Home Movies

It is a bright winter day on Long Island's South Shore sometime in the late 1960s. My little brother is forever running back and forth on the white sands of Robert Moses State Park, my sisters and I are forever brushing our impossibly gorgeous hair, and Richie is forever in his plaid wool jacket goofing around and grinning. Everything is flickering and jerky, movements a bit too fast, almost cartoon-like, the way old home movies tend to be, and this one is barely five minutes long, but I watch it over and over, entranced. Random bits of a random day have been miraculously preserved and I had no idea this film existed until I received it in the mail a few weeks ago in the form of a DVD from Richie. (He was my high school boyfriend, a good-hearted guy beloved by my family, which is probably why I married him for a moment or two. The camera was his, as were the super-8 celluloid reels he discovered recently in a shoebox, this one among them, and all these years later, he knew I would be thrilled.)

So there we are, Richie and me and three of my siblings, laughing and hugging each other and romping around like a litter of playful puppies. It certainly provides a different perspective on my rather bleak memories of the time period. On the surface of things, we seem to be a remarkably carefree and affectionate bunch, and though I know what was transpiring in the background, nothing can negate this evidence that we had happy times together. I laugh at the sight of my sisters and me kick-dancing like a truncated line of Rockettes in long winter coats over thigh-high dresses, then singing a silent song before dissolving in silent giggles. Marlene in particular is coquettish and beautiful, the most camera confident by far. I had forgotten how stunning she was. I note, too, that on the lapel of her coat she has pinned a tiny pair of wooden shoes that I'd given to her as a symbol of journeys we would take. The optimism of the gesture even now tugs at my heart.

In another scene we are gathered outside the old brick house on Connetquot Avenue. Parked on the gravel stretch of driveway is the 1957 Ford that I called Betty, just one in a long series of used cars my father would somehow acquire and fix up for us. And lo and behold, my father appears. He takes a bow and makes a sweeping gesture with his hand, like a magician or the master of ceremonies, a gesture so familiar it is choreographed onto my heart, but I have not witnessed it in thirty years. Then he proudly holds up a certificate of some sort, and everyone is pointing to whatever it says, but it’s too blurry to read, and I wonder if his license had just arrived. He was a chiropractor (among other things) and I believe around this time he had passed an exam to be able to administer and read x-rays. He was clearly celebrating some small victory, whatever it was. How wonderful it feels to see him smiling and pleased. He scoops up my little brother into his arms and kisses my sisters, then gives our dog Pushkin a good pat and a scratch on the neck. The hugs just keep on coming. (Who knew we were such a demonstrative family?)

Now there is a glimpse of my mother coming up the walkway from the mailbox, letters in her hand. She looks skittish, almost furtive, and my father puts his arm around her shoulder and pulls her gently into full view of the camera. Her thick white hair contrasts with her youthful face and figure. She lowers her head, seeming shy and embarrassed, unlike the rest of us who have been gloriously hamming it up. But her image is fleeting, and we are rather abruptly taken to another scene from which she is absent…a beach or marina…standing around smiling…then on to the parking lot of the Bay Shore Mall, the Macy’s sign visible in the background. (It evokes a digression: When the first of the fancy "enclosed" malls opened up in Smithtown in 1969, I was hired on in the millinery department at Macy's, where I had the fun of wearing the hats as I sold them. I remember being fond of a yellow one with a wide floppy brim, but I was also intrigued by the elaborate concoctions of birds and bees and blossoms that some of the older ladies liked to carry on board their heads in those days. It seems that millinery departments have long since been absorbed into accessories, a rack of hats adjacent to the socks and scarves and sunglasses. But I loved the whimsy of hats, even as they were beginning to fall out of fashion...)

Anyway, back in the Bay Shore parking lot, Libbie and I are conspicuously chomping on our chewing gum and looking for all the world like the Long Island girls we were. Truth is, I am seldom still and seldom in focus, but when I am, my face looks as blank as an unwritten page. I cannot fathom what I was thinking. Pondering my perfect hair, perhaps.

The tiny movie is a precious artifact that somehow survived the rush of time, and it is fascinating beyond all reason. Each time I watch, I notice further details hidden within, details of a world once so commonplace and familiar I barely paid attention to any of it while it was happening. I brought the DVD with me when I went to visit my mother recently, slipped it into my laptop, and hit play. My mother isn't sure whether a computer is a kind of typewriter or a television, but we sat side-by-side on the edge of her bed to watch, and when she when she saw what was unfolding, she clasped her hands upon her breast and her eyes welled with tears. "Oh, these computers!" she said in wonderment. It was like looking through a window into an alternate universe where nothing sad ever happens and everyone you ever loved still lives.