As a rather clueless 20-something, most of what little memory I have is selective -- if anything, minuscule details, like the twitches per minute of my Mother's eye (as I drove our car into a ditch my very first time driving), or the hysteric-sad laughter that bubbled up at my Grandfather's funeral, seem to be the only things that really stick. Luckily for me, much of my childhood, as well as my two older brothers', was meticulously captured on tape by my Father. From birthday parties, to weddings, to sticky-fingered pumpkin-gut carving and lazy Sundays, my Dad somehow managed to capture it all. In fact, much of the space in our living room was devoted to countless VHS tapes, lovingly titled "Kenny's stuff, Stephen's 12th Birthday" or "Heather's Dance," in his nearly illegible scrawl. My memories, and the memory of my family long before I was born, are but a VCR away. Candid eye-rolls, moments of love (and pure annoyance) -- they're all ...
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