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Family portraits can be trouble

Fri, 09/09/2016 - 3:50 pm

It’s been five years since our church put out a pictorial directory of its members. I guess in the forty-five years I’ve been a member of that congregation, I’ve had my picture taken at least six times. This year, it will be easier than most of those other times. The only thing I have to worry about is wrinkles, and it seems for another few dollars, they can wipe those out, making a person look many years younger. I’d do that, but the whole purpose of having a church directory is to find out who somebody is, and I’m afraid without my wrinkles, no one would recognize me. 

I remember the first time we went as a family to get our pictures taken. We’d lived here a number of years, and the church was getting together its first directory. Everyone was really excited. We were especially excited. We had a new baby. We had no money. However, the photo session was free, and along with it came a free eight-by-ten. 

Our appointment was at 7:00 p.m. I put off feeding the baby, so she’d be awake during the shoot. She had the most beautiful brown eyes, and I wanted everyone to comment on them. The line was long, and they were running a little late. As we waited for our turn, she got a little fussy. I didn’t want her bothering the other people, so I gave her a bottle.

No sooner had I given it to her, they called us in. When I took away the bottle, I noticed she’d dribbled a little on the collar of my pre-pregnancy suit coat which didn’t quite cover my post-pregnancy body. I dabbed at it, and decided to hold the baby a little higher … to cover the spot. She didn’t really appreciate the removal of the bottle or the fumbling around to cover the spot. She started to really scream. Her face turned red, her eyes clamped shut, and she spit up what little milk she had gotten in the first round. We let the next family have our time, and we tried to regroup.

I changed the baby and gave her back her bottle. It was hot in the hall, and my seldom-worn mascara had run … a little. I fluffed my hair which was sticking to my forehead. It was August, and my winter suit was beginning to wilt.

By this time my husband was fuming. He couldn’t understand why the family who had gone in our place needed so many poses. “Did they borrow some kids. Every one of them has a single, and they’ve made sixteen shots of different combinations.” 

At last we were ready for our “family portrait.” The spot on my collar had spread to the skirt. The baby was sound asleep in her smelly ruffled dress. And … we had to wait on the photographer to change out the film in his camera. My husband refused to give a fake smile and thought the photographer was an idiot. 

Our “free” eight-by-ten was never hung in our house. It’s somewhere around here in a scrapbook. We were young, dark haired, and smooth-skinned, but no amount of touching up could make that picture look any better than it did. 

This year, I’ll wear something cool … that fits. I’ll wear a little makeup, refrain from holding other people’s babies, and give it a fake smile if I have to. It doesn’t matter. There’s still room in that scrapbook for another eight-by-ten.