Grandpa's Film Archive: Opening Scene

I've become the Library of Congress for both sides of my family, the repository for old photo albums, diaries and instruments. I like this job; it suits me. I love poring over pictures of, words by and information about long-gone ancestors, trying to understand better who they were, what their times were like.

Over the years, my cousins on the Brigham side have given me their father's banjo; family photo albums, including one that our grandfather filled with photos from trips to Europe, Russia and Japan; and diaries written in both English and French by our grandfather. I also have a photo album compiled by a great-uncle on my grandmother's side (the LaVentures) who I never met. It's filled with photos of equestrian events and military camps from WWII and it's absolutely fascinating.

From my cousins on the Bogert side of the family, I have inherited an accordion that belonged to our grandfather and, most recently, a treasure trove of home movies, slides and film equipment that also belonged to him. That's the subject of today's post, and others to follow.

(My grandparents at what appears to be a terrific picnic.)

I've written about my grandfather, Al Bogert, before (see January 5, 2015, "Take My Grandfather, Please"). He was a fun-loving guy who livened things up when he and my grandmother would visit my family, usually around the holidays. He would pull quarters from behind our ears, do card tricks, take part in games, play the piano and brighten up the whole place. My grandmother, Mildred, was sweet as could be and much quieter, but she was always quick to smile and laugh along.

Grandpa Bogert was good with his hands, and fixed TVs and radios on the side to make money. He also loved trains; one of my fondest memories of him is hanging out in his attic with my brother, running his model trains around the room. Perhaps my grandfather's greatest passion, other than family, was making home movies and taking pictures. I have a clear vision of him taking photos with a Polaroid in my childhood backyard. I was fascinated when the photo would emerge from the bottom of the camera, and so excited to see what it would look like when it had fully developed after a minute or two.

My mother talks a lot about how much she enjoyed watching her father make movies, especially around Christmastime. With the help of my grandmother, my grandfather would make movies of himself dressed as Santa, emerging from the fireplace (a cardboard prop). These movies were silent, so he would film intertitles indicating what the story was, and then offering credits at the end. If he was driving somewhere, and he saw a train approaching, he would call out, "Mil! Mil! Get the camera!" according to my mom. My grandmother deserves more credit than she gets for being his sometime-cinematographer, co-director and craft service provider.

Below is a short video I made soon after my cousins handed over our grandfather's film archive. Stay tuned for updates as I go through stuff more closely, and select movies to convert to digital files.

Baseball is back....

It's been a long winter, and although spring has sprung, it hasn't brought very warm temperatures to Boston this week. But that's OK, because it's Opening Day!

One of my favorite memories of going to Fenway Park is the game that Beth and I attended with Owen and my dad in 2009 (see picture above). A friend of mine from college handed over tickets (free of charge!) to the State Street Pavilion. We had great seats along the third base line, didn't have to deal with huge crowds for food and beer and honestly I don't remember if the Sox won (I think they did) but it was just so cool to be there with three generations of Sox lovers.

My dad passed away a year ago today, the day after my 49th birthday. Those few days in the hospital with him and my family were the toughest of my life. I'm thinking of him today and remembering all the times we played baseball, listened and watched the Sox, both on TV and in person, and just enjoyed the simplicity of soaking in our favorite sport.

Watching "Lou Grant" with My Dad

My dad passed away four weeks and a day after his 85th birthday. He would've been 86 today. He was a great man who donated time and/or money to countless organizations, from the YMCA to Springfield College, Simsbury ABC to soup kitchens in Hartford. He was a regular blood donor, helped coach my Little League team and was an officer for the retired men's organization in my hometown, Simsbury, CT.

He taught elementary school for 35 years, and after retiring at age 62, mentored and tutored students for many years. He also acted in countless plays over the course of his life. Through all of these activities, he received many honors and awards and various sorts of recognition. I was aware of all of these activities to some degree, but what I remember about him are the smaller moments.

In the fall of 1994, I moved back in to my parents' house for a few months, with my girlfriend (now wife), Beth. We had moved from Boston to Middletown, CT, in the fall of 1993 so Beth could complete a clerkship, after finishing law school. Our lease in Middletown ended in September of 1994, but she had a few more months of work to do before we made our planned move back to Boston.

