Maybe I didn't imagine it after all

I've been immersed in my Father's old boxes of slides for days. I've travelled back in time. What I've found is that the slides are exactly right, but so different at the same time. The pictures are perfect. They contain the exact record of so many events without any of the sentiment.The part I remember that isn't in the photos are the smells, the textures of fabrics, the feel of the air on any particular day. It's the smallest details that bring these memories to life and they're missing.
When I look at the slides - I know that I'm seeing history through the lens of a bystander and I wonder how different that person's recollection of the same moment is so different than mine. I know they are -they must be - staggeringly different. As different as they possibly could be and still retain the same factual data.
Looking through all these boxes and boxes of slides has gotten my brain so entirely jammed with information that I find it very difficult to think at all.
So while my head is categorizing, reconciling, imaging and whatever else it's doing to make it bearable to deal with all these simultaneous thoughts and ideas . . . I'll share a few of my favorite pictures and try to explain what it is that I so like about each.

This is my grandfather's men's clothing store. It means that I'm not altogether fashion illiterate. Maybe I just wasn't taught. I may still be able to learn to dress well. It also explains why I, to this day, tend to gravitate toward the practical and plain styles. Just look at him and you'll see what I mean. Nothing fancy, just what's necessary. You almost don't even notice his clothing, but you can see him well enough.

I'm on the left, in yellow. All my life I have struggled, tried in vain, booby trapped myself, berated myself and suffered ridicule and embarrassment because I harbor a horrible habit. I pick at my fingers. I wouldn't necessarily call it 'Nail-biting' because what I do is much more self-destructive than that. I've tried every treatment and solution under the sun to stop. Eventually, they wear off or fade. Even after years of abstinence, I can always tell when I'm stressed or anxious. My hands let me know way before my stomach does. And look, I've been doing it since I was two! Maybe it's just part of who I am.

My Dad looks cool! Granted we're in a boat at Taquamenon Falls. At any moment we could all be over the edge and not one of us has a life jacket on! But we look good.

My brother . . . playing in the trash - by the street no less. And me - wondering why exactly it's MY job to watch him.

This is just too cute to leave out. My older sister at about age two.

My older sister. The reason she looks tentative is that I had been on Santa's lap just before this was taken and it didn't go well for me at all. But take a look at her jacket and her shoes.

This is my younger brother about five years later. This is one in a group of about eight taken all at the same time. Different angles let you see that there was still snow on the ground in places. The sky is white with cold and the long shadows of the day reveal that sunset is bleeding the heat of the day.
When I first looked at this group of photos, I couldn't help wondering why my brother was allowed to play in the ice water and mud in his street shoes. But . . . it speaks volumes to my Mother's lack of healthy oversight where we were concerned. His feet must have been ice - as the rest of him must be. He's soaked almost literally head to toe. Even for the most industrious child, it takes a bit of time to get this thoroughly wet.
He's wearing my sister's jacket and shoes.