Author: Sue Fagalde Lick

writer/musician California native, Oregon resident Author of Freelancing for Newspapers, Shoes Full of Sand, Azorean Dreams, Stories Grandma Never Told, Childless by Marriage, Now Way Out of This: Loving a Partner with Alzheimer's, and the Up Beaver Creek novel series. Most recently, I have published three poetry chapbooks, Gravel Road Ahead, The Widow at the Piano: Confessions of a Distracted Catholic, and Blue Chip Stamp Guitar, plus a full-length collection Dining Al Fresco with My Dog. I have published hundreds of articles, plus essays, fiction and poetry. I'm also pretty good at singing and playing guitar and piano.

Old photos: Sneaking a Peek into the Past

Fred 1940BThis weekend, still babying my sprained ankle, I took a journey into the past. I spent several hours scanning old slides and photos that have been piled up in boxes and envelopes for ages. The inheritor of my husband Fred’s family archives, I have sent boxes of pictures to his brother and his kids, but there were many photos I wanted to keep copies of for myself. Plus, having been a photographer most of my life, I have tons of my own pictures to digitize.

The weekend’s photos were a blend of my own life and Fred’s. Many of the pictures were old black and whites of Fred as a baby and little boy. Quite a few showed his parents, Al and Helen Lick, when they were young. I found pictures of Fred’s mother’s parents and THEIR parents, the Waltons and the Townes, below. I never met those people, but as the pictures went farther and farther back in time, I got more and more excited. Fred’s mother as a child, her mother and her mother’s mother. Her father, bottom right. I donG W's folks MM Clinton Towne’t even know his first name, but I want to know his story. The settings took me back to my 1950s childhood and farther back into the years just before I was born. Look at those old cars, the baggy pants, the braided hairdos. Imagine living in that house.

I loved looking at how Fred changed from that baby to that cute little boy (upper right) to that gawky teen to that handsome Navy man to my wonderful bearded husband. I could see the arc of his whole life in these pictures.

There were others, photos from my own life. One showed the whole family that I used to have when I was marriedGr Walton & Teeny 1948 to my first husband. There I was with my long hair, minimal makeup and big glasses, surrounded by the Fagaldes and Barnards. Me, in love with a man who was not Fred—before the divorce. Other pictures showed Fred and his kids, my parents, my brother, my cousins, my grandparents. School pictures, holidays, trips.

I can only look at so many of my own pictures before sadness and loss overwhelm me. So many of my loved ones have died; so many of the living are far away. Maybe that’s why it’s so fun looking at Fred’s family photos. I never met most of these people. I didn’t know Fred and his brothers when they were kids. It’s like piecing together a story that goes back through nearly a century. Some of the photos are turning brown. Some are scratched, torn or bent, but each one captures a moment, opening the shutters so I can peek in.

And now, with computer technology, I don’t have to decide what to keep or who to send the pictures to. We can all have copies. Magic! (Kids and cousins, I will email you copies.)

I’m grateful for Fred’s mother writing information on the back of many photos. Too many of mine say nothing or just offer first names. Other people might not know who they are. Preserving old photos is an art. Maybe all of your pictures are stored on your computer or phone, but most of us still have some actual photographs hanging around. I know I could do a better job of preserving them. Maybe you could, too. The following links offer some advice on what to do with them.

Continue reading “Old photos: Sneaking a Peek into the Past”

Broadway comes to Newport, Oregon with ‘Shrek the Musical’

shrek313_nctjyI slipped into Row I, Seat 101 at the Newport Performing Arts Center, next to a handsome dark-haired stranger. The theater was packed with kids, parents and a few old fogies like me.

Since we were going to be knee to knee for the next two hours, I decided we should get acquainted. “Are your kids in the show?” I asked.

He nodded. “My older daughter is the Ugly Duckling and the younger one is Goldilocks. How about you?”

“Lots of friends in the show.”

We soon discovered that his daughter takes singing lessons from the same teacher as my hairdresser’s son, Kyle Bertness, who plays Donkey.

