My Grandfather died when I was three. I have always logically understood that my memories of him were at the very best, shadowy. I do, however have images of him in my head…bald-headed, in a scratchy brown suit, carrying a hat, standing very tall, and a very proud look on his face. My memories of him are not of the smell of his skin or the taste of his breath. I cannot recall the sound of his voice or the way his hands felt as he held me–though I am told he often did. If I ever had any recollection of my grandfather or of any of the incidents and personalities that populated my toddler years they were quickly superceded by the pictorial traces which existed as our family photographs. Images that were recorded by my mother’s cameras escalated from mnemonic devices into the actual substance of what I remembered.

The life pictured between the brown leather covers of the family albums became the life I lived and remembered. And the images of my future that I would invent became predicated upon and formatted to be consistent with the carefully crafted and digested fictions of my mother’s photo albums. This process by which images become memories, memories become histories, and histories become the filter through which we ascribe meaning to the present is ever more complex the more images we absorb and the more people with whom we share them.

Suffice to say that my memories of my grandfather are purely visual memories. They are memories that I reinforced each time I sat as a child and pored over the thick and seemingly endless volumes of family photographs that my mother had accorded the greatest prestige by frequently admonishing: “If ANYTHING happens–fire, earthquake, or flood– the first things you grab are the photo albums and the movies.” I was never quite sure how bad the “anything” might have to be, but I do remember sleepless childhood nights running the drill in my mind in which I would suddenly awake (for the “anything” would invariably happen while I was asleep) and know exactly what to do: strip the cases off my pillows; stuff the precious items which were kept on the third shelf of the upper cupboard outside the room I shared with two older brothers into them; place them, making sure that they were all there, in the center of the bumpy orange bedspread that matched those of my brothers; then gather the corners of the spread and with a Herculean effort drag the precious bundle out of harm’s way. Because I was never terribly consistent in defining the “anything” situation, the outcome of the “rescue” was never completely clear either. The one constant was the cheering and applause I would imagine as I broke out of the confines of the house into the open air. What would shift night to night was the source of the accolades: some nights it would come from firemen, or policemen, sometimes soldiers, or even lifeguards; but always, the biggest of the uniformed chorus would lift me and my memories into his strong arms and crush me against his chest…not a picture that would have been found in my family albums.