Misfit Toys

Day 338: Misfit Toys

Who remembers the Island of Misfit Toys? Those who do will know that the toys were all charming, and cute, and sweet, in a quirky kind of way.

A train with square wheels.

A wind-up mouse in a set of nesting dolls.

A train with square wheels.

A polka-dot elephant (how moderne!)

A pink fire truck, a blue bicycle, a blue car and a white rocking horse (perhaps it is discrimination on the basis of color?).

A bird that swims, a bear that flies, and an airplane that doesn't.

A cowboy who rides an ostrich.

A Charlie-in-the-Box.

The toys I am getting rid of today include:

A plastic figure with no head.

A plastic wig with no doll.

A black plastic combat boot, one inch log.

A grey plastic wheel with no vehicle.

Five dominos from three different sets.

A single pink popping bead.

An off-white plastic mystery thing.

Good luck finding loving homes, misfit toys.

Winter Scarves

Day 329: Winter Scarves

I spent a good fifteen minutes staring at the bookshelves this morning. My dad suggested that I get rid of a book a day through the end of the stuff project, a scant 36 days from now.

But books flow into the house like water through a window screen. A single book isn't in the spirit of the stuff project; if I get rid of only one per day, I'll end up with a net gain. My rule has been to get rid of at least five books to make it count.

Well, I couldn't find a single one that I want to get rid of. I'm at a tipping point. To get rid of five more books would require a revolution in my personal library philosophy.

The books that are left fall into these categories:

(1) I like looking at them (art books)

(2) I enjoyed reading them so much, there is a good possibility I will read them again

(3) I enjoyed reading them so much, just looking at them gives me pleasure

(4) I haven't read them yet and I intend to

(5) They don't belong to me.

Although I can appreciate the clutter-free peacefulness of dozens of empty shelves, I'm just not ready. These two wool scarves, which have been hanging from a hook in the basement all winter, are a reprieve.

Thirty-five days and counting.

Sewing Machine Oil

Day 326: Sewing Machine Oil

Another item Barbara couldn't bear to throw away when she moved out. I just noticed it on my tool shelf. An item this old isn't a tool any more. It's a piece of Americana. Or perhaps an antique. Or perhaps even art.

With that in mind, I had a suspicion my sister would like it. Yes, she said. She does.

KitchenAid Timer

Day 314: KitchenAid Timer

A friend of a friend sent me a message saying he'd been looking for a little blue timer just like the one I was getting rid of. Could he buy the one I'd blogged about? I was delighted to offer it to him for free; it was just sitting in the box, destined for the Salvation Army. Could I drop it off for him on Thursday?

I got great pleasure from the thought that the little blue timer - which I bought decades ago with money from Grandma Lu - was going to be useful to someone. It made the effort of getting rid of something and writing about it seem worthwhile, at least for that one day. It made it easier to let go.

A co-worker told me a few days ago that thinking of other people getting value out of his old stuff has made it easier for him to let go of things, too. He told a story about putting an old chain saw out on the street on Spring Clean Up day in Plymouth, when anyone can put their old stuff out on the curb. A guy came along and picked up the chainsaw before Jeff even had time to set it down. A guy who seemed capable of fixing it. Who was excited to have it. So Jeff has gotten much more pleasure out of giving away the old chainsaw than he ever got from having it stored in the basement, an unfinished task hanging around like a rain cloud.

With most of my stuff, it's hard for me to visualize the Salvation Army customer who might buy it and get the joy of using it and the joy of a bargain all wrapped in a single package. Most of my stuff, I think, people won't want. But maybe I'm wrong. I wouldn't have thought anyone would want that little blue wind-up timer. Doesn't everyone have a timer on their stove and their cell phone and their digital clock and their microwave and their iPad already?

Unfortunately, this story has an unhappy ending. Like yesterday's laundry basket, the little blue timer went to the Salvation Army with Sam and never came home. I forgot to take it out before I sent Sam on his errand.

