Eighty Pounds of Memories

There are many reasons to look back on old family pictures. All these reasons originate in desire, a desire to look once again on the scenes of the past; like a little screen, allowing one to peer into its captured past.

The past was gone, exhaled like a relaxed breath. Time was good at that, it could slowly eat away at life, all the while making memories for those who’s time was consumed.

But that is the trade off; that is the agreement signed.

Some memories are wonderful, while some can down right leave you crawling; some don’t make you stronger, but sometimes memories help us forget. We can turn them on whenever we want and disappear.

Reeve Stoneman didn’t know anything about the signed agreement with time. He was guilty of taking most days for granted. But now life was punishing him, it was doing it the best way it knew how.

He was sitting in a rather drab living room, on a couch protected by a plastic cover. He had a large photo album resting on his lap, the thing looked eighty pounds. He looked over the captures, shot in 35mm when that was still a thing. The images had a magic of playing in Reeve’s mind, allowing a way to disappear inside memories; to relive moments buried by time.

The first family photo: Dad is in his early twenties and Mom is only a few months younger. Dad is strong, with a cream colored face set with determination, broken only by the smile he gives to the camera. He holds close the two things in his life that he truly loves. Mom is radiant, a coffee colored face framed by black kinky hair. Her eyes shine with tenderness and admiration for the two constants in her life. Reeve is a cute round ball, cradled between the two, a perfect blending of each.

The three are bundled up outside their first home: a two story house in the suburbs of Chicago. Leaves are on the ground. A new 1969 Mustang GT is parked in the drive, it is candy apple red. It's hard to tell who or what is more vibrant, it might be a draw.

Reeve is crawling across a carpeted floor. Dad is standing beside him, only the bottom half of his legs are visible: black polished shoes and gray hemmed pants.

Later Reeves is being held. He is a bubbling bundle of joy. A loose necktie hangs around Dad’s neck, there is a heaviness in his shoulders. But he still has those strong determined eyes. The very reason he works the extra hours nested in his arms. They sit together in a chair. A drink resting on the table beside them. The smiles are genuine, although one is slightly buzzed, they are true. The face of a man happy with life, and a baby boy who smiles back up to his world.

A little naked boy plays in a tub of soapy water.

Dad in his prime bounces the little tyke of three on his knee. Reeve’s face shines with joy as he holds on.

It is Christmas day. The tree is in the corner, newspaper litters the floor around it. The window in the background shows it was indeed a white Christmas that year. Reeve is playing with Lincoln Logs, a toy truck and bulldozer parked in front of a small cabin.

Reeve, who could easily be mistaken for a blue marshmallow, stands in the front yard. It is covered in virgin snow.

The maple trees are bare, and a Dodge Aspen wagon is parked in the shoveled drive. The little marshmallow boy is standing by another marshmallow boy, but this one is made of snow, and the snow isn’t so virgin now. Dad has his arm around Reeve and his new snow boy.

Reeves is in the front yard with the neighbor kid. Reeves has a silver badge pinned to his shirt. The neighbor boy, Allen Altman, wears a dark strip of cloth that contrasts with his pale skin. They are playing cops and robbers. Reeves plays as the first black sheriff in Illinois. The two soon became best friends. Inseparable.

He is eight years old and getting his first bicycle. It is a yellow stingray, with a stick shift. He rode it on the street out front. Mom is laughing, a camera slung around her neck. He wheeled it close and slowed down. “Now!”, he yelled, throwing weight down on one pedal while lifting up on the handlebars, just as he had practiced on Altman’s bike. The camera clicked, capturing him in the perfect wheelie.

The arm is in an L shaped cast up to the lower pit. Not looking so happy now; now that Dad has taken the Sting Ray away. Allen is sitting beside Reeve, giving him the classic bunny ears. Allen was the first to sign the cast.

The steady pressures of adulthood have started taking their toll on a face that looks back just as steadily. With shoulders that could hold the weight of the world, Dad is standing outside the Aspen; the top is stacked with suitcases, getting ready for the move to St. Louis.

