Photographs

When I was writing the story about the Spaldeen and my memories of playing slapball in the streets of Queens, I was remembering that as perhaps the happiest time of my childhood. Of course, in the grand scheme of things, it pales when compared to other experiences, like the birth of my children. But we are speaking of childhood happiness, and I can't think of much that compared to those carefree moments in the street playing with my friends.

As we get older, we tend to think back on our experiences, trying to relive them and recapture the happy days. The painful memories are shoved to the back of the bus and we drive on in search of the good ones. If we are lucky, we can recall a few without any physical object to jog our recollection.

Which brings me to the theme of this post. I have many memories from my childhood and hundreds, if not thousands, of photographs. But of all those pictures, there is not one which shows me playing slapball. Yes, my friends, there are pictures of me posing for the camera in my Sunday best, at the beach, at birthday parties, near the Christmas tree, with my family, on vacation and even building a snowman. While all those pictures add to the memories of my childhood, there is not one single photograph of me playing ball in the street, eating a fudge bar from the Good Humor ice cream truck on a hot summer day or buying a pack of baseball cards at the local candy store. There are photos of me on my bike but not one showing that the bike took me to the candy store where I bought the comic books which were my favorite reading material. There are no photos of me reading about Superman, Batman, Archie or even Donald Duck with a flashlight under the covers when I was supposed to be sleeping.

There are no photos of me going to the store to get something my mother needed. There are no photos of me running to first base or playing soldier in the neighbor's back yard. There are no pictures of me doing homework or watching Howdy Doody or Rin Tin Tin on TV. In short, there are no photos of me doing the ordinary things I did every day of my childhood. For the most part, there are only posed photographs of what my parents or some other adult wanted me to look like.

Just before he died at age 88, my father said to me that all he had left were his memories. Sure, he had a mortgage-free home in Florida, a second wife (after my mother died), two children, five grandchildren, a car and some money in the bank. But what he treasured most were his memories. I'm beginning to see what he meant.

So here's my advice. Let others take the posed pictures. You take the pictures of the ordinary, everyday things that give real meaning of your life.

Years from now you'll thank me for it.