Eyes Not Open

Me, brother John, Howard, Billy, Scotty, Paula,
and the man of the hour, Ben

In our family, when it comes to picture-taking, the directive is always the same, not to mention, a little harsh.  It goes something like this: "Carol, try to keep your eyes open." I try, I try.  But the flash goes off and it's out of my control.  The result:  A loud groan.  And then, "Carol ruined it.  Let's take another one."  Historically, the photo with my eyes shut will be the best shot of everyone else.  The next one, with my eyes freakishly half-open in a sad effort to appease everyone else (a lifelong trend), will be remarkably worse.  Not only will I look possessed by evil spirits, but everyone else will look dumb. I've personally ruined Bar Mitzvah, wedding, anniversaries and birthday photos snapped by professional photogs. It's a burden, believe me. So today, I selflessly present the really bad shot of the SJG, with my eyes shut, and the fairly decent shot of everyone else, although why the youngest has his mouth open, I can't tell you. We're at a nice Italian place, celebrating my dad's 92nd. He regaled us with tales of his WWII days as a navigator, including a trip to Paris in search of... let's just call them ladies and leave it that.  He saved the best story for last.  Sure, we've heard it many times before, but it never loses its magic: The night before they were set to fly a mission over Berlin, he made it rain.  No mission, thank God. All these years later, a vivid memory that sums up my dad's chutzpah and gumption.  No photograph required.  It's all right there in his eyes.