Photographic Memory

Early last month, I had just finished teaching when it began to snow. It was the first snow of the season, and several of my students, all of them young women, lingered near the classroom windows. The flakes were fat and wet, the kind that dance through the air to make the most of their brief lives before disappearing into the ground.  

The joy on my students’ faces reminded me of an episode of Gilmore Girls. This was a television series many friends recommended because it was about the life of a single mother and her daughter during a time when I was a single mother living with my daughter. Subtle.

The episode that came to mind revolved around mom Lorelai’s love of first snowfalls. When I mentioned it, one of my students smiled and said, “I smell snow.” We laughed in unison. She was quoting Lorelai, speaking to her daughter as she shivered in front of a window her mother had just thrown open.

My students and I had summoned the same memory from a show whose first season aired before they were born. We didn’t acknowledge this, but I was lifted by that small moment of connectedness. So much of learning--for faculty and students--takes place in the conversations before and after class, if we make time for them.  

My class ends in late afternoon, and by the time I walked out of the building it was already dark. This made the snow look even brighter. I lifted my face to the sky and felt the wet splatter of flakes on my cheeks and eyelids. A softer landing, at least.

When I saw that single red leaf, I pulled out my camera. My habit for years, and one that became more urgent during the height of the pandemic. On most days, I shared on social media a photo, from a walk or one of my phone’s albums, and added a short caption which always ended with #breathe. It was my way of trying to connect with a world that had disappeared. Each wave of responses, many including photos from readers, made me feel less alone.

After photographing that red leaf, I got into my car and started typing the caption that was forming in my head. If I don’t write when the words show up, they quickly take their leave. This was as true when I was 20 as it is now. I shared the photo on social media with this caption:

Because it was snowing, I walked slowly after class.

Because I walked slowly, I looked up at the sky.

Because I looked up, I met this lonely red leaf.

Because I am human, I wondered aloud,

What else have I missed on my rush out the door?

I started the car and off I went, headed for home.

A few hours later, a reader who had seen the photo of the red leaf sent me a private message: “Why must everything mean something else? What can’t this just be a picture of a leaf? Why are we always expected to find meaning in things?”

At first, I felt that familiar tingle of uneasiness whenever I think a critic of my writing might have a point. Maybe a leaf is just a leaf, and people are tired of my insisting otherwise.

Note that I said “people,” when a single person criticized my post. I have this ridiculous habit of magnifying the voices of my critics, as if their negativity is proof of their expertise. I’m sure this indicates an insecurity in me, but I take comfort in knowing I’ve got plenty of company. If you ever meet a writer who wants you to know how lucky you are to be basking in the brilliance of their orbit, flee. I mean it. Spread your wings and fly away. Don’t worry about offending. He’ll have already forgotten you were there.

Over the next couple of days, I heard that reader’s questions differently. Perhaps all she meant was that, to her, beholding the single red leaf on that barren tree was a fact, not an inspiration. She didn’t need to churn on it or come up with a reason for its existence in her life. It was pretty, and that was enough for her.

I fell in love with photography because of my dad, who is the reason we have hundreds of family photographs. Too few of those photos include him; I am the photographer for most of the ones that do. By the time I was five, he was handing me his Instamatic and teaching me how to use it. I know how old I was because I am the photographer of this photo.

Dad is holding his newborn son, my brother Chuckie. Dad was six-feet-two, so I had to stand on the sofa to capture this one, in March 1963. Four months later, I turned six.

Those photo lessons with my father are some of my fondest memories of him. He was gentle and patient and focused entirely on me. Whenever he came home with the latest pack of photos, he’d call me over to look at them. Usually, he sat in his chair at the dining room table, and I would stand next to him, my right arm draped across his big shoulders as he narrated every picture.

By the time I went to college, I wanted to become a photographer. This was back in the days of film and darkrooms, and my photography professor often emphasized the high cost of it all. I was the first in my family to go to college. My career dreams were buttressed by my parents’ pride in me and my father’s insistence that I be able to make a living after I graduated.  

So, I became a writer.

Yes, I know. My father had the same questions. I think my parents were hoping for a nurse, perhaps, or a teacher. Those professions came later to our family, and I’m forever grateful to my sisters for that.

I’ve never stopped making pictures, as a happy amateur. My photographs help me remember and nudge me to think more deeply. Often, this happens on walks with my husband. After two decades, Sherrod never questions or expresses impatience when I stop in my tracks, pull the camera out of my pocket and say, “Wait.”

That happened earlier this week, when we walked around this patch of ice, and I noticed its latticed pattern.

Sherrod watched as I hovered, shooting from various angles. After we started walking again, I said the lattices reminded me of an article we had read recently about how belonging to a community—having that sense of connectedness to friends, family and neighbors--is crucial to aging well. From there, we began talking about the various communities in our own lives. By the time we returned home, I felt a sense of lightness that had eluded me for days.

I’m not alone in my pursuit. In 2021, Pew Research Center reported that 85 percent of us own smartphones. How many photos do you have stored on your phone or in the cloud? You have your stories to tell. My current tally: 66,340. So many of them tell stories upon stories, strung together like the pages of an accordion sketchbook.   

This photo of the streetlight outside our bedroom window on a foggy morning reminds me of London in Mary Poppins’ day. I think of Mary’s magical tapestry bag, and how our 9-year-old granddaughter, Jackie, compares me to her whenever I carry my green purse, which is about the size of carry-on luggage. At a recent lunch, Jackie sat next to me and imitated me digging through it.  

“Here’s my umbrella in case it rains,” she said, giggling as she reached into my bag. “Oh, and here’s my favorite lamp, right next to my rubber boots.”

Last August, I was riding on a ferry when we hit a rough patch. I am not a good swimmer, and my stomach lurched with every dip and hurl of the boat. Seeing the calm faces of fellow passengers did little to slow my heartrate. I tried reading my book and writing in my Moleskine—that green purse really does hold a lot--but I could not concentrate.

Finally, I decided to face the dragon. I pulled out my camera and looked out the window. A few shots later, I found the calm—and the caption: On a ferry and feeling small. Oddly reassuring. Every problem must wait.

I’ve gone on long enough about this, but I ask for your patience as I share one more photo, one more story.

Today marks the third anniversary of the insurrectionists’ violent attack on our nation’s Capitol. This is a fact. It is also personal to hundreds of American families, including ours.

As I’ve written before, Sherrod was in the Senate chamber when the attacks began. For nearly an hour, our four kids kept texting and calling as we waited to hear if he and his colleagues were safe. I don’t need to chronicle all the harm the mob inflicted on our country that day. Plenty of other writers and pundits are weighing in on that this week.

Instead, I’ll just share this photo of Sherrod from that day, captured at 5:09 a.m.

His hair was still wet from his shower, and he was carrying a stack of reading, several KN-95 masks and the lunch I’d packed for the six-hour drive to Washington. This was the day the House of Representatives would certify Joe Biden’s election, and Sherrod was so happy. We had no idea what was coming.

He opened the front door.

“Wait,” I said.

He turned to look at me, and smiled.