Photograph Albums
1990
I orchestrate each moment of today for the memories of tomorrow. I'm a photographer of family festivities.
I can be racked with the pain of arthritis or the tension of stress, but our wearing apparel must be color-co-ordinated for the pictures. Two rolls of film. One in the camera....one in the pocket. Hair freshly washed, blown and curled just right. Looking the part that we want future photo album viewers to see.
Can they never know that life for us was less than perfect? Will it show in some half-conscious gesture or frown or tone of voice that comes somehow through our genes? Will we give it away by a glance at the clock hoping the event will soon be over or that the children will stay another day?
February birthdays come with the mushy cards and gifts we hope will fit and suit the honorees. And most of all will they say "Thank you, it was just what I wanted" with a hug hard enough to break brittle old bones? "Get a picture of that, somebody! Here, we'll do it again!" Will they do their 'social graces' later reminding you that your long search for that much loved item was truly appreciated? Will it be worth the walk to the Post Office that day?
Easter finery is a thing of the past. The church doesn't even turn up one Easter bonnet on a carefully coiffed head. Well....it's just as well....you couldn't see over them anyway. Another picnic with Baked Ham, Potato Salad and Carrot Jello sogging through the paper plates. And enough deviled eggs to clog up the veins of any red blooded American family. The pictures won't likely be very good....it's the gloom time of year.
It's harder to get a parking place in La Jolla now. Ellen Browning Scripps park is overrun with Snowbirds from Canada, Minnesota and Maine. The lump still arrives in the throat at remembered picnics during World War II.
"Get the whole family together for a snapshot before we leave...." It's harder to carry the picnic basket back to the car. Even though it's empty now. A hand reaches out to lighten the load, but the custody of the camera is mine. Always mine. Sometimes a kid-laden departing car makes a cute shot....especially if there's a red surf board on top....even if it never touched the water!
Fourth of July starts the day before, with cooking of chili beans....made from scratch of course. They simmer all day and get hotter as each taster says, "More chili powder!"
"Have we got enough buns?" The basket has gotten bigger over the years. More grandchildren come along, some suddenly like two sets of twins.
"Who's bringing the ketchup and mayo?" Tuck in another stack of napkins. Grand-children are messy, especially if all the nifty nine are here at once. Outdoor reunions are best and the beach makes for the happiest bathtub around....spilled anything or anyone can be dunked and hugged back to a sunshiny smile.
"That was the best chili you've ever made!"
Part of the reward of making it from scratch is hearing that, but that's not admitted. With a wave of a towel, it's dismissed with "You say that every year!" For sure it will be written down in the annals of family history.
Tired little buckaroos lay down for naps on the splashy beach towels....umbrellas stretch their loving shade around them protecting them from dangers our generation did not know existed.
Then there's parents starting to make coffee over the bonfire. There's a long evening ahead as we wait patiently for the fireworks to begin. Grandparents stretching out on their lounges, pretending not to be one bit tired, but soon nodding off with the younger children.
Hot, hungry, sticky, sleepy, cold, comfortable, exciting, exulting.
Red, white and blue and sometimes a yellow ribbon.
Autumn color does not come along with California Thanksgiving, but we wear it in our clothes. We look like Fall....with turtle necks, and darker colors, but the pictures won't tell it's all cotton because November is still warm. Oh...perhaps cool enough in the evening for a sweater. Maybe not. Usually the house is all opened up because of the heat of a turkey roasting all day. You can smell them up and down the block....spices, pumpkin and the seaweed-smells and sound of surf. The inevitable surfboard parade is passing the front window....a wetsuit telling the weather better than a barometer.
And then they come. If it's 'our year' to do the honors, noisy, bustling adult children bearing trays of portable side dishes. The dessert, the pickles and olives we never seem to have room for. The men setting up extra tables. The children secretly sampling early hors d'oeuvres. The women tasting and basting, approving the latest recipe from Gourmet Magazine and everyone wanting the dinner to taste the same as they remembered it before.
"Yes, I ground up fresh cranberries for the compote!"
"Yes, you may have one deviled egg before dinner."
"Yes, that's Kona coffee you smell."
The pictures never show if the bird was tough or juicy. We have to remember that ourselves and the 'cook of the year' usually does, punishing herself into the next decade. The girls are teenagers now....my how tall they're getting. As their pictures are placed into the album with care, we remember that we don't have many babies anymore. Where did they go? And so fast!
The good dishes are hardly put away before it's Christmas. We pray for the weather to cool down and be a little more crisp. A Torrey Pine bough is brought in from out front to lay on the mantle.
The tree is decorated with all the beachy things collected over the years and Santa, big old ceramic Santa is sitting by the hearth. There's way too many presents under the tree. We've forgotten how to 'make do' the way we did in our youth. The carols are playing on the stereo, the fireplace is crackling and Wassail is brewing on the back burner of the stove. We do all the things from our childhood memories and traditions to make this a blessed time for all.
And then they come. Noisy, full of joy, laden with gifts and Dad carrying a tradition of their own. The Happy Birthday, Jesus cake. We remember Him in prayer around the tree and sing this special carol of Christmas with little child voices being taught the special meaning of this day.
Maybe we didn't cook too much food or waste too many hours shopping or wrapping or preparing for this moment.
When each gift is opened, and each hug is felt, and each tired child goes home, we'll take a picture of the 'mess; that was family togetherness and rejoice that we have a family who believes. Our gifts may soon be forgotten, but God's gift to us means we will have eternity together. That's worth any price.
As I close this album after placing the last cute holiday pose, the February birthdays are looming just a few days ahead. If you want to know what that's like, go back to the beginning of this story or one of fifty-something photograph albums. You'll be a year younger, but the memories will be forever imprinted on your mind and you'll know, year by passing year, just who and what you looked like when.
You'll know that you belonged to a loving, caring family who enjoyed being together for all the special occasions of their lives.
That's what memories are made of.
Labels: Chicken Recipe, Chicken Recipes, Recipes