John CP, would you like a KitchenAid timer instead?

Potholders

Day 312: Potholders

Why keep replacing the cotton
when silicone lasts forever?

What is silicone anyway? I believed it to be a form of plastic, but no. It's a unique substance, two molecules of silicon, one of oxygen, combined with hydrogen or carbon, invented in 1901. Semi-organic. It's strange to think that my lobster claw potholder could also be used as a breast implant, a lubricant, a raincoat, shampoo, fire retardant, silly putty or eco-friendly dry-cleaning chemicals.

My sister made me feel better about my trashed, burned and stained kitchen linens. I often feel just a little frustrated with myself because I can't seem to keep stuff nice. All my resolutions - not to wear work shoes to weed the garden, not to walk eight miles in a cashmere sweater, not to scrub the sink with the pretty flower-handled dish brush, not to put loose pieces of chewing gum in the bottom of my purse - are easily forgotten in the moment. But Elizabeth says that kitchen linens must be replaced from time to time. Not even Martha Stewart can keep them nice. And she gave me a set of hand-knitted cotton dishrags.

Ah, but silicone! Silicone potholders never get stained or burned. They're odd and rubbery. It's a bit hard to get the hang of using them. But once you do, you can take even the hottest chicken pot pie out of the oven without burning your fingers. I bought one from IKEA because it looks like a lobster claw. I had hoped that it might trigger a Rich-riff worthy of John Stewart. Indeed, it did. But now the riff is past, and the lobster-claw turns out to be the sturdiest and most useful of our potholders. Only one caveat: mice eat silicone potholders when the weather gets cold enough.

Timer

Day 312: Timer

There's something viscerally pleasing about simple mechanical devices. Things that you can look at and understand, things that never break down, things that don't require any external sources of power. One-speed bicycles. Hourglasses. Balance scales. Candles. Whisks. Wooden pencils. Wind-up timers.

Back in the day, I rented a flat with a little gas stove and no microwave. No digital thermometers. No self-cleaning. No popcorn setting. No timers. Now I've got a fancy gas stove with an electric convection oven and a microwave, both of which have timers, and countless other clocks and timing devices.

It's a little hard to let go of this wind-up timer. When I moved into my first apartment, Grandma Lu (my dad's step-mother) gave me a check for $25 to set myself up with some kitchen supplies. This was one of them, along with a hand-mixer, cookie sheets, a set of measuring cups and spoons, and potholders. Grandma Lu didn't believe that all these things could be had for $25, but indeed, in 1985, it was possible.

If the little blue timer was a little cuter - shaped like a tomato, perhaps, or a pig - I might keep it. But it's not cute, and it's not necessary, and it's cluttering up the bookshelf. I've got a couple things left from Grandma Lu's $25 gift. I haven't used the hand-mixer, for example, since Mom and Dad gave me the CuisinArt stand mixer a couple years ago for my birthday. Maybe the hand-mixer will be the next to go.

General Cleansing

Day 310: General Cleansing

Feng shui!

I did myself proud last Sunday, with Rich's encouragement. I personally selected and installed a new HDTV (that's high definition television for you Luddites), an Apple TV and a rotating wall mount. I also removed our dying desktop computer (we've all got laptops now) and organized the spaghetti wires connecting the speakers, receiver, printer, wifi transmitter, modem, television and Apple TV. I've transformed our messy and un-feng shui computer desk into a neatly organized entertainment/office area.

Not feng shui!

The pleasing anti-clutter, however, just magnifies the disturbing uber-clutter directly across.

Emblematic of a boatload of junk

I've gotten rid of a great deal from these cluttered shelves, but somehow, they still look awful. So this morning, I went through them shelf by shelf to figure out why. I won't bore you with the details, but involved a fair amount of recycling, several musical instruments, a hefty black Coleman flashlight, miscellaneous battery chargers for unspecified electronics, and a bunch of books on the shelves but not quite shelved. This little cardboard box, which went into the recycling bin, is a symbol of all the rest of the recycling and outright trash that went into creating a more peaceful place for my eyes.

