In a previous post I wrote about the two canisters of film that had been collecting dust in my drawer for the last twenty years. After writing about them, their contents started dominating my thoughts. I truly have no idea what is captured on that film. I was still married to my first wife, I had a completely different set of friends, a totally different life. But most importantly twenty years ago my son was eight years old. I remember him at that age, wide eyed and interested in everything. Everything having to do with Star Wars that is... oh... and riding his bike, he could ride that bike all day long.

But mostly I remember being really tired from working in the heat all day long, coming home, laying on the couch and having my son ask me to play catch with him. Occasionally I would but not often, and surely not enough. I usually said sure and then soon fell asleep. He never held it against me, I guess I have held it against me long enough for the both of us. Of all the things that I wish I could change, that would be way up there toward the top of the list. I wish I had played more catch with my son.

I had a really good friend in those days. My first "adult" friend. I had known him most of my life but I had only become friends with him a few years prior. He was the first friend I had that wasn't my own age. His name was Fred. Fred was my dad's age. In fact he was my dad's co-worker. They had worked together on and off for thirty years by the time the Eighties rolled around. Fred and I would join some of my friends at a local pub on the way home some nights for a beer and some darts or just a little conversation. Then one day after knowing him practically my whole life and being close friends for a few years Fred just up and had a heart attack and died. He didn't ask anybody if that would be OK or anything. He just went out to mow the grass one day and leaned against the house and died.

When I was growing up we had neighbors that became lifelong friends of my parents and the families meshed into one. We lived around and or with each other for over twenty years. Bill was my adopted dad. He was so much fun and I learned so much about life and the world from him. (One of those lessons being that you shouldn't pick up and guzzle the Champaign fountain at your daughters wedding reception no matter how right it seems at the time.) Bill was a pilot and one sunny December morning he was flying a single engine plane while technicians preformed some radio tests. The plane went into a spin and crashed in a field west of town. Without asking me the plane simply decided not to fly any longer.

I don't know if the film will contain images of Fred or Bill or of my son, but I do know that it is time to confront the last images of the past and allow those images to break free of the chains I have shackled them with for over twenty years. If they are there it is time to let Fred and Bill squint into the sun once more and if my son is there maybe he will be smiling and glad I am his dad. Heck maybe he will read this and ask me to play catch.

Or this soul searching and heart wrenching concern could all be for nothing. They could be pictures I took with the camera down my pants, just to see if it would work.

I got an email from the camera shop that is developing, printing and scanning the film. They mailed the pictures on Friday.

I will post them here regardless.