The Darkroom Hours I Can't Get Back

 

The Darkroom Hours I Can’t Get Back

If I’m honest, my biggest regret from my newspaper years has nothing to do with deadlines, budgets, or the chaos of small‑town publishing. It’s the hours—upon hours—I spent in the darkroom. Those Monday nights were the worst of it. While most families were settling in after supper, I was hunched over trays of developer and fixer, coaxing images out of film for the schools and the newspapers.

The darkroom was a world of its own: dank, windowless, and always carrying that sharp chemical smell that clung to my clothes long after I stepped back into the light. And layered on top of the tedium was the uncertainty. I never knew whether the photos would turn out—whether I’d captured all, some, or none of what I needed. Every roll of negatives was like a Christmas gift, waiting to see what treasures—if any—were hiding on that strip of film. I didn’t get my answer until the rolls were developed and hung from the clothesline above me, each frame slowly revealing its secrets as I impatiently waited for the negatives to dry. Then came the ritual at the enlarger: bending over the easel, focusing, cropping, judging. Dodging the dark areas, burning the light ones, trying to coax a sharper, truer image out of whatever the camera had managed to catch. Developing film, printing photos, waiting for each sheet to dry—it was slow, meticulous work. Necessary work, yes, but work that stole time from the five children waiting upstairs.

Photography today is laughably simple by comparison. Instant images. Instant feedback. Instant everything. Back then, every photo cost time—time I didn’t realize I was spending so freely.

I will forever regret the long nights that pulled me away from my family. I can only hope they’ll forgive me for the moments I missed. And maybe, someday, I’ll learn to forgive myself too.