Every stage of my life includes memories of Pinecrest.  The aesthetic beauty of the landscape and our precious once red family cabin has shaped my heart and soul as I have journeyed from child to adult.  There are whispers of precious snapshots filled with sounds that find their way into my thoughts when my soul needs a little restoration: the sound of the train whistle to announce the commencement of happy hour, the rattle of the chains being removed from the dock to accommodate the early morning fishermen, the laughter of children as they rush to the snack bar on the lake for a half and half cone, the soft sound of my grandfather’s chuckle as he discreetly allowed us to we consume more sugar than normally allowed.  My grandmother’s photographs document every moment of adventure, every extreme hike, lemonade stand, Thanksgiving, parade at Columbia, and Fourth of July deck party, that make up fabric of the blessing of my grandfather’s gift of the “Wee Hoose” family cabin at 29 Highland Way. 

The Polaroid camera was a constant presence during the early years that we Gibbon cousins spent by the lake.  There was one particular morning when my grandmother was lovingly documenting our time during breakfast and my grandfather decided to move from mischief-maker in the background to photographer in order to capture a more “candid” remembrance of our time together.  He explained that he preferred pictures that captured the true essence of a person through an informal, un-posed approach.  Had he been on social media in more recent times I am sure that he would not have been a fan of the “selfie.”  After explaining his photo-taking philosophy, my grandfather captured a picture of my cousin Brian about to shovel a spoonful of his breakfast into his mouth.  As my Grandfather and I watched the Polaroid image develop, I was struck by how much could be communicated through a seemingly silly photo.  To this day, the picture is still displayed in one of the many beloved photo albums at the cabin. 

A few nights ago as this memory came flooding back into my mind the English teacher in me was prompted to look up the exact definition of the word “candid.”  A mixture of phrases, which comprise several definitions, started fading away from their association with photographs and started the floodgates of memories of my grandfather:  open and sincere, frank, outspoken; free from reservation, disguise or subterfuge; straightforward, honest.  Although I am not quick to jump in during a conversation the way that my grandfather always was, I do not simply accept the opinions and thoughts of others without careful consideration.  My grandfather taught me that every opinion must be examined from multiple sides and he loved to play the “devil’s advocate” whenever possible to challenge our thinking.  I believe that I am quicker to love others because he taught me to be quick to look at life from multiple points of view. 

I am thankful for 33 years of candid moments with my grandfather: negotiations over girl scout cookie or candy bar sales, spectacular brunches which always included at least two trips to the desert table, contests at Columbia to see who could keep an Atomic Fireball in their mouth the longest, swim lesson mornings in which my grandfather would wake up smiling singing, “Good, morning, good morning.  The best to you each morning,” the look of joy on his face while riding “Indiana Jones” for the first time, the Scottish Pub in Glendale as he toasted me on a job well done for completing my Bachelor of Arts degree, dancing with him at my wedding.  I will never look at a candid photograph the same way again; I am changed because of those candid moments that we shared and I am so thankful for that.  I love you grandpa. 

In Memory of William J. Gibbon 

November 26, 1927- April 1, 2014