There was a camera closet in our home. It was supposed to be a linen closet, but it was a camera closet in our household. There was the black Nikon FM2 film SLR in one of the middle racks, sitting pretty next to an array of plastic film point-and-shoots. There was the Bronica ETRS medium format SLR below that in a dry box, with a detachable gun grip that I used to pretend to be a toy gun when I was very young and, on occasion, still do when no one was looking.
Then there is this strange looking twin-lensed box which turned out to be a Seagull Twin Lens Reflex (TLR) 4A. The TLR had always intrigued me because it was so different from the others. The waist-level finder was extra confusing to me as a child because aiming the lens did not correspond to the holographic image in the finder. I loved all of the cameras in that closet, in that home.
We all fall in love with photography for one reason or another. The love of the technology. The love of the art. But I suspect that, for more than a few of us, it was because of our fathers.