The lights dimmed.The orchestra started playing in the pit, the horns a bit squeaky. Behind me, a little boy chattered excitedly with his mother as “Shrek the Musical” began with Shrek’s Scottish-accented voice setting the scene.

On stage, more than 50 fairy tale characters gathered in the Ogre’s swamp. Then Shrek emerged from his shack in all his green glory to wild applause. It was just like the movie, except that I knew people on the stage. A couple in our church choir played multiple roles, including Mother Goose and a Bishop. In real life, they’re both pediatricians. Their youngest son was Puss-n-Boots. One of their older sons worked the lights. My hairdresser, Karlia, who had just cut my hair on Friday, was the dragon and her son Kyle stole the show as the singing and dancing Donkey. Her other children were also in the cast.

That’s the way it is with local theater. The people on stage and behind the scenes are people you also see at church or the supermarket. I could not see Shrek’s real face under his costume but discovered later that actor Stu Clausen works at the Oregon Coast Aquarium. In a small town, everybody knows everybody, and it’s great.

The show itself is delightful. The story is that the evil Lord Farquaad, played by Brian Hanna, has evicted the fairy tale characters from his land and sent them to live in Shrek’s swamp. But Shrek is not a people person and wants them gone. Lord Farquaad offers a deal: If Shrek will rescue the beautiful Princess Fiona from the tower where she has been confined all her life and bring her to marry him, he’ll give Shrek back his land. Shrek sets off to the rescue the princess, joins up with the crazy Donkey and rescues Fiona, played by Kendra Hanna. But there are complications, including romance blooming between the ogre and the princess.

It’s a kid’s story with fabulous music and jokes that are sophisticated enough for grownups. This production is put on by Coastal Act Productions, which specializes in massive musicals that include lots of children, along with experienced adults in the leading roles. Kids from age 3 on up play all the familiar fairytale characters, including the three pigs, three bears, Pinocchio, and Red Riding Hood. We’ve got tap-dancing rats and soft-shoeing blind mice. Not every cast member sings well and there seemed to be a problem with the curtains on Saturday, but it doesn’t matter. The energy is high, the jokes are funny, and the costumes are delightful.

Shrek is fun. The theater is close to home, parking is easy, and tickets cost a lot less than they do on Broadway.

After the show, the cast lined up in the lobby to meet the audience. It was loud and wonderful, but I had to scurry off to play the piano for the 5:30 Mass at Sacred Heart just up the street. Scurry is an exaggeration. I’m still limping on my sprained ankle, but the crutches are back in the closet.

“Shrek the Musical” goes on for two more weekends at the PAC. Performances are on Thursday and Friday nights, plus one more Saturday matinee and evening performance on Jan. 17. Seats are going fast. Visit Coastarts.org for information or to buy tickets.

[Shrek picture courtesy Coloringpages101.com]

It’s hard to be invisible on crutches

It’s hard to hide crutches. I make my slow way across the church to the piano and feel the whole congregation staring. Afterward, parishioners surround me, full of questions and pity. “What did you do?Crutches” “Oh, poor you.” They can’t believe I came to church in my gimpy state.

“I didn’t hurt my fingers or my voice,” I protest.

I struggle into the grocery store, where I will become one of those old ladies leaning on her cart, and the checker calls out, “What did you do?” Near the bagels, a man from church hurries up, puts an arm around me and asks the same question: “What did you do?” In the bread aisle, another friend from church sees me. “Oh no!” she exclaims. She has done it, too; she doesn’t have to ask.

For those who missed last week’s post, I sprained my ankle three days after Christmas. I missed a step at a local restaurant and spent the next three hours in the emergency room. All dressed up in velvet and Christmas sparkles, I learned that you can do x-rays through black pantyhose and that rolling in a wheelchair feels great when you only have one leg to stand on. But everybody will be watching you.

