Memories

My grandpa, Campbell, pictured in Paris in April, 1971.

My grandpa passed away when I was 5 years old and what I know of him is more likely a result of stories I’ve been told than actual firsthand memories of my time with him.

My mum and me (the two blondes). My competitive edge showing.

 When I was 19, my grandma gave me a photo album full of photos my grandpa had taken of me. He was an avid photographer. He wasn’t a professional, but from what I’ve heard, he captured both banal, everyday moments and important milestones skillfully, and he carefully preserved the photos he took. The album my grandma presented me with was full of meaning. Of course, the photos are precious (baby Hilary was pretty darn cute if I don’t say so myself!), but more than that I’m struck by the significance of capturing and of keeping physical copies of memories.

Samm (my cousin) and me in Mexico with the camera I bought 14 years ago.

When I looked through that book, I decided that I, too, needed a good camera (we’re talking pre-smart phone days here) to capture and keep special moments. I marched into our local camera store, and, using the money I’d saved (actually, “the money I hadn’t immediately spent” is probably a better representation of the truth) working at our local bakery, I bought a Canon Rebel T2i – the largest purchase of my life to that point. I took my DSLR camera with me everywhere. To the beach. To the bar. To friends’ houses. On family vacations and on trips with friends. Wherever I could, I developed the photos I took, placing them in photo albums with care.

C and me in Austria. I hate rides but C cajoled me onto one.

Fourteen years later, I still have that camera. I’d love to upgrade, and, one day, I’m sure I will, but in the meantime, I still lug it with me. It’s no longer compatible with my computer, so now I take more photos with my phone than with my DSLR. In fact, I’ve taken over 58,000 photos with my phone over the past four years. And I’ve also introduced two film cameras into the mix.

My mum and brother, Angus, inspecting the pearls his now wife would be wearing at their wedding.

Now, don’t let any of that fool you. I am no photographer. Far from it. But I am someone who appreciates the memories photos conjure up. The sentiments that come with looking at a photo of my parents or grandparents before I was born, or of my three brothers and me as little kiddos. Somewhere, I’ve saved a photo that someone I’ve lost touch with took inconspicuously of me and Cairo when we were first interested in each other. I have hardcopies of photos taken shortly after my first serious boyfriend broke up with me. I was so heartbroken (not sure why – he was an ass, but hindsight is 20/20) that I lost a bunch of weight and looked like a shell of myself.

The public pool near C and my last apartment in Vancouver.

Here in the Yukon, I take photos every day. Like my grandpa, I try to capture the day-to-day and also the extraordinary. I know that years from now, when we no longer live in the Yukon, I’ll be able to look at the photos I’ve taken and, maybe I won’t marvel at the colour or composition, but I’ll definitely have a rush of emotion as the memories of our time in Beaver Creek come back to me.

C drinking Banks beer on our trip to Barbados (where C’s dad is from!).

Grapes and more!

My dad :)