I happened to be going through old photo albums the other day, looking for an old picture of me. It took a while to find one. See, I’m the photographer for the family, not the photographee.
It’s not that I hate having my picture taken. It’s more like I don’t see any reason to have it taken.
Rarely will you find me without a camera within easy reach. I like taking photos. I appreciate the nuances of nature, from a vibrant rainbow to the delicacy of a wildflower.
Several of the photo albums I flipped through contained pictures from vacations. One book holds snapshots from a trip Hubby and I took to Alaska. There are photos of the glaciers, the narrow highway, Hubby at a musk ox farm — and nary a picture of me.
Occasionally, Hubby and I — and sometimes other assorted family members — would pretend to be tourists in the area of Ohio where we grew up. I have slews of photos of the ride along the canal that Hubby and I took, and one of the grandgirls and I took, and yet another of the grandgirls and I took ...
As you might surmise, I have photos of my loved ones riding in the restored canal boat, but not a single one of myself.
One of my favorite vacation photos dates back to the summer before Hubby died. We packed up our daughter and the grandgirls and went north to see the family. After visiting Hubby’s sister and brothers, we drove a few blocks down the street to the candy factory where Dum-Dum suckers and candy canes are made.
We signed in and browsed through the gift shop before hopping onto a little trolley that took us on a mini-tour of the factory. Hubby didn’t find it as interesting as the rest of us, but that might be because he worked there for a few months as a young man.
After the other trolley-riders got off, I clicked the shutter and captured a terrific picture of my family wearing the required hairnets and looking cheesy as they waved to me. I smile every time I see that picture and consider how much I’ll enjoy showing it to the grandgirls’ future boyfriends.
Once in a while, I get trapped into having my picture taken. Since I’m always capturing pictures of the relatives, it would be unseemly for me to refuse to pose. Most of these are taken for posterity at weddings, funerals or family reunions — you know, the kind of occasions that make you decide you’d better get the picture before someone dies.
My recent search through the photo albums for a picture of myself wasn’t in preparation for my obituary. I’ll leave it up to the kids to find a picture in which I don’t look fat, stupid or both. No, I’d told a friend I looked the same at 25 as I do now, and I was searching for proof.
The photo I found was taken in the summer of 1967, at a wedding shower thrown for me by my cousins. I’m standing next to one of them, my long, dark hair in startling contrast to her fair tresses.
I examined the photo critically, wondering if my perceived similarity to my younger self was wishful thinking. But except for a few lines on my face, I haven’t really changed — as witnessed by my chunky legs, stick-straight hair and fat little arms in the sleeveless dress I “borrowed” from my sister.
