One Last Shot Before You Go
By Jeanne Albanese
I recently and quite obsessively poured through more than 45,000 photographs to curate a life time of school memories for my soon-to-be high school graduate.
I scanned folders and sub folders and folders within subfolders. I cross-referenced laptop albums with those stored on Shutterfly, Amazon, Google and icloud and triple cross referenced those to various hard drives. Every moment, every milestone so painstakingly captured had to be found. If not, what was the point? If I didn’t photograph it, did it happen? And more importantly would it be remembered?
First, the obligatory shots at the house, one on the front steps and one by the Hemlock tree just next to those steps. One alone and one with the siblings. Just like when I was a kid, when we took one on the stoop and one by the giant pine tree on my parents’ front lawn. I grew up being photographed this way, so of course did the same for my children. The front steps and Hemlock tree — which will soon be ripped out because it’s dying — served as the backdrop that marked every first and last day of school, every Halloween, every Flag Day, every recital, every concert, every opening day, every ceremony. All leading up to that capstone photograph of my senior on Saturday in a royal blue cap and gown with bright yellow cords.
And let’s not forget all the shots at school — Halloween and Flag Day parades, star of the week and birthday assemblies, field trips, holiday parties, soccer games, and finally, Senior Night for soccer, where everyone wore a mask.
My husband thought I was nuts, but quietly tolerated each giant envelope that came home from Walgreens these past few weeks, all the while wondering exactly how much I had just spent on yet another batch of photos. But it was important to me to finally print out a record of a school career, of a childhood now complete. My senior is not the sentimental type, but he does like to see old photos, especially of himself.
I wanted to make this album for him because I want him to leave for college in August knowing how much he’s loved, remembering everything he’s forgotten, and knowing he had a pretty damn good childhood. I thought maybe he would bring it to school with him, on the small chance he misses us, but even with serious editing, it’s way too fat to make the trip.
Yet on Saturday, at the St. Joseph’s Ampitheater, when the moment came that would culminate 15 years of schooling with a walk across the stage in that royal blue cap and gown with bright yellow cords, my camera phone was stowed safely inside my purse.
My husband was shocked. You, the queen of photos? Not taking one?
Nope. Not this time.
I wanted to live this moment for the moment.
I wanted to view it through my own eyes, not a viewfinder or a phone.
I wanted to watch him walk across that stage, shake the superintendent’s hand, receive his diploma and walk off the stage. And I wanted to drink in every second of it.
Plus, I was crying too much to get a decent shot anyway.
The photo album I made him of course is perfectly curated. It hits all the highlights. The firsts, the lasts. The first lost tooth, the first jump off the diving board, the first day on a two-wheeler. Later, the first time he pulled out of the driveway as a licensed driver and his first day of senior year, wearing a mask during a global pandemic.
But the real journey to get to that walk across the stage wasn’t always perfect. The afternoons procrastinating, the late nights studying, the early mornings finishing what he didn’t do the night before. The days he wouldn’t get out of bed despite my screeching, the days he missed bus, the days he failed to turn in his homework, the days he bombed a test. The fights, the broken rules, the punishments, the yelling, the cajoling, the stress, the worry, the worry and stress, the stress and worry. All pretty routine in the 18 years you commit to raise a child.
Those are the moments you don’t photograph, but the ones that stick with you the most for some reason.
The opening speaker at graduation addressed the students by saying that as they sat there contemplating their futures, their parents were contemplating their pasts, picturing them as babies. Sure, we were all wondering how on earth 15 school years, 18 calendar years, and more than 45,000 photographs could have possibly happened so damn quickly.
The moment my son’s name was called for his turn to cross that stage brought with it many emotions; immense pride of all he has accomplished and who he has become, some longing for what was, lots of excitement for what’s yet to come and a tiny touch of relief that we had all arrived at this moment. He graduated as a member of the National Honor Society, with the highest recognition New York state affords on a diploma and a certificate for Outstanding Academic Excellence from the President’s Education Awards Program. It wasn’t easily done, but it was well done.
And so I watched, I clapped, I cried and then I breathed. He had his moment. It was done. He had done it.
But not so fast. Because of the complexities of scheduling graduations during covid, he ended up with one last day of school after graduation. It could barely be called a day of school as he was rolling in around noon to return a text book and maybe play a few field games. As I hugged him goodbye to go jump in the shower, I almost forgot. I needed a picture.
There was a stretch of time in elementary school when he absolutely hated getting his picture taken, and it shows on his face in every image. But he grew out of that and grew rather compliant about the photo regime, even suggesting himself on the night of his Senior Ball that we needed a photo on the front steps. So he happily obliged me this morning once he was “photo ready.”
So I waited for him to walk out the door that one last time and I snapped that final obligatory shot for the last last day of school. One on the steps and one in front of the Hemlock tree.
I will print these, and all the other photos I did take of him in his royal blue cap and gown with bright yellow cords, and all the ones others so kindly took for me, including the perfect one of him walking across the stage shown above, taken by a wonderful photographer and even better friend, and I will slide them into the slots in the last page of that book.
And then I’ll start another one.