As the photos have gotten more recent, and as they have become things from my life, instead of my parents' lives, I've done less introspection and more reporting. Rather than thinking about what or how these photos make me feel, or how I felt on the day they were taken, or what they say about me and my family, I have just been reporting. This happened, and then this. The back story was such, and the picture has trigged these memories. Perhaps this is the path that photos take-- the people in them use it to remember that moment; the next generation wants to know "what was that like, and why did they do that?" A third generation down, it becomes "who are these people and what is their connection to me?"

The next page is full of portraits from the basement portrait studio. Except for one picture of our neighbor Andi, they are all of my father's colleagues from Penn and their wives. If my father were to remind me of their names, I would instantly recognize them, but I cannot bring them to mind here. The lady pictured I remember for her perfume; she always wore the same perfume, very heavily, but somehow pulled it off. I think if someone walked by me today wearing this perfume, it would instantly evoke her image.

Under the slip sheet is the cat, Eric. I think these pictures must have been taken by my mother. Somehow I can't picture my father taking photos of the cat.