Last week I took a photo of eleven of our grandchildren and their grandpa, all snuggled together.  Well, not quite all. Only 10 and a half kids showed up in the print version. This shouldn’t surprise anyone who has witnessed my picture-taking aptitude. Eliminating half a child (or half of anything) is my signature style.

It’s not genetic because my father took great photos and developed them in my parents’ bathroom. That he could do so much with what we’d consider antiquated equipment makes me ashamed at my inability to take photos with a camera that can do everything short of shouting, “Say cheese!”

I should have realized long ago that I had no photographic talent, no matter what era the camera belonged to.  When the eldest of my three children was in high school, she did an art project involving all the pictures I’d taken of our family in the ‘60s and ‘70s. She titled it, “My Mother’s School of Blurism.”