At the doctor’s office for my follow-up visit on Friday, I got a different reaction when I unveiled my foot and ankle. “Wow! Look at all those colors!” the doc said. It was pretty impressive, a mosaic of black, red, purple, green and yellow. But at least it was shaped like a foot and I could now put some weight on it. We talked braces, splints and shoes, and the doc filled out a form so I could get my very own disabled parking permit. When I came out, the waiting room was full. Everybody watched me as I progressed slowly toward the door.

Next stop DMV. I crutched up to the desk when my number was called. “Guess what I need,” I said, feeling everybody watching.

I spent the first three days riding two crutches, unable to put my right foot down. My whole body hurt, it was impossible to carry anything bigger than a pencil, and I couldn’t imagine leaving the house. On New Year’s Day, I was able to put my foot on the floor. I played the morning Mass at church, then retired to my couch to watch U of O’s Ducks slaughter the Florida State Seminoles 59-20. I don’t normally watch much football, but it was something to do, and for four blessed hours, nobody was watching me or telling me yet again that sprains are worse than broken bones.

My crutches are big and ugly. I’m down to one and sometimes none at home. I’m getting better at squeezing my crutches into the car and restaurant booths without hitting anything or anybody. There’s just enough room on my pew behind the piano at church for my crutches and my butt. But I’ll be glad to put my crutches back in the closet and forget about them. I have a sporty new splint on order which I will be wearing indefinitely. It’s black, and I’m hoping people will stop noticing and yelling, “What did you do?”

I’m a private person. I don’t like this kind of attention, but I’m learning so many lessons. Yeah, watch where you’re going, you might say. That, too. But I’m learning again, after several years without a visible injury, what it’s like to be disabled. I am so grateful that this is temporary. By next month, I should have only a slight limp, the crutches history. But so many other people are stuck with their disabilities for much longer or forever, and it’s bloody hard. It’s also inconvenient. I never noticed before how few parking spaces are allowed for the handicapped, how bumpy our parking lots are, and how heavy so many doors are.

I wonder how many people are sitting at home needing groceries to be bought or chores to be done but can’t do it themselves and don’t have anyone they feel comfortable asking. My New Year’s resolution is to jump out of my comfort zone and call people who are ailing or hurt, especially those who live alone, and not just encourage them to ask for help but offer specific assistance, such as, “I’m going to the grocery store. What do you need?” Or, “How about if I do a load of laundry for you?”

Want to join me?

