Sometime in the early 1970s–before the technology revolution put a camera on everyone’s phone and a phone in everyone’s pocket–I had some extra money and called my sister Carolyn in Jasper, Alabama.

“I want you to find a photographer and send him up to see Mom and Dad. Tell him to follow them around and take lots of pictures. I’ll buy a lot of black and white 8 by 10s from him.”

The result is an album of photographs of Mom and Dad, with him on the tractor and her taking him water, her working in the kitchen, and so on. It was not the album I had envisioned, because they knew the guy was coming and dressed up too much for it. I wanted them in everyday clothes, acting normal, looking like they always do. Most of the photos seemed posed, but even so, I’m glad to have it.

That day the photographer said something to my sister I will never forget. “Your brother is so smart to do this. My father died recently and I don’t have one picture of him.”

And him a professional photographer. I confess to being shocked by that.

In 1979, I had some more extra money. (I get some about once every decade.) On an airplane with a lot of missionary-types–we’d been at some meeting of the International Mission Board–I approached a photographer on the staff and said, “I have $400 to buy a camera. I don’t know the first thing about them. What should I buy?”

He and a colleague conferred briefly, then said, “An Olympus OM-1.” And that’s what I bought.

Over the next 10 years, I took pictures at every family gathering, and every time I went home to see the folks. I shot pictures of our kids and grandchildren, and some of them really turned out well. I learned quickly something that serious photogs know: if you get one really great shot from a roll of film, you have beat the odds.

Anyway, that’s how I happen to have a lot of unposed, great photos of my parents and siblings and children and grands today. That camera disappeared in 1990 when someone stole my car from in front of First Baptist Church-Kenner. We recovered the car, but the camera was gone. State Farm more than compensated me for its loss, but by then Olympus was no longer manufacturing that camera. I went to a Canon EOS Rebel–the type with a little Japanese scientist inside. Problem is, I don’t speak Japanese. The point of that is I never got my rhythm back for shooting family pictures with this high-tech camera.

And don’t get me started on digital cameras. The battery runs down every day or two. I store the pictures, then don’t get them printed out and end up losing them.

Okay, enough of that. Then there is one more thing I wanted to mention to you about honoring your loved ones.

Back at the same time–early 1970s–the cassette tape revolution was taking off. I bought a little battery model and taped our family and friends, and still have some of those. I would violate a lot of laws that had not been written yet, of taping people without their knowing it. But these were close family members and I was simply trying to freeze them in time for future enjoyment, so no one minded.

The treasure of that group of recordings was a 30 minute tape made during a drive from the West End neighborhood of Birmingham to the airport. It was Christmas Eve, 1971, and our sons, Neil and Marty were 8 and 5. We were going to pick up Margaret who had had to work at the Baptist Book Store in Jackson, Mississippi, where we were living. The boys and I had come to her parents early and now were going to meet her plane.

There were no seat belts in those days–horrors!–so the boys were bouncing around in the back seat while the tape recorder lay on the front seat of the car, picking up every sound they made. For half an hour, they told stories and sang, they argued and laughed, and they gave their dad the finest little memento of their childhood I could ever have had.

The other day on this website, I mentioned a similar recording I made of Dad during a 90 minute drive from our home at Nauvoo to Birmingham. I was bemoaning the absence of tape players in modern cars. One of our young friends and former member of the Kenner church, Steve Winsett, emailed me from Tomball, Texas. “Send me that tape and I’ll transfer it to CD for you.”

I didn’t send him one tape, but four. A couple of them were made during rummy games at Mom’s dining room table. Dad, my brother Charlie, and a couple of the rest of us sat there ignoring the running tape machine, enjoying one another, and out-talking each other. It was fun then and priceless now. I can’t wait to have this on CD, a much more permanent keepsake than a magnetic tape.

Janie Moskau, pastor’s secretary at our church, said, “When you get those CDs, bring them by here. I have a tape burner and I’ll make you some copies.”

Isn’t it great to have friends!!

Today, Thursday, I was rummaging through some stuff in the office closet, looking to see what else I might have tucked away. Among the photos and mementos, I found a note in my dad’s handwriting. It was not dated, but came after one of those birthdays in which I invited readers to send notes or birthday cards to him. He ended up with over a hundred, as I recall.

Here is the note verbatim.

“For such a showing of cards on my birthday is unbelievable. Well-conceived. Humbly accepted. From Hosea (that would be me, Joe)—Jordy. Tis me heartfelt thanks.” (Sometimes the Irish in him protruded.)

(Jordy would be Jordy Arcuri who was about 75 years younger than Pop, but they shared the same birthday. Jordy and his folks were members of our Kenner church. Once he found out that he and my father had the same birthdays–Jordy was 7 at the time–they began corresponding. Once I took Jordy and a friend up to the country to visit my parents. A 7 hour drive each way. Pop never forgot it.)

And then comes a couple of quotes, who knows where from. “Power must never be trusted without a check.” He wrote underneath: “Thanks Mary Ruth.” And then, “We are, because God is.”

Then he wrote, “Thanks to all of you. You’re wonderful. Carl J. McKeever. Nauvoo, Alabama. 35578-9305” and underneath that the old address: “Rt 3 – Box 33.” (Later, the 911 system required every road to have a name and everyone to have a real address. That’s when they became 191 County Road 101.

And at the bottom of it all, he wrote in the corner: “4-13-12 and counting.”

He had beautiful handwriting. In his childhood, even the rural schools taught penmanship. Dad was suitably proud of his handwriting, and even in his 90s, he still wrote more legibly than I do.

I wrote all of this here with the intention of planting the idea in someone’s mind. That camcorder is gathering dust on a shelf in your closet. The camera could take some lasting photos of your loved ones. A recording is a great thing to have when they’re gone.

Get up now and do this.

Every native Alabamian has heard this story, but it’s worth repeating here.

The most popular television commercial ever to run in my home state was made by Coach Paul “Bear” Bryant on behalf of the telephone company. He was looking into the camera telling viewers how he requires the members of his football team to “call their mamas” every Sunday afternoon. The commercial was over, but the video tape machine was still running when the coach added an ad lib. “I sure wish I could call mine.” It was pure magic. They left that in, and no one who ever saw the ad came away with a dry eye.

I’ll be calling my mom tomorrow morning, as I do every day. (Aren’t cell phones wonderful?) And I’ll be back in the country in a few days to spend some time with her.

“Honor thy father and thy mother,” God commanded. I’m glad He did, too, for two reasons. One, when I honor them, it blesses me. And two, now that I’m a father and grandfather, I don’t mind for a moment when my children decide to honor me. They’re just obeying the Lord!