MEMORIAL
A Life In Photos
My Dad, the Photographer
Dad understood better than anybody I know the power of a picture to capture an experience, the mood in a room, or a spectacular scene. His photos captured things in such a powerful way that you could revisit them again and again for as long as you wanted to and immediately pull up the emotions, the smells, and the intangibles that made them worth experiencing in the first place. Which is kind of ironic, given that he had an encyclopedic memory for every person he had ever met, every place he had ever been, and the minutiae of the lives of those around him.
The reality is he didn’t need a picture to remember, but that’s not why he wanted them. He wanted them because they help you celebrate both the amazing and the mundane moments of life, and help others do the same. He didn’t really distinguish between the amazing and the mundane. Both had great value. Every single time Ohio State beat Michigan he described it the same way: “That might be the greatest football game I’ve ever seen.”
Not surprisingly for those who ever saw his side of the basement on Spring Drive, Dad’s strength wasn’t in organizing photos. But he was hugely interested in distributing them. I can’t tell you how many big white envelopes I’ve seen in the house over the years stuffed with old pictures that would just say “Doug Stegner” on the front. Or “Joan Penna.” Or just “Mitch.”
When you got one of those envelopes you were getting a treasure trove. Those envelopes were a celebration of shared experiences, shared victories, and shared struggles. They were like an Instagram story that stretches back for years, is always at the top of your phone screen, and that you never want to end.
It was out of those envelopes that I have a picture of me and Dad on a canoe trip up in Quebec. I am proudly holding a stringer of fish so heavy that I can barely hold it up. Next to me Dad is holding up a Hanes tank top undershirt that he had taken off to use as a sponge to keep our leaky canoe from sinking. I don’t think he caught a fish, but he saved the day.
It was from one of those same envelopes that I have a picture of myself standing outside the Kentucky Derby Museum. I’m 17 years-old, covered in acne, and dressed head to toe in bright yellow jockey silks. Dad was in the midst of one of his side hustles, like when he used to use our Jeep to shovel driveways in the middle of winter, but this one involved having your picture taken with an authentic “jockey.” At 5' 9" and about 150 pounds he figured I’d do. I’m sure nobody noticed that we didn’t have jockey boots, so I wore Dad’s Australian snakeskin cowboy boots. It was a good look.
And it was from one of those envelopes that I have a picture of myself bawling crying in the waiting room immediately after my son Becker was born. I was overwrought with the beauty of the experience and I remember vividly how Dad couldn’t stop taking my picture despite the fact that I was standing there making a fool out of myself. Like can’t I just get a hug or something??
The common denominator in each of these treasure troves was Dad, capturing it all. Reveling in how cool it was to be alive, to be in each other’s lives, and to be able to share our experiences in the future…and laugh, and cry, and wish you could go back and do it all over again.
