Like many men my husband has a large and rather elaborate camera. For five years now, he's photographed our every move: the day he bought the Chevrolet, last year's crop of Big Boy tomatoes, a few distant and presumably glorious landscapes from our trip to Glacier National Park. Naturally, there are many shots of me: cooking Christmas dinner, sporting a new pair of tennis shorts, and here I am standing by the car before a fishing trip, fully rigged and looking very eager to be gone. These photos have been neatly sorted and stored in albums with overlapping plastic pockets. Occasionally I look them over to recall what kind of girl my husband married.