Essays
In The Light Of Home Movies
© Sande Boritz Berger
There was a feeling of pure joy whenever Dad announced he’d be showing our
home movies. While waiting for the first huge silver reel, my brothers
and I began the ritual of creating shadow bunnies—our fingers diving,
colliding and bending against the stark white wall.
Vintage cartoons preceded the films: they were black and white, starring
an anorexic Mickey Mouse. Like the films, the cartoons were silent, but
the darkened room where we sat shoulder to shoulder roared with our laughter
and commentary. No one “shushed” anyone. There wasn’t
any dialogue to miss—just the cranking of that old 16mm projector
as it echoed through our small split-level home.
For me, an awkward adolescent, the home movies affirmed that I was loved. In the
scratchy, faded images I saw my face cupped, and kissed by my grandmother,
the family matriarch, and my loyal best friend. At birthdays Mom and I,
hands clasped, led “ring around the rosy” with plump little
cousins in party hats. The camera nose-dived when Dad, apparently, ran
after me as I tried to maneuver a shaky two-wheeler down a narrow driveway.
We poked each other, embarrassed by any shot of our parents’ smooching.
Dad slim in Navy whites, Mom’s Rita Hayworth hair swept in a snood.
Had he deliberately set up the camera to record this for prosperity? Hungrily,
we absorbed reel after reel, anticipating the flapping sound, our signal
to whine for another.
There was the face that seemed to freeze-frame the action, halt our laughter—a
favorite aunt who had died suddenly. Years later, I learned she had taken
her own life. Watching her braid my hair in these films, I relived the
sadness of losing her—the hushed voices at the time of her death.
Then, when I was in high school, Dad began traveling. There was less time
for family recreation, and fewer home movies taken. It felt as if we were
all being catapulted into the future, and I wondered if there’d
ever be another chance to look back and reflect on who we really were
as a family.
After I married, my parents and brothers moved to Florida. Feeling no
close ties, my husband and I, also moved, to Boston, and for the first
time the family was really scattered. When I became pregnant, before buying
a single book on prenatal care, I raced to a camera store to purchase
a super 8 movie camera and projector. I was fanatical about recording
the pregnancy on film, as well as friends’ visits, casual dinners
and poker games in our crowded walk-up.
With my camera slung at the shoulder, I was dedicated to my new role as
family historian, filming my own children’s parties, dance recitals,
vacations starring parrots and dolphins. I edited animated stills at each
film’s opening, but I was aware of how my movies seemed so staged.
They were too modern these “talkies.”
For me, they lacked the richness of pure motion and the magical charm
reflected in the smoky silences—which were the films of my childhood.
Then one day my father pulled the old reels from storage. He’d seen an ad
transferring them to video, dubbed music included. Not long after, my
brothers and I each received a cassette. It was labeled: “ Home
Movies…Our Children”. It had been decades since we watched
these movies together, and now we each viewed them separately, 1500 miles
apart, in our own homes with our own families.
The video opens with Paul Anka singing “The Times Of Our Lives”
and I break down before the first frames. I’m startled by a familiar
image of me at three trying to blow out the birthday candles on a fluffy
pink cake. My lips curl and quiver until some help appears behind my shoulder.
To my surprise the candles go out, and I beam a gummy smile towards the
camera. I watch these movies alone wrapped in an old crocheted blanket.
My heart pounds and I’m afraid to blink—It’s like seeing
things for the first time. There’s a strange mix of loss and reacquaintance.
My grandmother, her hair in a perfect chignon looks cautious and worried
as she walks beside me. The aunt whose death forever haunts me flinches
from the camera lens. She is self-conscious and unsure. My parents embrace
in a passionate kiss. When did I ever see them kiss like this? I’d
forgotten. I find myself talking aloud to the faces, until the video abruptly
fades to black, and I sit staring at a blank screen. I call my Dad to
thank him. “Yes, the video store did a great job.” He tells
me the cartoons were too old to transfer. “Save them Daddy,”
I say.
Another decade passes. My oldest daughter is getting married in 48 hours.
Although she and her fiancé live together, she announces that following
tradition she will spend the night before the wedding in our home, sleeping
in her old bed. She warns she wants a quiet evening, no guests or stress.
For hours, I rack my brain over how to spend this special night. And then
the idea comes to me, like a forgotten lyric. I call my youngest daughter
from the car and ask her to gather the shopping bags containing our super
8 films. We rush to a local camera shop. Yes, they do transfers. Of course,
I’ll pay double for the overnight service.
After an early dinner, I blindfold the bride-to-be, and her sister guides her to
the den, practically pushes her in the rocker. We’re all giggling,
and she begins to balk, wedding nerves intruding. I turn on the VCR and
Paul Anka starts to croon. Removing the blindfold, she sees a four-day-old
version of herself—a baby buddha nuzzled in my arms. I hear her
hearty laugh but tears are brimming. Then a small voice says, “thank
you, Mommy.”
The gift I give her: these home movies, are the films of her childhood,
a catalogue of her young life. If she should ever stray, forget her past,
she will have them, as I have mine—some indelible proof of how she is
cherished.