Towels

Day 297: Towels

If you look closely at this picture, you will see the tattered edges and lengths of unraveled string on these old towels. They were wedding gifts, 19 years ago. I've learned that the Humane Society will accept old towels. I've also realized my children will continue taking clean towels out of the cupboard every time they take a shower, until there are no more. At that point, they will go to their rooms and pick the driest towel up off the floor to reuse. Therefore, if there are only eight towels in the cupboard instead of 16, the only impact will be less laundry for me. And less clutter.

Surprised (as I am many days) that there are still so many things to get rid of.

Baskets

Day 296: Baskets
Baskets! I like them almost as much as I like bowls, towels and sheets. But, as with every other category of objects, not all baskets are created equal. Some are lovely, colorful, finely woven, handmade craftsmanship. Others come from the bargain table at Michael's. While these aren't quite junk, they're not nearly as nice as the handled basket my sister gave me a few years ago, which she got at the art fair, or the deep blue rectangular basket Bob got me at 10,000 Villages, or the giant sturdy baskets I bought from a tribal woman in Nairobi and brought back with me on the airplane.

The only reason I still have these - day 294 - is that they have been stored on top of my kitchen cabinets, well above eye level. I happened to glance up this morning and thought, "Aha!" One more day taken care of.

Now, if I could just get Rich out to the studio.

Classic Movies

Day 295: Classic Movies

Dear Mom and Dad (two of my very few readers):

Thanks for reading my blog regularly enough that I'm pretty sure you'll get this message. I love getting your email comments.

Question: would you please accept these five DVDs for your collection at Gros Cap? Gros Cap would be a great place second home for these outstanding classics. Time is fluid there. The place has enough amenities to be comfortable, and is just low tech enough to foster deep relaxation. No computers, but a broad collection of highly readable paperbacks, ranging from Jim Harrison to Tony Hillerman. No wifi, but a DVD player and a sizable collection of fun-to-watch movies. You've got all our favorites: Young Frankenstein. My Cousin Vinnie. Men in Black. So I Married an Ax Murderer. These would be an excellent addition to the library: fun to watch, excellent execution, tense enough to be engrossing but not so scary that you'd want to go stay in a Holiday Inn near the freeway.

Rich and I love classic movies, especially Alfred Hitchcock. But we're all about streaming these days.

Love,
Karen

More Sports Illustrateds and National Geographics

Day 291: More Sports Illustrateds and National Geographics

I have a couple of unwritten rules for the stuff project that make it a challenge. First, I'm not counting getting rid of anything I have come to possess since the start of the project. Second, I'm trying to achieve a net reduction of one object per day. The idea is that I should end the year with 365 fewer objects than at the start. This would be in contrast to getting 365 new things, and getting rid of 365 old things.

For me, this has proved to be the most difficult, and the most habit-changing. I suspect that I've been getting rid of an average of one thing a day for many years - and acquiring two newer, better objects each day. Or at least they seemed newer and better at the time. Whether the exchange has truly increased my happiness is a big question. Rich calls this "Reaching for a shiny object."

I've been fretting about the post I made yesterday, feeling that I didn't quite capture the essence of what I admire so much about Jane and Rich, and why I find it so deeply relaxing to spend time at Jane's house. I believe the habit of not reaching for a shiny object is somehow at the core. Wanting, researching, buying, unloading the car, disposing of packaging, breaking in, breaking out and arranging new stuff - these are all work, and costly, too. By getting rid of a net of one thing a day, I've become much more conscious of the mental effort I'm constantly putting into upgrading.

