.

Before you think I am being too harsh, I will tell you that Donnie and I are considering delaying our epic trip down US1 so that Tay can realize her vision of going to camp one last time. (She will be too ‘old’ after next summer)

After seeing the enormous positive change in her, my wonderful and patient husband is completely onboard with having her go back to camp, and is one with sacrificing (delaying) our dream vacation one year.

Initially, Taylor was okay with me (us) sacrificing OUR dreams. However, once I schooled her on the ‘unfairness,’ she began to see that her decisions impact not only her, but everyone around her…which is an important lesson.


As she might work at a minimum-wage-earning job, I know it will not make a dent in the 5K needed for her 5 weeks at camp next year. However, I feel that she has to put in a little sacrifice and a little hard work…is that wrong?



The picture above is of Taylor at Camp…I loved it as it was candid.

Have you ever gone to camp? Am I being too harsh? Please share…

Being a Teen

A friend of mine sent me this picture via Facebook this morning. It was taken before heading out to Junior Prom – circa 1986.

Ahhh, 1986. Reagan was President, George Sr was his Vice President. In January, the Challenger exploded moments after take off, killing all 7 on board including the woman who was supposed to be the first teacher in space (there is a local school, Christa McAuliffe Middle, named for her.) Top Gun was the top movie and television programming was rife with family oriented sitcoms like The Cosby Show and Family Ties. (Reality shows wouldn’t make an appearance in the US for at least another 8 years with the debut of the Real World in 1992.)

And as for me? I was an insecure and shy 16 year old 11th Grade High Schooler, about to go to my first Prom.

While I have recently unearthed several similar photographs from the same time frame, it still startled me to see my 16 year old face, staring into the camera, in a shot that I either haven’t seen in 24 years or possibly never had.

I look serious…or perhaps I am trying to look sultry, I can’t remember. I do recall that I was disappointed that I didn’t have a date of my own for Junior Prom. Instead, I had a blind date; a friend of my girlfriend Laura’s boyfriend. So perhaps my gaze is arranged strategically in a poker face as to not betray any nervousness.

I have little memory of the evening, except that my girlfriend had a wonderful time with her boyfriend – and that my date was just as nervous and uncomfortable as I was.

Poor guy. I wish I could remember his name (was it Paul?), and track him down (though that would surely creep him out) and give him a check for $100 to cover what I am sure was an expensive evening for a teenager when he would have been much happier staying home playing Dungeons and Dragons…or whatever non-uber-uncomfortable-blind-Prom-date thing he liked to do.

I re-posted the picture later today on my own wall on Facebook, as sort of a “ha, ha, look at me…look at the funny hairstyle (and GLOVES, for gods sakes!)” Many of the comments I received were about how much Taylor looks like me. Which of course, is complimentary, but also stunned me into thinking again…in the picture, I am only about a year and a half older than she is right now. (How in the hell did that happen?)

The realization of how close in age my daughter is to the ‘picture me’ gave me pause. Today, she is right there where I was. A teenager, one foot planted in being a little girl with one toe testing the waters of womanhood. Literally begging to throw on the cloak of adulthood, yet shedding it quickly enough when the pressures are too intense.

I look back at the picture of the teenage me, and see her a little differently than I did initially (Though I don’t think I look so different now, ahem.)

She has no idea what lies ahead. She has only hopes and dreams. And, a naïve blind belief that there is good in most people.

Given what I know is ahead in my own life after that photo was taken, (and what lies ahead for my own daughter), I want to give the ‘picture me’ a hug (which I am sure would be unwelcome if my own teenager is any example) and tell her that things really do turn out okay.



• You won’t drive to LA to be a movie star…but you’ll look like one in your twenties
• There will be no knight in shining armor…but when you are ready, the right man will come along that treasures you and treats you like a movie star you once believed you would be.
• You won’t be fabulously wealthy…but you will have enough wealth to be fabulously happy
• Your work will not be not what you imagined…but different, and better than you imagined
• You won’t ever be intimidated…because you’ll always know you are the smartest person at the table
• You will not live in a castle…but every day when you step through the threshold of your humble abode, it will feel like one.
• You will not have 6 children…you will have one, a child who embodies, and is, all the best attributes of 6 children

• Believe me, you will be happy…

So have you ever looked back? Seen a picture of your teenage self and wanted to guide them? Or a desire to pass on words of comforting encouragement to your children?

I Heart NYC

To my (few) readers: apologies as the following blog is more of a diary – and a bit lengthy.

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We marked another milestone in our busy summer when we returned home from New York City yesterday with my daughter.

Donnie and I arrived on Friday late afternoon into JFK and took a cab to our friend’s (Courtney, Shattuck and their 2 ½ year old son, Trent) Upper East side apartment where Taylor had already arrived a couple of days earlier.

As much as I had fantasized about a meaningful, heartfelt reunion with my darling progeny when we locked eyes for the first time in 23 days, the reality was a bit anticlimactic. After I greeted our friends (and kind of pushed them aside) my daughter rose from the couch where she had been sitting with a shy smile. I clutched her close to me and held onto her shoulders fiercely…long after her embrace had relaxed. “Oh, Mom,” she said, “You’re not crying again are you?” And yes, I definitely was.

