Tag Archives: dad’s going to kill me

In which I break dad’s camera

8 Jun

Picture this:  You are 13.  You are dressed in a white shirt, black pants, and a tie.  You have on pretty nice dress shoes.  Your euphonium is in the back of the van.  You are on your way to your first “real” concert.  None of this sissy 6th grade stuff.  You’re in 7th grade.  Band is cool (ok, so it really wasn’t cool, but go with it).  You ARE the low brass section.  You will knock this one out of the park.  Everyone piles into the van, the engine starts, dad puts it in R for race (or reverse, it was a 1980’s Chevy van after all).  Dad pulls out of the garage, puts the door down.  We’re on our way.  We are not on our way.  We stop just outside the garage.  The van is in P for STAYING PUT.  Dad has forgotten his camera.  Boys, go get my camera.  We fight.  I lose.  I open the door-from-Hell (seriously, the side door on this van was the door-from-Hell), and hop out.

I run to the front door, fling it open and run down the hall.  Screeching to a stop, I turn left and run down the second hall to the bedrooms.  Dad’s camera is in the guest bedroom.  Forget the bag.  He doesn’t need it.  Just grab the camera, throw on the flash, and get the heck out of there!  We’ll be late if I don’t run like mad!!!  I race down the hallway.  I step onto the very edge of one of the runner rug things.  It slips.  My feet slide out from under me.  I go down.  HARD.  The camera goes flying.  Crash, smash, boom.  Oh.  Oh no.  Dad’s going to kill me!  I sit on the floor of the hallway, scrunched up rug in front of me holding the camera in one hand and part of the flash in the other.  I’ve broken dads flash!  He’s going to kill me!  He. Is. Going. To. KIIIIILL. Me.  Slowly.  Painfully.  Maybe I should just go out without it and say I couldn’t find it.  No, that won’t work.  He’ll just come in and get it himself.  Well, I’ve lived a good life.  Not particularly long, but good.  The only option is to face the music and the wrath of dad.  Maybe he’ll let me play in the concert then kill me.

I trudge slowly down the rest of the hall and out the door.  Shoulders slumped; I make my way down the walk to the van waiting in the driveway.  Dad instantly knows something is wrong.  He always knows when something is wrong.  He asks what’s up and I hold up the two camera parts.  Dad starts yelling.  And yelling.  And yelling.  I just stand there and take it.  Then I explain how my shoes are super slippery and I slipped on one of moms rugs (yeah, that was a great idea, blame mom).  Dad calms down and tells me to get in; we’ll deal with this later.  Mom calms him down and takes a look at the camera.  Turns out I just broke off the hotshoe on his flash.  The camera itself is fine.  I may yet live to see another day.  We head out to the concert and I play my heart out.  Who knows, this may be my last.  Dad never said a word about his camera and/or flash after that.  He simply picked up another flash and we went on our merry way.

Cameras are very important for my family.  As far as I know, it started with my grandfather.  He was very big on photography.  My dad caught the bug and gave it to both my brother and me.  Currently, I’m the photographer of the family.  My kids have also caught the bug.  They are always bugging me about using my gear.  Every time I hand over my camera to them, I think back to that fateful day when I was 13.  I don’t know what I would do if they broke something.  I don’t think it would be very pretty.  Or nice.  I think they know this.  They handle my camera(s) with more care than they give fine china, babies, and/or priceless sculptures poised on very thin, unsteady pedestals.

Have you ever broken something priceless to your mom or dad?  What was the result?  Comment below: