Camera in Crisis

     The word Holland should trigger thoughts of Rembrandt, cheese and chocolate, at the very least. The higher minded might add state-of-the-art flood control, diamonds and legalized weed. But thanks to a mildly dysfunctional family trip to Amsterdam, Holland makes me think of oozing cameras.
     It's a comical memory, although tragi-comedy might be a more accurate description. And my family was so prone to tragi-comedy. My mother's heels were always getting caught in sidewalk grates and she frequently burned holes in her clothes with falling cigarette ashes in the car where the effect was even more dramatic.
     The atmosphere on family trips was always a bit bizaare. For example, in London, my mother said "I'm going to take a nap." My sister said "but I thought we were going toWestminster Abbey." My mother said "why would you want to go there?" (Actually, my mother's favorite expressions were why would you want to do that? And why would you want to go there?)
     So. We are at some building on some plaza with some monument and a fountain in Amsterdam. And my father is taking a picture of his family with this Polaroid camera. I'm not sure why he preferred the Polaroid experience over a "regular" camera with film, but he did. (How wonderful is the digital camera of today!)
     I picture us posing there. Daddy takes the picture, waits the required time, a minute or two, and instead of removing a perfectly developed photograph on that thick layered padded plastic-paper, the camera seems to be melting and that picture with the rest of the film oozes out of the Polaroid in a black stream of sludge all over my father's hands. Then we see our picture dripping onto the Amsterdam square. 
     That's humorous, right? It's classic comedy. Unfortunately, my family did not have a very refined sense of humor. Or was it too refined? These frequent comedies of error were always viewed as tragedies in their eyes. And that's sad.
     After the oozing, the family flurry ensued. We ran around looking for a trash can, looking for a washroom while my mother intones her mantra - why does this always happen to us? My sister and I endure this stoically and there's narry a chuckle in what actually was an hysterical moment. That's sad. Very sad.
     
     

MY (almost) WHITE HOUSE JOB

For about one hour in June 1965 I thought I had landed a job at the White House. During the winter and spring of my sophomore year in college I spent almost every free minute trying to get a summer job in Washington, DC. Back then there were no cell phones, no computers and certainly no email. Applying for a job was a tedious process involving typewriters, postage stamps and "long distance" phone calls from the pay phone in the dorm "smoker."

In early June, I attended graduation week at Georgetown University and while I was in DC I inquired at several agencies about my job status. The replies were not encouraging and the ride home up the Jersey Turnpike after the graduation was long and gloomy.

Almost the minute I got home, though, I got a call from Western Union. They read me a telegram that said I had a summer internship in Washington in the Office of Saline Water. I was excited and told my mother about the call.She said: "Oh my God! I think Saline Water works at the White House!" I said "Oh my God, that's incredible!" and jumped for joy.

A short while later the actual telegram was delivered and it became clear that indeed I had a summer job in Washington and that it was in the Office of Saline Water. But Saline Water turned out to be a branch of the Department of the Interior that dealt with issues of desalinating water and not a glamourous executive in the White House!

My mother and I had a great laugh over this misunderstanding but I admit to having been a little disappointed.  I enjoyed a very interesting summer in Washington after all and actually did make several visits to the White House "on business." As for the Office of Saline Water. There's still a lot of salty water in the world!