Living with my parents was a bit strange -- when I moved to Dover, NH, in the summer of 1988 I didn't expect to be back for any reason other than visiting. But my parents are great people, and we all got along well. One of my fondest memories of this brief time comes to me just about every time I eat peanuts, one of my dad's favorite snacks.

I was working a temp job at Fleet Bank in East Hartford, CT. This was the only point in my life I used the bus to commute. One of my parents would pick me up at the stop, about a mile from their house. Beth drove herself to work and back, and worked later than I did, so I had time to kill each day before she got home.

My dad and I fell into a routine of watching "Lou Grant," a drama that was spun off from the incredibly popular sitcom, "The Mary Tyler Moore Show." I was never a huge "MTM" fan, but I did like Mary's boss, the grumpy Lou Grant, played by Ed Asner. "Lou Grant" ran from 1977 to 1982, but I didn't watch it then.

Thank God for syndication. The show was right up my alley: it starred Asner as a character I already liked, although he was more hard-nosed in this show than he was in "MTM." Grant is an editor for an L.A. newspaper; I worked for my college newspaper while earning a B.A. in journalism, and then for my hometown paper after.

My dad had been a fan of "MTM," I believe, so he was obviously into checking out "Lou Grant." The show dealt with weighty issues, ranging from nuclear proliferation to mental illness, capital punishment to chemical pollution (thanks, Wikipedia). My dad cared about societal issues such as these, so the show was right up his alley, too.

I liked Grant, and identified with the two reporters, Rossi (played by Robert Walden) and Billie (Linda Kelsey), and got a kick out of staff photographer, Animal (Daryl Anderson).

I have no great recollection of specific episodes. I suspect the show stands the test of time, as it won 13 Emmys and two Golden Globes, among other honors.

What stands out in my mind about the show is that it brought my dad and me together. We would discuss the issues, laugh here and there, and just hang out in my parents' rec room. I would often load up a plate with some peanuts, and cheese and crackers, and often my dad would offer me a beer in a frosted mug.

In my head we did this every day for the few months Beth and I lived there. I'm sure that's not true,

I miss my dad, and the simple pleasures of watching TV, snacking and drinking beer together. I think of him when I eat peanuts, or tell my kids a corny joke like, "What time do you go to the dentist? Tooth-hurty!" or steal food off one of my kid's plates.

Today I'm driving to Connecticut to meet my mother, sister and a few other family members for lunch. I'm looking forward to hitting the open road, where my mind can wander to so many good memories of my father. At lunch, I'm sure we'll share stories about my dad and have some laughs. I wonder if Ruby Tuesday offers a cheese, cracker and peanut appetizer, with a Piels in a frosted mug to wash it all down?

Saying Goodbye to Uncle Bill

This past Saturday I went to my Uncle Bill's memorial service. There were times in recent years when, unless I was talking about my dad's family, I forgot about my uncle.

Growing up, I saw my dad's older brother, George, and his family regularly. And today, although we're all grown and have gone our various ways, some with kids, others without, a big group of us cousins gathers at least once a year.

Bill never had kids, and lived in Rochester, New Hampshire, about three hours from where most of the rest of us lived. He visited us in Connecticut on rare occasions, and kept his distance in other ways, too.

I knew very little about him. Random images float in my head, but they are like Viewmaster slides. I load a picture of Bill in my head, mention it to someone in my family, and then someone flips the switch and the picture changes.

"No," they say, "he had the Winnebago in Simsbury, not at Grandma Jo's house."

He was a crew-cutted mystery, a pot-bellied ghost. I remember a picture of him with a flat-top haircut, big sideburns, an orange blazer and thick, black glasses (similar to the ones I wear). I thought he looked cool. But I haven't seen that photo in years, and sometimes I wonder if I made it up in my head.

I saw him at my grandmother's funeral in 1989, and he looked much as I'd remembered him, but very different in so many ways than his brothers. Sure, he was tall and dark-haired, but where my dad and George wore jackets and ties, George donned jeans, a checked shirt and a big belt buckle. He looked like a trucker, which he was. Or at least I thought he was, until I learned otherwise at his service.

I know he was a firefighter in Rochester, as well as a bus driver.

Last summer I drove my parents to Rochester to see Bill. He'd been sick with Alzheimer's for quite some time, and his wife, Mary Lou, had to put him in a nursing home. She told my dad that Bill was deteriorating both physically and mentally, and might not have much more time.

Our visit went as well as could be expected. None of us had seen Bill in 24 years. He spoke only in a low whisper, and only to Mary Lou. She knew what he wanted and could understand what little he said, or interpret his gestures. We watched the Red Sox on TV and made small talk with each other and with Mary Lou.

One of Mary Lou's granddaughters accompanied her to the nursing home. After our visit, the five of us went to lunch. I really liked Mary Lou. She was tough, smart and easy to talk to.

Since that visit, I have thought about Bill a bit more than usual.

I thought that back in 1989 I could've made an effort to see him in Rochester. At the time, I was living a short distance away, in Dover, NH. I worked for a few months at a local factory, and discovered that my boss knew my uncle from the fire department.

"You uncle is Frig'em Brigham?" he asked when I told him Bill worked as a firefighter in Rochester.

I shied away from asking him about that nickname, and what my uncle was like. I felt weird because I didn't know my own flesh and blood. I have a feeling that if I'd reached out to my uncle, given him a call or driven up to the fire station, we would've had a few laughs over cans of beer.

I suspect he told more than a few dirty jokes in his life. He could've told me how to fix stuff, because none of the Simsbury Brigham are particularly adept mechanically.

I didn't know what to expect at the memorial service. My parents rode up with one of my cousins, and my sister and two other cousins arrived separately. Only my parents and I had met Mary Lou before.

I suspected the Rochester Fire Department would be represented at the service, but I couldn't have imagined how big a presence they were. Before my arrival, apparently, a long line of firefighters paid their respects. Outside the chapel the department parked the truck that my uncle had driven when he was on the job (he retired in the late '80s). They put black and purple bunting on the truck, and boots, a helmet and coat that I believe belonged to my uncle.

The department put a display at the front of the chapel featuring my uncle's uniform, two silver-bladed axes, his honorable discharges from the Navy and Army Reserve, and his urn. Firefighters took turns standing at attention at the front of the chapel until the service started.

During the service the department's chaplain offered words of comfort to the gathering, and read a letter that Mary Lou wrote. It was all very moving.

Near the end of the service came the part that really got me, though. Two young Navy men in uniform approached the front of the chapel, saluted Bill's urn while "Taps" played, and then unfurled the triangular American flag that lay on the table. Once the flag was unrolled, they showed it to the congregation, and then methodically folded it back into its three-corner shape.

They then presented it to Mary Lou, and offered these words:

"On behalf of the President of the United States, the United States Navy, and a grateful nation, please accept this flag as a symbol of our appreciation for your loved one's honorable and faithful service."

The minister spoke of Bill's service to his country and to the people of Rochester, including the children he took to and from school during his many years driving a bus. Others spoke of his good humor and great ways with his stepchildren and grandchildren.

It felt strange to hear these words about somebody who I barely knew, but I felt it connected us just a little bit.

My immediate family and I stuck out like sore thumbs at the service. My dad and my cousin John wore suits; I had a nice pair of pants and a button-down shirt. My mother, sister and two cousins were dressed nicely as well.

Everyone else in attendance was in jeans, sweatshirts, fleece jackets, leather jackets, etc. I knew this was how it would be, because I knew that Rochester was a blue collar town, and my uncle was a blue collar guy. But once we broke the ice a bit with a few folks, things felt OK. Nobody seemed to hold a grudge that Mary Lou put my family in the reserved pews at the front of the chapel.

The delicate new bond between us was solidified a little more when the guy who looked most menacing -- leather jacket, black boots, neck tattoos, ear tattoos, scruffy beard -- told my dad he liked his cane, which is black with a silver snake head for a handle.

"My grandfather had one like that," the guy said. "His had a cobra for a handle, and you could pull it out and it was a sword." We laughed at that, and it felt pretty good.