Ten Second Romances

Maybe girls don't do this. I don't know for sure. I only know that, for most of my life as a boy and young man, I would constantly be falling in love with some passing creature of lovely face, long hair, and feminine step. I would sigh and imagine how sweet her companionship would be.



And then she'd be gone. Her folks would pull out of the gas station where I'd spotted her. Or maybe she was only walking by, going the opposite direction in a shopping center (We didn't have malls back then) and I knew that I'd never see her again. This might happen to me several times per day. Only in periods when I was anxiously engaged in some greedy cause would I not have momentary romances with people I didn't know and would probably never know. If I was excited about a particular Christmas gift, or going to a particular movie, or still in the emotional thrall of a movie we'd just recently seen, I might not notice the lovely creatures crowding the world around me.



But naturally, as I grew up, girls became more important than Mattel Fanner Fifties, O Gauge trains, or even my own copy of Stravinsky's Firebird. And the momentary romances with strangers would happen more often and with more force in my heart. Long after a face had dealt its blows to my youthful heart, I'd still be thinking about it, imagining how sweet time would be in her presence.



Of course, when I got home from Italy, this all started over again with a vengeance. I was taking a photography class from Brother Harold Nielsen in the Romney Science Bldg. at Ricks College. The year was 1973. I had not yet joined the service. Bro. Nielsen encouraged us to carry our 35mm cameras with us everywhere, and it was good advice, because we had many assignments to take a given number of a given type of photographs, schedule lab time, develop the negatives, print the pictures, and hand them in.



One snowy day in 1973 I was hanging around in the lobby of the Kirkham Auditorium, a place where I'd lived much of my life both before and after my mission. I was about to leave and approached the glass front doors when I was arrested by the sight of a perfect specimen of young womanhood, dressed in floor-length coat and dress as all Mormon beauties did back then, lifting the skirts of her coat with a practiced and decidedly feminine hand as she climbed the steps outside the building and approached the doors.



Now, this would probably have been just another 10 second romance, but I was carrying my camera everywhere as Bro. Nielsen had counselled. It was one of those moments which only photographers and hunters get to experience. The perfect specimen of the quarry is coming directly towards you and you have in your hands the perfect tool for reducing it to your possession. Although her face had already knocked the wind out of me, I managed to cock the manual-everything Petri 7S 35mm viewfinder camera, grab the focus ring and give it a whirl, form a quick sight picture, and squeeze off the shot. She became aware of what was happening even as it happened. She might have been embarrassed. She might have felt tired of being constantly worshiped by young men. She might have been prone to express disgust about my efforts to preserve her for future generations and myself to admire. But her face had no time to register any of these emotions. I had gotten her in her perfection. She would forever be the Angel of 1973.

I think I shoved the door open for her. It almost hit her, in fact, if memory serves. I never saw her again. I don't know her name. She was probably either 18 or 19. I was 22. That means that today she is a grandmother of about age 54 or 55. But none of that has mattered in the 36 years since then. I had her. And this time I got to keep her. True, I only occasionally saw the 8" x 10" glossy that I printed. Maybe once every 4 or 5 years. But I could always look at it for another 10 seconds and remember the way I felt when I took it. I still don't know who she was, but she's still the one 10-second romance that didn't get away. There was one little fly in the ointment; I had scratched the negative. You can see it right across her otherwise ideal nose. But I try not to let it bother me. Perhaps perfection is only a goal in this life. Reaching it probably comes later.

The Angel of '73.