Hopping toward New Year’s on crutches


People my age shouldn’t use crutches. Guess I shouldn’t have left my late husband’s wheelchair at my father’s house in San Jose. I could sure use it now. But oh this is great material for a story.
What am I babbling about? I was mindlessly walking from the restroom at Georgie’s back to the bar where I was having lunch with a friend when I missed the step and turned my ankle big-time. I have been through a ridiculous number of sprains and broken bones on my feet and ankles, so I know the difference between a little ouch and an immediate trip to the ER. This was an ER event. I wasn’t even drinking. It was after church, and I was having iced tea and pot roast. This guy who was drinking at the bar was my only witness. He heard me yelp and asked if I was all right. I stood stunned, rubbing my foot through my boot and replied, “I don’t think so.” He went back to his drinking and was still at it when I hopped out. My friend, mesmerized by the ocean view, did not know anything had happened.
So, the ER waiting room at Samaritan Pacific Communities Hospital (26 beds, tricky cases sent to other hospitals) was like a party. Yes, one guy was coughing, another was hurting, another had cut off part of his finger, but soon we were all talking as I waited in my wheelchair, all dressed up in my post-Christmas finery: black boots, green velvet skirt, green blouse, Christmas vest. They rolled me out for triage and for x-rays, then planted me on a gurney in a hallway because the place was slammed with patients. A couple hours later, I was out of there with a splint and the usual instructions for ice, elevation, and Ibuprofen. It’s a sprain, no broken bones. I now have a complete set of air splints.
At home, the challenges began. I could not put weight on my right foot at all. Too much pain. I had some old crutches in the closet. It takes coordination and upper body strength to maneuver on crutches. Suddenly it’s impossible to carry anything. In fact, right now, I’d like a cup of tea, but I don’t know how to get it to my bedroom. Cooking is a trip. I’m glad I’ve done yoga because now I need to balance on one foot and lean up or down to get things. I scoot plates and food along the counter until they’re close enough to the table to grab . At breakfast, I forgot the sharp knife and learned that it is possible to cut a large grapefruit with a butter knife if you’re determined enough. Getting dressed was challenging because most of my clothes live at the far end of the house from my bedroom. I wound up taking them off the hangers and throwing them across the room. A shower? Not happening.
I have fallen three times so far, but I have bounced and rolled off soft furniture each time. My crutches tend to fall down every time I set them anywhere. They hit the dog the last time, so now she’s not so sure about staying by my side.
Before you get all sorry for me, know that the doctor says I’ll be walking again by next week and the pain has already greatly diminished. It’s just inconvenient. It also forces me to ask for help, which I hate. Friends just brought me a load of pellets for my pellet stove, so I can keep warm. The dog sitter will be coming to walk Annie and do little things like get the mail from the box across the street. I am fortunate that I can still write and sing and play music. I can also drive, I discovered yesterday on the way home from the hospital. It felt so good to have wheels moving me along.
I will survive. But crutches are tough at any age. The doctor didn’t seem to consider whether I’d be able to manage crutches. My arms ache, my back is out of whack, and I get tired just going from bed to bathroom. Hoisting myself up the single step from the den takes a lot of strength. Okay, it’s another gift: weight training. But I’m measuring my moves in crutch miles.
I prayed hard last week that God would let me not get sick until after Christmas, no colds or anything that would prevent me from singing at church. My wish was granted. I sang my heart out. So this? Good one, God.
If you can walk on two feet, be thankful. If not, I share your frustration.
And I should probably stay out of bars. I don’t think these crutches or my shoulders could make it through another injury.

The best gifts may not be under the Christmas tree

I was going to write a whiny post about not having any Christmas presents. It would start, “The only gifts for me under my Christmas tree are the ones I bought and wrapped for myself.” I would explain that the main gift-givers in my family have all died, my remaining family lives far away, I have no kids, the younger folks in my family don’t seem moved to send presents to good old Aunt Sue, my friends are all traveling this Christmas, etc. Woe is me. While that’s all true, I have realized I’m an idiot.
I have so much, and I am so blessed. Grief over my late husband is hitting me like a sledgehammer this year, but I’m writing in a house filled with so much great stuff I can’t possibly need anymore. I want it, but I don’t need it. I have numerous musical instruments and piles of sheet music, books, food, clothes, computers, keepsakes, nice furniture, a car, a dog, work I love, enough money, and a healthy body.
It’s time I reached out to help other people instead of whining about myself. Know what I mean?
I was already beginning to see the light when I started reading a new book I downloaded yesterday with the help of a Christmas gift certificate. It’s called Not Fade Away: A Memoir of Senses Lost and Found and was written by Rebecca Alexander with Sasha Alper. Alexander is losing both her sight and her hearing, due to something called Usher’s Syndrome, a rare genetic glitch. She was a teenager when she was told she would eventually be both blind and deaf. It’s a great book, and Alexander doesn’t seem to feel the least bit sorry for herself. Imagine what it would be like not even being able to see the Christmas tree.
Look around. Listen. Thank God if you can see and hear.
Meanwhile, I might not have a lot of presents under the tree but I have presents everywhere else. You, my readers, are one of those gifts. Thank you and Merry Christmas to all.

Wrapping Christmas presents in the dark

Ah, electricity. Invisible and unappreciated until it’s gone.

