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[OM] Thought To Be Extinct

Subject: [OM] Thought To Be Extinct
From: Bob Christopher <bc@xxxxxxxxx>
Date: Thu, 09 Jul 1998 20:43:12
Cc: bio-photo@xxxxxxxxxxxxx
Kerry, sorry I've been lax with the communiques lately. I had a few
days away from programming and decided to investigate a few of those
unopened boxes in the basement, left over from last move. Between
the Mrs. and I having both grown up as "military orphans" and our
own subsequent, post-marital moves, last year we settled into
home number 32.

So, I go straight for the boxes labeled "PHOTO MISC" knowing full
well they contained the ghosts, remnants and treasures of my past
life as a photographer. Into the cardboard I reach. My hands feeling
the leather cases of ancient Kodaks and not-so-ancient Oly's. The
anticipation is overwhelming. Slowly I retract my first find. A small
rectangular black zippered case. My frontal lobe begins to awaken even
as my eyes peer closer and my forehead issues a questioning wrinkle.
Barely emblazened into the fine vinyl of the case is the moniker of
VIVITAR. Oh, yeah! I remember this... Quickly and deftly I unzip the
pouch and extract that wonderful little 252 flash unit. I remember
fondly how it was the perfect size, perfect weight, perfect companion
to so many TLR's and SLR's and...

I flip the switch, somehow expecting sudden illumination. Nothing. Ah,
yes, of course, the little beauty needs batteries. Minutes later I've
managed to re-orient myself to its Pharoahic design and locate the
the battery compartment cover. It has an arrow mark, indicating that
it should be slid to the right. Such details are always welcome sights
to eyes of our, uh, vintage. I slide the cover to the right. It's
frozen. It's locked. I haven't the combination. My self-esteem 
wanders momentarily and I doubt myself - am I not worthy any longer?
I press harder. It moves ever-so-slightly. A nearly imperceptible 
gap appears between the main case and the cover. I decide I am worthy
and I am mighty and I give it my ALL!

Ooops...Well, the cover flew off and the dog snatched it right up. 
I managed to retrieve it from the frothy lips of our 6-month old Shar Pei
which is no easy feat, trust me. I look inside the cover and notice an
undeniably large amount of crusty white stuff. Again, my frontal lobe
searches its databanks and retrieves the technical term. I hear my
mind speak to me, "It's corrosion, you idiot." More than the technical
term and the insuing insult comes to me, however. This isn't just
corrosion, this is decades worth of corrosion. I go back to the unit
and shake it to extract the once new vials of power. They fall onto the
floor. This time I beat the dog to them. HAH!

I peer inside the dark chamber of the unit and see the effects of
the corrosion. More precisely, I see the corrosive effects of 
2 AA batteries with masking tape strips upon which has been
written a clue as to their true age. What archiologist hasn't 
dreamed of a find like this, eh, Kerry? In faded blue it is unmistakeable:
MAR 1978. 

"Gee, that's over 20 years ago!", I think to myself. As if there were
some inherent worth to them. Hey, forget Beanie Babies, I'm into
antique AA Batteries!

I take the parts of the unit to the garage and arm myself with my
trusty Dremmel. With a fine wire wheel I brush away two decades of
Duracell debris. The contacts shine. A little WD40 and viola! Good
as new. Inside now. I blow out the dust. A few pats and swipes with
a good old Q-Tip soaked in WD and it's good as new. Insert two new
AA Duracells. Now comes the test.

Will the Vivitar of 1976 still function? Will it once again cast
a mighty glow upon the shadows and lightless recesses of the world?
Will it find a new home upon a soon to be acquired Oly 35RC? My
thumb mounts the switch. It moves upwards and emits that familiar
"click". I put the unit to my ear eager to hear its whislting aria. 
I listen. I listen. My dog looks at me with one of
those canine expressions that, if honestly translated, would say,
"Aren't you supposed to use a sea shell?" Ah, my pet, 'tis not the
sound of the ocean I favor, but the sound of light!

It begins. Ah, such a sweet whine. The ready light suddenly glows
orange. I hesitate if only to celebrate my good fortune. I press the
ready light, remembering that it doubles as the manual flash button.
It sparks, it ignites, it emits, it glows! Glory be, the rascal
survived 20 years of abandonment and came back to life to serve his
master! I look at the dog and she's grinning. She knows, Kerry. To 
serve the master is what flash units and puppy dogs were made for.

Bob 

Bob Christopher
Littleton, Colorado USA
bc@xxxxxxxxx

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