“Does time speed up as you get older?” my 23 year old asked.
“Yep,” I replied hastily, “it does.”
“Scary,” she added.
Some days, I still feel like that little girl wearing Red Ball sneakers, my big toe wearing through the red canvas-my one pair of sneakers and rubber flip flops needing to last the season. Has time sped up now that I have the responsibility of so much more than collecting baseball cards, exploring the shaded woods at Shaw’s Hill or learning how to round the gravelly turn at the bottom of the hill on Dearborn Avenue without skinning a knee?
It was not until college that I recognized the present time as the best time. Yes, I am a collector of past bittersweet memories. I want my children and grandchildren to know of growing up more than a half century ago. I want them to know my ‘can’t describe in just one word’ mother and my virtuous father who taught me about strength, truth and hard work. I want them to know all that and more.
Lately, I wonder if the time I spend recalling and writing about the past veils the bounties of the present? My brother, the family historian has created mental files, but has not written anything down on paper. My niece and I have talked about creating a series of videos preserving family history. There is so much I want to ask my parents and my grandparents, but the opportunity has been lost. I don’t want to lose this one. As the continual ebb and flow of time rushes passed me, I realize that it is both the past and the present I wish to preserve through my photography and writing. The only problem is-time will not slow its’ pace. It is downright scary. I best get busy.