A Picture is Worth a Thousand Words?

 

A Picture is Worth a Thousand Words

You’ve heard it right?  Ancient Chinese saying, from Confucius perhaps?  That would be wrong.

Modern use of the phrase is generally attributed to advertising executive Fred Barnard in a 1921 trade journal article promoting the use of images in advertising on streetcars. Fred Barnard is later quoted in 1949 as saying, after the phrase had gone as viral as it possibly could before the internet, that he made it up and called it a Chinese proverb so people would take it seriously. 

But like Trump winning the presidential election of 2020, the myth lives on.  A picture is worth a thousand words.  Sounds deep and prophetic, doesn’t it?  Certainly not something made up by a twentieth century advertising exec getting ready for color printing and television. 

I never believed it myself because you can do a lot with a thousand words.  But then, I’m an English major who’s partial to print.

On July 17 my granddaughter June will be 17 months old.  It’s been a wonderful time for our family.  All of us have learned a lot about child development.  The main lesson is that June changes with every day that goes by.

As early as 3-4 months of age, babies recognize the faces of their caretakers and close relatives.  In fact, babies can process faces long before they recognize other objects.  But the experts say it takes about 18 months for babies to recognize their face as their own.  I think June is slightly ahead of schedule. 

If June had an extensive vocabulary now, which she doesn’t, she might look in the mirror, or into that inset panel on the Face Time call, and say to herself “Oh my God, it’s me. June.”  While she can’t put those words together, I’m pretty sure June knows it’s her. 

June’s grandmother and I Face Time with June nearly every day.  Sometimes June’s Mom calls in the morning before nap time, when June is prone to being fussy.  Seeing her grandparents on the little I Phone screen apparently distracts her and calms her down.  She’s all smiles.  She waves.

We do a lot of waving.  June prefers the flat hand, palm out, moving back and forth like a windshield wiper kind of wave, paired with a big smile and the word “Hi”.  A word and a motion combined. The beginning of something big.  That wave, along with the smile on her face, is pure beauty. 

June shows us things during these short video calls; pictures in books, toys, the two cats that live in her house, flowers, and other things in her recently acquired yard.  And when June comes to our house, we return the favor.  Call it mutual discovery.

In this amazing time when everyone with a smart phone has become a photographer, videographer, and publisher, pictures are everywhere.  I take more pictures now than at any time in my life.  But still, I prefer observing the world head on, unobstructed by a lens and a screen between me and reality.  I lean to making memories not photographs.  And then I try to capture those memories, remembered visions in my head, using words. 

I have a little sign below my web cam with these words.  Wait. Instead of me writing it, let’s communicate with a picture.

 

Was that worth a thousand words?  I think not.  Somewhere between six and fifteen at most I’d say.

Now let me write a thousand words, with a few pictures thrown in.  You judge which is worth more. (608 words of set up.)

 

Sometime in early morning, my daughter, June’s Mom, took June from the portable crib at Papa and Goggy’s house into bed with her, the bed in the room where June’s Mom used to sleep as a little girl.

June’s Dad left the night before, so he could be at work in Chicago early, and June’s Mom could spend time with old friends in Ottawa.  Papa was in the kitchen making coffee when he heard June fuss.  Upon opening the bedroom door, Papa smiled at June.  June sat up and smiled back.

“Stay in bed,” Papa told June’s Mom.  “Sleep longer and I’ll feed June breakfast and entertain her a while.”

Papa and June split a bowl of steel cut oats with raisins, honey, and some milk to cool it down.  June especially liked the raisins.  Because June is not yet proficient with a spoon, she had oatmeal all over her face.  Papa wet a paper towel and came in quickly for the cleanse.   June turned her face away and tried to dodge it.  Papa prevailed.  It was over quickly.

“Let’s go outside,” Papa said.

June responded with a string of sounds that sounded for all the world like a sentence.  Papa, however, could not pick out one word.  Undeterred, Papa kept talking.

“Let’s see what we can find,” Papa said.