I was doing it last week, on vacation. My running shoes are several years old. My knees hurt. Better cushioning might help. While we were in St. Augustine, Sam got a great bargain on a new pair of Nikes at the Nike outlet. Cute shoes! Almost half off! Fit great! Great cushioning! After his trip to the outlet store, I'd expend mental energy every day thinking about the outlet mall, trying to decide whether it was worth a trip. In those moments, I wasn't in the vacation zone - long, slow walks on the beach, crossword puzzles, beer on the lanai, a game of cards - I was in acquisition mode. Plotting and planning to get something new.

I'm doing it right now. I've never liked the medicine cabinet, vanity and light fixture in our upstairs bathroom. The medicine cabinet and vanity seem to have a southwestern motif; the light fixture is faux Victorian. They don't go together, and they don't go with the house. I've spent time at Home Depot, checking out the vanities. I've had a plumber out here: the vanity is high quality even if it is ugly. He suggests having it refaced. This morning, I noticed that the vanity's bottom drawer is completely broken off. Is this the excuse I need to replace it?

Honestly, I'm doing this everywhere in the house, all the time: the living room sofa cushions are tamped down and losing stuffing, the lining has come off on the bottom. The paint is scuffed in the kitchen next to the garbage pail. I used to love the red wall in the basement, now I wish it was a more neutral color. The wood floors are getting worn and need to be refinished. The glider rocker we used to rock our kids to sleep is ugly. The futon couch in the attic is uncomfortable.

All these things take mental energy, energy that I'm not using to be a better writer, or a better musician, or more fit. Or more at peace. What if instead of noticing all the flaws in everything I own, I simply accepted it? What if I committed to my stuff in the same way I'm committed to my marriage, to my job, to my kids?

The Dalai Lama gives an image for meditation: a water glass full of sand, the sand stirred up so that it clouds the water. Meditation - sitting, practicing - simply allows the water to become still, and the sand to sink to the bottom. The sand is still there, but resting quietly. The water becomes clear. It seems that stuff stirs the current of my mind, clouding it. At Jane's, these thoughts (mostly) are stilled. My mind is clear. Calm. Peaceful.

Today, I'm breaking my rule about not counting things that I've acquired since the onset of the stuff project. If you'll recall, in the beginning, I get rid of tons of magazines: Tricycle, Sports Illustrated, National Geographic. Already, I've got a huge stack of new magazines, which I'll take to the library free rack yet again. I'm trying to be so very conscious of not bringing new stuff into the house, yet it's so very difficult. I admire the Amish, who consider each thing carefully before acquiring it. They only bring it into their households if the object will bring utility for generations. If you know that not only yourself, but your children and your children's children, will be responsible for each object you acquire, this would undoubtedly raise the acquisition bar.

High enough, perhaps, that our minds would be free of plotting and planning the next purchase. I wonder, what would such an unencumbered mind accomplish?

Garbage Disposer Part

Day 284: Garbage Disposer Part

We are cursed, at least insofar as garbage disposers are concerned. We burn one out every couple years or so. If I ever lose my job, I could have a second career installing garbage disposers. We don't compost to nourish our garden or to help the environment. We compost to prolong the relentlessly short life of our latest garbage disposer.

New garbage disposers come with the main machine - the garbage disposer itself - and with the static parts that get installed in and under the sink to hold the machine in place and create the finished look. These things never break or wear out. They accumulate under the sink like mouse turds or old raggedy towels. Yet they are so sturdy, so upstanding and solid - inanimate Calvinists, primed and ready for heaven - that you just can't bring yourself to toss them out with the rest of the packaging.  

You never know when you might want to install a new sink pipe liner.

Sunglasses

Day 269: Sunglasses

Sadly, if you are blind in one eye, you begin to lose the vision in your good eye at a younger age.  When you are a teenager, you might feel smug about the fact that the vision in your good eye is better than most people's. So what if you can't parallel park or play tennis? Not only do you have 20/20 vision in your good eye, you have better than 20/20 vision! You can read the phone book (back when there were phone books)! You can see an eagle flying near the clouds at dawn! You can walk in the woods at midnight without a flashlight! Woot.