               
Like most of the west coast, we here in South Beach, Oregon got hammered last week by back-to-back storms. Rain came down in sheets while wind did its best to rattle everything loose. On Thursday, everyone was talking about the big storm that was coming. When I woke up to blue skies, I rushed out to finish my Christmas shopping and maybe take myself out to lunch before the storm hit. While I was in the checkout line at Fred Meyer’s in Newport, I saw people coming in huddled in wet coats and knew the storm was starting. Folks were talking about getting over the Yaquina Bridge before it was closed. Forget lunch. Time to get home.
               
Rain spattered the windshield harder and harder as I drove south. Wind gently nudged the car as I crossed the bridge. But it wasn’t bad. I still had power to warm up my leftover pizza, to read by while I ate it, and to finish my work at the computer.
               
The lights flickered. I closed my files, but Facebook grabbed my attention until suddenly, silently, the computer screen went dark. Oh. It was 2:12 p.m. Twilight outside, twilight inside. All the little green and red lights on my various equipment were out. The pellet stove, which runs by electricity, had stopped. The only sound was the rain on the skylights and wind thrashing the trees.
                
Okay. I had a plan. Power failures are not unusual around here. I have flashlights in every room, a large supply of candles, and two electric lanterns. I have wood for the wood stove in the den. I have cold food to eat, plenty to drink. One never knows how long the power will stay out around here. Once it lasted two days. An area farther south stayed dark for almost a week.
               
Since I couldn’t work at the computer, this was my opportunity to wrap my Christmas presents. So I did, with loud music playing from the battery-operated radio I keep handy for storms. The sound is tinny, but it’s company.
            
I wrapped and wrapped until it got so dark I couldn’t tell blue ribbons from green.  Now it was lighter outside than in. The rain had stopped and the wind had slowed, so I took Annie out for a short walk. Soon we heard the chatter of a radio from an emergency vehicle and came upon the source of the power failure. A giant tree on the next block had fallen into the power lines. Rain-suited crews from the electric company had cut up the tree and were now restringing the wires from the highway to the street that connects with mine. Big trucks. Bright lights. Noise. “Thank you for what you’re doing!” I called.
               
 “No problem,” a guy hollered back.
             
Satisfied that eventually the lights would come back on, we turned back home, running into our neighbor and her children coming to see what was going on. We’re all nosy.
             
I had thought I would work on my Christmas cards, but darkness in the woods is truly dark, not like back in suburbia where night is only slightly different from day. Instead, I talked to a friend on my cell phone, then settled in front of the wood stove to build a fire. Big logs, little logs, kindling, building from a spark to an orange finger of flame to a roaring fire.
              
I sat back and watched the fire, all other duties canceled due to darkness. I thought about the days before electric lights. Even with candles and lanterns, the light is limited and full of shadows. You cannot see to do anything intricate. If you spill or drop something, it’s difficult to see where it went. It’s hard to stay clean. And surely you go to bed much earlier because it’s so dark.
              
Electric lights have changed the way we live our lives. Natural light has become irrelevant. Many people work round the clock under artificial light. If we need more light, we just plug it on and turn it on.We forget how easily that light could disappear.
              
It’s not just light I was missing. I would not be able to heat my food. The food in the refrigerator would spoil if the power stayed out. My cell phone would lose its charge, the house would cool down, and I would not be able to watch my TV shows. But I could adapt.
              
Luckily, I didn’t have to. At 6:00, just as I was about to make a ham sandwich for dinner, the lights came on. “Yay! Thank you!” I shouted as I hurriedly threw a fish in the frying pan and a potato in the microwave before the electricity changed its mind.
                
Despite predictions of 90 mph gusts, it turned out to be a pretty average winter storm here. We just had a few trees and branches down. In Newport, the big sign outside Bank of America blew down. In Portland, a tree fell on a car, killing the people inside. California had flooding and mudslides. But here in South Beach, we just had a little electricity-appreciation lesson.
              
Lights. I like ‘em.
How is your weather? Any storm damage? Please share your stories in the comments.

