Mog Pog

Every year we all gather in Tabiona, Ut for a huge family reunion. It typically lasts 3 days and includes any number of the following events: volleyball, horseshoe, 6 foot+ high sand pile for the kiddies, campfire for roasting mallows, four-wheeling, camping, hiking, arts/crafts, county fair/sale, raffle, bingo, board games, night games, dancing, karaoke, and a 3-mile fun run. Additionally, there is a theme to each year's reunion (examples of years past- Dr. Seuss, Disneyland, Pioneers, Indians, Italy, Movie Classics, etc.), and a video or live skit with optional dress-up that each family comes up with to relate to the theme. Clearly, we get VERY much into it. It's become more elaborate over time, and has gained popularity. We have some 300 or so people who attended this year. I've heard from several people who married into this family that the reunion is one of the coolest of the many benefits of having married in.

End brag about our cool family traditions. Hehe.

This year in September, I attended with my family. The reunion takes place on Tabby Mountain, on land that is a few miles above where my grandfather grew up with his 9 living siblings. My grandpa Bill's house is just a mile or two away from the mountain on which the reunion takes place, so once or twice during the reunion days, a random assortment of Bill's kids and grandkids can be found at his house, napping or snacking or showering before returning to the mountain and the reunion. My grandpa has always opened up his house and welcomed us in during the reunion.

This September, we all gathered again for the reunion. My grandpa Bill and his 2nd wife Gloria no longer live in their Tabiona house, having moved to Springville to be closer to doctors and medical care that could better address the complexities and concerns of his cancer. They would occasionally stop by their Tabiona house, but it was basically abandoned. However, they still opened up their house to allow us to stay their during the reunion, even though they wouldn't be there.

This year, when I entered the house, an intense sting suddenly struck into my body as I realized this was probably the last time I would see the house in this manner, the house of my grandparents that held a portion of my childhood memories. Soon, my grandpa would die and the items in the house would be divided and the rest given to goodwill. I determined that I would document the house in order to remember it before it was changed forever. I took my camera and went around the house and the property, taking pictures of EVERYTHING.

I admit part of the reason of taking the pictures was simply to preserve the memories for myself, to preserve the place that gently held memories that made me the person I was, to preserve a small portion of myself, I suppose. I wanted to capture the intricacies of the people and places that had shaped who I was. To capture one's heritage is to capture one's self. So it was selfish, in a way.

But in addition to that, my grandpa's property is just so dang unique and just begging to be photographed. He was a creative man, a man of many talents. This shows in every aspect of his house. There were relics of things from all years of his life. A sewing machine that was possibly owned by his mother or grandmother, records from the 30's and 40's, license plates that could have been from his first vehicle. There were things that belonged to my grandmother before she died, and there were things that my step grandmother had brought in after she had married my grandpa. There were things that were usable when I was young, but were now neglected and broken. It was a mog-pog of artifacts, a mog-pog of lives.

As I took the photographs, I was struck with the notion that they had simply walked away from the house one day, leaving everything as it was. My step grandma's gardening gloves were placed in a straw sun hat in the greenhouse, with dried dirt still on them, as if she'd been out fiddling in the dirt that very day. But the plants were all wilted and dead, and there was a thin layer of dust over the hat and gloves. On my grandpa's four-wheeler, there was also a pair of leather gloves, caked with dried and cracking dirt. Again, it was almost as if he had just been up on the mountain on the four-wheeler, returned to his house, took off his dirty gloves, set them on the four-wheeler, and then left forever. It was almost an eerie feeling to see these articles and know that a house, a home, lives, developed and cultured for years to create comfort and love for these people would abruptly come to an end soon. It was unsettling.

Anyway, here are a sample of my favorites of the pictures. A lot of them were off-centered or out of focus, as I had a baby in my arms trying to grab the camera out of my hands the whole time.