Box of Memories
Discovering my parents' old home movies
I knew they were somewhere. But they were not the kind of thing I thought about much. They were likely in the back of a closet, the garage, stuffed under a couch in the basement. But for years, I didn’t bother to look. Then, a text from my ex-wife, someone who remains a friend, and apparently the keeper of some of my stuff.
I have some old films from your family.
She had discovered them in a old gray metal box. Dozens of 8mm and I think 16mm films from the late 50s and 60s. They are my parents’ old home movies. Soundless film. A box of memories.
Each plastic or metal reel case is labeled in my mother’s handwriting.
1st, David 9 month, 1st birthday
4th, David egg hunt, Erie, Fall, Sally
Diane’s 1st birthday ‘63
Like tiny sparks of memories, the words on the labels, affixed with now yellowed tape, ignite thousands of images in my head. Clear, Kodachrome memories. I do remember some of that Easter Sunday, me in my little sport jacket fresh from church, searching my home’s garden for evidence of the Easter Bunny. The autumn drives in Pennsylvania’s Allegheny Mountains. My first dog, Sally, who would follow me everywhere. My sister as a infant, tiny and helpless and my annoyance that this baby couldn’t “play” with me. I see my mother over the kitchen table making Christmas cookies. I see my father in the backyard with a garden hose in his hand, filling up the tiny plastic pool in the summer. Whether some of these moments I see now are on these reels is uncertain. Maybe some of them are, but not others. However, it doesn’t matter. I am recalling memories from somewhere deep down where no film is needed. Snapshots of a life in the closets of my mind.
My first thought is to look for my father’s old projector. I text my older son, who has been a photographer and videographer most of his adult career. He doesn’t have it. My ex-wife doesn’t have it. Neither do I. So, it seems I might have to find a used one somewhere so I can view these found treasures. Yes, there are many services out there that offer a process to digitize your old films, but what specific moments do I want from these dozens of reels? All of them? Some of it? What parts? What memories should be brought into the modern world and which ones to leave behind? I do a bit of online research and look briefly on marketplaces for used projectors. There are some to be had and I consider them. But then, something unexpected comes over me.
What if I didn’t look at any of them? What if I never viewed these frames again? What if I shut the box and kept those memories locked away?
Curiosity takes hold, of course. I want to see what’s there. But if I do this, I think now, the mystery and the beauty of this discovery would be lost. The unknown wonder of what is on those frames is what excites me, it’s the mystery of them that has turned over so many buried memories. The wonder that this find has evoked is not about what there is to see on the reels, but what it has evoked in my deepest consciousness. I don’t need these images to remind me or to help me process a past. Certainly, there might be minor revelations, even moments of awe. But these reels of film are tiny carbon deposits of a life that through time can only turn into diamonds. Time is the key. Some of these reels have not been viewed for sixty years. In eighty years, imagine the wonder they might produce. In 100 years. Yes, there’s the deterioration process that inevitably comes, but how much could they fade? Ancient books are discovered and remain readable. It might be worth the chance to allow another generation—years from now—to discover these home movies on their own, my granddaughter some day finding the box of reels in an attic somewhere and wondering what she has discovered, a box of memories of which she has no reference, a life she never lived, never saw, never experienced. And so with that, finds an old projector and watches them with wonder, meeting the souls of past relatives she has never known, images more powerful for her than for me. Yes, I could watch the films and then put them all back in the box. But there’s something more beautiful about leaving them undisturbed, allowing time for them to turn to diamonds.
I return the reels to the old box and shut the lid, and place it on a rear shelf in the basement bedroom closet to wait there. maybe for years, maybe for the next generation, or the one after that, to discover and to say:
“Hey, look what I found. A box of memories.”
David W. Berner is the author of several books of award-winning fiction and memoir. His book Daylight Saving Time: The Power of Growing Older is available for pre-sale before it’s publication in the summer of 2024.
I actually had all my father's Super 8 home movies digitized and spliced together into a chronological reel as an Xmas present for my brother last year. They were the same vintage as yours and I was surprised they hadn't disintegrated, sitting in the metal box my mother gave me so many years ago. The project was a treat and revelation, including forgotten glimpses of grandparents and other relatives that my niece had never seen photos of, wonderful footage of my late sister, and hours of tape of my brother as a grinning 3-5 year old (he hasn't smiled since he got his braces in high school). The memories are now all safely preserved. Personally, it was a relief not to worry I'd waited too long.
FYI. My mother had given the camera to my dad and a Father's Day present. Given the comments here, our parents must have been enthralled with the new technology.
Such touching words here, David. I am sure we are of a similar vintage, and share similar memories of home movies spooled on metal reels. If I discovered a similar box, I would like you, stow them away. Our individual memories being richer than faded celluloid. Thanks for this one. My day begins with a warm heart.