Mercilessness of Time

The black and white photos were set against black paper. The pages were very worn, and some of the photos were slipping out of the small corners that held them onto the page. I looked at faces of people that I had only known as older great grandparents and great aunts and uncles. Yet these faces were youthful, they had dark hair and distinguished faces, cigarettes in their hands and smirks on their mouths. There were always pictures of couples and toddlers. My great uncle Darrel was quite handsome and seemed to always be grinning in the photographs. There were pictures of him and his wife Alberta looking relaxed and happy. My grandpa and my grandma always looked distinctly different. My grandma seemed more rigid, with her hands clasped behind her back. Grandpa seemed more laid back, a more easy-going smile on his face, rather than the roguish grin that his brother always seemed to sport. Yet grandma and grandpa didn't seem as affectionate towards one another as the other couples seemed to be. More often grandma seemed relaxed and outgoing with her sisters or girlfriends. Of course, all of these conclusions I have made merely based on one old photo album. Yet, as I sat on the couch, I was intrigued by these people that surrounded me with affection as I grew up. I realized how little I knew about my relatives. The pictures depicted brothers with their darling nephew, who would tragically die at only 30 years old. My dad's cousin was doted upon as the only grandchild for 11 years. One picture of my great uncle showed him in a field with his shirt off, the photograph forever capturing what it was like for him to be young and strong in the army, that classic smile stretched across his face.
My grandma was showing me these pictures after we had spent some time talking about what Ladoga was like when she was young. A time when the small town offered its residents everything they needed. Downtown Ladoga now has a small grocery, a liquor store, a tanning salon, a small cafe, a Library, town hall, and the post office. There is a small furniture store, a hardware store, and an old antique shop. A railroad runs through the town, passed a few abandoned builds and a Pizza King, where the conductor sometimes still stops for Pizza. When my grandparents were young, there was a general store where you could buy whatever you needed, a hat shop, a dress shop, a few barber shops and beauty salons. There were a couple of car dealerships, and four gas stations. Along the railroad was a lumber yard, a coal yard, and an elevator. There was a train depot. My grandma rode the train once from Ladoga to Roachdale. My grandma was afraid she was boring me, but far from it. I was intrigued listening to my grandparents describe a Ladoga that I had never imagined. A small farming community that seemed to be industrious for its size and provided for its community.
Why must things change so drastically? I will never be able to experience a simplistic life like that. Time drags on, taking with it memories and forcing change. Darrel's wife, Alberta is now in a nursing home, suffering from Alzheimer's. My grandpa's other brother, Bob, lost his wife four years ago after she had a stroke. Bobby Sandusky, his son, died in his chair at the age of thirty; something was wrong with his air passage.
I wonder if I would be happier living 50 or 60 years ago. I love my time spent with my grandparents in the country, at the fish fry with their friends and family coming to enjoy fish sandwiches and line dancing at the basketball courts. I enjoy sitting on the front porch, drinking sweet tea, as close as I can be to a simpler life, and a simpler time. Yet I also enjoy the thrill of the city, the hustle and bustle, commotion and action. I appreciate my laptop and cell phone. I am thankful that I have Facebook to keep in touch with friends I wouldn't normally maintain contact with.
I am sad at the prospect of time and the way it moves ever onward, mercilessly and graciously moving mankind onward, leaving in its wake only memories and a few empty buildings crumbling with age. Maybe someday my own grandkids will look at digital pictures, shocked at how I possibly could survive with such limited technology, and how I could have ever thought that the clothes and hairstyles that I wore were cool.
I will just have to be content with old photographs and the stories of my grandparents. After they are gone, who will there be to recount what their lives were like? It saddens me to know that this too shall pass.