Category Archives: Childhood memory

On typing

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I won’t call it keyboarding–I’m too old for that. I learned to type on a small portable Remington while working at a small 100 watt am radio station near Minot, North Dakota. There was really nothing else to do, so I learned to type, even though I had nothing to either write or say. Some might say that is still true today. What I liked about typing was the physicality of punching the keys and watching the letters appear on the paper–an actual piece of blank, white paper–without looking at my fingers or the keys. I developed the same muscle memory that piano players had, but instead of 88 keys, I only had 52, each key was identified with a letter, not a note. I couldn’t play cords, but I could write words in spite of knowing little and saying less. Banging on the keys of a typewriter in order to pound out an essay on post-structuralism is really more satisfying that most existentialists understand. The physical action of punching down the key with one of your fingers give one a very personal connection with the written word. I don’t get that same feeling from contemporary electronic keyboards found on most laptops or connect by wires or bluetooth to a desktop (which are becoming increasingly archaic, just like me). Kids entering college today may have seen a typewriter, but I’m sure they have never used one. Typewriters, along with rotary telephones and cathode ray tube televisions, are relics of the past, inventions that have been dumped on the ash heap of history along with cassette players, eight-track tapes, and 35 mm cameras that still used film to take pictures. A pity.

On watermelon seeds

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I know why the seeds are there–so we have more watermelon next summer. What is not entirely either clear or purposeful is why genetic biologists want to create a watermelon with seeds that are not seeds. Certainly, seeds make the watermelon more difficult to eat, but they also make the watermelon more interesting to eat because they are the legal thing that one might spit with impunity and not get yelled at by anyone, especially your mom. I find those black tear-drop shaped seeds to be aesthetically pleasing as they dot the ruby-red flesh of a summer watermelon. Watermelon is a metaphor for summer–sweet, juicy, the perfect desert to accompany the sunny heat of August. As a child, I remember eating watermelon in the park with all my fellow summer recreation dropouts and spitting the seeds everywhere. To deprive twelve-year-olds of the pleasure of spitting by inventing a watermelon without seeds is diabolic and heartbreaking, depressing one might say. I mean, creating a genetically useless fruit is the ultimate insult because it eliminates part of the pleasure of eating watermelon. Why is progress measured simply by making things easier when this does not necessarily mean better?

On watermelon seeds

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I know why the seeds are there–so we have more watermelon next summer. What is not entirely either clear or purposeful is why genetic biologists want to create a watermelon with seeds that are not seeds. Certainly, seeds make the watermelon more difficult to eat, but they also make the watermelon more interesting to eat because they are the legal thing that one might spit with impunity and not get yelled at by anyone, especially your mom. I find those black tear-drop shaped seeds to be aesthetically pleasing as they dot the ruby-red flesh of a summer watermelon. Watermelon is a metaphor for summer–sweet, juicy, the perfect desert to accompany the sunny heat of August. As a child, I remember eating watermelon in the park with all my fellow summer recreation dropouts and spitting the seeds everywhere. To deprive twelve-year-olds of the pleasure of spitting by inventing a watermelon without seeds is diabolic and heartbreaking, depressing one might say. I mean, creating a genetically useless fruit is the ultimate insult because it eliminates part of the pleasure of eating watermelon. Why is progress measured simply by making things easier when this does not necessarily mean better?

On crazy eights

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Just recently a student asked me how to play Crazy Eights. Needless to say, I was filled with lots of mixed emotions. First, the very fact that this student did not know how to play a standard game of my childhood made me reflect on how things change from generation to generation. The digital revolution has sidelined these simple analogue games that I still cherish. All of that means that I belong to a bygone era that will never return. Computers, video games, digitally mediated communication have pushed “cards” out of the national consciousness. That the student did not know how to play such a simple game also made me ponder the complexity of a society that has no use for simple entertainment, here represented by cards and their analogue existence of four suits and thirteen individual designs. “Cards” are now digital, and you can play all of the digital poker you want. Crazy Eights is a simple game, but perhaps that is what makes it complex. You give each player eight cards, you set up a “draw” pile (face down) and a “play” card, which, in turn, each player must either match the suit or the number. When you run out of cards, you win. You may change the suit by playing an “eight.” If you can’t play, you must pick a card until you can play. Whoever plays their last card first, wins. When explained in such basic terms, it seems rather boring, but let me assure you that my friends and I got hours and hours of entertainment out of this simple game. Perhaps the pleasure one derives from the game is less about winning, per se, and more about the social interaction of playing the game. You don’t need any screens of any kind to play, but you do need a deck of cards, which is very old technology. You need to learn to shuffle and deal. You need someone with whom you might play.

On crazy eights

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Just recently a student asked me how to play Crazy Eights. Needless to say, I was filled with lots of mixed emotions. First, the very fact that this student did not know how to play a standard game of my childhood made me reflect on how things change from generation to generation. The digital revolution has sidelined these simple analogue games that I still cherish. All of that means that I belong to a bygone era that will never return. Computers, video games, digitally mediated communication have pushed “cards” out of the national consciousness. That the student did not know how to play such a simple game also made me ponder the complexity of a society that has no use for simple entertainment, here represented by cards and their analogue existence of four suits and thirteen individual designs. “Cards” are now digital, and you can play all of the digital poker you want. Crazy Eights is a simple game, but perhaps that is what makes it complex. You give each player eight cards, you set up a “draw” pile (face down) and a “play” card, which, in turn, each player must either match the suit or the number. When you run out of cards, you win. You may change the suit by playing an “eight.” If you can’t play, you must pick a card until you can play. Whoever plays their last card first, wins. When explained in such basic terms, it seems rather boring, but let me assure you that my friends and I got hours and hours of entertainment out of this simple game. Perhaps the pleasure one derives from the game is less about winning, per se, and more about the social interaction of playing the game. You don’t need any screens of any kind to play, but you do need a deck of cards, which is very old technology. You need to learn to shuffle and deal. You need someone with whom you might play.

