Every family has one of these. Ours was Uncle Harold.
He was the (self appointed) Thanksgiving day designee in charge of the task of family photo taking.
He took some of the worst pictures imaginable and, to make matters even more, um, challenging, assembled those gathered for an interminably long period before inevitably becoming the executioner of the top of a head or two, or doing a Van Gogh on a few ears. Slow and painful is not how one wishes to be remembered. His was a legacy that would be hard to duplicate.
But, as much as we might hate to admit it, I think we all absolutely adored this annual ritual. It was, he was, lovably ours. His was a warm, if slightly askew, deep embrace.
Uncle Harold passed away a number of years ago, leaving a void that it seemed no one could (or maybe more accurately, would choose to) fill. But today there were a few very notable absences (invitations went out to over 70 relatives and "only" about 40 were in attendance). And it was for me, now more than any other time, incumbent that someone try to follow in the very large footprints of a legend.
I am a horrendous photographer. Best known for the piece of one of my fingers that appears with metronomic frequency whenever I attempt this most exacting art. Or, I may press the button far too hard, either causing the image to wobble or, sometimes, turning a photo into an unintended video. So, who better than me to try to step into Uncle Harold's shoes.
My son is actually a maestro with a camera, able to find angles and shadows that give illumination to his subject, to find the hidden meanings waiting to be discovered. I take unintended pictures of feet and backsides.
I took my assignment seriously, snapping shots of every single dish that was prepared, as if what was before us was unique in all the gobble universe. I lost any momentum within seconds thinking anyone would have even the remotest interest in looking at images of food after consuming a week's worth of calories in a few hours. I definitely was in need of calling a lifeline to rescue me from my worst instincts.
Yet the truth is, I found much joy in being Uncle Harold for a day. I moved easily from group to group, chatted amicably for a second or two, blundered a photo or three, and headed on to my next victim. Maybe I had finally located my true calling.
When the party ended, I took a moment to review my work. As anticipated, it was at best unremarkable and at worse, something far less. I forwarded some of the family photos to those who attended, and more importantly, to those who couldn't be with us. I am sure false praise and lukewarm thanks will follow. Along with more than a few snickers and head shakes.
And for all that, I think I have proven myself an appropriate successor to dear Uncle Harold. Just trying to keep my finger out of the shot and make sure everyone has two ears and a full scalp. Now that would constitute a resounding triumph.
You deserve it. BRAVO to the new uncle Harold. May your reign last for decades