When a holiday chore becomes a treasure

Family traditions that feel more of a burden than a gift sometimes take time to reveal their magic.

For the Dec. 23 issue of the Monitor Weekly, our essayists reminisce about a meaningful gift they received – or gave – at the holidays. I have warm memories of Christmas, but no single toy or gift stands out. Instead, I recall the holiday family portraits my dad took each year, which I tolerated as an impatient child and resisted as a self-conscious teenager.

My dad, who is 97 years old, spent his career as a professional photographer. He shot everything from coffins to clothes to CEOs. Work and family didn’t generally mix, except for one time, when I was in high school. I was pressed into service as a hand model, when the woman they hired failed to show up. (In the ad, my hand is holding a kitchen sponge.) He treated every photo shoot with care and precision.

Dad was equally meticulous with the family holiday portrait. More to the point, he used a lot of film, snapping away as if he were a paparazzo and we were celebrities. Let me emphasize: These were not candid shots. He posed us this way and that, constantly exhorting us to “smile naturally.” As an adolescent, I felt wooden and stilted, a half smile frozen on my lips, only partially hiding the braces on my teeth. I hated my glasses. My hair never cooperated. The whole experience was agony, and I couldn’t wait for it to be over.

Today, when I look through the family albums, gratitude and delight outweigh my earlier embarrassment. I can see the changes in each family member over the years: my dad’s receding hairline, my mom’s lovely smile, my brother’s goofy grin. I also see the trajectory of who I was and who I became: the little girl who felt at home in her world; the shy, book-loving preadolescent; the awkward teenager; the confident 20-something. They’re all there in the photos.

Like Nicholas Nixon’s famous portrait series of the Brown sisters taken over 40 years, or Michael Apted’s “Up” documentary film series, my dad’s annual holiday photos became more than a time capsule. More than just “Look at those bad ’70s outfits.” They were a record of our lives, a reflection of our personalities. Markers of how we had changed.

I don’t know if Dad had anything so lofty in mind when he took the photos, but he definitely wanted to preserve our likenesses for posterity. By subjecting us to this yearly torment and ignoring our grumbling, he gave us the perfect gift: ourselves, as the years went by.