My children tend to keep their distance when I’m angling in for photographs.
I’m the one flinging my Laura Ashley floral-dressed self onto a dirty cement sidewalk, my neck and arm wildly tilted so that a shot up through a flowerbed will make dancing tulips appear to dwarf a colonial church in the background.
In less-than-waterproof boots, I wade into frigid Atlantic water to get a better view of steep isosceles cloud formations.
Teeth chattering, I dart up on teetering rusted metal bars to record the glorious scalene buffet embedded in Old Ironsides’ masts and rigging.
More than one of my offspring will pull at my arm with a drawn-out “Mom” as I dawdle in the middle of a city street, pointing my camera up to catch a tower against a blue sky sporting an interesting cloud or bisected by an airplane’s white stream.
One angle is never enough.