September 16, 2015

My parents are not like a lot of other parents.

For one thing, they still really like being around each other, even after two decades spent entirely in each other’s company. Everything they do, they do together. There are no “guy’s nights” or “girls’ nights”, our house has no “man cave” or secret beer closet, and my mom’s garden is a co-operated miniature farm supplying each night’s salad with fresh condiments.

And…they both love photography.

For as long as I can remember, it’s been one of their favorite things to do. Growing up, I never understood it. I’d watch as my parents, for hours and hours at a time, would stump around some ugly old building with a lump of plastic glued to their face. Sometimes we’d be driving down the highway, and then suddenly we’d pull over and my parents would jump out of the car, grab those square hunks of metal and glass, and go point them at something on the ground. They’d ooh and aww and point and stare and say things like “how neat!” or “would you look at that!”

I just didn’t get it. What was so special about that building, or that bush on the side of the road? Why did we need to spend three hours taking pictures of them? Who cared? I just wanted to go home and play with my friends.

But one day, as we were getting ready for another trip out to the desert, my dad came up to me and thrust a small black case into my hands.

“This, is camera,” he said. “Why don’t you try taking some pictures today?”

“Okay,” I mumbled. I took the camera and stared at it resentfully. It was bad enough that I couldn’t hang out with my friends that weekend, and now my dad wanted me to do work, too? Gimme a break.

Needless to say, the camera rarely left its case that weekend. I took it out a couple times, for politeness’ sake, and then stuffed it right back in. My parents, sensing my lack of enthusiasm, let the matter rest.

It wasn’t long, however, before they were back at it, pressing that familiar leather case back into my hands. “Try it,” they said. “You might like it!”

“Okay,” I mumbled.

I still didn’t really believe them. But, somehow, as we drew close to the remains of an old desert mine, I found myself drawing out the camera from its darkened lair. I trudged carefully behind my parents, dirt and debris crunching underneath my boots, silver camera clutched in my hand. In the distance a lattice of wooden beams sat decaying on a ridge, and just below it sat several large mounds of quartz and stone   marking the entrance to mineshaft stretching away into the mountain. Hmmm, I thought. That mine shaft looks kinda cool…

I raised the camera, and took a picture.
Several days later, as I was sitting in my room, my parents called me into their office. They wanted me to see some of the pictures I had taken.

“You took some great shots!” said my Mom, smiling.

My Dad nodded. “Yeah, you might have an eye for this kind of thing.”

I looked up at them, eyes wide with surprise. “You really think so?”

“Sure,” my Dad replied. “Maybe you should take pictures more often.”

And I did.

And I never stopped.