Familyhood Read Online Free PDF Page A

what?” they ask.
    â€œI don’t care. Just say something.”
    â€œWhat should we say?”
    â€œWhatever you want. Maybe you could talk about what you think your life will be like living on your own starting tomorrow.”
    The subtlety lands. They grudgingly mug and goof around and say funny things for the camera.
    â€œThere you go,” I say, happy to have this production finally up and running. I check the camera viewer.
    â€œOh, nuts,” I blurt out.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œThe memory card is full. Let me just—”
    â€œDaaaad!!!”
    â€œHold on. Hold on—I just have to clear some of this old stuff from the chip. Just keeping doing what you’re doing—having fun, enjoying the moment.”
    â€œWe’re not enjoying anything!” they clarify.
    â€œIt’s okay, let them go,” Grandma graciously suggests. “We’ll do it another time.”
    â€œNo, no—I’m almost ready, here—oops—that’s the wrong button.”
    â€œDaaddd!”
    Truth be told, I am not particularly skilled or competent with technological things in the first place. Add to that the pressure of single-handedly trying to orchestrate a moment that everyone else present is actively resisting, and my performance suffers. I consistently do every wrong thing that can be done. I shoot with batteries that are near empty, memory cards that are near full, I leave the lens cap on, I’m recording when I think I’m not, or I’m not recording when I think I am. Way more often than you’d think possible, I unwittingly have some button pressed that makes everything look like I’m either shooting from the center of a fire or, conversely, like I’m looking through night vision goggles in a bleak desert storm and the only image discernible is a dimly lit three-inch circle in the middle of the screen—usually of some indeterminate stomach.
    And while it’s possible I’m imagining this, it seems to me that the moments most frequently lost to human error are exactly the ones you’d most want to have. The ones least likely to ever repeat. Those are the ones I’ve almost never gotten. On the other hand, looking out a plane window and shooting into the sun— that I’ve never missed. If that’s something you enjoy seeing, by the way, you’ve got to come over. I have hours on end of nothing but airport runways barely visible behind blinding sun flares.
    There may be a perfectly valid explanation for this, though. Some larger law of the universe may in fact be at play. I believe it’s entirely possible that the Higher Powers don’t actually want you to record for posterity the most magical of moments. By not having the image tangibly in hand, they’ve decided, you’re forced instead to remember more clearly, investing yourself more deeply in that golden moment. This way the memory can only grow in recollected detail and mythological import, whereas the actual earthly footage would have likely only disappointed. (Even if this is not the case—which might be the case—I’m going to choose to believe it anyway. It sure beats accepting that I am as untalented in this arena as I appear, and that I’m doomed to a life of pained apologies and disappointed loved ones.)
    I just want to have a nice keepsake that we can treasure later on. Is that too much to ask?
    The irony is that my boys love looking at old photos and always wish we had taken more. What they don’t like is the intrusion necessary to get them.
    Surely they are not the first to feel this way; they are part of a long-standing tradition of annoyed and put-upon artistic subjects. I’m guessing that had Da Vinci actually been alive to paint The Last Supper at the time that it really was the last supper, the Apostles would’ve been very irritated with him.
    â€œUh . . . Peter? Could you hold the goblet up a bit and maybe stand