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of my grandfather or of any of the incidents and personalities that populated my toddler years they were quickly superceded by the pictorial traces which existed as our family photographs.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. Continue Reading »