Capturing Moments

That time I forgot my phone on a four-day family wedding weekend

Back in 1984, during the fall of my senior year of college at Smith, a small liberal arts college in Western MA, I was taking a photography class. It was long before the dawn of digital photography, so the class involved physical film, a dark room, and expensive photo paper. I remember learning all of the developing stages, unspooling the film in total blackness before turning on the eery red lights, pouring out the chemicals into trays, creating shading by controlling the light exposure using pieces of cardboard or my hand, watching images imprinting themselves onto the paper.

Feeling a sense of wonder at the whole process. Capturing moments forever.

One weekend that fall, my best friend and I decided to rent a car and drive up to Vermont to see the colors of the foliage. I was out of film, so we stopped along the way at a photography supply store to pick some up. While considering the film choices, it occurred to me, for the first time, that the only film I knew how to develop was black and white, obviously not ideal for recording the reds, yellows, and oranges of dying leaves going out with a bang. But we were already committed to the trip. I laid down precious dollars for an expensive roll of quality black and white film, 36 exposures, and while my best friend drove, I loaded the film into the camera I’d received from my godfather when he found out I couldn’t afford to buy one on my own.

The foliage did not disappoint. My god, the colors: scarlet, russet, mustard, butter yellow, pale green, nut brown. At one point, we found ourselves standing on a stone bridge over a slow-moving stream, watching fallen leaves floating by. I can picture it now, the gray and black rocks glistening under the water, sunlight shimmering, trading places with shadow as tree branches overhead moved in the wind. And those leaves, ah, those leaves. A vibrant red one lingered for a moment as if posing for me.

I waited for the light to hit it just right and then devoted three frames to it, praying one would capture the magic. Later, in the darkroom, I would learn this was not to be because I had not loaded the film properly. There were no pictures to develop. Zero. Zilch. Nada.

I remember standing there in the eery light, realizing the negatives held no images. After a few seconds of feeling sorry for myself, followed by several minutes of berating myself, I closed my eyes and tried to summon the image in my head of that perfect leaf. Little did I know at the time that this image would remain imprinted in my gray matter, not in black and white, but in vibrant red. Simple yet stunningly beautiful.

(copyright, Jim Salge Photography (obviously not mine since the film was blank)

This memory came back to me earlier this month at my niece’s wedding in St. Louis because, dun-dun-dun, I accidentally left my phone at home. Eight minutes into the drive to the airport, I found myself digging through my backpack, convinced it had to be in one of the pockets. There was no way, I told myself, that I left it on the dresser in the bedroom. No way. No. I began to hyperventilate just a little. I felt its absence like a phantom limb, right there resting on the fingers of my left hand. I sat back in the seat and turned to my husband.

“I forgot my phone,” I said.

“You what?” he said.

“I forgot my phone.”

“Do you want to go back?” he asked, though the look on his face confirmed what I already knew—we didn’t have time. As I put this thought into spoken words, I felt terror. Shock and terror. How could I survive without my phone for four days? I used it for everything. Timekeeping, emails, texts, creating graphics, social media, Google Docs, and photos.

God damn.

Photos.

I was heading to a wedding. A wedding. With my family. Nearly every person I loved would be there. And I wouldn’t be able to take a single photo.

“You can use my phone,” my husband said then, as if he were reading my mind. I nodded, but I knew this would prove to be an offer fraught with potential for unwelcome headshaking and frustrated glances. Arguments. Didn’t you just take a picture? Another one, of what?

I felt sorry for myself. Berated myself.

But surprisingly (and I mean, truly surprisingly), by the time we got to the airport, terror began to be overtaken by an odd, totally unexpected feeling of freedom. I couldn’t take a picture of our approach to the departures area or my luggage tags to post on Instagram. I couldn’t check the number of views of my latest video on TikTok or my emails or Facebook.

I sent my kids and siblings a text letting them know I forgot my phone, with a request to text my husband if they needed to reach me. Sent an away message (for the first time) on my email accounts.

And for the next four days, my refrain was “I forgot my phone.”

Can you call for a Lyft. “Nope, I forgot my phone.”

Where is Olivia? “I can’t tell you. I forgot my phone.”

When are we supposed to be at the club? “I didn’t get the text. I forgot my phone.”

True, I couldn’t take any pictures. No shimmering light behind leaves. No bride and groom gazing at each other. No holiday card candidates. No sparkling fireworks filling the night sky.

But there was no phone between me and the scene in front of me. And I knew, because of that failed trip to Vermont, that I had the power to store those images in another, perhaps even more magical way. I stayed in the moments, hearing a silent click, recalling the feel of advancing the film on that old camera. And I remember it all—the look on my brother-in-law’s face as he walked his daughter down the aisle, the gilt-edged pages of As You Like It arfully decorating our table to commemorate how the bride and groom met in a Shakespeare class, the bride’s sister singing Make You Feel My Love to the bride and groom, the fireworks filling the night sky.

I remember it all vividly, just like that red leaf floating in the stream—a moment captured forever. Perfect and stunningly beautiful.

(courtesy of another guest at the wedding who posted it on Instagram.)

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