virtual memorials for inanimate objects
Wednesday, February 28, 2007
Club Contributions
When I was in about 4th or 5th grade, my best friend lived next-door to me, and we occasionally planned half-baked schemes such as forming a neighborhood club with secret meetings, ID cards, zip-lines connecting all of our houses, an arsenal of prankster devices, a booby-trapped fort... the typical suburban pre-teen boy fantasy. Usually, it was just as satisfying to brainstorm all the possibilities than to actually do any work to put such a thing together. The reality could never live up to the fantasy, right?
But once, in a fit of hubris, I decided to start accepting donations from my neighborhood friends for the creation of this club, with all the best intentions. I exchanged, I believe it was, Monopoly money for real money, with the explanation that I would pool the money to buy all the gear we needed (mostly the kind of stuff advertised in the back of Boys Life magazine), and then would sell it back to club members for the phony bills. Now, most of the kids in the neighborhood never had any more than a few bucks on them, so this poorly devised plan should have been harmless. But there was this one kid, Daniel, and his younger brother, who were new to the neighborhood, and they seemed, in retrospect, just very enthusiastic to be a part of our club, and had lately received either a large allowance or perhaps birthday money. I believe they ponied up well over 20 1980s dollars--what seemed like a huge sum to me at the time.
Having great concern for the security of our club's treasury, I buried the cash in my friend's front lawn, perhaps not discretely enough, for when Daniel's father came to visit my family that night and get his son's money back, it was gone. Even my 10-year-old self knew that those kids probably thought I had intentionally swindled them.
Last seen in Roseville, California, circa 1987
Neal, Boston
When I was in about 4th or 5th grade, my best friend lived next-door to me, and we occasionally planned half-baked schemes such as forming a neighborhood club with secret meetings, ID cards, zip-lines connecting all of our houses, an arsenal of prankster devices, a booby-trapped fort... the typical suburban pre-teen boy fantasy. Usually, it was just as satisfying to brainstorm all the possibilities than to actually do any work to put such a thing together. The reality could never live up to the fantasy, right?
But once, in a fit of hubris, I decided to start accepting donations from my neighborhood friends for the creation of this club, with all the best intentions. I exchanged, I believe it was, Monopoly money for real money, with the explanation that I would pool the money to buy all the gear we needed (mostly the kind of stuff advertised in the back of Boys Life magazine), and then would sell it back to club members for the phony bills. Now, most of the kids in the neighborhood never had any more than a few bucks on them, so this poorly devised plan should have been harmless. But there was this one kid, Daniel, and his younger brother, who were new to the neighborhood, and they seemed, in retrospect, just very enthusiastic to be a part of our club, and had lately received either a large allowance or perhaps birthday money. I believe they ponied up well over 20 1980s dollars--what seemed like a huge sum to me at the time.
Having great concern for the security of our club's treasury, I buried the cash in my friend's front lawn, perhaps not discretely enough, for when Daniel's father came to visit my family that night and get his son's money back, it was gone. Even my 10-year-old self knew that those kids probably thought I had intentionally swindled them.
Last seen in Roseville, California, circa 1987
Neal, Boston
Labels: boyhood, California, club contributions, Roseville
¶ 9:04 PM 0 Comments Links to this post
Sunday, February 18, 2007
Briefcase
When I graduated from college, my grandfather insisted I have a briefcase. His gift was incredibly sweet and thoughtful but I never had much use for a briefcase, especially such a traditional style. I kept the briefcase for a few years, but when I was getting ready to move from California to Boston, the briefcase joined the garage-sized pile of other objects I had to trash, sell, or give away. The briefcase was donated, among many other things, to the Salvation Army, where I hoped it would make its way to someone who would actually have use for it. That was almost two years ago. My grandfather died recently and all I can think about is that briefcase.
I'm interested in the irrational affection we feel towards inanimate objects as well as the narrative and meaning that get attached to this otherwise mundane stuff over time, thanks to who we got the object from, or who we were with when we purchased or found it, what our life was like at the time, what it's like now, and where we've been in between, all of which is carried on in the object, regardless of whether it still exists or not. Creating a virtual memorial for my lost briefcase is the least I can do to honor my grandfather's gift, while, to some extent, confessing my guilt over getting rid of it.
Last seen August, 2005, in Oakland, California
Becky writes from Boston, where she spends a lot of time mulling over the way we deal with memory, loss, technology, and community.
When I graduated from college, my grandfather insisted I have a briefcase. His gift was incredibly sweet and thoughtful but I never had much use for a briefcase, especially such a traditional style. I kept the briefcase for a few years, but when I was getting ready to move from California to Boston, the briefcase joined the garage-sized pile of other objects I had to trash, sell, or give away. The briefcase was donated, among many other things, to the Salvation Army, where I hoped it would make its way to someone who would actually have use for it. That was almost two years ago. My grandfather died recently and all I can think about is that briefcase.
I'm interested in the irrational affection we feel towards inanimate objects as well as the narrative and meaning that get attached to this otherwise mundane stuff over time, thanks to who we got the object from, or who we were with when we purchased or found it, what our life was like at the time, what it's like now, and where we've been in between, all of which is carried on in the object, regardless of whether it still exists or not. Creating a virtual memorial for my lost briefcase is the least I can do to honor my grandfather's gift, while, to some extent, confessing my guilt over getting rid of it.
Last seen August, 2005, in Oakland, California
Becky writes from Boston, where she spends a lot of time mulling over the way we deal with memory, loss, technology, and community.
Labels: briefcase, California, gift, grandfather, loss, move, Oakland
¶ 3:44 PM 1 Comments Links to this post