Papa opened the patio door with June in his arms.  The back yard stretched from the house to the shack and the ravine beyond the shack.  Morning sunlight made its way through the ravine and fell in streaks across the green lawn.

Now that she can, June prefers to walk.  She squirmed. Papa let June down but kept hold of her hand.  They walked up to one of the big oak trees.  Papa took June into his arms again.

“Look.”

June waved.

“Hi,” she said.

“She can’t talk back June.”

June, her face inches from Papa’s, responded with a string of syllables that rose in the middle, fell, and then rose again at the end.  Like uptalking.

“I don’t understand your question, but she’s not alive if that’s what you’re asking.”

June accepted that. But she wanted down.  Papa walked her to the next oak tree.

"Look."

Papa picked June up and pointed at the tree's face parts; eyes, nose, mouth, then pointed to June’s corresponding parts and named them.  June seemed interested and said so.  At least Papa thought she did.  June touched the side of her head.

“You’re right.  No ears.  Poor tree can’t hear a thing.”

June looked deeply into Papa’s eyes, as if to agree.

Papa put June down, took her hand, and walked her up the shack porch steps. June takes steps straight on, lifting her feet way up, making big strides.  Papa took June in his arms again.

“Look.”

“Hi,” June said, waving.

“What does the bear say?”

June made a fair approximation of a bear’s roar.  "GRRR!"

“You’re right June.  You’re darned smart, you know that?”

Papa walked into the shack with June in his arms.  Her eyes grew wide.  There was a lot of visual stuff going on in the shack that Papa forgot about.  June reached immediately for the thing on Papa’s stereo speaker.

“Don’t touch that June.  Papa found that on a trail in Buffalo Rock years ago.  He thinks coyotes made off with the rest of the deer and left that behind.”

June’s eyes went up and immediately found another face. 

“Hi,” June said, waving.

“That’s Howdy Doody’s head, all that’s left of a ventriloquist doll Papa got for his birthday very long ago.”

June’s eyes went to the gable end of the shack.

“Hi,” June said, waving to the mask at the top of the shack.

Papa turned around.  June’s eyes found another mask.

“Hi,” she said, waving to the mask on the opposite wall.

“Let’s look at the floor June.”

Papa put June down next to his water bottle.

“Watch what happens when Papa pumps this thing.” 

Papa pressed the pump three times and water fell into a stone crock below for a few seconds before stopping.

June put her hand in the stream.  Then in the water in the crock. 

Next, June touched the clenched fingers of both hands together several times.  Papa remembered.

“Oh. You want more.”

Papa presses the pump three times again.  Water falls out.  June signs.  Repeat.  June signs again.  Repeat.  This could go on for a long time, Papa thinks.

June’s Mom and Dad taught her that sign.  It means more. Two weeks ago, June ignored it.  Now she understands.  Soon she’ll learn the word.

Papa’s small crock was filling up.  He picked June up and took her outside.

The sun was higher, shining through the oaks.  A breeze swayed their branches. Shadows and patches of light danced across the lawn.

Papa saw something.  He pointed across the lawn.  June looked and saw it.

“Look June.  There’s a baby bunny.” 

June sees bunnies in books and likes them.  But as far as Papa knew, this would be her first look at a real bunny.

“Hi,” June said, looking at the bunny and waving.

Papa stood June up on the grass. 

“Go pet the bunny June.”

June looked back at her Papa, her eyes wide, then ran towards it. 

The bunny froze.  June never slowed.  Now closer, June waved again.

“Hi.”

Finally, the bunny ran.  But not far.  It stopped.  Froze again.

June ran on, waving.  When the bunny ran, and changed direction, so did June.  Papa became uncomfortable with the distance between himself and June, and he scurried behind them.  

A baby bunny on a morning in its first summer, running from baby June in her second summer, followed by Papa in his seventy first.  A short parade.

Oh, to once again be a baby in a world where every face is worthy of a wave and every new image a discovery.  And thank you God for the moment when an old man lives to once again see the world through the eyes of a child.

 

That was a thousand words.  What’s worth more?  The pictures or the words?