by S.I. Kishor
Six minutes to six, said the clock over the information booth in New York's Grand Central Station. The tall, young army lieutenant lifted his sunburned face and narrowed his eyes to note the exact time. His heart was pounding with a beat that shocked him. In six minutes he would see the woman he had never seen, yet whose written words had sustained him unfailingly.
Lieutenant Blandford remembered one day in particular, the worst of the fighting, when his plane had been caught in the midst of a pack of enemy planes. In one of his letters, he had confessed to her that he often felt fear, and only a few days before this battle, he had received her answer:
"Of course you fear…all brave men do. Next time you doubt yourself, I want you to hear my voice reciting to you: 'Yea, though I walk among the shadow of the valley of death, I shall fear no evil, for Thou art with me.'"
He had remembered and it had renewed his strength.
Now he was going to hear her real voice. Four minutes to six. A girl passed close to him and Lieutenant Blandford started. She was wearing a flower, but it was not the little red rose they had agreed upon. Besides, this girl was only about 18, and Hollis Meynell had told him she was 30.
"What of it?" he had answered. "I'm 32!" He was 29.
His mind went back to the book he had read in the training camp. "Of Human Bondage," it was, and throughout the book were notes in a woman's writing. He had never believed that a woman could see into a man's heart so tenderly, so understandingly. Her name was on the bookplate: Hollis Meynell. He had gotten hold of a New York City telephone book and found her address.
He had written; she had answered.
Next day he had been shipped out, but they had gone on writing. For 13 months she had faithfully replied. When his letters did not arrive, she wrote him anyway, and now he believed he loved her and she loved him.
But she had refused all his pleas to send him her photograph. She had explained: "If your feeling for me has any reality, what I look like won't matter. Suppose I'm beautiful. I'd always be haunted that you had been taking a chance on just that, and that kind of love would disgust me. Suppose I'm plain (and you must admit that this is more likely), then I'd always fear that you were only going on writing because you were lonely and had no one else. No, don't ask for my picture. When you come to New York, you shall see me and then you shall make your decision."
One minute to six…he pulled hard on a cigarette. Then Lieutenant Blandford's heart leaped. A young woman was coming toward him. Her figure was long and slim; her blond hair lay back in curls from her delicate ears. Her eyes were blue as flowers; her lips and chin had a gentle firmness. In her pale green suit, she was like springtime come alive. He started toward her, forgetting to notice that she was wearing no rose, and as he moved, a small provocative smile curved her lips.
"Going my way, soldier?" she murmured. He made one step closer to her. Then he saw Hollis Meynell. She was standing almost directly behind the girl, a woman well past 40, her graying hair tucked under a worn hat. She was more than plump; her feet were filled into low-heeled shoes. But she wore a red rose on her rumpled coat. The girl in the green suit was walking away.
Blandford felt as if he was being split in two, so keen was his desire to follow the girl, yet so deep his longing for the woman whose spirit had companioned and upheld his own; and there she stood. He could see that her pale, plump face was gentle and sensible; her gray eyes had a warm twinkle.
Lieutenant Blandford did not hesitate. His fingers gripped the worn copy of "Of Human Bondage" which was to identify him to her. This would not be love, but it would be something precious, a friendship for which he had been and must ever be grateful. He squared his shoulders, saluted, and held the book out toward the woman, although while he spoke he felt the bitterness of his disappointment.
"I'm Lieutenant Blandford, and you - you are Ms. Meynell. I'm so glad you could meet me. May - may I take you out to dinner?"
The woman's face broadened in a tolerant smile. "I don't know what this is all about, son," she answered. "That young lady in the green suit, she begged me to wear this rose on my coat. And she said that if you asked to go out with you, I should tell you she's waiting for you in that restaurant across the street. She said it was some kind of a test."
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
The Price of a Child
From Chicken Soup for the Soul: The Wisdom of Dads
“Daddy, how much did I cost?”
Perched on my parents’ cedar chest in the bedroom, I listened to their casual talk about budgets and paychecks -- talk as relevant back in 1967 as it is today. My then-six-year-old mind concluded, wrongly, that my family was poor.
