When my grandfather was sick, very sick, I went to visit him in the hospital. His bed was propped up at an angle, maybe so he could have a bite to eat. Everything in the room seemed very white.
His name was Webster. Most people called him Web.
I brought my guitar to play for him. I’m not sure why I thought this was a good idea, lugging a bulky hard case with a Guild six-string inside through the hospital corridors so I could strum chords at his bedside. Maybe I was motivated by the belief that grandparents love everything we do.
I played for a while and saw that he was getting tired. I put away the guitar, held his hand for a minute, and said that I loved him.
That was the last time I saw my grandfather alive.
Forty-five years have passed as quickly as a breeze blowing down a hillside. It’s 2023 and I’m standing in my sister’s family room talking with a cousin. Her father had just passed away. He was my uncle — my dad’s brother and Webster’s youngest son.
His name was Rodney, but I always called him Uncle Rod. He had many of the same virtues as his dad. He was good-natured and enjoyed a big laugh.
His daughter, Trish, handed me a manila envelope full of black & white snapshots.
“I thought you might like these,” she said.
Trish is a bit of a historian herself, and she appreciates pictures and documents that tell our family story. She has been really good about sharing these treasures with me.
I took the envelope and put it in a safe place in the guest room where we were staying, nestled among suitcases, T-shirts, and tennis shoes. I was interested in the pictures, but this day was an opportunity to see family. So I decided to explore the envelope once I returned home.
A few days and hundreds of miles later, I unpacked the suitcase and saw the stuffed paper sleeve. After unclasping the brass fastener and spilling the contents on the table, I examined the photographs.
They were wonderful square prints with scalloped edges. I’m guessing they were captured on 127 B&W film, maybe with a Brownie Starmite or similar camera.
One shot, in particular, caught my eye. Webster was standing on the sidewalk holding my hand as I stood next to him. I was just a little kid with a butch haircut. I didn’t even reach his waist. But there we were, and my grandfather had that smile I’ll never forget. I was only 2 years old.
I don’t know who took the picture. I’m not sure why the two of us were standing on a sidewalk on a sunny day. Maybe we were getting ready to go somewhere.
But that picture reminded me that all my memories of Grandpa Web were correct. I was his first grandson, and he was beaming proud.
In the years that followed that day on the sidewalk, I had aspirations of becoming a famous photographer. I wanted to shoot for Life Magazine or National Geographic. I wanted my pictures to move people, to help them feel what was going on in the world around them.
None of those things happened, at least not the way I had imagined. But life did turn out well. And I am thankful.
When I look at that picture of the two of us on the sidewalk, I wonder who was behind the camera. In my family, it could have been any number of suspects.
I started thinking about my contributions. Maybe someday someone will feel the same way about one of my photos. That person could be someone who didn’t know me, but loved an image I captured at a family gathering.
You see, what I got wrong at the beginning of my career was thinking it mattered who took the picture. I’ve learned that’s not the important part. What counts is the image itself, and that it’s cared for, so someone else can enjoy it decades later.
It made no difference to my grandfather if I became a musician, photographer, or a writer. But I’m pretty sure it was important to him that I remember his good nature — and that he loved me.
After sorting all of this out in my head, I’m happier than ever to be a photographer. And I will make sure that my family snapshots are readily available to anyone who wants to see them.
Sure, there are days when I wish I knew who took that picture of me when I was 2 years old. But what’s more important is that the moment was captured, and preserved.
I’m so glad I finally understand that.
Wonderful Derrick. Wonderful.
Derrick, this is a beautiful piece. Your writing style and the content make this memory wonderful. Thank you so much. It takes me back to an image I took of my great grandmother just before she passed. I was about 12. I have always cherished that image which I developed and printed myself. I love your lesson that what really matters though is not that I took the image, but rather that the image exists and is preserved to help our family remember my grandmother Chrissie Dotson. Thank you. Happy Thanksgiving.