My grandson, who's not even a year old, has probably had more of his life committed to film and photographs than Abraham Lincoln. It is a strange and wondrous thing, the way today's technology makes everyone the stars of their own movies. A generation ago, it was getting out of hand. Now, it's gone off the rails. Every second seems to be documented, be it a burp or a birthday, and I think that's just great. I mean, what's the alternative? Unplugging the Internet? Defacing Facebook? Turning Twitter into litter? Good luck with that. Privacy is going the way of the printed page, as outdated a concept as freeze-dried coffee or Tang, cobblestone streets or fallout shelters. Yesterday's innovations are today's punch lines and tomorrow, the whole clouded-over snow globe in which we live will get shaken again, leaving us dizzy and lost. And that's fine. Between my wife and his mother, my grandson will be able -- when he's my age -- to relive nearly every moment of his life, live and in color. His past will be a digitally remastered greatest-hit montage, replete with all the attendant e-noise that will last forever. He's a lucky little boy. I mean that. God love and keep him. Here's where it gets weird, though. Human memory is a flawed blessing and I can't help but believe that what I remember is actually very different from the way it actually happened. We tend to smooth out the rougher edges of our failures and over-inflate the moments that we believe have come to define us. I've always been fascinated by the concept of the Final Judgment. Raised a Roman Catholic and reared to believe in all I was taught by the well-meaning nuns, I've always kind of looked forward to standing in front of the Creator and watching the movie of my life play out. Actually, I picture myself sitting. Comfortably happy on a cloud bank. With bad habits in either hand. Here's what I've often wondered, though. Will my life be replayed as I saw it or will it be like a movie, shot with me in the starring role? It's something that sometimes preoccupies me. Here's what I'm hoping. The story of my life will be told from many different perspectives, from the first girl I ever liked -- Jennifer Brossman, third grade -- to my foggy view of the priest who performs Extreme Unction upon me as I lay dying. Who knows what to believe anymore, though. Nothing is everything. I can't imagine a world without rock'n'roll, but it's already dying, close to death. I can't believe in books being worth nothing, but it's happening. I can't conceive of government not helping the least of its citizens, but you know that's coming. And I won't concede that it's all about money, the craven desire for more, me, mine. How old were you when you stopped being awed by the ocean at sunset? Or the nighttime sky, stars sprinkled by the millions on your imagination? Or the sound of "Won't Get Fooled Again," cranked to window-blasting volume? Or the tentative smile in a grandson's face, the first time you held him? Yeah, sure, I'm just another sentimental longhair, a man too old to be young but too young to feel old. I have no answers to the questions anyone asks, let alone the ones that keep me awake until dawn. But, man, I wish I had some movies. Home movies, the kind that would help me see things as they were I was more optimistic, more enthusiastic, less callous, less afraid. All I'd want is like five minutes of footage, spliced together in 30-second segments, stuff that keeps me going when all seems like it's lost. Alas, there exists not a single second of film from my growing-up years. Nothing. Not my mother describing how she made her Thanksgiving stuffing, not my father teaching me how to throw a baseball, not my sister going out on her first date, not my brother playing the piano in the family room. No moving pictures at all. I've collected thousands of records, hundreds of books and dozens of movies over the years and I would trade them all in for just a minute of what one of our everyday, average dinners at the kitchen table looked like. I would give it all up just to see us all the way we used to be. I don't want to go all "Our Town" on you, but you'd be well advised to get ready for heartbreak because, with or without digital reminders of what it looked like, you're going to miss life when you're gone. Still, you could always ask for an instant replay. Mike Dewey can be emailed at CarolinamikeD@aol.com or snail-mailed at 6211 Cardinal Drive, New Bern, NC 28560.