Dad stood at his dresser, looking at bills. He wore faded jeans, an undershirt and white canvas shoes stained grass-green from mowing our lawn. Mom folded laundry on the bed, making even towers of sun-dried clothes. I spotted my new shorts sets and thought about day camp.
Their money talk continued, and Dad joined me on the cedar chest. I plunked the springy metal watchband on Dad’s tan wrist, thinking that the white skin underneath reminded me of a fish belly. Just as I started to ask him to “make a muscle” so I could try pushing his flexed biceps down, a thought hit me like icy water from a garden hose: Dad had to pay for me.
While the story of my birth ranked as a bedtime favorite, I had never considered hospital bills, or the countless meals I’d eaten, or the price of summer clothes.
“Daddy,” I interrupted again, “how much did I cost?”
“Oh, let’s see.” He sighed in distraction and placed his watch on the safety of his dresser. “About a million dollars.”
A light went out inside me. A million dollars. Because of me, Dad worked two jobs. Because of me, he drove an old car, ate lunch at home and had his dress shoes resoled -- again.
With my eyes and chin down, I inched off the cedar chest and shuffled into the kitchen. From a shelf, I took my granny-shaped bank, which held every penny I owned -- seven dollars even. And not seven dollars in assorted change, but seven cool, shiny silver dollars, one for every birthday and one for the day I was born.
The bank’s rubber plug surrendered, and the coins poured into my hands. I had often played with these coins in secret, jostling them in a small drawstring bag in my roles as gypsy or runaway princess. They had always been put back in the bank, though, and I felt secure pleasure in just knowing they were there. But that day, the “clink” of returning each coin sounded hollow.
If the topic had changed when I returned to my parents’ bedroom, I didn’t notice. Tugging on Dad’s shirt, I held out my first payment on a million dollars.
“Here,” I sniffed. “Maybe this will help pay for me.”
“What?” Dad’s confused look matched my own. Didn’t he remember what he’d said? Didn’t the sight of me remind him of how much I cost?
My tear-filled eyes, which I couldn’t seem to take off the bank, finally made sense to him.
Dad knelt down and pulled me close. “You didn’t cost a million dollars, but you’re worth a million-million dollars. And if that’s what I’d have to pay for you, I’d do it. Now dry those eyes and put your bank away.”
Today, I often pull this memory out, turn it over and feel the warm satisfied weight of it in my heart. Back then, no price could be put on my worth to my dad. No price can be put on his worth to me now.
“Daddy, how much did I cost?”
Perched on my parents’ cedar chest in the bedroom, I listened to their casual talk about budgets and paychecks -- talk as relevant back in 1967 as it is today. My then-six-year-old mind concluded, wrongly, that my family was poor.
Dad stood at his dresser, looking at bills. He wore faded jeans, an undershirt and white canvas shoes stained grass-green from mowing our lawn. Mom folded laundry on the bed, making even towers of sun-dried clothes. I spotted my new shorts sets and thought about day camp.
Their money talk continued, and Dad joined me on the cedar chest. I plunked the springy metal watchband on Dad’s tan wrist, thinking that the white skin underneath reminded me of a fish belly. Just as I started to ask him to “make a muscle” so I could try pushing his flexed biceps down, a thought hit me like icy water from a garden hose: Dad had to pay for me.
While the story of my birth ranked as a bedtime favorite, I had never considered hospital bills, or the countless meals I’d eaten, or the price of summer clothes.
“Daddy,” I interrupted again, “how much did I cost?”
“Oh, let’s see.” He sighed in distraction and placed his watch on the safety of his dresser. “About a million dollars.”
A light went out inside me. A million dollars. Because of me, Dad worked two jobs. Because of me, he drove an old car, ate lunch at home and had his dress shoes resoled -- again.
With my eyes and chin down, I inched off the cedar chest and shuffled into the kitchen. From a shelf, I took my granny-shaped bank, which held every penny I owned -- seven dollars even. And not seven dollars in assorted change, but seven cool, shiny silver dollars, one for every birthday and one for the day I was born.
The bank’s rubber plug surrendered, and the coins poured into my hands. I had often played with these coins in secret, jostling them in a small drawstring bag in my roles as gypsy or runaway princess. They had always been put back in the bank, though, and I felt secure pleasure in just knowing they were there. But that day, the “clink” of returning each coin sounded hollow.