All that hubris fades around forty, when you're the youngest person you know in progressive lenses. At fifty, over-the-counter reading glasses (to supplement your progressive lenses) are no longer strong enough, and you find yourself squinting, or buying large-type books, or reading eBooks on a tablet that allows you to increase the font size (thereby trading the irritation of holding the books at arm's length for the irritation of having to turn the metaphoric page every few seconds).

Furthermore, at fifty, you can no longer spend $5 for a pair of fashion sunglasses, which you don't really have to keep track of because you can always buy another pair. No, it is prescription all the way, indoors and out, summer and winter. Your prescription lenses are as much a part of you as the mole on the back of your hand or the little space between your front teeth.

The blessing in all this - and I think of this almost every day, is that eyeglasses are an option. Without them, I would be in trouble. Everything I do - working, going to the movies, needlepoint, reading - would be lost. With them, it's a fashion statement.

Remember the Twilight Zone episode where Harrison Ford plays a henpecked husband who wants nothing more than to read from morning until night, if only he weren't constantly thwarted by his wife? But good news is coming! A nuclear holocaust wipes out mankind (including the shrewish wife)! How extremely fortunate! Harry, miraculously unscathed, can read, read, read, day in and day out. Until his glasses get broken.

Another advantage of modern times: when I can't see to read any more, I can always listen to books on tape. When the holocaust comes, no worries.

Goodbye, cheap old sunglasses. Hello, old age.

Magic Kit in Texas Pecan Pie Box

Day 261: Magic Kit in Texas Pecan Pie Box

Magic. The word may be a bit overused, but only because the idea is so thrilling. So tantalizing. So...well...magical.

I'm a sucker for everything from Harry Potter to sleight of hand. And I do mean sucker. I saw Penn & Teller at the beautiful Orpheum Theater at Market and Hyde around 1995. A perfect melding of magic and comedy, they had no compunctions about revealing their tricks. I was one of the blind idiots in the audience sitting on the edge of my seat, mouth slightly open, eyes squinting in concentration, awed and suspicious, completely fooled while knowing that it was all illusion. Over and again they slowed the tricks down, slower than the Six Million Dollar Man, explaining all the while how they were misdirecting our eyes, tricking us into looking in the wrong direction. People were laughing and clapping, catching on, figuring it out. Everyone but me. Even as they were explaining the misdirection, my eyes were looking the wrong way.

This box of magic tricks is like the strip in Las Vegas on a bright sunny morning. Not nearly as breathtaking as at night, dressed up with neon, the darkness hiding the gum wrappers and flaking paint. A magic kit isn't for someone who loves magic. It's for someone who's patient enough, detail-oriented enough and devilishly deceitful enough to put in the hours. Someone who reads operating instructions.

That person is not me, nor is it Sam, nor Emma.

I like the construction of the pie box. The sentiment - "You might give some serious thought to thanking your lucky stars you're in Texas" - is exactly designed to discomfit my diffident mid-western heart. Those Texans. Tsk.

Loved the pecan pie, though.

Misto

Day 258: Misto

More from the spice cupboard: a Misto. Could be considered waste reducing, because it replaces disposal aerosol spray oils like Pam. Could be considered waste creating, because it stops working after a while and just sprays out a single messy stream of oil in an unpredictable direction, such that you shove it to the back of the cupboard, stop using it, and revert to good old-fashioned small pours of oil from the bottle directly into the pan, and why would anyone need Pam anyway?

Do you ever get tired from thinking so much? I do.

Soap Boxes

Day 239: Soap Boxes

Naturally, it's tempting to make atrocious puns about soap boxes and excessive packaging. I do so love fine double-milled French soaps, and they do so often come in fancy packages. And it's so hard to get rid of fancy packages. And there's no purpose to put to the fancy packages. Into the recycling. 