Reeve standing outside the little gray house. His cast is off. One of his arms looks like it came from someone else. The cast was hard to throw away; that stinking thing had all his friend’s names and doodles on it. But his mother insisted, and Dad made it final by tossing it out while he was at school.

Playing catch with the old man. The arm healed good as new. There wasn’t much for a front yard, but there was still room to catch balls that Dad would throw so high they looked like they’d punch the sun out.

Mom and Dad are dressed for the night out. Mom: radiant as ever, she is wearing a modest black dress, smoking a long thin cigarette. The smoke tendrils play over her face. Father has his arm around her hip, looking at her with the expression of surprise, mesmerized perhaps. Reeves took the picture before they headed out. They left at six and Mother returned at eight. Father had choked to death on a bit of beef fat at the restaurant. That night was a real living nightmare.

Mother is tending to her many potted plants. She had a way of making things grow and thrive. She took up the hobby after Dad’s passing, and committed herself whole heartily. The table beside her covered with an assortment of house plants, all in terracotta pots of different sizes. One looks suspiciously like a marijuana plant. The aloes where used for burns and cuts. Mom made sure Reeve knew that.

Reeve, a graduating high school senior, expresses all the strength of his father. He stands shoulder to shoulder beside a lanky classmate. The year is 1988, and the hair is crazy. The two have stupid big smiles on, excited for the night ahead. They are ready to conquer the world.

Reeve is in a baseball uniform, it is pressed and stain free. Skill and a bit of fortune giving him a college scholarship, and a chance to maybe play professionally. He plays outfield, a skill started by catching those balls that rained down from the sky.

Reeve holds his degree in business. He had taken Mom’s advice and studied and worked towards a degree in case the ball thing didn’t work out. Reeve was a good ball player, but he wasn’t a really good ball player. His smile is proud nonetheless. He has big plans.

A sharp 1995 Saab is parked in the front of Mom’s house. Reeve has his things packed, ready to make the trip to sunny Southern California. Who thought his computer thing would kick off. Mom was happy and sad to see him go.

Mom is sitting, laughing with a lady that has her hand resting on Mom’s thigh. Sarah Bates was a friend when Mom was going through her experimental phase, a phase that turned into her life. Sarah made Mom happy when her plants could not, and showed her to love again.

Sarah and Mom are in their backyard, they are both bent over harvesting bush beans. Sarah’s arms have a farmer’s tan, they are thick and strong. Mom is slender, wearing a flower print dress, her skin drinking in the sun.

Reeve, Mom, and Sarah are standing outside the grand opening of their new computer store in St. Louis. Reeve wouldn’t have been able to open shop without Sarah. She’s not only a business partner, she’s a second mother. Reeves stands a full head taller than both his moms, an arm wrapped around each. Mom looks older, but happy. Sarah is a face full of pretty white teeth, her blonde hair cut short.

Reeve’s face is covered in cake. The beauty of the woman beside him is not diminished by the fact that her own face is covered in cake. It is the day Faith Anderson became Faith Stoneman.

Sarah and Mom share a dance at the wedding, not knowing they will be grandmas in nine short months.

Mom and Sarah are sitting on a plastic covered couch, they have a baby propped up between them. Little Beth Stoneman has the same focused eyes as her father, already a head full of black hair. Sarah wears jeans with dirty knees. Mom wears a small bandage on her neck, her eyes look tired. Smiles hiding worry.

Mom is wearing a dew rag. Her wild black hair is gone. The months of complaining of a stiff neck led to an exam. They found cancer, and followed up with treatments that only aggravated.

Beth will be too young to remember her first birthday. She is being held by Faith, who sits beside a big stuffed bear: a gift from Grandma Sarah. A captured moment, that will later prove to Beth that it even happened, like so many pictures taken during toddler days.

Now as Reeve sat on the couch, the collective weight of those memories pushing down on him. And even though Mom’s life had stopped, the memories of her still contributed to a web of ongoing lifelines, just as he too, would contribute even after his death. That was the beauty of it, he realized. He and those around him were still making memories, some wonderful and others bittersweet. While some might cripple, but only for a spell, they too are ate by time and added to the great reservoir that holds memories.