Important memories stored in still photographs

by Paul Knowles

Never in history have there been as many visual records of day to day
activities. Digital cameras allow an almost infinite number of photographs and
videos. Our cell photos, our Blackberries, maybe our toothbrushes, take photos
and video. We share these pictures with friends via Facebook and other internet
social networks.
Never have there been so many pictures taken.
And never has the preservation of visual images been so at risk. They are all
entirely disposable. Most never make it into print form. We look at them, and
we delete them. Gone.
Or we 'store' them on devices that prove shockingly temporary. Gone.
I was thinking about this at the funeral home. Let me explain.
My Dad passed away, January 17. It was time ­ he had suffered terribly with
Alzheimers; he was bed ridden and wasting away. We were saddened when he
finally left us, of course, but also relieved to say goodbye. It was one of
those kinds of deaths. Sorrowful for us, but good news for him.
At the funeral home in Tillsonburg, and at the church where Dad was a faithful
member for more than 60 years, family and friends gathered and told stories.
There were tears, and a lot of laughter and great memories.
This was helped along by the memory books we brought with us. Many funerals
feature photo boards; my Mom, the retired school librarian, is more
detail-oriented and precise than that. Years ago, she spent long hours making a
memory book for each of her four children, thick volumes laden with photos and
information about us, our siblings, our parents, and their ancestors. It's a
great treasure.
So we brought them to the funeral home, and the visitors flipped through them,
laughing and sharing stories.
This is not to say it was not embarrassing ­ the photo of me in my cowboy outfit
is not entirely flattering, not to mention the picnic picture where I am wearing
a knotted handkerchief as an impromptu sun hat.
Those photos were a wonderful help as we found our way back through the years,
quickly moving back past the years where Dad was a helpless man trapped in a
body of illness. We rediscovered our healthy, happy, hard-working father, and
the relief and comfort blossomed.
All prompted by those photos.
What happens 20 years from now, in similar circumstances? Maybe some people will
have the smarts to print pictures, or to keep images stored in some system that
will work in the advanced computer systems of 2030. Maybe. But if you have
information stored on a floppy disk, or a zip drive, if your favourite music
was on 8-Tracks or cassettes, you immediately will understand the danger.
Simple is sometimes better, but we, one and all, are seduced by the technically
amazing, without thinking through some of the consequences.
We abandon storage systems without thinking through the reality that we are also
abandoning everything stored in them. Goodbye, family photos.
I know how grateful we were to be able to look at those black and white
photographs, of Dad and his seven siblings when they were kids, to enjoy Mom
and Dad's wedding pictures.
Those memory books are truly treasures. I am wondering how I can pass on similar
archives to my kids.
Because ­ although I don't want to think about it overmuch ­ I would hope that
when the day comes when I am being remembered ­ and hopefully missed ­ by those
who love me, there will be some big, fat books to inspire smiles, laughter, and
warm memories.
Instead of some guy over in the corner, trying in vain to resurrect an Acer
laptop so everyone can see some digital photos taken in the old days, around
2010.