My grandfather passed away Sunday night. Not unexpected, but not any easier with the prior knowledge. He was 86 and had been facing a tough cancer diagnosis since the spring.
His three children, six grandchildren and great granddaughter all had the chance to call and visit his home in Maine this summer. He knew just how much he was loved. Some weeks were better than others; I was fortunate to be here a couple days when he found the strength to make it to the river and fish from his boat.
I’m assembling a photo slideshow for the memorial service. My dad’s family archives are extensive and well-organized; in two hours I pulled 250 photos of Pop into a folder. It’s too many, and it’s not enough.
They start with scans from Grandma’s scrapbooks when they dated in 1948, each image captioned with names and inside jokes in her penciled cursive. They wind through 64 years of marriage, trips around the country flying model airplanes he built and winning awards, becoming a grandfather several times over.
My dad and grandfather have always been great family documentarians. Pop gave me my first 35mm film camera when I started college and that’s what I used through my early photo assignments. My dad has a room full of slides and old photo albums he’s been dutifully digitizing for years. Remembering the camera at every wedding and Thanksgiving was the first important step; being able to find the images right now is even better.
The photographs feature the best of times, heavy on highlights and holidays – that’s where our memories linger. They skip the cancer. Because there were a lot of best times.
The last image here is from just three weeks ago. Pop rode on his ATV with my brother and climbed into his boat with my dad. They cast a few lines as the sun set on the Penobscot River and, of course, Pop reeled in a smallmouth bass right away.
My sister and aunt with their medical careers have provided the most help this summer, but we all look for ways to contribute. Slipping into photojournalist mode, it’s easy to see the poignant moments developing. At work we’re used to documenting life’s highs and lows. We seek out the highs even when they come with an unspoken sadness. Everything’s simpler behind the camera.
I posed my grandparents in light from the setting sun last month, and afterward Grandma teared up wondering if it would be their last photograph. It was. When prints arrived in the mail my dad reported she carried it around the house as if it were a religious artifact.
Our memories are the most important, but the photographs might be second. They work hand in hand, and we hope they both last forever.
