Yesterday evening, as the late-summer sun was setting in a glorious blaze of orange and yellow, a pair of bright-blue dragonflies landed on the rope that supports our tree swing.
They were so beautiful, so enchanting in appearance, that I hurried outside to photograph them so that I could share the moment with you, my friends and family.
Unfortunately, the picture I got looked more like a rectangle filled with opaque black ink than a serene pastoral scene.
This immediately told me in no uncertain terms that my son, Gabe, has once again been tinkering with the settings on my expensive Nikon camera, defying my strict orders not to touch it anymore.
I’m not a violent man, and I’m not a huge fan of corporal punishment, but I honestly wanted to slap him silly. Then I remembered that he’s a 15-year-old hockey player in the peak physical condition of his life and I’m a 50-year-old man who’s spent most of my life sitting in a chair while I type and eat cookies. Concurrently, I also realized that the ensuing flow of my blood and spitting out of my broken teeth would be very unpleasant indeed.
Quite the opposite of what I’d originally intended, in fact.
So, please, just trust me when I tell you that the dragonflies were lovely.