Last fall, in preparation for our trip to Ireland, I got a new 35-mm camera. It�s a fully automatic Pentax, light-weight and fits great in my hands. Beyond making me feel like I know what I�m doing, it takes great pictures.

Or at least it did.

When we went to Atlanta last month I was changing the film when one of those "oops" moments of life happened. I somehow managed to push my thumb through the curtain�the part of the camera that�s between the film and the shutter.

There are five overlapping horizontal sections in this curtain and the bottom three needed to be reinserted into the left track. I didn�t have time to do it when it happened, but the next day I managed to maneuver them back into place.

After some initial weird noises it seemed to be working fine. I took a couple rolls of film and forgot about it. Then it started acting up again and we bought a disposable at the zoo as a back-up. After our trip, I put the rolls and the disposable in my purse. Eventually, they joined a growing to-be-developed pile in my desk.

Fast forward six weeks to this past weekend. We were invited to a friend�s family�s cabin on Lake George. I�d forgotten all about the warning signs of impending doom and decided to bring the camera along. I thought it would be the perfect opportunity to get some good shots looking out over Sandy Bay and some northward shots of the middle of the lake.

For the most part these weren�t just hastily taken snapshots. They were carefully composed photographs�a sailboat captured in the narrow space between two dock posts; a feathery cloud formation spread above Pilot Knob, which was itself bathed in afternoon sunshine.

There were some true Kodak moments, too�a trio of kids smiling, the youngest one with mischief on her mind and a huge watergun in her hands; a Dalmatian dog nose-to-nose with the helpful girl attracting its attention.

Maybe they wouldn�t qualify for prize-winning photographs, but they meant something to me as I was taking them. Now we�ll never know.

I brought them in Sunday morning for one hour photo developing and did some shopping. I went back after 40 minutes and received the bad news: out of two and a half rolls taken, not one picture came out. I still have to bring the camera in to be examined. I�m hoping it can be fixed.

What can�t be fixed are the lost images.

Perhaps it would have been better if I hadn�t brought the camera at all. Then I wouldn�t be so disappointed. It�s like wrapping up a present and sending it to myself, only to find that it got lost in the mail, never to be seen again.

There are many times in my life when I forgot my camera. I don�t ever recall having one malfunction. I�ve heard of people leaving their lens caps on, but it�s never happened to me.

Growing up I always go my mother�s hand-me down cameras, and I�ve continued this tradition with my daughter. Of course, like mother like daughter, she dropped and busted my old camera on the same trip to Atlanta, so I might end up investing in an inexpensive replacement.

I�ve been letting her take photos since she was a preschooler. The early ones are often at interesting angles or just too close, but it�s surprising how many of them are at least centered and in focus. I figured you�ve got to start with the basics and work up to the finer points of artistic composition.

That�s why this past weekend I was encouraging our friend�s 11-year-old daughter�s interest in photography. We took a walk and I let her take some pictures with my camera. It was fun showing her how to look for the unusual angles and unexpected patterns: the repetition of rows of boats in a repair yard, a colorful collection of birdhouses in someone�s garden.

I promised her a set of her prints so she could see how she did. Because of this, it�s especially disheartening to have to tell Susan that her photos didn�t come out after all. I�ve decided to send her a disposable camera in hopes of making it up to her.

My first look at the strips of empty negative frames made me think "What a waste of time and film." As sad as I am that these photos didn�t come out, I�m still glad I took them. The fun of photography isn�t always the final product. Just looking through the viewfinder forces you to be more observant.

I have to keep reminding myself that the memories aren�t in the photos themselves, but in the experiences that they captured.