If the topic had changed when I returned to my parents’ bedroom, I didn’t notice. Tugging on Dad’s shirt, I held out my first payment on a million dollars.
“Here,” I sniffed. “Maybe this will help pay for me.”
“What?” Dad’s confused look matched my own. Didn’t he remember what he’d said? Didn’t the sight of me remind him of how much I cost?
My tear-filled eyes, which I couldn’t seem to take off the bank, finally made sense to him.
Dad knelt down and pulled me close. “You didn’t cost a million dollars, but you’re worth a million-million dollars. And if that’s what I’d have to pay for you, I’d do it. Now dry those eyes and put your bank away.”
Today, I often pull this memory out, turn it over and feel the warm satisfied weight of it in my heart. Back then, no price could be put on my worth to my dad. No price can be put on his worth to me now.
I Shot the Sheriff
From Chicken Soup for the Soul: My Resolution
After I made the illegal right turn, his motorcycle zoomed into my rearview mirror. Dang! I pulled to the curb and meekly handed over my license and registration. He strolled behind the car. Turning, I regarded him through the back window as he wrote the citation. His helmet gleamed in the sunlight, white against the red and yellow leaves of the liquidambar trees. I reached into my bag, my hand closing around the comforting, shiny black object I was never without. Raising it above the seat, I fixed the helmet in my sights. With a steady hand, I snapped the shutter.
I was fulfilling my 2004 New Year’s resolution; to take at least one photo each day. I’d made it this far, and I wasn’t going to abandon the project. The police officer was my photo for November 3rd.
I’d made the resolution on New Year’s Eve. My new digital camera was still in the box because I was resistant to learning its baffling terminology -- JPEG, CCD, TTL, TIFF. Yet I knew I needed to join the Digital Age. I resolved to create a visual record of the coming year. How hard could it be to grab a snapshot each day?
I began carrying my camera everywhere, looking for beautiful or intriguing subjects. Each evening I downloaded that day’s photos and designated one as the official “Photo of the Day.” I subscribed to a photo-sharing website and posted my daily images -- landscapes, still lifes, abstracts -- to my home page.
After a few weeks, I told family and friends about my resolution. They thought it was a little weird, but most of them posed willingly or didn’t get too mad if I caught them in a candid moment. I snapped photos of my friend Jean with her new Honda Element one day, operating her printing press another day. I captured my husband several times -- hiking, grilling steaks or reading the paper.
At first I was reluctant to approach strangers. No, make that terrified. But I wanted my collection to document the community as well as my own activities. One day in January, picketers were marching in front of the supermarket. When I grabbed the camera, it almost slid from my sweaty palms. I asked two workers to pose with their signs so that I could post their photo on my website. They exchanged an is-she-loony? look. My “Photo of the Day” explanation sounded lame even to me. Then one man said, “Okay, we’re doing this to get our message across. Fire away.”
It got easier each time. I took a picture of a Nordstrom saleswoman, a clerk at the Italian market, a knife-twirling chef at a Japanese restaurant. After a few months I started getting bossy: “Hold your saxophone like this,” I said to the jazz player, “and turn to the left.” But people didn’t seem to mind, because I tried to learn something about each one. The man in the botanical garden who was polishing a bench’s brass plaque said it was a memorial to his recently-deceased wife. The handsome couple running a Greek food stand at the Los Angeles County Fair told me they’d given up high-powered careers in order to pursue their dream of a nomadic life selling gyros and spanikopita.
Not everyone cooperated. One day at the dry cleaner’s, I asked the proprietress to pose by the moving clothes rack for a portrait. “Oh, no!” she said, blushing. “Hair not good today!” I switched off the camera.
Another time I was zooming in on a blueberry tart at the bakery (the gum-chewing clerk had shrugged an “okay” when I’d asked permission) when the baker stormed out of the kitchen, toque aquiver and bushy eyebrows drawn together. “What are you doing?” he thundered. “We serve a unique product here!” I assured him I was not a spy from a rival bakery, but tucked my camera away nevertheless.
