Badger Valley Publishing

A "Billyboy" Excerpt:

Perry’s Prize

Perry Finstead failed at photography. Like most amateur photographers, he’d load his Kodak with a new roll of film, take a snapshot or two, then let the camera sit on the shelf for weeks on end. By the time the roll was finished, dropped off at the corner drug store, developed in some faraway factory and returned, Perry often could not recall where the photo was taken or, for that matter, why. But everything changed in ’55 on his thirty-third birthday when his wife gave him the latest in instantaneous innovations, an instrument invented to impart immediate gratification to amateur photogs—the Polaroid Land Camera.

Within minutes of opening the gift, the ecstatic birthday boy began a whole new hobby. It started with the first snap-click of the shutter, followed by a one-minute wait that took an eternity. Predictably, when Perry peeled the patented protective paper from his print, he was hooked, addicted, obsessed with Dr. Edwin Land’s clever contraption.

For weeks, Perry’s Polaroid produced picture after picture of this, that and the other. But wildlife interested him most, each fascinating Finstead four-by-five photograph finding its way into the family photo album. Finches at the feeder. A peanut-munching mouse. Chipmunks with cheeks chock-full. Deer, ducks, geese, butterflies, raccoons, he snapped them all until the family photo album featured creature after creature on one page or another—admittedly an amazing assemblage for Finstead, our amateur photographer.

One evening, a lightning bolt struck Perry—figuratively speaking, of course. Within minutes, he’d created quite a clever contraption made of strong string strung through eye screws screwed into the top of his picnic table. After securing his camera in an upturned peach crate, he attached one end of the string to the camera’s shutter release. The other end he secured to a plump, fried pork chop he’d found in the fridge. Content with his invention, he went inside to watch from the window, waiting for his largest wild game, a bear blamed for bashing trashcans up and down the road in search of midnight snacks.

Comfortable in his easy chair, Perry listened as the clock ticked the time away. An hour slipped by. Then another. Then … a noise. Perry peered out, inaudibly begging for a bruin to appear. The string shifted. The shutter snapped. The camera flashed.

“Damn you, masked bandits!” shouted Perry.

The same six raccoons he’d caught on film chewing on cobs of corn a day before were back for more. Out scurried Perry, pounding together a pot and a pan as the terrified family of mother and kits scrambled from table to lawn before disappearing into the darkness.

Perry processed the print, pleased with the Polaroid’s prompt product.

Now confident his camera could capture an image of the neighborhood bruin, Perry re-rigged his clever contraption. Again he went inside to watch from the window. Again the clock ticked. Again an hour slipped by. Then another. Then ...

You'll love the ending of this "fairly true" tale! (FAIRLY true because it was actually my mother's camera used by "Perry.")