Mother's smile brings back joy

At first, I wasn’t sure what I was watching. Then I saw my mother’s face smiling back at me.
Like most folks of a certain age, my wife and I have an inordinate number of old VHS videotapes around the house.
They haven’t been watched in years. The kids outgrew the Disney collection a long time ago.
But rather than pitch them, I figured I’d sort through a couple of shelves in an old dry sink in the family room.
At first the intention was to fill a box of VHS movies — many of them from the Disney days — and take it up to the cabin in New Hampshire next summer. There’s a DVD/VCR player there, and a new generation could enjoy some rainy day entertainment from the old movies.
But then I stumbled on about a dozen VHS cassettes that we had taped way back when, and idea struck me. Rather than just get rid of them, I’d find someone who could transfer the VHS contents to DVDs. That way, the memories would be preserved but the medium would be updated.
Trouble was, the videos weren’t always properly labeled. It was hard to know what was worth saving, and what should go to the landfill.
There was no other choice but to watch them, or at least sample a bit so I’d know what I was dealing with.
It was a mixed lot. One videotape was of me speaking to the Jay County Historical Society’s annual meeting several years back. Not a great speech, but Rob Weaver had done a good job of taping it.
Another was the master copy of a videotape I’d had Jim Waechter make years back, transferring old Ronald family home movies from film to tape.
A third featured Connie’s mother and an aunt sharing stories about growing up on the family farm in up state New York during the Depression.
And then there was one labeled simply “Thanksgiving 1990.”
My assumption was that it would show a gathering of my wife’s family at the farm.
Then my mother smiled at me from the TV screen.
Apparently, 25 years ago this month, we borrowed or rented a VCR and took it along to my sister Linda’s house in Richmond. I have no idea whose idea that was, but the twins were at the controls, with Emily doing most of the shooting.
The result was a little uneven at best. Things moved in and out of focus, and the camera moved around so much I soon felt seasick.
But after a quarter of a century, it pulled me in.
There was my mother, laughing, kidding with her grandchildren. There was my Uncle Jim Luginbill with a glass of wine in his hand and a grin on his face.
And our daughters — now grown and starting families of their own — were children again. Emily and Maggie were awkward and ornery 13-year-olds; now they have children of their own. Sally was a rambunctious 4-year-old hamming it up for the camera at every opportunity; now she’s a lawyer for Indiana University.
And then there were the two of us, Connie and I with 25 years removed from the calendar, our hair darker, our faces unlined.
That night, trying to get to sleep, I found myself reflecting on all the changes in our lives in that span: The kids in high school then college, then embarking on their own; weddings; grandchildren; challenges at work here and overseas; Connie’s return to school to get her master’s degree; our intense pride in our daughters’ accomplishments.
And then, of course, those we’ve lost in that same 25 years: My mother, Uncle Jim, mentors like Manon Felts and Dick Arnold, and far too many friends and family members whose lives enriched our own. Knowing them was a blessing
There was so much to be thankful for.
But most of all that November afternoon, there was the joy of re-discovering a mother’s smile after all these years.