Brilliant sky. Warmish even. A day for a long, scenic walk. Let me charge up the batteries.
Where’s my camera?
My last memory of it is when I used it to photograph a Georgia pecan pie. And shrimp piled on grits. And a pretty arrangement of roasted baby beets. That was last night.
So where’s my camera?
No one is picking up the phone at Vidalia (that’s right; the place is named after an onion). I set out to bang on some doors.
Lovely blue sky. Brisk walk. I knock on the front door. Nothing. I poke around the back alley and find their delivery door. Bang bang bang. Nothing.
Out front again, interspersed with lots of cell calls. The chef comes out. Big guy. Great talent there, in the kitchen. I tell him so. (Chefs make me feel small even when they’re short. This one – I can barely say one clever word, I’m so awed.) We poke around the office. No camera.
Maybe it’s in the safe. I don’t have the combo for that. I hope it’s here.
I’m totally apologetic for wasting his time. He should be slicing slivers of onion not searching for my little Sony.
I go out to brunch with my daughter. Great neighborhood place that serves eggs benedict on green tomatoes. With a side of cheese grits. I’ll order anything with grits.
Phone rings. My camera is safe, waiting for me at Vidalia.
Darn. I was getting used to imagining a walk without it. You take a disappointment, shake it around a little and adjust to the new parameters. Sure, I fretted. What if the perfect light threw itself at the perfectly expressive face of someone perfectly positioned before me? Eh, so what! I'll write it down. And I'll quit breaking the pace. I'll walk in step with my daughter. I'll be free!
Freedom is overrated. It’s good to reclaim my little guy. Nothing brilliant threw itself at me, but I could take out the reliable Sony and aim it straight at that gorgeous sky. And the still bare cherry trees. And the dad, sitting on the banks of the Potomac with his son. And the strawberry cupcakes. God, I love having my camera with me.