It was the only New Year’s resolution I ever kept. At the end of 2004, I had 366 photos on my website and printed in a book -- an indelible record of the year, and hard evidence that each day of our lives is unique. Photos of the Rosetta Stone in the British Museum and the towering monoliths of Stonehenge remind me of a trip to England. My nephew playing his senior percussion recital at Juilliard, a picnic overlooking the Grand Canyon, a smog-free day in downtown Los Angeles -- I’d probably remember those events even without the photos.
It’s the quiet domestic scenes I would have forgotten -- a kettle of French onion soup simmering on the stove, the redbud tree in bloom, a scattering of golden apricot leaves lying on a weathered bench. These photos, so mundane when I took them, have gained in value. They glow with a patina of nostalgia.
I have proof that nothing lasts. The orange grove where I picnicked with friends has since been plowed under for a housing development; the rusty motel sign on an Arizona back road was torn down soon after.
And family members look different today than they did arrayed on the front porch on Thanksgiving of 2004. The little boy coloring a starfish in one photo now wields a baseball bat instead of a purple crayon. The doll being clutched so lovingly by a little girl in another photo now sits neglected on a shelf. Life changes in such tiny twitches, you don’t even notice them.
By the end of the year, my camera had become an extension of my arm. I could change white balance, turn off the pop-up flash and increase ISO without even looking. I changed too. Over the course of twelve months I gradually became family archivist, photojournalist, fine art photographer and portrait artist. And cop “shooter.” I never imagined I would do such a thing, but when you’re desperate for a “Photo of the Day,” you take any opportunity life hands you.
After I made the illegal right turn, his motorcycle zoomed into my rearview mirror. Dang! I pulled to the curb and meekly handed over my license and registration. He strolled behind the car. Turning, I regarded him through the back window as he wrote the citation. His helmet gleamed in the sunlight, white against the red and yellow leaves of the liquidambar trees. I reached into my bag, my hand closing around the comforting, shiny black object I was never without. Raising it above the seat, I fixed the helmet in my sights. With a steady hand, I snapped the shutter.
I was fulfilling my 2004 New Year’s resolution; to take at least one photo each day. I’d made it this far, and I wasn’t going to abandon the project. The police officer was my photo for November 3rd.
I’d made the resolution on New Year’s Eve. My new digital camera was still in the box because I was resistant to learning its baffling terminology -- JPEG, CCD, TTL, TIFF. Yet I knew I needed to join the Digital Age. I resolved to create a visual record of the coming year. How hard could it be to grab a snapshot each day?
I began carrying my camera everywhere, looking for beautiful or intriguing subjects. Each evening I downloaded that day’s photos and designated one as the official “Photo of the Day.” I subscribed to a photo-sharing website and posted my daily images -- landscapes, still lifes, abstracts -- to my home page.
After a few weeks, I told family and friends about my resolution. They thought it was a little weird, but most of them posed willingly or didn’t get too mad if I caught them in a candid moment. I snapped photos of my friend Jean with her new Honda Element one day, operating her printing press another day. I captured my husband several times -- hiking, grilling steaks or reading the paper.
At first I was reluctant to approach strangers. No, make that terrified. But I wanted my collection to document the community as well as my own activities. One day in January, picketers were marching in front of the supermarket. When I grabbed the camera, it almost slid from my sweaty palms. I asked two workers to pose with their signs so that I could post their photo on my website. They exchanged an is-she-loony? look. My “Photo of the Day” explanation sounded lame even to me. Then one man said, “Okay, we’re doing this to get our message across. Fire away.”
It got easier each time. I took a picture of a Nordstrom saleswoman, a clerk at the Italian market, a knife-twirling chef at a Japanese restaurant. After a few months I started getting bossy: “Hold your saxophone like this,” I said to the jazz player, “and turn to the left.” But people didn’t seem to mind, because I tried to learn something about each one. The man in the botanical garden who was polishing a bench’s brass plaque said it was a memorial to his recently-deceased wife. The handsome couple running a Greek food stand at the Los Angeles County Fair told me they’d given up high-powered careers in order to pursue their dream of a nomadic life selling gyros and spanikopita.
Not everyone cooperated. One day at the dry cleaner’s, I asked the proprietress to pose by the moving clothes rack for a portrait. “Oh, no!” she said, blushing. “Hair not good today!” I switched off the camera.
