For Gods sake at least have him aim over my shoulder

 There are times one wonders how they got into a particular situation or a job.

In my case, I had worked at everything but wanted to be a photographer or a writer.

I often worked at both, as a traveling journalist, I did my own photography, sometimes called photojournalist.

I had gotten my start at grandpas knees. He had been a parachutist in the war.  He broke his back on the rocks of Gibraltar. Their landing had been somewhere in France, but they missed by a few miles.

He spent his time recuperating in the museums and libraries of Cairo. These buildings served as housing for the military. 

He was a clerk the rest of the war, serving as a photographer and other legal occurrences. 

His wife was a radio announcer in London for the most part. Back at home, she also did government work, including the Library of Congress.

I was taught both growing up, radio announcer and disk jockey. Photo shop and observar for grandpa and his cronies who were always up to no good. Setting the world aright after the horors they had encountered.

I got sent away alot as my mother had difficulty dealing with my then one person at a time. My sister wanted to be a movie star and spent more time with mother learning the ropes of being a celebrity. She never did learn to read, but my memory. 

And then she died, leaving me with two careers. I had traveled with my godfather, Peter Jennings, who had in turn driven my grandmother to her various radio stations as her godson.

His photographer had been shot during the Viet Nam war. Peter is said to have spent most of it in Cambodia, and Korea as a foreign correspondent. He had a Canadian passport and was under orders from his parents not to get caught or drafted for this silly American scrimmage.

As it was, my visit was timely, he used my knowledge and leg power to keep himself afloat for the final days of his job assignment. He was not given a replacement, just me, who held on to my camera.

A matter of honor, not to let it in to the hands of the enemies. His interviews were accompanied by a little girl and her trusty radio flyer wagon, with a cover over her instrument.

My parents divorced before I was an adult and i spent my time in between them and others. I worked at anything I could to get through the grief they had not gotten to be a family, the two children of the war.

My sisters death was not part of the problem but all the other things that had gone wrong. 

Which included being followed home by those wishing to do harm. My passport was always being stolen along with my trusty cameras. 

My reports to Peter were also done from memory and he was not surprised when I started using a computer to send my reports in ahead of broadcast.

I sometimes did other things, such as the National Geographic society and even the Cousteau society as camera person. My legs had developed a resistance to sitting at home, and traveled back over my childhood trips. 

It is not uncommon to mix mediums or change careers midstream in the media. It was a challenge however to be mistaken for my sister and be obligated to finish her quest as a little actress. 

I sought ways out of her contracts by working around the film world. Camera work was preferred to costumes and stage craft. 

However, there was always that one moment when one wishes they had a different job or career.

I had survived crashes and been shot at a number of times.

I had never been the target though. I was told, my camera was going to be used for the film, to be film the gun or actor in action.

My complaints went unheard, I was under contract and at the mercy of the director and actor.

I took myself to a second hand military store, where i pleaded my cause and they found a bullet proof vest in my size. 

I was still hit by the bullet from the gun the actor was using as a prop. It had blanks and not live shots. 

It is not uncommon, even in radio dramas for a live round to go off. My grandmother had been hit in the leg, and myself in the shoulder.

Just laugh it off ? Or surrender and get a different life, in the end i went home to tell my grandfather who complained he was  more at risk as the tag along camera person than the actual men in uniform. 

Some stories never get told properly and sometimes families meet the wrong sorts in the journey.

My parents never had a chance of reclaiming their childhood lost to the war, while their parents worked instead of staying at home.

Some children grow up overnight and others never do grow up.

There is no real way of saying sorry, you know when someone dies unnecessarily.