女兒這次回家，一日突然問及家中的老古董相機。那是我們九十年代結婚前後買的一部國產海鷗牌相機，記得當時好像是一千塊人民幣左右。就是用這台手動的相機，我給女兒拍了許多珍貴的照片，也給自己的青春留下了一些永恒的念想。記得那時住在園西區，常常為洗照片騎車穿過校園，跑去東門洗，洗完了再在店裏過塑，以防潮濕的天氣對照片造成的損壞。這些照片最後都隨著這部相機一起漂洋過了海。懷舊時，自己會拿出舊照片翻翻，也常常給女兒看她小時候的模樣，還告訴她，小時候每次拍照，媽媽都要她豎起小指頭為了更好的聚焦，所以大多數照片都拍得很清楚。
女兒說，現在有那麽一小部分人喜歡用手動相機，因為它的顏色和拍出來的層次感。於我，舊相機還能派上用場，能重見天日，能讓女兒感興趣，自然是好。遂花了大半天找出來那個早已被時代和我們遺忘的相機。
找到的那一刻，發現完好無損的相機和它外麵的套子，還是感慨以前東西的質量是如此之好。但是，東摸摸西摸摸卻不知道怎麽打開裝膠卷的那一側，就拿著老相機請某人幫忙。某人不屑一顧地瞧了一眼，說，不知道。他其實是不支持女兒玩這些落伍的東西，說現代科技、照相技術如此發達，不去追求新技術，去玩這老古董就是倒退，就是在浪費時間。
相機放膠卷那側最後是打開來了，膠卷也從網上買了寄過來，三卷三十多塊，一卷36張，女兒自己買的，她自己又上網查了光圈和速度。不過，最後的成品卻沒有想象中的好，不是曝光了，模糊了，就是色彩不對，遠不能跟我當年拍的照片質量相比。我不知道是她沒調好，還是現在的膠卷質量、衝洗的液體調的就有問題，畢竟這就是小眾的東西，沒有市場，價格貴(洗一下底片變成digital要$14，加上底片十多塊，拍三十六張要近$30塊)，不方便(要跑去一家專門店)，而且還效果差。
那相機最終是被女兒帶走，也裝上了第二卷膠卷。不過，她的三分熱度能持續多久就不得而知了。畢竟，時代的發展，推陳出新，已經讓這些老東西無用武之地。大浪淘沙，被時代浪潮卷走的手動相機，它的位置或許就是在陳列館，在箱底，在人們懷舊的情結中。抑或，它依然還有它今天的位置?
During the time she was home this winter, one day J asked about the old camera that I brought from China, which was mothballed and forgotten for decades. As I rummaged through the boxes in the garage and on the shelves searching for it, old memories flooded in.
It was a day in the spring of 1990s. A wobbly train uprooted me from Nanjing to Canton, a frontier city in the south that thronged with people hungry to strike rich overnight. On the day I arrived for my new job, the first thing I was shown to was a dormitory I was going to live in. It was on the west campus, a room on the first floor of an old red-brick building. What greeted me however, as I was led in by an office lady, was a dimly lit corridor. When the room was open, it was dark and dank inside, with a strong odor of staleness. In the middle of the room stood two tall bookshelves, dividing the room into two and blocking the light from the window. Next to the shelves were a stack of boxes and furniture covered with thick dust. Obviously the room was left uninhabited for a long time.
"These stuffs belong to a colleague whom you are going to share the room with”, said the office lady. It turned out that the colleague was married, and lived with her husband in the city. “The good thing is you basically have the room to yourself.” said the lady emphatically, as if to assuage my disappointment, as I turned my eyes to the other half. In contrast to the half-roomful furniture, my other half was empty. Except for the half walls and a half window, there’s no table, no chair, nothing. Straining through the half window on my side was a pitiful afternoon light shedding in between a big tree outside. Putting down my luggage, my husband, then the boyfriend, scrambled to the street for a bed for the night. Before the night fell, a twin-sized bed with iron frames and a piece of wooden plank were hurried in.
Seven months later, it was in this room, devoid of any furniture or a TV set that we got married. We huddled and squeezed on the small bed, reading, talking and dreaming. And it was until I was four or five months into pregnancy did I finally get a long-awaited single room, upstairs. The joy of moving in was ensued by a spending spree on new set of furniture, a TCL TV, a refrigerator, a washing machine, a window air-conditioner and anything affordable. A year or so later, when our baby started toddling, we amassed more of her stuff, a baby cart (more than 400 yuan) for instance, into the room. Then we had a phone, and a PC, which he installed parts by parts from his multiple trips to a popular tech street in the city. That alone cost us about 9,000 yuan. When life looked pretty much settled down, with him jumping ship to a privately owned computer company, the news came one day that he had an opportunity to work in the states.
He was gone for a year or so. Then my visa and J's were granted. Next, all the hard-earned stuffs in the room had to let go.
In the month that followed, added to the already hectic life of working and raising the baby was the task of depleting the room. I put up ads across the campus. Things were sold at a big discount, though they were like new. Small items were given away. The washing machine was shipped to my parents’ home, and the refrigerator to his parents’. My body was exhausted, and my heart ached to part with them, one by one. Among tears and anticipations, the day for departure duly came.
All our belongings were whittled down to only two or three big luggage. But one thing that was kept intact inside was a camera, a national brand manual camera that was bought around 1000 yuan upon our marriage. Along with it were boxes of pictures taken that witnessed our four-year-stay there, the growing up of my daughter, as well as the building we lived in that was later demolished and replaced by new high-rise apartments.
Many a time I took out the old photos, laminated by plastic for moisture protection, and showed to J, I accompanied the stories with an anecdote of how Mom having to ask her to raise a little finger for better focus. Those pictures are like time capsules, unfolding our memories without losing the colors. More than twenty years later, as I pass down this antique camera onto her hands, there is a hope within me that through the same lens, she can see what I didn’t see, capture what I didn’t capture, a newer and more colorful world beyond.