Another time I was zooming in on a blueberry tart at the bakery (the gum-chewing clerk had shrugged an “okay” when I’d asked permission) when the baker stormed out of the kitchen, toque aquiver and bushy eyebrows drawn together. “What are you doing?” he thundered. “We serve a unique product here!” I assured him I was not a spy from a rival bakery, but tucked my camera away nevertheless.
It was the only New Year’s resolution I ever kept. At the end of 2004, I had 366 photos on my website and printed in a book -- an indelible record of the year, and hard evidence that each day of our lives is unique. Photos of the Rosetta Stone in the British Museum and the towering monoliths of Stonehenge remind me of a trip to England. My nephew playing his senior percussion recital at Juilliard, a picnic overlooking the Grand Canyon, a smog-free day in downtown Los Angeles -- I’d probably remember those events even without the photos.
It’s the quiet domestic scenes I would have forgotten -- a kettle of French onion soup simmering on the stove, the redbud tree in bloom, a scattering of golden apricot leaves lying on a weathered bench. These photos, so mundane when I took them, have gained in value. They glow with a patina of nostalgia.
I have proof that nothing lasts. The orange grove where I picnicked with friends has since been plowed under for a housing development; the rusty motel sign on an Arizona back road was torn down soon after.
And family members look different today than they did arrayed on the front porch on Thanksgiving of 2004. The little boy coloring a starfish in one photo now wields a baseball bat instead of a purple crayon. The doll being clutched so lovingly by a little girl in another photo now sits neglected on a shelf. Life changes in such tiny twitches, you don’t even notice them.
By the end of the year, my camera had become an extension of my arm. I could change white balance, turn off the pop-up flash and increase ISO without even looking. I changed too. Over the course of twelve months I gradually became family archivist, photojournalist, fine art photographer and portrait artist. And cop “shooter.” I never imagined I would do such a thing, but when you’re desperate for a “Photo of the Day,” you take any opportunity life hands you.
Saturday, January 10, 2009
Biblical Encounter
A new pastor moved into town and went out to visit his community. He came into a closed house, but it was obvious that someone was home. He knocked several times but no one answered. He took a card and wrote "Revelations 3:20" on the back. The next day he found the card on the offering plate, written below his message was "Genesis 3:10." He opened the Bible and let out a roar of laughter.
Tuesday, January 06, 2009
A Close Up Shot
From Chicken Soup for the Soul: Empty Nesters
I plopped in my easy chair after lugging the last piece of equipment back to storage. It had been a grueling day -- another day of chasing a bride. That’s what we call it in the photography business. You play tag with the bride as she flits from the make-up table to hugs; from flowers to dresses; from the aisle to the cake; from reception to a limo.
All while you try to capture memorable photos.
It is demanding physically and emotionally. Months of detailed planning and preparation precede each wedding and everyone’s feelings float warily on the surface. For many, weddings mile-mark the beginning of an empty nest. Someone’s son and someone’s daughter are leaving home and parents behind in anticipation of forging a future and a home of their own. Because it’s the event of a lifetime, everything must be perfect. After all, there are no second chances for the photography -- it must be done right. And it must be done right the first time.
Everyone seems to know of a sad photographic experience at a wedding. That is why I triple check everything, have backup equipment, and force myself to keep a level head. My clients and even my wife compliment me on my ability to go with the flow and not get stressed during these highly stressful occasions.
Satisfied with the day’s results, I balked at the thought of the next bride, surprised to acknowledge that, after thirty years of honing my craft, I felt insecure.
This sitting would be tougher than most. It was a bridal portrait and the final image would be large and displayed on an easel at the wedding reception. Mothers-of-the-brides are infamous for their demanding reputations, distress over letting go of their daughters, and angst at the thought of the holes left in their lives. This particular MOB carried the added burden of being a relative.
Yes, a relative. They are always the most difficult. Relatives expect more. They expect perfect work. And they expect perfect work for free. Many photographers refuse to photograph family events. But I am a pro and pride myself on keeping all those tensions in check. Once I commit there’s no turning back.
Shouldering the responsibility, I load my car and drive to the site the bride chose. A glance upward confirms a cooperative sky as I hunch to inspect the gear packed into my trunk. I load film first -- sure don't want to make that simple mistake. Then I double-check the lighting systems, set up the tripod, and make test shots. All is well; all is calm. And I’m ready just as the bride arrives.
