media

It fucking hurts looking backward.  I don't like to complete a thought about personal memories but through media it all becomes real. Even photos pale in memory compared to something like air plane trading cards. The word 'foto' itself has for me the reinforcing memory a of the press room of the Milford Citizen; the smell of a darkroom, the sound of a Linotype machine casting lead letters to print the local news.

The photos of the Color Bar don't do justice to the emotions tied to a empty can of paint from the Color Bar.

The little backyard paint store had shelves of wall paper books, paint color chips and a back room filled with extra can of wrong color mistakes. You think there was some truth to what the Dean of Fine Arts at Uconn told me, "Your head is like a carnival." And by the way, the Dean implied, please transfer to the Theatre Department.

Color Bar - Jagoe

7 Seas and the Beatie Jet Lighter

Frasers' Market

Milford Indians.

The Color Bar and Sandy

Milford Boy Scout Cove

One of the themes of my interconnected blogs is that the blogs are chapters in the book Fat Bill and Me.
Another is the idea that we keep our memories in mental trophy cases. And a third is all memories reside in something and that selling that something (your memories) on eBay is second only to burning the object to free yourself of the attachment.

My unused Boy Scout summer shirt with 1955 CAMPOREE badge didn't sell for $8. I was 11 in the summer of 1955 ... a good place to start.