We all had take-out that night at the apartment and then Courtney and I were afforded a rare “Mommy’s Night Out” while the husbands sat at home. She and I sampled 3 different glasses of white wine in three different establishments all within a two block radius. Though this was my 4th visit to NYC, I was still taken by surprise by the convenience of everything, the proximity of buildings and human beings and the sheer efficiency of space. The latter I was reminded of during a visit to the Ladies Room (nix that – the one and only BATHROOM in a wine bar) when I had to shimmy sideways and turn around to use the commode.

The next morning, as Al Roker had proclaimed it would be a great day for New Yorkers to “clean out a closet or two” due to expected torrential downpours, we decided to visit the Museum of Natural History.

Because the promised deluge had not yet started, we gamely decided to walk through Central Park to get to the Museum. Central Park was the first landscaped municiapal park in the United States. It opened to the public in 1859, after much political debate and planning (and sadly the displacement of some 1600 low income residents.) Today its 843 acres boast a well known Zoo, running and walking trails, basketballs courts, concerts and other events…and many, many other things, including (kind of) the museum we were on our way to see just outside of its Western border.

We entered the Central Park just above East 76th Street. Within just a few strides, the hum and amped up feeling of the city streets was gone and was replaced with the rustle of the trees, humidity dripping from leaves and the occasional shout of a child. We skirted the Conservatory Pond; the model sailboats in it mostly still on this un-busy summer day. We walked uphill past Loeb Boathouse and watched as florists carried unbelievable multi-colored floral arrangements into the back for what must have been a wedding later in the day. We passed a Karate lesson in action and had to stop for a moment (huffing and puffing from the exertion) to allow a race of runners and bikers pass by on Central Park West. I was enchanted as always by this enormous green oasis in the middle of the big city.

We finally entered the American Museum of Natural History and I had to stop myself from just laying down on the floor to soak up the cool and air conditioning. According to its website, The Museum of Natural History is “one of the world's preeminent scientific and cultural institutions. Since its founding in 1869, the Museum has advanced its global mission to discover, interpret and disseminate information about human cultures, the natural world and the universe through a wide-ranging program of scientific research, education and exhibition.”

Upon arriving, we purchased tickets to see “Hubble,” an IMAX film about the troublesome Space Station. Before show time however, we managed to scoot around quickly to see many of the exhibits, including my favorite – the enormous life-sized Blue Whale suspended from the ceiling in the Milstein Hall of Ocean Life. The Hubble film was entertaining and a little unsettling with the images that the orbiting telescope has taken of the earth. (I find the idea that we are able to see birthing and dying stars BILLIONS of light years away with such clarity a bit unnerving.)

After lunch in a swanky area of the Upper West side, Courtney and Shattuck took their young’un back home and Taylor, Donnie and I went back to the museum for another hour. The three of us felt smug when we saw and knew that the rendition of the Coral Snake in the Reptiles and Amphibians exhibit was incorrect (red didn’t touch yellow as it should have.)

I wanted to walk back to the apartment but was vetoed and we cabbed it back…just in time to rest up and get ready to go to a Broadway Show.

Originally, we had plans to see a High School friend of mine perform in HAIR. Much to my great disappointment, (and I am sure, hers) the production closed a few days before we arrived into town. Since our friends had already seen Wicked (which I have heard is the BEST!), we opted instead to see Promises, Promises which is a re-make of the ‘60’s film “The Apartment” starring Shirley Maclaine. The big draw to the show was Kristin Chenoweth (I have always admired the tremendous voice housed in her diminutive body) I was also looking forward to seeing Sean Hayes (from Will and Grace) as well as the Tony-winning performance of Katie Finneran.

The 5 (I didn’t want to leave Taylor out of the experience) of us had a lovely Italian dinner in the theater district before seeing the play.

After dinner we made our way down busy Broadway to the theater. I had managed to get us seats in the 8th row for the show. The performance was electrifying…especially when Kristin first made her entrance and the entire audience started whooping and hollering. Sean Hayes was spot-on hilarious. The dancing and songs were knee-tapping. There was just one little thing, which as the show went on became the White Elephant in the middle of the room. Kristen had this thing on her forehead, right at the widow’s peak of her wig. It reminded me of a Bindi, but it was too high to be one.

During the intermission, I was in line for the bathroom in front of two Broadway / Chenoweth groupies. I listened to them chirp away about their drama school and how one of them knew Kristin and how FABULOUS she is. I dared to ask of them, “since you know Kristin, can you please tell me, what is that thing on her forehead?” One of them answered me, but not without disdain, “that is her microphone. All Broadway stars wear it there.” I replied that I had seen several Broadway shows (well, this was my second) and I had never seen that before and that I found it to be distracting. The Cheno-goupies sniffed, silenced and looked away from me. Oh well.

Once I retuned to my seat, I found all of our seat mates engaged in a heated discussion. “WTF WAS that on her forehead? So distracting!” I passed along the new information I had obtained and everyone sighed and agreed that the microphone on the forehead was a disruption to the performance.

