When I was a little boy in Ames, Iowa, and out somewhere with my mom, Irene (the “supreme commander”), and my dad, Vern (the “indentured servant”), a beautiful scene would suddenly appear. It could be a hummingbird on a red rose or a rainbow appearing after a spring shower.
Irene would shout, “VERN, get the camera!” Dad rushed to retrieve the Polaroid and quickly took the photo. Seconds went by as the film rolled out of the camera and into Vern’s nervous hand. Vern waved the damp film in the air, waiting for the color image to appear.
Alas, the hummingbird had flown away, or the rainbow had lost its color.
Irene would grab the photo and just stare at Vern in absolute disgust. No words were spoken. There was no need.
On occasion today, I feel like Vern. A sense of shame washes over me because I fail to meet an expectation someone sticks on me.
But I’m getting better. Often now, a little voice deep inside me responds, “Irene, get the darn camera yourself.”
Happy birthday to me