(not my photo)This past year, once in the spring and again last week, I've had the honor of creating digital slideshows for friends. Both were for their parents' 50th wedding anniversaries. Both involved fast paced close knit working relationships for about a week. With hours of reviewing image sequences, and justifying an image's lifelong significance. And in the end, when I hand off the disk, I experience a profound sense of loss. I want to say, "Wait for me!" And I know from the experience in the spring, when I see these friends, I'm going to ask, "How is the baby?" or "Did the kids go to camp again this year?" or "Any travel plans?"
Crazy. They're not my family.
But for these shows to work, I need to know the deep personal details of the family. And I know a show has these details when each and every time I edit it, I have tears in my eyes. And I mean each and every time. Last week, as I spent hours tweaking transitions, and making sure there was balance among the image subjects -- that all the grandkids were well represented, the pools of tears in the corners of my eyes grew deep.
Crazy. They're not my family.
This past weekend, I got to be there when show was played for their parents, family and friends. It was an experience I will never forget. I was nervous to say the least. Would they like it? After the magic show and dessert, the screen was lowered. I situated myself towards the back, by the door. Very old pictures of relatives, only there in spirit, flashed upon the screen. Shouts of surprise and amazement filled the room. People were trying to take pictures of the pictures... Their lives unfolded for all the see. And there were tears, rivers of them. Not just in my eyes, but in everyone elses.
The mom found me. She thanked me, and I replied, "No, really thank you." Thank you for allowing me to be apart of your family.
Crazy. But they're my family now.
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