She looks so young. Too young to get married. “Are you sure you’re old enough to be legal?” I deadpan.
She looks startled, then grins. “Almost twenty-two,” she insists. “Legal and beyond!”
My brows shoot up and I shake my head doubtfully.
“Don’t you feel some guilt for leaving your parents?”
She shakes her head and giggles.
She’s giddy -- just like all the rest. She’s in wispy white -- just like all the rest. She’s accompanied by her faithful entourage -- just like all the rest. It’s her final picture as daughter, her first as a bride. And I can see by the expression on her face that she’s ready to grasp the kite-tail of her dreams and fly into her future.
I am fully prepared to make a beautiful portrait. I know the procedure so well -- place her feet just so, shift her weight, angle her shoulders, tilt her head, position her hand into graceful “Barbie doll fingers”… and then be ready for the perfect expression she and this picky MOB hope for.
Both of them have planned this image all their lives. They’re expecting that Cinderella look-and-feel they always envisioned. Well, this bride is drop-dead gorgeous. I nod in approval. It’s going to be a piece of cake.
I bend my head to look through the viewfinder. Something is dreadfully wrong with this picture. It’s out of focus. The bride looks odd, she looks too… young. I check the settings and try again. Now the bride is fuzzy.
“What’s going on?” I mutter.
Once more, I examine the camera. All is in order.
No, wait. The lens is fogged.
My heart flutters and I steady myself. Yet, no matter how hard I try to call on my years of professional training, I can’t seem to make this picture clear. A jagged breath catches in my throat and I suddenly understand the problem.
With a rueful sigh, I turn away and swipe roughly at the mist of tears blurring my optics. No pro worth his salt would let them be discovered.
I corral my emotions. “Turn a little. And, lean in,” I hear myself say in a surprisingly normal tone. “Now, a sweet smile, Sweetie,” I swallow hard. “A special smile just for your old… er… for your groom.” I force myself to separate my personal feelings from the image in the lens. “That’s it. That’s it. Yes… wow!"
Click.
Click, click, click.
I clear my throat and manage a broad beam in spite of myself. “What a beautiful, blushing bride.”
Another daughter leaving the nest to find her future. I shake my head ruefully. My daughter. This daddy’s little girl.
I plopped in my easy chair after lugging the last piece of equipment back to storage. It had been a grueling day -- another day of chasing a bride. That’s what we call it in the photography business. You play tag with the bride as she flits from the make-up table to hugs; from flowers to dresses; from the aisle to the cake; from reception to a limo.
All while you try to capture memorable photos.
It is demanding physically and emotionally. Months of detailed planning and preparation precede each wedding and everyone’s feelings float warily on the surface. For many, weddings mile-mark the beginning of an empty nest. Someone’s son and someone’s daughter are leaving home and parents behind in anticipation of forging a future and a home of their own. Because it’s the event of a lifetime, everything must be perfect. After all, there are no second chances for the photography -- it must be done right. And it must be done right the first time.
Everyone seems to know of a sad photographic experience at a wedding. That is why I triple check everything, have backup equipment, and force myself to keep a level head. My clients and even my wife compliment me on my ability to go with the flow and not get stressed during these highly stressful occasions.
Satisfied with the day’s results, I balked at the thought of the next bride, surprised to acknowledge that, after thirty years of honing my craft, I felt insecure.
This sitting would be tougher than most. It was a bridal portrait and the final image would be large and displayed on an easel at the wedding reception. Mothers-of-the-brides are infamous for their demanding reputations, distress over letting go of their daughters, and angst at the thought of the holes left in their lives. This particular MOB carried the added burden of being a relative.
Yes, a relative. They are always the most difficult. Relatives expect more. They expect perfect work. And they expect perfect work for free. Many photographers refuse to photograph family events. But I am a pro and pride myself on keeping all those tensions in check. Once I commit there’s no turning back.
Shouldering the responsibility, I load my car and drive to the site the bride chose. A glance upward confirms a cooperative sky as I hunch to inspect the gear packed into my trunk. I load film first -- sure don't want to make that simple mistake. Then I double-check the lighting systems, set up the tripod, and make test shots. All is well; all is calm. And I’m ready just as the bride arrives.
