A tiny gift came tucked into a Christmas card from my sister this past December. When I plugged the flash drive into my laptop, I had no idea what to expect.
To my delight, a treasure trove of memories streamed across my screen.
These family home movies began in 1955, with my curly-haired, ruffled romper-clad, toddler-self running to catch a tuxedo cat.
I called our grandchildren to report that finally, they could see their grandmother in action as the teeny weeny Patti Barnaby I describe to them, when I regale them at their request with childhood adventures.
But it was when my father panned the camera around the family’s Connecticut yard that I actually gasped. His parents, who I had probably only seen several times in my life, were sitting there, chatting with my mother.
As the movies of our good times rolled on, I watched our family grow to include all four of us kids. In almost all of the segments, we were in or on the water; mostly in Lake George, NY, but sometimes at Sesquicentennial Park in South Carolina, and in others, at some beach in Florida.
We sailed. We swam. We dove and we snorkeled. But it was water-skiing that occupied the bulk of the footage across the years.
My father rented boats, and bought boats, but always seemed to have his eye on improving our ski experience. My little sister used to practice on the dock, simulating what she saw us older kids do, until she could do it herself.
Tandem slalom skiing and switching positions across the wake is documented, though there is no record of us entertaining other lake residents, when we skied with other proficient neighbors, five of us pulled at once. The more we practiced, the better we got at this wonderful sport.
The segments, documenting snippets over four generations, ended with the birth of our first child.
Good things truly do come in small packages. ©
