It was a tradition that I never questioned. Each November my mother would make an announcement and then crouch down on the living room floor with a camera. My father and I would pose at the opposite end, in front of the TV, for “The Birthday Picture.” When I was very young, we held hands. Later, we didn’t. We stood as straight and as stoic as our German and Pennsylvania Dutch heritage seemed to require. Cheese!
Well before I was born -- even before my mother came into
the picture -- my father saw an article in LIFE magazine that made an impact on
him. It was about a photographer who made sure he had a photo taken of
him with his daughter, in the same place, every year on her birthday. My
father liked this idea so much that he vowed that if / when he had a child, he
would take on this tradition. And so we did.
(refresh browser to re-start slideshow)
The shutter didn’t always snap on my exact date of birth (November 22), however. Sometimes it happened instead on Thanksgiving, or on a day in December, or on a night as late as New Year’s Eve. The timing depended on whether or not we had film in the camera, and when we suddenly remembered to pose. Nevertheless: through all of the obligations and changes that Life itself brings, my father and I always found a chance to stand next to each other for a few minutes for the taking of “The Birthday Picture,” no matter what the date. After more than 50 years, we are fortunate enough to still be able to do this.
Over the years, friends and relatives wondered what we would
do with the photographs. When I was a
teenager, Daddy said that he would spread all of them out on a table whenever I
got married. True enough, we did that
during my wedding rehearsal in 1983, to the amusement of our small bridal party. On a few other occasions, I have shown them
off to select others, dealing the slips out one at a time like playing cards,
onto the nearest large, flat surface. As
the years went by, I needed more space for all of them to be seen at once.
The reactions always included amazement and glee. Folks were impressed first of all with the
fact that we began taking these birthday photos at all. Then, they loved seeing the changes. Then, they marveled that we continued to pose
for the pictures throughout our adult lives.
For the longest time, it never occurred to me that this tradition was anything
special. I didn’t realize that no other families
were posing for these once-a-year images.
I didn’t understand how unique these pictures were, until I shared them
with other people. All I knew was that
sometime around my birthday, I would have a chance to stand next to my father
for a few seconds, and someone would aim a camera at us. And I would later place the processed photo
into a special envelope for safe keeping.
When viewed in sequence, the photographs mark much more than
just the changes that take place in two specific individuals. You can see cultural transformations in
fashion and decoration, from the 1950s into the 2000s. You can tell when our little family moved from
a small house to a larger one; when we lost our first photographer with Mom’s
death; and when my father eventually moved in with the woman who would become
his second wife. You can see the
advancements in the field of photography too, as black-and-whites and Polaroids
made way for digital images. What a
long, strange trip it’s been!
At 84 and 55, my father and I are once again living
together. He’s been a chemist and, on
the side, a musician. He still plays the
flute in church each Sunday and for local Musical Arts Society events. I’ve been a librarian and a writer. My first book came out last year. Neither one of us is famous, but we each have
small parcels of devoted fans. We are
ordinary people leading ordinary lives.
Perhaps maintaining the tradition of our Birthday Photos makes us
somehow special. It’s time to share them
-- and our memories -- with the world. And
yes, I will always call him Daddy.
