Take me back to the Good ol' days

5/8/24

Let me preface this by saying most people wouldn't describe me as a "videography guy" now. Married life, fatherhood – you get the picture. But believe it or not, there was a time when this average Joe was a budding Spielberg in the making, at least in his own mind. Back in the glorious 80s, when owning a camera was the coolest thing a kid could have, and I was obsessed.

My inspiration? Uncle Paul, the family videographer extraordinaire. This man documented everything, from Christmas parties to our tiresome hike up Superstition Mountain (let's just say the camera survived, unlike Uncle Paul's sanity). I envisioned a room in his house overflowing with VHS tapes, a testament to his relentless filming sprees. I didn't think he was odd, I just desperately wanted to be him – camera in hand, capturing the world, one shaky frame at a time.

One day, I sweet-talked my mom into letting me borrow her prized possession – a camera that probably weighed more than I did. My mission? To create the most epic Lego movie the world had ever seen. Now, for a zit-faced NSYNC wannabe with braces, "epic" was a relative term.

The plan was simple (or so I thought): stop-motion animation. I'd seen a behind-the-scenes featurette on some cartoon, and it looked easy enough. Move a clay figure a millimeter, snap a picture, repeat. Genius, right? Wrong.

My best friend, bless his heart, became my reluctant co-director. We spent a glorious hour (or maybe three) staring at a pile of Legos, our creative juices flowing at the impressive rate of molasses in December.  Screenplay? Who needs one? We were directors, darn it! We didn't need some fancy writer dictating our masterpiece. Besides, my younger brother was too busy waging war over Legos (apparently, spaceships were more important than artistic expression), and my older brother was out somewhere terrorizing the desert on his three-wheeler ATC.

Fueled by pure determination and an unhealthy amount of nostalgia, or maybe it was Crystal Pepsi, we dove headfirst into construction and filming. Editing in the 90s was a cruel mistress. No fancy software, just the brutal reality of rewinding the tape and praying you didn't mess up for the tenth time (spoiler alert: we messed up a lot). But hey, bloopers are just bonus features, right?

Now, for the grand finale: a real showstopper worthy of any teenage boy with a questionable grasp of pyrotechnics. My unsuspecting brother, the proud owner of a sizable stash of firecrackers, had no idea the sacrifice his future firework shows were about to make. See, we believed ourselves to be public service heroes, preventing a potential school toilet explosion (his words, not mine). So, we "borrowed" a few… let's say a generous handful… of his finest M-80s (cherry bombs, to us connoisseurs).

In our minds, we were saving lives. In reality, we were about to create a miniature mushroom cloud in my backyard. The culprit? A jerk Lego boyfriend who, according to our hastily improvised script, met his fiery demise thanks to a faulty gas line. (Hey, even Michael Bay needs a starting point, right?).

Needless to say, the "special effects" were a tad more dramatic than we anticipated. The lego house, meticulously constructed over hours of brainstorming, went up in glorious flames.  Let's just say my brother wasn't exactly thrilled when he discovered his missing fireworks and the smoldering remains of his Lego nemesis.

So there you have it – my first foray into filmmaking. It wasn't exactly Oscar-worthy, but it did solidify my love for storytelling (and a healthy respect for proper firework disposal). 

Sure, my early filmmaking ventures were shaky (literally), explosive (metaphorically... hopefully), and probably not award-winning material. But you know what? They were mine. They were a testament to a childhood fueled by imagination and a healthy dose of mischief.

Looking back, those shaky mountain hikes and special effects-laden Lego epics weren't just about me playing director. They were about capturing moments in time, preserving memories for myself and others. Because let's face it, our memories are funny things. They fade, morph, and sometimes disappear altogether. But a video? A video can freeze a moment in amber, a vibrant snapshot of laughter, tears, and everything in between.

Videography isn't just about capturing events or making money (although, let's be honest, that doesn't hurt!). It's about the spark of joy that ignites in someone's eyes as they see a forgotten memory come alive on screen. It's about the eruption of laughter that fills a room when a goofy childhood moment resurfaces. It's about the bittersweet tears that flow as we revisit loved ones, gone but never forgotten.

Imagine a world without videography. No birthday parties with wobbly camera footage that captures the pure, unadulterated joy of a child blowing out candles. No wedding videos to transport you back to that magical day, the nervous smiles, the tearful vows, the first dance as husband and wife. No home movies to remind us of simpler times, the scraped knees, the messy birthday cake, the warmth of family gathered around the holidays.

Videography is a gift, a way to weave a tapestry of memories that can be cherished for generations. It's a privilege to be a part of this world, to be a trusted hand that captures the raw emotions and fleeting moments that make life so beautiful.

Here's a perfect example: just a few weeks ago, we were at a birthday party for my dad. I pulled out some old video footage, brief snippets I captured years ago of him and us as children at our cabin. These were memories that meant something to all of us. As the grainy footage flickered to life on the screen, a collective smile spread across our faces. We saw a younger version of Dad, his hair a touch thicker, his laugh lines less pronounced. We saw ourselves as kids, carefree and full of boundless energy, exploring the woods and making memories that would last a lifetime. The footage crackled and popped, a testament to the passage of time, but the emotions it evoked were timeless – pure joy, genuine love, and the comforting presence of family.

In that moment, I was reminded of the true power of videography. It's not just a technology, it's a time machine, a bridge that connects us to our past and allows us to relive precious moments with those we love. So here's to shaky footage, backyard explosions (supervised, of course!), and the enduring power of a story told through a lens. Happy filming, everyone!