Christmas: The Dog’s Point of View

It’s not great art, but I’m crazy busy like everyone else. Enjoy. 🙂

Humbug Dog
It was three weeks before Christmas
and all through the casa
it rained Santas and angels
and presents. Que pasa?
It looked like a Christmas store
exploded all over
while asleep in the middle
lay snoring dear Rover,
not interested in blinking lights
or tinsel on the Christmas tree,
not charmed by stockings on the mantel shelf
or candy handed out with glee.
But if the cookie box should shake,
that sleeping dog would spring to her feet,
trampling snowmen and Santa Clauses
to gobble up her well-earned treat.
Until then, she will dose and dream
of walks on the beach and romps in the snow,
ears open as she sleeps and waits
for Santa to pack up his sleigh and go.
[Copyright Sue Fagalde Lick Dec. 9, 2014]

A little Oregon rain falls on California

I wake up in my childhood bedroom in San Jose, California to the sound of rain pattering on the roof and the fiberglass awnings over the windows. I look out to see it soaking the cracked sidewalks and pooling in the bald spots between the tufts of grass that used to be lawn. It is finally raining in San Jose. My hometown has been plagued by drought for the past three years. Even when rain is predicted, with tiny clouds scudding across the sky, it has rained every place except San Jose.

This part of California is a naturally arid area, with an average of 15 inches of rain and 301 days of sunshine a year, but in recent years, the lack of rain has caused the city to institute rationing, even hiring “water cops” to make sure people aren’t watering their lawns or washing their cars. The reservoirs are dry and the underground water sources tapped out. Signs along the farmland between my father’s house and where my brother lives near Yosemite ask people to pray for rain. “No rain, no grain,” they say.

Meanwhile, where I live in Oregon, we average about 80 inches of rain a year. This year has been a little lighter but still more than we need.

The Bay Area TV newscasters are going crazy, talking about this rain as if it were an impending hurricane. The weather maps show tiny specs of yellow, unlike the massive patches that cover most of the Oregon map. I roll my eyes as people bundle up and think about canceling things. My father says I should stay longer because it’s raining. I’m from western Oregon, where it rains so much mold and moss grow on everything that stands still. We panic at snow and ice, but if it isn’t frozen, it’s fine.

I pull up my hood and load my car in the rain. Dad waves goodbye from the door. On the road, the rain streaks the dust on my windshield. Tires make tracks on the pavement that look like snow and are almost as slippery from years of dirt being turned to mud. This area is not engineered for a lot of rain; there’s nothing to absorb it, and people don’t know what to do with it. The slick mud makes me nervous, but not as nervous as some drivers I see white-knuckling their steering wheels, staring straight ahead in terror as they drive 20 mph under the speed limit. I used to be one of those Californians who would panic at rain, but not anymore. It’s just water. Much needed, blessed water.

Most days of my Thanksgiving week in California, Dad and I sat in the patio, soaking in the sun and watching the blue jays and squirrels. This is crazy. It’s November, we said. Now at last it’s raining. In Oregon when it rained, I would wave my arms and shout “go south.” Maybe it finally worked.

Newcomers to the Oregon coast look out at our sideways rain and 60 mph wind and ask, “Does it do this very often?“ Or, “Is this as bad as it’s going to get?” We just laugh. We take pride in our ability to deal with rain and wind, but we do panic at ice and snow. I’m sure those who are used to feet of snow roll their eyes at us.

My father says soon after I left the sun was shining, but the rain came back in buckets the next day. Maybe all of us Oregonians traveling home for Thanksgiving brought the rain. If so, you’re welcome, California. Enjoy it. I’m back home with Annie now, grateful for Thanksgiving and ready to buy a Christmas tree.

Rain fans might appreciate local writer Matt Love’s ode to rain, Of Walking in Rain, available from Nestucca Spit Press.

