The Picture I Never Took

Nate and I both attended BYU-Idaho for college (we met in English class–another story). I went there kind of because my cousin (AKA “Idol” my entire growing up years) went there, and I had family close by. So it was far enough away from home (four hour drive), but close enough to familiar for me to stretch my legs and be on my own for the first time. There was only a 30 minute drive between me and my aunt, uncle, cousins, grandma, grandpa, and great grandma. Even though my intentions were there–I was planning on many a Sunday dinners at my aunt & uncle’s for some good ol’ dutch oven cooking–I can count on two hands, (or less), the times I actually made it over to visit. In over four years.

I don’t know why. The memories were there from my childhood. Growing up during the summers my parents would send me and my brothers off to Idaho for some sweet “country” time. My family lived off of a highway in a little dirt round-about. And EVERY house was family. My great grandma and grandpa lived in one house, my grandma lived in the middle house, and my cousins lived in the further house. Our days were filled with running barefoot across the dirt roads in between houses, (usually scrounging for food,) swinging on the rope swing over the creek (pronounced “crick”), and playing in the tire swing, or the sandbox, over which was built the most awesome of play houses. And since we had two grandma Fillmore’s so close to each other, and adding a “great” was too long, they went by their first names–Grandma Gwen (great), and Grandma Sharon.

But all of a sudden I was grown, and in college, a whole 30 minutes away. And the memories weren’t strong enough in priorities for me to revisit them. And then I met Nate. And we got married. And our first baby was born. Our first child, which, for Grandma Gwen, made it her great-great granddaughter. Five generations. Alive and well. What a great picture that would be! Eventually–when I got around to it. But Grandma Gwen was old, and I was busy. She kept asking me to visit. She wanted to make us dinner. But she shouldn’t have to do that, I thought, she really was getting so old. So we didn’t come. And then I got word that she was in the hospital, sick with pneumonia. She wasn’t going to make it much longer. Mackay was only three weeks old when my Grandma Gwen died. And then I made it to visit. Regret is an awful thing to live with. But sometimes we procrastinate too long to realize it. Three years later, and still, every few weeks I think back on Grandma Gwen, and how, during those summers, she taught me manners, the importance of family history, and Rummikub. And with those memories I think of the picture I never took. That if I had, would be enlarged and framed on my daughter’s wall. To reminder her of who she is, and where her middle name, and heritage, came from. And there is always a little extra pang when people contact me for their generation pictures. I get a little jealous that they have their priorities in order. That they made a to-do list and actually followed through. And they are creating the memories I wished I had created. But I always make sure to let them know how proud I am of them. Even with the pain comes the joy. And those are some very special photoshoots for me. So a word to all those reading–don’t wait. Create the memories you KNOW you need to create. Do the things you KNOW you need to do with those you love. Because tomorrow is always tomorrow. And you never know when “too late” will arrive.

But today this post is going to be picture-less, because if there was a picture, my story would be different. So here’s to the picture I never took.