If I could turn back time, I would

Time travel has long been a popular subject for fiction authors, dating as far back as H.G. Wells and his 1895 novel, “The Time Machine.”

Writers of movies and television shows have likewise tapped into the public’s fascination with time travel, producing TV shows such as “Time Tunnel” and “Quantum Leap” and films like “Back to the Future” and “The Terminator.” There have even been a couple of films called “The Time Machine,” based on Wells’ novel.

Cher even delved into the genre with her 1989 hit “If I Could Turn Back Time.” Who among us hasn’t dreamed of going back in time to write a wrong, correct an old mistake or have the chance to live our younger years again? Who wouldn’t want to go back and shake Abraham Lincoln’s hand, to meet George Washington or even to walk with Jesus?

The trouble is time travel is impossible, sort of. There are no time machines, no giant nuclear-powered contraptions that will send a person back to the dawn of the Roman Empire or even to the dawn of their awkward pimply-faced high school days. Albert Einstein’s theory of relativity proposes that time is relative and can be influenced by speed and gravity, which allows for the possibility of time dilation.

Scientists have discovered waves of light that bounce off a boundary that exists in time, rather than space, leading them to posit that time can be manipulated. Yeah, I don’t understand it either, but it seems to have gotten some scientific types pretty excited.

With that in mind, I am here to declare that I, your faithful correspondent, have travelled back in time, sort of. My bride and I had the occasion to delve into the past recently when we looked for photos for the going away reception of a dear, old friend. That required a soiree into our attic, which is not a trip for the faint of heart. Besides decorations for various holidays, dust and stray bits of insulation, I located boxes containing old greeting cards as well as a number of loose photographs.

You see, children, back in the before time, just after the last dinosaurs walked the earth, human beings used things called cameras to record images, not in digital form, but on a magical medium called film. This process produced actual, physical photographs, not images on a smart device. After I managed to get said photos and greeting cards out of the attic without falling and breaking a hip, or worse, we perused the items in question.

Going through dozens and dozens of photographs was like stepping back in time. There I was with geeky horned-rim glasses. There she was in all her striking dark-haired beauty. Which begs the question, how did I get so lucky? There were photos from our courtship and eventual marriage. There were shots from our honeymoon more than a half-century ago. There were pictures of late friends, colleagues and relatives, which put me right back in the moment those snapshots were made. I could hear their voices, remember the sound of their laughter. There was pain involved in seeing these photos, however, as it brought to mind how much these people are missed.

There were photos of my parents, including a rare shot of my mother actually smiling. She hated having her photo taken, you see, but this was a casual shot she likely was unaware was being snapped. My bride’s parents were there, too, as well as sisters and brothers-in-law, nieces and nephews, on birthdays, holidays and general family gatherings. There were all our old cars, dating back to my old sickly green Plymouth Duster and her green and white Chevy Malibu.

There were shots of dearly departed pets, dating to my childhood. There were shots of the 2002 ice storm, with everything outdoors wearing a frozen crystal coating. There were snaps of vacations to various places, including way too many photos of scenery. While I tackled the photos my bride waded through the greeting cards, punctuated by loving utterances by both of us, as well as letters from dear friends and relatives who have gone on to their reward. But the real prize was a letter I don’t ever remember seeing before, written before I was born, from my father to his family back home in Minnesota, letting them know that he, then a 39-year-old confirmed bachelor, was engaged to be married to the dark-haired beauty who two years later would give me life.