She looks so young. Too young to get married. “Are you sure you’re old enough to be legal?” I deadpan.
She looks startled, then grins. “Almost twenty-two,” she insists. “Legal and beyond!”
My brows shoot up and I shake my head doubtfully.
“Don’t you feel some guilt for leaving your parents?”
She shakes her head and giggles.
She’s giddy -- just like all the rest. She’s in wispy white -- just like all the rest. She’s accompanied by her faithful entourage -- just like all the rest. It’s her final picture as daughter, her first as a bride. And I can see by the expression on her face that she’s ready to grasp the kite-tail of her dreams and fly into her future.
I am fully prepared to make a beautiful portrait. I know the procedure so well -- place her feet just so, shift her weight, angle her shoulders, tilt her head, position her hand into graceful “Barbie doll fingers”… and then be ready for the perfect expression she and this picky MOB hope for.
Both of them have planned this image all their lives. They’re expecting that Cinderella look-and-feel they always envisioned. Well, this bride is drop-dead gorgeous. I nod in approval. It’s going to be a piece of cake.
I bend my head to look through the viewfinder. Something is dreadfully wrong with this picture. It’s out of focus. The bride looks odd, she looks too… young. I check the settings and try again. Now the bride is fuzzy.
“What’s going on?” I mutter.
Once more, I examine the camera. All is in order.
No, wait. The lens is fogged.
My heart flutters and I steady myself. Yet, no matter how hard I try to call on my years of professional training, I can’t seem to make this picture clear. A jagged breath catches in my throat and I suddenly understand the problem.
With a rueful sigh, I turn away and swipe roughly at the mist of tears blurring my optics. No pro worth his salt would let them be discovered.
I corral my emotions. “Turn a little. And, lean in,” I hear myself say in a surprisingly normal tone. “Now, a sweet smile, Sweetie,” I swallow hard. “A special smile just for your old… er… for your groom.” I force myself to separate my personal feelings from the image in the lens. “That’s it. That’s it. Yes… wow!"
Click.
Click, click, click.
I clear my throat and manage a broad beam in spite of myself. “What a beautiful, blushing bride.”
Another daughter leaving the nest to find her future. I shake my head ruefully. My daughter. This daddy’s little girl.
Thursday, January 01, 2009
To the Guy Doing My Wife
A friend of mine was browsing through Craigslist (it's like Buy and Sell classifieds) and found this funny entry. He wasn't actually selling or buying anything but a bonafide classified ad nonetheless...
To the guy doing my wife. You know who you are. Yes I know. No I am not angry, I would just ask a few things of you. After all you are giving it to my wife.
1.Please stop leaving the seat up, I keep getting blamed and it is starting to get old.
2.You may be giving me a chance to go fishing more often but please stop drinking all my beer. It is fine if you have a couple while you visit(God knows I drink plenty before I find her attractive), but please leave me a few as I have to be there longer than you.
3.If you do drink the last one, buy more or leave money on the counter; I will pick some up.
4.Please replace the toilet paper when you use it all. For some reason my 5 year old son believes if its not there he does not have to wipe. We keep it under the sink, unless you can recommend a better spot?
5.After doing my wife please use something disposable to wipe off with. The basket of clothes on the right is mine and the clothes are clean as my wife does not do my washing, I run out of time rushing to work. Last week my sweatshirt was crusty (thanks).
6.Please do not tell my children that you are their uncle, they are young not mentally challenged.
7.Please stop turning the heat up, you pay nothing and MUD is putting it in my ass, my wife may like it but I think it hurts.
8.When she asks "do these pants make me look fat", say no. You may think giving a different answer will make her think twice about eating a gallon of ice cream a day but all you are doing is giving her a reason to go buy more pants that she will look just as fat in.
9.Stop eating the baked goods. The brownies you ate were from my mom for my birthday. My wife has not cooked anything that good for years and if she does she will not share.
10.Try shifting your weight when you sit on my chair. The recliner that I rarely have time for (soccer games and practice, basketball camp for the kids takes much of my time and I try to help with school work too) has a grove in it that forces me to roll to the left.
