The Polaroid Camera

For most of my childhood, if you wanted to take a picture on the ranch, there was only one camera to use.

The Polaroid camera lived in the top drawer of the buffet in the ranch house.

That same drawer also held the extra film packets. Whenever Dad pulled the camera out of that drawer, we knew something worth remembering was about to happen.

Polaroid Automatic Land Camera 210
(stock image - not our actual camera)

It was a Polaroid Automatic Land Camera 210. It was the only camera our family had through most of the 1970s.

Most of the time, Dad operated the camera, although Mom took pictures sometimes, too. Dad was usually the one who loaded the film packets into the camera. I remember the tension of changing film because you had to be careful not to expose the new film packet to too much light. If you did, you could ruin the film before any pictures were taken.

Each film packet only had eight pictures. Because of that, we did not take pictures casually. Whenever the camera came out, there was usually a specific purpose. Everyone thought carefully about whether a moment was worth using one of those eight exposures.

The camera folded open from its case before you could take a picture. Dad would pull the camera out of the case and unfold the bellows so the lens extended forward. Sometimes he left the bottom of the case hanging down while taking pictures. Other times, he detached it completely.

Before taking the picture, you had to cock the shutter. I still remember the small click when it was ready.

If we were indoors or it was getting dark, Dad would attach the flash unit. The flash had a small body that connected to the camera with a wire running to the lens. It used one-time flash bulbs. Some were white, and some were blue. When the shutter fired, the bulb made a sharp popping sound and flashed brightly.

After the picture was taken, you pressed the eject button and the used bulb would pop out of the flash. The bulb was always hot. I remember picking them up too soon a few times and burning my fingers before I learned to leave them alone.

Taking a Polaroid picture was a whole process.

First, you cocked the shutter. Then you looked through the viewfinder and framed the picture. When everything looked right, you pressed the shutter button and, if the flash was attached, the flash bulb popped.

If a flash had been used, the next step was ejecting the spent bulb.

Then came the part of the process I remember most clearly. First, you pulled the small white tab that showed the picture number. That did not start the development yet. It simply prepared the film for the next step. Then you pulled the larger tab that brought the photograph and developing papers out of the camera.

After that, you waited for the picture to develop.

Dad always told us to swing the photo back and forth a few times before setting it on the counter. When I was little, I thought the swinging was part of the developing process. Really, we were just waiting for the chemicals to do their work.

It always seemed like it took forever.

When enough time had passed, you peeled the photograph away from the developing papers. The papers had a strong chemical smell that I can still remember. If you touched the negative sheet, the ink would smear a little.

After peeling the picture apart, we used the little coating stick that came with the film. You wiped it across the surface of the photograph to protect the image and keep it from smearing or fading.

Sometimes someone forgot to pull the picture out of the camera after taking a photo. When that happened, the next picture would be taken on top of the first one, and you ended up with a double exposure.

One of the most important jobs the camera had was helping register our thoroughbred colts.

Each year when we filled out the registration paperwork, The Jockey Club required photographs showing the horse's markings. The pictures had to clearly show the star or stripe on the colt’s head and any white markings on the legs.

Those photo sessions were always a little tense.

Dad did not want to waste film, and the pictures had to be just right or The Jockey Club could reject the registration paperwork, and we would have to start the process again.

We usually took those pictures in the corral by the barn and the branding chute. Instead of holding the colt, we would catch and halter the mare and hold her while the colt stayed nearby. Dad would walk around the colt carefully, studying the markings and looking for the right angle before taking the picture, while also filling out the paperwork and sketching the markings on the registration forms.

When he was satisfied with the photos, we mailed them in with the paperwork.

Most of the other pictures we took with the Polaroid camera were family moments.

Mom usually wrote the date and the names of the people in the picture on the back. Later, she collected them into photo books. We still have many of those old Polaroid prints in albums, boxes, and drawers.

In the early 1980s, our family got a Minolta 35mm camera for Christmas. That camera could take twenty-four pictures on a roll of film, which felt like a lot compared to eight.

I remember reading the camera manual and learning about aperture, f-stops, and shutter speeds.

But in some ways, the 35mm camera was not quite as satisfying. With the Polaroid camera, you could see the picture almost immediately. With the 35mm camera, you had to send the film away and wait for the pictures to come back.

Even after we had the Minolta, we still used the Polaroid camera for photographing the colts. It was simply easier to have the pictures right away.

For many years, that Polaroid camera sat in the top drawer of the buffet.

I do not remember exactly when it stopped being used. Dad may even still have it somewhere.

But whenever I think about the photographs from our childhood, that camera is always part of the memory.