As my grandmother once pointed out, we all have a shelf life, and I’ve reached the stage in life when it’s time to take stock. You know the sort of thing. Is the will written? Are insurance policies in place, and is the paperwork easy to find? Have you appointed an executor? I don’t want anyone to think I’m ready to go yet. I’m not. Thankfully, I’m still hale and hearty, but I don’t do things as fast as I once did. With all that in mind, this winter I decided to sort out my many, many photographs, something I’ve threatened to do for at least the last five winters.
Some might look at what I have and call me a hoarder.
I prefer packrat, a condition I came by honestly. As a child of a military
family, we moved constantly from one fully furnished married quarters address
to another. Of our personal belongings, what didn’t fit into one of our four
big tea chests, the old-fashioned kind with riveted metal edges and lined with
aluminium foil, and a couple of suitcases, didn’t move with us.
Image
from pinterest.com
As an adult, I kept everything I could. From boxes of
all shapes and sizes, you know the ones I mean - that little jewellery box
that’s been in the corner of a drawer for ages, just in case, until the time
comes when, unused and apparently unwanted, you get rid of it. And immediately
need a box of exactly the same size. Then there are books, magazines, and what
could be politely termed bric-a-brac or, more accurately, junk.
But now this piper is looking at paying the price. I
don’t want my executor to have to do more than necessary when the time comes,
so out came my two five-gallon Rubbermaid tubs loaded with photographs, plus
two more boxes packed with albums. This may not seem like much to many of you,
but to me, it is a lot.
But oh, the memories. My parents' wedding photographs.
Me as a baby and a five-year-old. My children as babies and toddlers. Weddings
and christenings, vacations and holidays, indicated by everything from
daffodils at Easter to cards hanging from oak beams at Christmas. There are
photographs of places I don’t remember visiting, and of people whose faces are
unfamiliar, and whose names, if ever known, are long forgotten. I have photos
of a Pekinese called Bocky, but no idea whose dog he was or where the photos
were taken.
Two large albums contain a photographic record of my month-long trip to New Zealand in 1985. We flew in relative luxury with Singapore Airlines, when even tourist class had plenty of legroom. No vacuum-packed meals here. Good hot food was served on china plates, with proper cutlery and glassware appropriate to your beverage choice. Here is the printed menu, depicting Singapore’s first St. Andrew’s Church, drawn in 1837,
After several days of looking at them, my collection
of photographs is now reduced to one box. That will still need sorting into
some sort of personal history, but it can wait until next Winter. The rest of the
photographs? Shredded without a qualm because they no longer serve a purpose.
It might not be much, but it’s a beginning, and now that the job is done, it’s time
to start plotting Book 3 in my Sixpenny Cross Cosy Murder Mysteries, A Corpse
in the Canal.
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