And lo, in these Days of Covid-19, with time on my hands one hot and humid summer day, I decided to do a deep dive into two milk carton crates jam-packed with old photos, slides, contact sheets and negs.

These fifty-plus years of memories sat in the dark recess of my home office closet ever since we moved here from Brooklyn. That was nearly ten years ago. I’d periodically open the closet doors to retrieve office supplies and see the boxes there, age-yellowed sleeves stuffed with prints. The images beckoned, but I resisted their siren song.

Someday I’ll take a look, I’d think. Someday.

I started my amateur photography journey back in 1970, when I bought a used Konica Auto S2 on 47th Street for the princely sum of $50. I still own it. But I haven’t shot film in nearly twenty years. My digital files are neatly stored in the cloud, ever at the ready. My camera now is a slick little Fuji that easily fits in the bellows pocket of my cargo pants. Grab shots are the province of my iPhone, which also hosts several post-production apps recommended by pro photographer friends of mine.

Last weekend? It was hot. I was bored. In the throes of lock-down fever, I cleared a space on the big dining room table. I opened the closet, held my breath, and yanked this bounty of memories from the shelf.

It was a big mistake, and in a number of ways.

There was a young, strong, happy me, a long professional career ahead, with my sleek road bike on a summer beach vacation. No aches or pains, no physical limitations. Just the vigor of youth. I stared at the me that was, and recalled how easy it was to wake up early and ride.

I opened other envelopes. There were co-workers from years gone by. Me in a natty business suit. Me at office parties. Me by the helicopter in Talkeetna.

I kept going. Apartments of the past: West Bronx. East Bronx. Chelsea. Jackson Heights. Park Slope top floor walk-up. Park Slope elevator building.

There were kitchen scenes with my wife of so many years, and my young son, such a joy. Being goofy in my son’s room. Being goofy with our beloved doggie. Being goofy. Yes, I remember that feeling, though it’s been quite awhile.

More. Relatives, dead and gone. My in-laws, dead and gone. My parents, one dead and the other gone from my sight and out of mind for a good eight years.

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I was not even one-quarter through this morass of memories when I stopped the search.

What was the point? What did I hope to achieve?

The more photo sleeves I opened, the more I remembered. There were fun times, but that life I’ve lived? It has been tough. A lot of body blows, and cuffs to the head, metaphorically speaking. I was never “working with a net” — never had emotional or financial back-up. Anything my wife and I got, we clawed our way there.

I looked at those photos and remembered where I was in life, mentally and physically, at each stage: Disease. Bad jobs. Worse bosses. Firings. Screaming relatives. Early deaths. Accidents, injuries, and operations. Miserable neighbors. More disease.

Or, in other words, I looked at those photos, saw fifty years of my earlier, knockabout life, and decided this:

I choose to live in the present.

I choose to hope for the future.

The past happened, and I’m glad it did; I wouldn’t change a thing. But the old saw holds true: “life’s a bitch. And then, you die.”

I returned all the images to their milk cartons and back to my home office closet they went. I know what is in there. I really do. Those days are all stored away in my mind.

Rather than view them IRL (in real life), I’ll retrieve them as-needed from my mental “cloud” and modify them as I see fit.

Crop. Rotate. Lighten.