Another Day in the Country

Nothing to complain about

By PAT WICK

Contributing writer

During these winter months, I set myself the task of sorting family photographs. In the process, I’ve started creating photo books for members of the family. I started with myself, after all, I’m doing the work, and I can experiment to see if I like the outcome. I did.

This process was similar to cleaning out Green Acres, our storage house in Ramona. Once again, I’m sorting through the past. One of the amazing finds was a school picture from first grade. I looked at this little face (that looks amazingly like my grandson) that once was me. I don’t remember ever seeing that picture.

Here was a little dark haired, dark eyed, first grader with the Schubert’s characteristic face shape. I remember her. She was spunky on the inside, shy on the outside. She wanted to learn to tap dance and she hated having to try to stand on her head or do cartwheels in physical education class. She was tall for her age.

A couple of years later, during one of our constant moving excursions, a suitcase with most of our family photographs inside, were stolen. We had to start over with family photos. This little snapshot had evidently been in my Aunt Naomi’s collection. I looked into the eyes of the first grader and smiled.

“What a cute little kid you were! Did you know that?” No.

In the mix of old photographs was a photo taken at my wedding of the bride with her mother and younger sister. There we stood — the three of us. Mother was beautiful, composed, smiling although she swore this event had driven her to premature menopause. Jessica was the 8-year-old candle lighter in a fancy pale blue dress that she deemed “exquisite.”

The bride looked haggard. She was moving onto the next phase of life and a little frightened with an ache in her stomach, too-tightly permed hair, and an obviously homemade wedding dress. She’d be glad when this was over and relieved when she finally found her first official job.

And what about that incomplete she had in shorthand because she had received three perfect transcripts in her final test? Would she ever get the speed she needed? Would the “Incomplete” turn to an “F” and her life be ruined? Yes and No.

There were photos from my first official photography class. My 5-year-old was often my subject and my sister, who was in her first year of college. There is one of me with my daughter. Someone else had tripped the shutter.

The bulky sweater hides the fact that I’m 6 months pregnant. I loved that baggy sweater, kept it for years. I loved working in the darkroom developing these photos and I smile remembering that finally, when my tummy was too big to maneuver easily in the dark, cramped space, I had to take a break. I never worked in a darkroom again.

Soon I was the mother of two, and my children’s development more important than photographs. Life moves on.

Pictures, if you stop to remember, capture your feelings at the time. Have you noticed this? Try it! Look at an old photo and remember what you were like. In most of my old photos, I was fearful of not measuring up. Something was always lacking. Could it have been a keen appreciation of the moment?

Some of these old photos are humorous, some are sad, others beautiful. Funny, I never really realized how pretty I was until now, looking back on images of my life 30, 40 years ago. I was tall, energetic, lovely, strong, creative, slender, and able to pay my bills. What more could one ask?

The book is done — at least that particular one. It was a great experience to make and it is a precious volume to hold. While I told myself I was making these books for my grandson, they were really for me!

It’s another day in the country and this week I heard a quote that hit me as so profound that I wrote it down to share. It was from Vidal Sassoon who was being interviewed and speaking about a sudden turn in his health, which had startled him but he said, “I told myself, ‘You have nothing to complain about! You’ve had a phenomenal adventure in life.’”

“I have to write that down,” I said to my sister.

“Why?” she asked. “Do you feel that way?”

I do.