When my dad brought home a box-shaped camera around my eighth birthday, I was hooked. Granted I didn’t get to use it as film and processing were expensive and our family had little money to spare, but I loved the black and white images. It didn’t matter if the top of someone’s head was missing or the feet or an arm. It didn’t matter if the image was too dark or bleached out or if it was a bit fuzzy.

            There was an intrigue about immortalizing that moment, that brief glimpse into someone’s life that thrilled me.

            Polaroid cameras granted instant gratification. You had to be patient as the image processed, right before your eyes! It was a small miracle, taking place in color.

            I don’t remember my first camera. Most likely it came from a thrift store or bargain basement warehouse as the only money I had was from picking and selling fruit from our neighbor’s trees.

            I don’t recall what I attempted to immortalize or what happened to that camera.

            In college I enrolled in an art class, not because I was interested in art, but to fulfill a graduation requirement. I hated columns: Greek, revival, whatever. I hated cornices but found gargoyles interesting.

            When the course turned to paintings, my interest was tickled. Scenes a happy people lounging in a meadow or leaning over a fence or watching horses race touched me deep, deep inside. They calmed me. Snuggled into my heart and brought a peace I’d never known.

            The abstracts confused me, but I relished every slide of a real-life image.

            Next came photography. My brain lit up, reminding me of my futile attempts to freeze a moment in time. The images before the class had a depth and clarity beyond my comprehension.

            With my little camera I began taking photos of trees and flowers and people from afar. None of my products were good, or even acceptable, but I saw them as learning opportunities.

            I joined the Catholic group on a retreat. I had no idea what a retreat entailed except that it was in a forest. Somewhere.

            When I got off the bus in a quiet place surrounded by humongous trees, my first instinct was to capture that image. Little cameras are incapable of taking photos of giant trees, so all my attempts were failures.

            Inside the cabin, I was assigned a top bunk. I climbed up, to see what it would be like, while someone began playing the guitar. I’d recently rekindled my love of music, so sang along quietly, a smile, I’m sure, on my face. The woman across from me asked to see my camera. She took a photo of me when I was distracted.

            Imagine my surprise when the developed images included one of me! Light hair, shoulder-length. Wired rimmed glasses sparkling in the flickering overhead light.

            I dabbled with photography off and on, as time allowed. After marriage, a trip to Yosemite introduced me to the great Ansel Adams. I studied his books, joined an Ansel Adams photography club and took classes at the community college. My husband set up a developing lab in a bathroom and we experimented with exposure, highlights, different techniques.

            We entered photos at the county fair. I never got a prize, but my husband did for a picture I took, but he processed. I was given a small show at a downtown photography store. I never grew tired of seeing my work in the front windows that faced the street.

            I bought better and better cameras as the ‘bug’ continued to intrigue me. I created albums for our kids. Each got several when they turned into adults.

            I learned how to frame a scene, how to choose contrast, when needed. How to look for an interesting something in the foreground. How to edit on my computer.

            Photography still intrigues me. When we travel I always have my camera plus my cell phone. I take shot after shot hoping to catch one that fulfills my expectations. And then, back home, I assemble those images into albums that capture the memories we created.

            Photography fulfills me in the same way that singing in the choir does, that writing a story does, that spending time with friends does.