I have been mining the great Nostalgia Mother Lode.
There is nothing like planning a move to a new home to uncover memories -- some unbidden, others welcome. And I have been finding gold in them thar hills.
Today's offering has been stuck into a picture frame in my upstairs hall. You all probably have a similar display. Photographs creating not so much a collage of our lives -- more like a stewing stream of consciousness. Weddings. Christmases. Grand European monuments hidden behind one relative or other.
I think I discovered this photo strip when my brother, Darrel, and I helped our mother to move out of her home several years ago. (I call it "her home" because Darrel and I never lived there -- other than brief sojourns in our adulthood.)
I do not know exactly where I found it. But I had one of those almost-electric memory flashes. We have all had them. It may have been 50 years ago, but something triggers a memory as clear as if five minutes could not have passed.
That little photo strip is one of the cultural icons of my youth. And everyone of a certain age recognizes it -- and its connected experiences. Newberry's. Woolworth's. The bus station.
For a mere two bits, you could immortalize yourself with your best friend. Doing it alone was as taboo as any social faux pas. Those booths were a stage to experience the full exuberance of pre-adolescence.
How old were we? Maybe 10 and 8. We had probably taken the public bus into Portland -- on our own. To simply have fun downtown. Maybe we drove in with our mother -- to undergo the chore dreaded by any boy: shopping for clothes.
Either way, when that curtain closed, we were free of the adult world. And childish pleasures could be indulged. The most primal of all -- being the center of attention.
Half a century has now passed. But that little mugger on my left is still my best friend. And we are about to experience an adventure together that will rival that day in the Portland bus station.
Close the curtain. We are ready for our closeup, Mr. DeMille.
There is nothing like planning a move to a new home to uncover memories -- some unbidden, others welcome. And I have been finding gold in them thar hills.
Today's offering has been stuck into a picture frame in my upstairs hall. You all probably have a similar display. Photographs creating not so much a collage of our lives -- more like a stewing stream of consciousness. Weddings. Christmases. Grand European monuments hidden behind one relative or other.
I think I discovered this photo strip when my brother, Darrel, and I helped our mother to move out of her home several years ago. (I call it "her home" because Darrel and I never lived there -- other than brief sojourns in our adulthood.)
I do not know exactly where I found it. But I had one of those almost-electric memory flashes. We have all had them. It may have been 50 years ago, but something triggers a memory as clear as if five minutes could not have passed.
That little photo strip is one of the cultural icons of my youth. And everyone of a certain age recognizes it -- and its connected experiences. Newberry's. Woolworth's. The bus station.
For a mere two bits, you could immortalize yourself with your best friend. Doing it alone was as taboo as any social faux pas. Those booths were a stage to experience the full exuberance of pre-adolescence.
How old were we? Maybe 10 and 8. We had probably taken the public bus into Portland -- on our own. To simply have fun downtown. Maybe we drove in with our mother -- to undergo the chore dreaded by any boy: shopping for clothes.
Either way, when that curtain closed, we were free of the adult world. And childish pleasures could be indulged. The most primal of all -- being the center of attention.
Half a century has now passed. But that little mugger on my left is still my best friend. And we are about to experience an adventure together that will rival that day in the Portland bus station.
Close the curtain. We are ready for our closeup, Mr. DeMille.