On smells

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I was going to call this, “on odors,” but I thought differently–odors are all smells, but not all smells are odors. Being blessed (or maybe cursed) with a sensitive nose, I have often hesitated to share my perceptions about how the world smells. Cities are particularly full of diverse smells, and nothing speaks to urban spaces like the smell of unburned diesel in the morning. It’s not a smell I like, particularly, but it is familiar. Of course, people give off a wide variety of smells, but there is nothing worse than someone who has perfumed their unwashed body. Nothing speaks to decadence quite like the combination of old sweat, rank cigarette smoke, and stale beer–a sort of bitter vinegary smell. The secret for smelling good as a person is simple: bathe and then use other smells sparingly–that’s intoxicating. You catch the person’s clean smell mixed lightly with flowers, spices, citrus, and it’s an experience you soon won’t forget. A word to the wise: never wear yesterday’s clothes if possible. Anything fresh, except for excrement, usually smells pretty good; anything dead should get gas mask treatment. The smell in most funeral homes is, for me, a nightmare smell that is hard to get out of my head. I have to hold my breath when walking past a beauty salon because of the intense horrible smells of the chemicals being used. Same goes for those candle stores in the malls. I actually don’t mind most subways which are combination of mechanical smells, moldy water, and people. For some reason that combination comforts me and means I’m on my way home. My favorite smells? Freshly baking cookies and breads, cut grass, a recently cleaned house, clothing coming out of the dryer, bookstores, freshly ground coffee, milk, cheese, and yoghurt, jamón serrano (a Spanish delicacy), wine, whiskey, freshly cut cedar, cloves and cinnamon, roasting meats, pizza, lillacs (the actually blooming plant), roses, and the wilderness. Of course, the chemical smell of new cars is very popular, but not with me. I find movie theaters with all their sweaty people and greasy foods to be a little overwhelming and decadent. Chain restaurants are sickening for the same reasons. The worse smell ever? Vomit, of course.

On smells

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I was going to call this, “on odors,” but I thought differently–odors are all smells, but not all smells are odors. Being blessed (or maybe cursed) with a sensitive nose, I have often hesitated to share my perceptions about how the world smells. Cities are particularly full of diverse smells, and nothing speaks to urban spaces like the smell of unburned diesel in the morning. It’s not a smell I like, particularly, but it is familiar. Of course, people give off a wide variety of smells, but there is nothing worse than someone who has perfumed their unwashed body. Nothing speaks to decadence quite like the combination of old sweat, rank cigarette smoke, and stale beer–a sort of bitter vinegary smell. The secret for smelling good as a person is simple: bathe and then use other smells sparingly–that’s intoxicating. You catch the person’s clean smell mixed lightly with flowers, spices, citrus, and it’s an experience you soon won’t forget. A word to the wise: never wear yesterday’s clothes if possible. Anything fresh, except for excrement, usually smells pretty good; anything dead should get gas mask treatment. The smell in most funeral homes is, for me, a nightmare smell that is hard to get out of my head. I have to hold my breath when walking past a beauty salon because of the intense horrible smells of the chemicals being used. Same goes for those candle stores in the malls. I actually don’t mind most subways which are combination of mechanical smells, moldy water, and people. For some reason that combination comforts me and means I’m on my way home. My favorite smells? Freshly baking cookies and breads, cut grass, a recently cleaned house, clothing coming out of the dryer, bookstores, freshly ground coffee, milk, cheese, and yoghurt, jamón serrano (a Spanish delicacy), wine, whiskey, freshly cut cedar, cloves and cinnamon, roasting meats, pizza, lillacs (the actually blooming plant), roses, and the wilderness. Of course, the chemical smell of new cars is very popular, but not with me. I find movie theaters with all their sweaty people and greasy foods to be a little overwhelming and decadent. Chain restaurants are sickening for the same reasons. The worse smell ever? Vomit, of course.

On knots

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For most people, the first knot that they ever learn to tie is the one that keeps their shoes on. I had to learn how to tie my shoes before going to kindergarten. Whether you started buying penny loafers to avoid tying your shoe lace knots, or you became an ace at tying your shoes laces, knots are a big part of our world. I was not a Boy Scout, so I never studied knots, and since I have never sailed anything, I didn’t learn any seafaring knots either. I am great at letting my stomach get tied up in knots, but real knots of utility escape me. Basically, I can tie a square knot, a slip knot, and occasionally, when pushed by the situation, a non-slippage figure-eight knot. Most of the time, however, I am baffled by a mysterious array of knots that might be found in the world–strange and complex entanglements of cords, ropes, and strings that keep things in place. Nothing, however, is more complex than trying to untie the chaotic mess of your shoe strings at the end of the day which have inevitably created a tangle that would defeat even the great Houdini. Some people like to be tied up, but then again, the world is filled with more mysteries than than are dreamt of in my philosophy. The knot, whether literal or metaphorical, stands for complication, chaos, mystery, and strength. Knots are either being tied or untied, depending on both the purpose of the knot and the end of its task.