Lastly I would like thank you for taking her to lunch on Valentines Day. She was not as hungry as usual and only ordered one meal. I may be able to use the money I saved to take the children to a movie. I hope you can help me with these items, it may become awkward if I have to confront her. If you can do this for me I will give you a heads up on when I will be gone and for how long so that you don't feel rushed.
P.S. I am going to take the kids to the Great Wolf Lodge on the 3rd of April for four days, I have a bottle of vodka above the fridge if you find yourself low on beer.
To the guy doing my wife. You know who you are. Yes I know. No I am not angry, I would just ask a few things of you. After all you are giving it to my wife.
1.Please stop leaving the seat up, I keep getting blamed and it is starting to get old.
2.You may be giving me a chance to go fishing more often but please stop drinking all my beer. It is fine if you have a couple while you visit(God knows I drink plenty before I find her attractive), but please leave me a few as I have to be there longer than you.
3.If you do drink the last one, buy more or leave money on the counter; I will pick some up.
4.Please replace the toilet paper when you use it all. For some reason my 5 year old son believes if its not there he does not have to wipe. We keep it under the sink, unless you can recommend a better spot?
5.After doing my wife please use something disposable to wipe off with. The basket of clothes on the right is mine and the clothes are clean as my wife does not do my washing, I run out of time rushing to work. Last week my sweatshirt was crusty (thanks).
6.Please do not tell my children that you are their uncle, they are young not mentally challenged.
7.Please stop turning the heat up, you pay nothing and MUD is putting it in my ass, my wife may like it but I think it hurts.
8.When she asks "do these pants make me look fat", say no. You may think giving a different answer will make her think twice about eating a gallon of ice cream a day but all you are doing is giving her a reason to go buy more pants that she will look just as fat in.
9.Stop eating the baked goods. The brownies you ate were from my mom for my birthday. My wife has not cooked anything that good for years and if she does she will not share.
10.Try shifting your weight when you sit on my chair. The recliner that I rarely have time for (soccer games and practice, basketball camp for the kids takes much of my time and I try to help with school work too) has a grove in it that forces me to roll to the left.
Lastly I would like thank you for taking her to lunch on Valentines Day. She was not as hungry as usual and only ordered one meal. I may be able to use the money I saved to take the children to a movie. I hope you can help me with these items, it may become awkward if I have to confront her. If you can do this for me I will give you a heads up on when I will be gone and for how long so that you don't feel rushed.
P.S. I am going to take the kids to the Great Wolf Lodge on the 3rd of April for four days, I have a bottle of vodka above the fridge if you find yourself low on beer.
The Best Person for the Job
Resimay
To hoom it mae consern,
I wont to apply for the offiss job what I saw in the paper. I can Type real quik wit one finggar and do sum a counting.
I think I am good on the fone and no I am a pepole person, Pepole really seam to respond to me well. Certain men and all the ladies.
Im looking for a Job as a offiser but it musent be to complicaited.
I no my spelling is not to good but find that I Offen can get a job thru my persinalety.
My salerery is open so we can discus wat you want to pay me and wat you think that I am werth, I can start imeditely. Thank you in advanse fore yore anser.
hopifuly Yore best aplicant so farr.
Sinseerly,
BRYAN nikname Beefy
PS : Because my resimay is a bit short - below is a pickture of me.
Employer's response:
Dear Bryan,
It's OK sweety, we've got spell check. When can you start?
To hoom it mae consern,
I wont to apply for the offiss job what I saw in the paper. I can Type real quik wit one finggar and do sum a counting.
I think I am good on the fone and no I am a pepole person, Pepole really seam to respond to me well. Certain men and all the ladies.
Im looking for a Job as a offiser but it musent be to complicaited.
I no my spelling is not to good but find that I Offen can get a job thru my persinalety.
My salerery is open so we can discus wat you want to pay me and wat you think that I am werth, I can start imeditely. Thank you in advanse fore yore anser.
hopifuly Yore best aplicant so farr.
Sinseerly,
BRYAN nikname Beefy
PS : Because my resimay is a bit short - below is a pickture of me.
Employer's response:
Dear Bryan,
It's OK sweety, we've got spell check. When can you start?