On the road to San Jose again

I spent yesterday traveling down the coast of Oregon to California for Thanksgiving. It’s a two-day journey, which I made extra long stopping to take pictures and do some Christmas shopping. I will let my photos tell the story this week. (All photos copyright Sue Fagalde Lick 2014)

Devil’s Churn at Cape Perpetua

Veterans’ memorial north of North Bend

Coast view south of Pt. Orford

Gold Beach bridge from the north

Playground at park in Crescent City

The sun nears the horizon on the Redwood Highway north of Eureka, CA

I am the Weeping Keeper of Past Lives

It had been a beautiful Sunday, yet there I sat sobbing over old photos as the first “Sex and the City” movie played in the background. Certain parts of the movie always get to me–when Charlotte tells Carrie she’s pregnant, when Miranda and Steve reunite on the Brooklyn Bridge, when Carrie and Big get back together–but it wasn’t just that. It was all the lives piled up on the card table.

Somehow, having survived the deaths of my husband, his parents and his younger brother, I have become the keeper of the archives, boxes and boxes of photographs, slides, and memorabilia. The more I sell or give away, the more there seems to be. Like me, Fred’s dad never went anywhere without a camera. I carefully compiled the first 20 years or so of our marriage into albums, but I have my own boxes of prints and slides, including the black and white pictures I processed in my darkroom-happy years. There are pictures from life with my first husband. It was a life with so many promises never fulfilled. There are my grandparents, my parents, aunts, uncles and cousins, so many of them gone. I miss them all, and I weep. There’s the house we used to live in on Safari Drive. I weep.

There are the Lick photos, none of them properly stored, yet many surviving almost a century. It’s not the family I grew up with. I never met Fred’s grandparents. I never saw his mom and dad as young people or Fred and his brothers as little boys, yet here they are in countless photos. As Fred’s Alzheimer’s progressed and he forgot his history, I remembered it for him. Now that he’s gone, I look at that cute little boy with glasses and weep. I look his parents and weep. I look at pictures of Fred’s children, my stepchildren, as babies with their mom, and I weep. Some days I can’t believe I ever was part of this family, and yet it’s part of me. As I sort, I keep a few things for myself and I throw out the things that I don’t think will interest anyone anymore, but I keep sending boxes of pictures to Fred’s kids and his brother. It’s all paper, somebody’s click of the camera. Does anybody care? In the boxes from the storage locker, I also found love letters from Fred’s dad to his mom, the telegraph he received when he got his job at Boeing, and the one sent to Fred’s grandparents when he was born.These are precious, but who should have them? Surely not me.

There are other pictures that hurt because they emphasize the big chunk of Fred’s life when he was married to someone else. Wedding. Christmas. Babies. Crew-cut clean-shaven pix of Fred graduating from college, posing with his wife and his parents. He looks so different without his beard, yet I know that mouth, those eyes. I was 13 years old that year. I didn’t know Fred the way he looked then, and if I did, we could not have been lovers, but I still ache for him, for his smile, for his touch, his warmth.

Many of the pictures were taken on the countless cruises Fred’s parents took. Alaska, Panama, the Bahamas, Hawaii. While I don’t want to take a cruise, I miss traveling with my husband, and I wonder if I’ll ever get to those places on my unwritten bucket list. Do I want to go alone?

I find a framed 8 x 10 photo of a big black dog. I never met that dog, which belonged to my late brother-in-law, but I love dogs and plan to put this one on my wall because it makes me smile. There are 78 rpm records by artists I never heard of, and I have all the camera gear, valuable in its time, now nearly worthless because it isn’t digital. I don’t know what to do with these.

What will happen to all those pictures we’ve been taking in recent years, storing on our hard drives and tiny memory cards? Will they last long enough for descendants three or four generations down to spend an afternoon studying them, thinking about the people and places they depict and weeping while the E channel airs “Sex and the City” yet again? I worry that all of our memories will disappear, just like the stories I stored on floppy disks. Do we just put them on Facebook and then forget them?

I ended my cryfest with a glass of Portuguese red wine a friend brought to Nye Beach Writers Saturday night. That’s my heritage, and I could fill a room with those photos, too. I’ll probably cry. Cheers.

What about you? Do you have boxes of ancient photos? What do you do with them when the older generation is gone? Please share your stories.