A Memory Can Do What a Picture Cannot

My wife, Lori, and I got married in July of 1986. We had everything we needed that day, surrounded by plenty of family and friends, a nice hall in Aurora, Illinois, DJ, and a great photographer.

I recall going through a more detailed account than the above with my grandma, who was eighty-three years old, as she was curious about what we had planned for our big day. After explaining our agenda, I added that the only thing we wanted but could not afford was a professional to video the wedding and reception, as that had just started to become popular.

My grandma’s reaction was surprising. Not because of the additional expense, which she may have felt was unjustified, but because of what a video meant.

I will try to put it in her words.

“Why would you want such a thing at your wedding?”

This question confused me, as I figured the answer was obvious – to capture the memory of the biggest day of our lives, at least up to that point.

She then proved her wisdom far beyond mine, as I never gave her simple but wonderful message any thought before that day.

Again, paraphrasing her feelings. “Your bride will never be as beautiful, and you will never be as handsome, as your mind remembers. Your memory makes that day perfect, but a video will make everything real. You should not have someone do this.”

I don’t think she meant we were an ugly couple. But her sentiment was keen. A fantasy cannot continue if there is evidence proving otherwise.

Don’t get me wrong. I am not saying that pictures or videos are without significant meaning. I am grateful to have boxes of photos of each phase of our lives, including our children, from day one to the present. Most of my cell phone memory is spent on videos of our granddaughter, Izzy.

My friend Lonny Cain wrote that a picture could come back to life by imagining what happened just before or after being taken. What were the smells, the sounds, the surroundings, and the other images? Again, great wisdom.

But something needs to be activated for this to happen and no new app can help.

Our minds.

They are our own personal library, endless rows of shelves in a massive warehouse, storing memories and recollections, whose value is priceless. So sacred is this location that no other person in the world can access it. Yet each of us has a path to get there by using the same two magic words, whether thought or spoken.

“I remember.”

With these words, the mind gains entry to countless, personalized images. They are available only to their owner to browse through as often as they please. “Remember” is frequently shared with others, reminiscing from different perspectives. The same memory may vary as time passes and if lucky, small, forgotten details are rediscovered and cherished together.

Though precious nuggets such as these may not have been captured on film, they are as clear an image as the best high-definition television. The mind perfected flash-fill, color correction, and auto-focus thousands of years before any company figured it out.

I can still see my grandfather’s eyes, fifty plus years ago, that were weak and needed glasses. His white hair combed back, playing peek-a-boo behind his refrigerator. He did not speak good English, but I understood that it was fun when we played together.

Thinking my world was ending, I can feel the wind getting knocked out of me after tripping on our concrete porch steps in South Chicago. I was afraid to run up those steps afterwards, though a casual observer would only see four harmless looking stairs.

The glass that separated me from my first son was warm in the baby nursery at the hospital. Big, red marks from forceps blotted his squishy face, but for this new dad, he was the most beautiful baby I had ever seen.

No one else can experience those recollections the way I can.

Which brings me to my favorite image in an ever-growing catalog of favorite images of Izzy.

She is a huge fan of the movie Frozen. Her dad will attest that she has seen it a few hundred times and loves the music.

At Christmas, while opening gifts, she was the center of attention. We, courtesy of Alexa, played the song “Let It Go,” without warning as Izzy received Frozen-related toys. When she heard it begin, she came to a complete stop, eyes, and mouth wide open as if God sent this song to earth just for her at that moment.

Izzy must dance during this song and expects all else to join her. She likes to give each dancer a partner. Before long, we were dancing in our living room with blocks, books, and stuffed animals. Included were her dad, uncles, grandparents, and great-grandpa Bertok. Though confined to a wheelchair, he danced with a doll in each hand that she had given him.

None of this was filmed or photographed. But I will always remember her astonished look when the music started, and the look of pure delight from my dad while watching her. Those gems will go into my library and be recalled fondly. It is my hope that Izzy, who does not speak good English, understood it was fun to play with him.

Anyone walking by our picture window that day may have thought us all crazy. The family seen dancing with strange items may cause us to get odd looks and cold shoulders around the neighborhood.

But that’s okay, as Elsa says, “the cold never bothered me anyway.”