Contents of the Junk Drawer

Day 233: Contents of the Junk Drawer
I didn't realize I had a junk drawer, until I opened the small drawer in our credenza and noticed all the junk. Here's what I found and either threw away or added to the Goodwill box:

• Hardware to go with the curtain rods that I put in the Goodwill box a few days ago. Sam was supposed to drop all that stuff off at the Goodwill last weekend, but luckily, he forgot. Now the rods and the hardware are in the same box.
• Three coasters from different brew pubs. We had thought this would be a good way to remember what local brews we'd tried. The idea clearly lasted for three outings, and then we stuffed the idea away and forgot about it.
• A leather phone case that does not fit any of our phones.
• A hex wrench that clearly came with a piece of assemble-it-yourself Ikea furniture, and a broken folding plier and penknife.
• Business cards for people I don't remember.
• A partial broken Christmas ornament.
• A broken shell necklace and a broken headband.
• A stiff, corroded eraser that no longer works.

I also found a huge fistful of pens, colored pencils and crayons, now stowed in their proper places.
The only thing left in the drawer is a half-dozen pairs of cheap sunglasses. Time to rename the drawer.

I may regret my decision to combine the contents of the junk drawer into a single day. I'm starting to feel cocky now that I'm almost two-thirds of the way there.

Curtain Rods

Day 221: Curtain Rods

These ends are a testament to why
keeping stuff around is not a good idea.
How did they get crushed? I don't know.
I hope they're still usable for someone.

The au pair we had in between Nadin and Ina - Nicole - wanted curtains for her attic bedroom. She felt exposed up there, even though it's a floor above any of our neighbors' living spaces, and even though most of the windows are skylights pointing towards the clouds. Nicole had a few other complaints as well. Rich and I drank all the coffee and didn't leave any for her. Her bed was uncomfortable, too soft, not enough support. The kids made her feel "stressy," they didn't mind very well. I bought these rods for her with every intention of acquiring and putting up curtains for her, but it just never happened. In an old house like ours, I'm not a fan of curtains unless they are absolutely necessary for privacy's sake. Every ray of sunshine should be embraced and uplifted. Nothing should diminish the light.

I lived in San Francisco for twelve years, and for a good portion of that time, I had a little apartment in a ten-story building on Alamo Square Park (site of postcard row). I had a beautiful western-facing view of the City: from my window, I could see the Panhandle and Golden Gate Park in the distance, the distant trees a backdrop to the vast sea of apartment buildings, houses, cafes, sidewalks, gas stations, bodegas, bicycles, streets, light poles, cars, passersby, transit lines and on and on and on.

At one point, my father gave me a telescope and I set it up by the window. I think my intentions were pure - I would look at the moon, or the birds, or try to spy the ocean in the far distance.

Naturally, the view a little closer to home was much more interesting. The telescope was a secret peek into slices of my neighbors' lives. The City is so dense, you can live in the building next door to someone for a decade and not recognize her when you pass her on the street. I never saw anything even remotely scintillating through the telescope. Not even a PG-13 kiss. It's not that people had their curtains closed. It's just that they usually do things like watch t.v., or talk on the phone, or read the newspaper. Things that aren't very interesting to watch.

I quickly lost interest in the telescope. Watching ore boats go by on Lake Michigan in the U.P. is much more captivating than watching your neighbors eat a bowl of cereal. But the telescope had the paradoxical effect of diminishing my commitment to window treatments. If someone really wants to watch  me type my blog through a telescope from some neighboring building, let them. What's the harm in watching?

Chewbacca Doll, Matchbox Car, Flashlight, Phone Cord and Plastic Box

Day 214: Chewbacca Doll, Matchbox Car, Flashlight, Phone Cord and Plastic Box

I'm starting to notice the tiniest useless things these days. Things that wouldn't have warranted a blog post a hundred days ago. Things tucked away behind books or on top shelves. Unnoticed, forgotten, obsolete.

