Missing Stories

Not long ago I stumbled onto a hard drive that belonged to mom. On it I found folders and folders of photos. Amongst those folders were so many of my baby pictures I've never seen. 

Being the second child, I have long since come to grips with having fewer baby photos than my older sister. I get it. The first on is exciting. The second is - well - the second. And, to be fair, we didn't take photos in the late 1960s like we do today. Far from it. 

So having found these photos I knew immediately I wanted to scrapbook them. I wanted to begin at the beginning and work my way through the 70's and 80's of my life. 

It has been so much fun looking at these photos. There's only one problem. I have no stories to go with them. And the main story telling, Mom, isn't with me to tell me. 

I'll admit this thought made me sad. I have so many questions about some of the photos I've found. Like this one? Why? What is the story with the McDonald's hat? I know it's 1969 but I haven't a clue why my sister and I are wearing these hats. 

I've scrapped a handful of the photos. And without having stories it makes it very hard to journal on them. I could say on every page, "I don't know the story here but..." 

And that got me thinking about making up my own stories. I could, technically, rewrite my whole childhood and no one would know. That poses an interesting question about rewriting your history and whether it's the right thing to do. Truth be told, I'm not creative of a storyteller so doubt I'd come up with anything overly interesting. 

I decided today that without the stories, that's going to have to be ok. Scrapping the photos has to be enough. My family who will look at these pages won't care that there's no story (I hope). Then once I'm gone from this world, no one will care either so having a story isn't as important as I want it to be. 

But dammit...I want the stories. I want to sit with mom and look at each photo and ask her to tell me what was going on. It hurts deeply that I can't. It will be my one big regret in my life that I didn't ask more questions about her stories and mine. 

Some stories I know, or do I? I see photos like this one of me sitting on a desk at my grandparents house. I have fond memories of playing on that desk. I have not so fond memories of having "time outs" on that desk too. I wonder, frequently, if the memories I have are real, or are the one's I've created BECAUSE of this photo? I'll never know for sure. 

So if you're reading this, and your mom and dad are still her, sit with them and get the stories. Take the time to ask questions about the stories of your childhood and theirs. Write those stories down. Because one day, you won't have them there to ask.