We've arrived at page 18. It's still Saturday morning in the McGreevy's world (probably around 10:00 am). One of my favorite panels is on this page. It's a scene where India is walking through a hallway in her house. The wall behind her is covered in family photos like this one:
There's a lot of me in this book. Maybe that's a "no duh" statement, considering that I've spent the last five years drawing it, but let me get a little more specific: This drawing of India's dad (Fred) when he was probably a teenager is based on one of my favorite old photos of my dad when he was probably a teenager.
For years, that photo was tacked up on a bulletin board in our hallway, along with other great photos, pins, stickers, old tickets, and hundreds of other little odds and ends collected over the years. You couldn't even see any part of that bulletin board anymore, such was the coverage of objects. It was a family history of sorts, but one that kept changing and growing and getting richer and richer until it was bulletined so much it could be bulletined no more.
It was like a language, really. One that only my family spoke, because no one else looking at it would know the things on the board or understand what those things meant or who those people were. You can't get much more specific or personal than that. And yet, I'd bet that just about everyone reading this had some kind of equivalent, right? A place in your home where there's a pile of memories.
It's a little strange and also a little comforting to think that the most personal aspects of my life are also sometimes the most universally understood.
Anyhoo, here's another panel from that same page. This one isn't one of the hallway photos, just a panel of India looking out the front door: