Ten and I spent a good forty-five minutes this afternoon looking through boxes of old pictures. She has an end of the school year sleep over coming up, and the invitation’s list of what to bring (along with sleeping bag and swim suit) includes a baby picture.
There’s nearly a dozen shoe boxes of prints and negatives stacked on the bookshelves in our bedroom: they were pre-digital babies, my crew, and we’ve got the un-filed, un-sorted, un-albummed archives to prove it.
One of the boxes held a surprise - the loose photos I’d collected when I cleared out my grandmother’s house a few years ago. There were pictures of her great-grandchildren (my children) that I had mailed to her when they were little– and pictures of her grandchildren, too: stacks of 1960’s and 1970’s snaps of my little sister and me, posing in matching outfits (sewn by the other grandmother), holding cats with long-forgotten names, dressed for Halloween or the first day of school - the pictures, that is, that my mother had sent back home to her mother, pictures of us growing up in far-away Virginia.
Ten finally narrowed things down to two likely candidates, and went back downstairs to pack them with her other gear, and we were actually all loaded in the car for the 15 minute drive to her friend’s house with time to spare, pulling into the driveway at 5 minutes to 5:00 – which was, as we realized after a quick conversation with the older brother (no one else was home) five minutes and twenty-four hours too early. Oops. School’s been out all of two days, and we’ve already lost track of time.
(The picture is from last Saturday in Quechee.)