She lay there in the display case, covered with chrome, metal, and plastic. The twinkle of a fluorescent light gleamed from a corner of her body. Intriguing knobs and dials beckoned to be touched and fondled. Curves that would fit perfectly into my damp palms were there for the taking. I was powerless to avoid the temptation. I called to the sales clerk. I had just bought my first 35mm camera.

That was over 30 years ago but we're still together, Minolta and me. Like most relationships, things haven't always gone smoothly. There were missed exposures, poor focus. Tempers would flare. Many times, I said words I didn't mean. But we've always worked it out.

I recall one memorable trip together in Florida. We had a nice room right on the beach. The previous evening had been lovingly spent tenderly caressing her lenses with a soft cloth and blowing into her every crevice with Dust Off. The dawn was picture perfect, the water beautiful, and the birds; they were everywhere just begging to be photographed. Suddenly, a beautiful roseate spoonbill appeared. I was ecstatic. Then the film jammed.

"Not now, please! Not here! Let's just wait till we get home and we'll settle this." But, as usual, my pleas were ignored. The film wouldn't budge.

With the morning shoot ruined, I was still quite upset when we arrived back at the motel but I tried not to show it. With towels, I stuffed the cracks around the door in the bathroom and when confident no light could find us, I opened the back and stripped the film from her body. Practically naked, she quietly sat there in the dark while I decided what to do next.

From somewhere, the Mind of Minolta spoke. "Calm down, relax. Put the film in a canister, turn on the light, and between us, we'll find a solution". Then I noticed it; there, next to the Gideon Bible was my manual. A kind of peacefulness came over me as I slowly flipped through the familiar pages and sure enough, there was the answer. It had all been my fault. I had taken her for granted too many times and had become thoughtless and brutal. It seems that I had been forcing way too much leader on the take up reel and she just couldn't handle it. Eyes moist, I asked for forgiveness and assured her it would never happen again.

Yet, from time to time, other issues arose. Poor auto focus on later models was a source of annoyance. Remote flashes that timed out just as the subject arrived were another frustration. I'll admit it; the temptation to cheat was strong at times. Both Nikon and Canon had very attractive and enticing models. The lure of image stabilization was nearly overpowering. I looked;, I may have lusted, but in the end, I came back.

Call it fate; call it destiny, but an incident occurred one summer afternoon that would affect our relationship forever. Minolta and I were in the old pickup, riding down a dusty back road near the Tallgrass Prairie Preserve in Oklahoma. It was a time of contentment. Things had been going well between us. Outfitted with a simple white 300mm lens, she felt good there, brushing against my thigh, nestled between two beanbags on the center console. The radio played soft jazz. The windows were down while a stiff prairie breeze carried the aroma of bison herds and ragweed.

As we drove over a small bridge, a movement of barn swallows caught my eye. I remembered the spot as being one of their nesting places and then, just as I stopped, one of them perched and posed on a strand of barbed wire just begging for a photo. Obligingly I grabbed Minolta and began to swing her into place when tragedy struck. Minolta's body caught on the back of the passenger seat and before I knew what was happening, I was sitting there with the lens in my hand while her body, and what was left of the 2X multiplier, crashed to the floor. I stared in horror and disbelief at the carnage that lay before me. Fighting panic, I gathered it all together, carefully packed it in the camera bag, and headed for home where the damage could be assessed.

Two screws were missing! That's what it looked like. The threads were still there so they hadn't been ripped out. Two screws had worked their way out of the 2X resulting in a structural weakness. It wasn't my fault after all! And best of all, it was still under warranty. With a sigh of relief, I called the Minolta Corporation.

"Those are un-repairable," said the lady with the strong New Jersey accent, "And besides that, we don't make the 2X anymore."

"What do you mean, it's un-repairable? It's under warranty. It wasn't my fault. You don't make it anymore? What am I supposed to do?"

"You'll have to purchase a rebuilt one"

"WHAT"

"That will be $105.00 please"

Pssst! Would someone please introduce me to Nikon or Canon? I'd just love to spend a quiet evening with either one of them. You know, soft lights, maybe some wine. Just get to know each other a little better.

Editor's Comment: Let us know what you think! Please email the Editor to let us know your thoughts.

Warren Williams has been doing photography for over 25 years focusing mainly on Nature and wildlife. His work has been published in several magazines, including Outdoor Photographer, Outdoor Oklahoma, Oklahoma Today, and Persimmon Hill (the magazine of the Cowboy Hall of Fame). Several of his photos have also appeared on calendars by Smith-Southwestern. Warren is an active member on Photo Migrations and would also invite you to visit his website located at: Warren Williams Photography - Images of Wildlife and Nature.