PICTURES MATTER, SOME MORE THAN OTHERS

Pictures matter most when the weeding out process starts.

Where to start?

If pictures matter more to you, then you start; if they don’t mean that much, let someone else do it, but give precise instructions. You want results, right?

Baby Boomer parents aren’t the first to take endless pictures of the same thing, from birthday parties to Christmas mornings to family vacations.

And selfies. Don’t forget the selfies. Millennials won’t forget selfies, and they won’t forget yours with, “What, you couldn’t find anything else to take a picture of?”

Over the period of a long term relationship, real long and real relatable, I’ve had a few cameras and taken tons of pictures.

They’ve usually come with a soundtrack: “Why are you taking pictures? Now we all have to stop so you can take a picture? Why can’t you just enjoy the moment without taking a picture?”

Eventually, with my insistence in the face of reluctance, the best of the best shots made into a photo album. Then another and another and another.

Call it the Hall of Fame.

Because Pictures Matter So Much

The albums are the hall of fame; if the photos make it to public display in the house, it’s a Wall of Fame.

What are the chances two people can agree on what makes the hall and wall of fame? What happens to the rejects?

You’ve heard of picture boxes, specialty storage units with acid free envelopes and separators for archival stability? That’s where the rejects go, instead of the recycle.

Here’s the deciding factor on photo edits: Boomers are officially old enough to experience loss and the end results of going through a life well lived, which means family pictures from Mom and Dad.

I’ve got a load sent by my brother who took the time to sort.

And I’ve got boxes of reject pictures that didn’t make the hall or wall.

As a good husband, I volunteered for the sorting job. With a good wife, I learned I did it wrong.

When Pictures Matter, Sorting Goes Wrong

The important point to start is that all of the pictures in every box that had been sitting on a shelf for years and years could have been recycled and no one, (wife), would have known the difference.

Instead, I separated them into three piles: One for the wife to sort, one for me, and one pile we can both decide on. The rest, including envelopes marked with dates and events along with negatives went to recycle.

I saved hundred and tossed hundreds, but the important part I missed was the envelopes documenting the time, date, and events, as if they came from a stranger’s camera.

My new organization counted on age. Pictures of kids and parents at particular times grouped together, instead of looking at pictures that matter like a video one frame at a time.

I’ve already got a Hall and Wall of Fame for that, but it doesn’t matter when the one who did all of the documenting on the envelopes inside the picture boxes sees their time and effort tossed out.

Sorting wasn’t easy, and here’s why: Pictures from thirty years ago showed I’ve got the same framed pieces hanging on the walls and some of the same furniture.

They looked out of place then, and still do, but in an odd way they are also a comfort.

Pictures of the kids when they were born, then the next at three years old, felt like a time warp.

I saw pictures of family members as young men looking heroic as young men do. They reminded me of visits I’ve had with people who’ve lost siblings and hang huge pictures of them in memorial.

But no one died, so we’ve been witnesses instead.

I found pictures of the kids in front of furniture I’ve refinished. The kids look Hall of Fame good, furniture looks great. Keeping those.

One picture struck home in a funny way. Since I have a birthday close to Christmas I complain every year. And I’ve been wrong every year. In this picture a birthday cake is decorated with two names, mine and Uncle Jack.

One year I shared my birthday with three, and I’m done complaining.

Museum Proud Picture Sorting

I did museum work for decades, sorting through donations looking for objects to fill holes in the permanent collection.

It always starts with a rough sort separating material of interest from CIII, or the ‘study collection.’

Photos are different, especially family photos. We know who they are, where they are, and what’s going on. That’s the sort of rough sort I did.

But it struck my wife as neglect. So I explained the photo albums, Hall of Fame, Wall of Fame, the works. But it wasn’t good enough. We worked through it about ten times and eventually landed on apologies.

Wife: I’m sorry for being angry.

Me: I’m sorry I didn’t do it the way you wanted it done. But we’ll have fun sorting together.

Wife: . . .

That was the end of it last night. However, today is another day, and the apologies got canceled when it came up all over again with new disappointment.

“Where did you put the pictures that you sorted out,” she asked. “I want to check on them.”

“Okay, but first, what day is it? Thursday. Do you hear that noise outside?”

“Yes, it’s the garbage truck. Did you take the garbage out?”

“I did, but that’s not the garbage truck. It’s the recycling truck picking up.”

“Okay, so where are the pictures and envelopes you sorted out?”

“From the sound of things, I’d say they are in the recycling truck.”

Hilarity ensued.

And that’s why pictures matter.