In Hindsight

My mom hired someone to transfer some home movies from 8mm (or 16mm) to DVD.  She has eight reels dated 1961-1970.  Last night, after tucking Dia into bed, we poured some wine and watched the first set that had been completed: 1961-1966. 

It was surreal in a way.  There was the house in Bethesda, the Sunbeam Alpine brand new, the St. Francis statue, Clementine and Peaches (my brother’s and my dog respectively).  My Dad’s profession as a director did not go unnoticed as I watched bits of the world we once knew unfold so beautifully.  His video often panned out to a flowering tree, a painting on the wall, a lit Christmas tree.  I saw, through adult eyes, that he really was so talented at what he did.

Dad really captured my mom's beauty, and my brother, Bruce?  Well, he was a living doll.  It’s not even fair how adorable he was.  I, on the other hand, was Jabba the Baby.  Holy God I had the fattest face ever.  My mom kept cooing over the video, “There’s my beautiful baby girl” but that was a face only a mother could love.  When I was a jealous sibling growing up I couldn’t help but notice how many more photos of Bruce there were than me.  Now I know why.

But fewer than photos of me were photos of Dad.  He was always behind the camera.  Every once in awhile, he’d set a timer and we’d get one of those family poses, but usually he was gazing down at one of us.  The few precious pictures I had of him were destroyed by an evil past boyfriend, so now I’m down to some of his baby pictures and my Mom and Dad’s wedding album.  (Speaking of.  Can we PLEASE bring back the styles from the early sixties? So amazingly flattering.  Guys?  Wear more suits.  They make you look so dapper.)

So when my dad flashed upon the screen trying to learn to ski, I was actually surprised at my reaction.  I laughed – because he had snow stuck to his bum, and there were the skinny legs I inherited and the Tam O’Shanter that he wore every winter – but I didn’t feel sad.  I expected to feel sad or at least have a “Gasp. Oh my God!” moment, but I didn’t.  I’ll admit this was Dad before I was born for the most part.  Definitely before I could remember.  But given that he never updated his outer wear and the fact that he really never changed that much, he looked like the dad I knew.  Perhaps the next few reels will invoke more of a melancholy reaction from me, but this time it was just joy.

The thing that got me was seeing my Great Aunt Brenda.  There she was, relatively young and just as beautiful as I remembered.  I honestly did quietly gasp “Aunt Brenda!” and my heart just broke.  Oh my God how I miss her.  She was everything this world has ever needed.  She had the soul of an angel and carried herself with perfect class and generosity and love for everyone.  She passed away on New Year’s Eve 1994 and, when my mom called with the news, I was devastated.  “She was so old” my mom said trying to console me.  “But Mom, to me, she was always old” was my reply.  Yet she never seemed ‘old.’

I could write a whole book about her – and perhaps that’s exactly what I should do – but that’s not the point of this post.  Seeing her on the screen, alive, walking hand-in-hand with me, I felt an overwhelming sadness.  I wasn’t a good niece.  Oh, when I was little I was great.  I was a sweet little kid.  But after my dad died I was nothing but a Grade A bitch.  I lied incessantly. I committed crimes. I disobeyed everything and everyone.  I was never sober or straight.

Fortunately, I got married at 19 and pregnant 3 short months later and found something worth sobering up for.  I straightened up that part of my life at least, but I was still an awful human.  I was so absolutely desperate for someone to love me – for everyone to love me for that matter – that I was capable of taking from others, often still lying to do so, to get what felt like love and nurturing to me.

Did I mention Aunt Brenda was generous?

She fell victim to my greed and often bestowed upon me undeserved gifts of money or things that I claimed I desperately needed.  She was wealthy, and I’m quite sure nothing she gave was even slightly unreasonable, but that’s not the point.  The point is I lied to her.  I lied to the best person I have ever known.  And she was so sweet, loving and generous that I never had to.  I could have just said “I’m struggling, my Mom is very appropriately done with me, I’m scared and lonely and I need your help.”  Or I could have just said “I need your help.”  She was that person.  She didn’t need to know why.

What absolutely kills me is that now I am NOTHING like that person she knew.  That aforementioned evil past boyfriend inadvertently taught me a bit about who I really wanted to be or moreover who I didn’t want to be.  With the inspiration from a few incredibly positive friends – some that just touched my life briefly – and the hard fact of facing my imminent death, I was guided toward what was truly important.  My dear children gave me something to aspire to be (who they thought I was) and eventually I became a pretty good Katie.  I’m not done in any way – there are loads still to improve – but how I wish she were here to know me now.   It kills me that she never lived to see me come around.

I did tell her I loved her, but never why.  She was such sheer perfection, she probably didn’t look for me to love her.  For her, it was enough that she loved me.  But I wish, wish, wish I had said why I loved her and how very much I really did – how much I still do.

I thought in watching these forgotten chapters of my life, I’d see the man I lost at 15 and remember my life with him.  Instead, I flashed forward to the woman I am at 46, looked back at the mistakes I made at 23, and saw where it all started at birth.  A lifetime is such a short thing.  Use it wisely.