Yesterday, Rich made me promise that I would not get rid of any photographs. We've got two giant plastic boxes full of them, snapshots from the days before digital cameras. He says people love photographs. He says that if he had a pacemaker, I'd be eyeballing it, complaining that it's too squat and suggesting that someone else might get more value out of it than him.

What is the point of this project, now that I am running out of things to get rid of? I have a rule that says that everyone in the household has the right to refuse to get rid of anything they want. Sam can keep his hand puppets, and his Nerf guns and water pistols, his soccer balls and skim boards. Rich can keep his photographs, and his music gear.

I don't know what the next 152 days have in store. I may be just a little sorry for those heady days, months ago, when I gave away entire wheelbarrows full of electronics and cartons full of bedsheets. But I'm determined not to give up. I've already invested 213 days.

The funny thing is, though, that scraping the barrel is starting to make a difference in my daily life in a way that wheelbarrows never did. I ridiculed myself for the lameness of the KitchenAid owner's manual last week, but getting rid of that owner's manual has actually created more order than getting rid of the stack of owner's manual from the owner's manual file box in the more distant past. The KitchenAid owner's manual is so insignificant, I haven't really seen it since I placed it on that shelf. But now that it's gone, that little shelf is more orderly. It's easier to find the stuff I'm really looking for. When I reach into that shelf now, I get a little feeling of satisfaction. Yesterday, I framed a couple of lithographs, moved my mystery writer's teapot to the spot they'd been occupying, and made room on the little bookshelf below my mirror for lipstick and foundation. This morning when I put on my make-up, it was easy to see it, easy to apply it, easy to feel a frisson of pride for the work that went into making that little space more functional.

I liken it to getting your teeth cleaned at the dentist. Every day, you're brushing and flossing, freshening your breath and getting rid of the crumbs between your teeth. But at the dentist, they use  picks to scrape away the invisible tartar. It's a little uncomfortable, but at the end, your teeth feel clean. Really clean.

So that's what I'm doing now. Scraping tartar off my cupboards and shelves. I don't know if there are 153 more items to be scraped and cleaned away, and I'm resolved not to scrape away any enamel just for the sake of writing about it. But I'm eagerly awaiting that day when the entire property is clean, fresh and free of tartar. After that, who knows?

Video Camera

Day 134: Video Camera

That quarter ought to give you an idea
of the scale of this machine

Rich understands this video camera far better than I do. It's definitely not like a smart phone video camera, which fits in your pocket and can be accessed with an upward swipe.

We purchased it after Emma Jane and before Sam was born. It is the technology that produced those early EmmaVision VCR tapes. A couple I especially remember: dancing around with Emma in my arms. She was dressed in red all-in-one jammies and laughing; I was wearing a red fleece robe. The Talking Heads are singing: "He's so cute in his little red suit!" Gramma and Pappa and Richie are dancing too. Or my personal favorite: my voice behind the camera googoo'ing as Emma Jane crawls toward a light socket and sticks her finger in; I fail to notice. It's a miracle she survived long enough to get admitted to college.

Rich used this thing to film the G-rated aspects of Sam's birth. Despite the G-rating, Sam and I share an aversion to watching that particular video. My favorite footage: Sam screaming bloody murder, covered in waxy muck while being swabbed off by a nurse in rubber gloves, while Dr. Gay sews up my episiotomy in the background. Just what every new mother wants to see.

This device involves special tapes with acronyms I don't understand, fancy plugs, computers and transfers to other special tapes with other acronyms. When we bought it, we thought of it as sleek, small and high tech. Now it seems as awkward and outsized as the cliched chubby kid in a Disney flick. Maybe a passionate retro Community High freshman would be interested in using it to make passionate retro videos.

Otherwise, at sixteen years old, this bit of technology is utterly, completely obsolete.