I was cleaning out the rafters in my parents’ garage last evening in preparation for a long-overdue estate sale. So there I was on a ladder, sweaty, sneezing from the dust, when I spied their artificial christmas tree. It was lurking in three sections: disassembled, but having lost none of its power to elicit memory and guilt. The memories were of the long successions of mid-December forays to rescue it for its season in the spotlight; the guilt tied to a certain essay that I wrote but could never submit.

So, you may ask, what’s the connection between the hoarded essay and the three clumps of faux-foliage in by parents’ garage? The essay centered around a set of photographs by Meg Madison that traced the trajectories of the evergreen symbols of Yuletide AFTER the presents have been opened, AFTER they have been stripped of their finery, and AFTER they have morphed from the center of attention to an object of contention vis-à-vis their disposal–a project of Meg’s I always admired. It was the timing of the written piece that contributed to the huge emotional overlays that paralyzed its release: Meg was dealing with critical health issues and coincidentally, I was dealing with the recent loss of my mother from similar issues and the slow, though immanently fatal, decline of my father.

As a result of my chance encounter in the rafters, therefore, I have resurrected the essay from its archived-file tomb (it being almost Easter, after all) and am in the process of re-reading it. I may change a couple of things, though I doubt it. It is time to let it go. So with profound apologies to Meg for a tardiness that has taken on archeological dimensions, I will be posting it here in the near future: one more unforeseen dimension of the upcoming Estate Sale.

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of my grandfather or of any of the incidents and personalities that populated my toddler years they were quickly superceded by the pictorial traces which existed as our family photographs.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