After the play, we walked Broadway once again to catch a cab back to the apartment. We all agreed that tomorrow would be the day to walk the Brooklyn Bridge.

We woke bright and early Sunday morning and took 2 cabs to Chinatown. After walking the sidewalks of Chinatown and Little Italy, we circled back and got to the walking entrance (smelly, piss and feces covered steps) of the Brooklyn Bridge.

The sun was hot, my legs were tired, my daughter was complaining every step of the way…but we did it! We walked across the Brooklyn Bridge. We bought t-shirts from an independent artist who positioned himself on the first leg of the journey. We wondered why someone would leave a pink furry hobby horse at the top spire, we talked about getting to Grimaldi’s Pizza under the bridge, close to the water.

Grimaldi’s was supposed to be our Mecca after walking so far. It was mentioned in the guide books as being the “place to go” in Brooklyn after walking across the bridge. The best pizza in all of New York. Our tired group dragged our feet up Old Fulton Street and saw the Promised Pizza Land….with a LONG line outside 15 minutes before the restaurant was supposed to open. We did a quick vote among us and decided that hunger won out over prized destination….and enjoyed Pizza and beer at a Pizza place NEAR the one we intended to visit. My husband and Shattuck enjoyed home brewed Brooklyn # 2 beer. As my husband would say, I like my beer like my women, “dark and bitter.”

The next day (Monday), I was committed to showing Taylor SoHo. I knew this would be the likely place for her to see celebrities and the likely place for her to find a funky little store that she liked and that was within my budget.

When we entered one of the stores, I knew we hit the jackpot when she said to me, “I feel bad…can we ask them if we can stay a bit longer?”

So I sent Donnie, Courtney and Trent down the street to get fortifying beverages at Starbucks. While they were gone my girl twirled, hemmed and hawed and plucked t-shirts off the rack – she was in her element. In the end, we left with 4 really super cute tops that she will wear in High School.

If and when we have the opportunity to come back, I think that SoHo and the Village would be the places that Taylor would like to explore.

We said goodbye to our friends yesterday morning. During the late morning meal, Trent was a bit fussy, perhaps anticipating the final “bye, bye.” He and Tay had become close – and Trent referred to us as HIS friends. As in “where are my friends Mama?”

I am grateful beyond words that my friend Courtney took in my daughter for a couple days – and introduced her to some of the City’s more genteel parts.

I am also grateful that she and her husband sponsored our family’s most recent romp through the Big Apple.

I hope that someday I can repay the favor.

So – have you been to NYC? Do you love it or hate it? Any thoughts?

Memories, misty water-color or cold hard digital

As I mentioned in a previous post, there are several other blogs that I read. One of them, jennster wrote a very evocative post about the mementos that she saves. Letters, journals, photo albums and yearbooks.

It got me to thinking as I share the same tendency.

To wit: I committed one large cardboard box to all of the written memories of my younger years. It contains the clandestine notes that I saved (from various teacher’s grips) from Middle and High School; the love notes scribbled on scrap paper; and the lengthier letters, still stuffed in their original envelopes from friends or paramours who were not close by. There are also the poems that I wrote, when I envisioned myself as a tragic teen poet while listening to (and heavily borrowing from) Air Supply, Journey, and REO Speedwagon.

Additionally, I have carefully kept all of my Yearbooks. I have tucked newspaper articles into the pages that tell of the triumphs of my former classmates as well as those that contain the obituaries of those who have passed.

And my photos…I would be bereft without them. My childhood and teen years are painstakingly logged by my long-ago-sophomoric hands in now water damaged and smudged photo albums. There are a couple of photo books that contain pictures from my early twenties…and then of course there are the albums from Taylor’s babyhood. Those pictures of her first smile, first movement, first solid food, first (insert milestone here) experience and in various poses with her adoring family are lovingly catalogued.

Once she hit 5, and I 30, the photos remained in their developer’s envelopes. I rely on my handwritten dates of when they were developed to pile them in a haphazard way into several large boxes.

Now, a decade later, many of my memories and photos are in a different place. One that gives me unease. For the last 12 or so years, in this age of technology, most of my correspondence with old and current friends takes place via e-mail or more recently on Facebook. I already have one whole HUGE, ancient old desktop computer I cannot bear to part with because I know it contains the equivalent of a cardboard box full of e-mails from my late 20’s and early 30’s. Also, too much of my daughter’s youth has been captured via a digital camera.

An entire generation has their memories on soft copy. As convenient as it is…it is too easily erased.

When I travel to NYC the second week of July, I have strong desire to bring my trusty 35 mm Canon A1 and a notebook. Otherwise, many years from now when I am gone…there may not be a record of when I see my daughter for the first time in 30 days…for all posterity.

To underscore my thoughts on real versus digital images, Edith Shain died today. She was the young nurse grabbed for a dip and kiss which was captured in the iconic photo (and the one at the beginning of this post) that embodied the end of WWII. I can’t help but wonder if that fleeting, yet triumphant moment might have been overlooked if Alfred Eisenstaedt had a digital camera.

So to all the horders and holders, how do you feel about trusting your memories to the digital age? How to you hold onto your precious hard and e-copies of your memories?