Low Tech

I remember my first computer.

Touchstones like that are more commonly the First Car, First Pet, First Love, First Kiss.

Of course I recall all those too - but household computing defines the turning point in the information age. And that's where I live.

My first computer was an old 286 clone that I was given by friends in trade for services as the Gardener at Chez Graham. This may be where I developed my affection for making thing grow neatly; I certainly fought the Idea at the house in the Sticks. Mom kept a pretty extensive vegetable garden. Weeding it was one of the worst menial chores on the docket.

Things change.

Dad took some time to embrace technology, but not so long as you'd think. His office at his elementary school in the Sticks picked up the education standard in the fall of 1982; the Apple //e.

I'd had a marginal amount of experience with them at that point; friends of mine had parents who were notorious early adopters of technology - especially that which would benefit the advancement of their children's scholastic educations. They were both teachers. All three boys have degrees. Two have Doctorates. They're all extremely intelligent, well-rounded and successful in their fields.

Just sayin.

The first time Dad went to take a poke at his office Computer, he called me at the house.

"How do I get this thing to work?" He asked.

"Well, just type MENU, and hit the enter button."

"Ya, I know about that. How do I turn it on?"

And that was my first experience as Tech Support. It wouldn't be my last.

One notes that the next generation of personal computers had the power switch up front, and labelled.

Go figure.

Dad loved computers. He had, prior to that, an electronic chess board that had 10 levels of play, and he played it a lot; none of us could ever present much of a challenge for him. It got to the point where he would routinely beat it on its highest setting.

He had other challenges, as all working folk do. He loved his students, school, and staff, but had... challenges... dealing with a School Board rife with political agendas - especially his Superintendent at the time.

He was discussing his frustration with that particular person on Saturday afternoon in my 14th year, when I had a (for me,  exceedingly rare) Moment of Clarity.

"You know that chess game of yours?" I asked him. "I think it's kind of like that. You're playing at level 10 against a level 2 opponent."

Dad stood there looking at me for another one of those Longest Moments in Recorded History. It would not be the last time I saw that look... but it would be infrequent.

And then he started to laugh.

"Kid, you're exactly right, you know that?" and that was the last time I ever recall seeing Dad stressed from work.

It would, of course take me many, many years to understand the truth which I had, in my naïvety, spoken. I have since become a student of Hanlon's Razor and the Dunning-Kruger Effect, but I, as I occasionally do, digress.

Anyway, Dad also saw fit to let us have a really cool, second generation Video console in the mid 80's, under the rationale that it was good for hand-eye coordination, and problem solving. We got a little Intellivision II console... and played it until I had to re-engineer the hand controllers so the buttons worked.

I Loved Sub Hunt. Atlantis was pretty cool, too.

Dad would eventually commit all his writings and gaming to a third- or fourth- generation Mac. He spent a lot of time on it until the fall of 1997. I've salvaged what I can of his writing over the years, and have, on more than one occasion, threatened to publish it out here somewhere where it can be enjoyed. He'd like that.

And I like to think he'd really get a kick out of where his Mac home computer has taken western Society.

Well... maybe to a point.

I call Mom once a week, every Friday evening. Depending on how tired she is, and how much stimulation she's had through the day, her memory is either crystal - or not so much. Less of both is usually better for lucidity. For the most part, I get to repeat the same jokes, stories, blog posts, and she always laughs. I find it rather cathartic, and pleasant closure to a usually hectic week. I always feel like she's happy to hear from me.

This last time, she said in an offhand sort of way "Well, My watch does everything..."

I chuckled a little at that. "What?" she said. "It tells me the time, the day, the Date..."

This is a digital she's had for probably a dozen years. Mom was never quite so interested in technology as was Dad.

I've seen my Mother's cell phone. From a couple years ago. It was a ridiculous, obsolete brick then, too. She only ever turned it on when she wished to call out.

I said Mom didn't particularily embrace current technology. I didn't say she didn't have good ideas.

So I explained the current level of technology that is the Standard Issue Smartphone. Calendar, Address Book, World-Wide Instant Communications portal, Library, Encyclopedia, Phonebook, Interactive Map, Camera, Video camera, Stereo system, Music Library, Entertainment platform, Voice memo recorder, GPS Unit, and on, and on, and more computing power than NASA used to send Neil to the Moon in '69.

All arranged neatly in a package sized to fit in the palm of your hand. It's very nearly miraculous.

Mother was suitably impressed. Or perhaps asleep. I was almost assuredly Oxidizing by then.

As a matter of fact, I've been watching a series of television programming from the BBC dating back to the mid 70's called Connections. It's an excellent series starring James Burke. I highly recommend it.

The fact that I watched it in my home, on my wireless network, using my hand-held tablet, merely enhanced the delicious irony of the content.

I must admit, also, that I wrote the majority of this posting lounging beside the pool at my Brother- and Sister-in-Law's house.

On that same Tablet.

It's awesome. I used to tell people right when the Internet got interesting that I didn't know everything... but I knew where to find it.

And THAT is the other side of the sword. Smart devices are going to make us all Dumb, I swear. Nobody has to remember anything any more.

Kids don't know their own phone numbers because it's speed dial. #1.
Can't read a map because the GPS tells us to turn in 50 meters.
Can't look up anything unless it's on Google.

And most recently there's been an alarming trend of kids walking into disaster, Ears budded, eyes down.

And sometimes... driving.

Man, don't even go there.

And -  Pretty Soon we'll be wearing them... or they will be integrated into us.

It's gonna make us Dumb. Maybe that's how SkyNet wins.

Evidently Mom's been making noise about wanting a computer. I think we'll check her out on an iPad first. See how it goes...

When Lawn Chairs Attack!

Dad had a long-standing, near-legendary problem with folding lawn chairs.

Wait, What? Lawn Chairs?

Yep.

Looks innocuous enough, doesn't it? Woven polyester/plastic slats, 1mm thick rolled aluminum molded into 2.5 cm diameter formed piping, riveted together in a fashion ostensibly designed to provide hours - years - of support as you are entertained in the Great-Out-of-Doors.

But there's one thing the packing label won't tell you. It hints at it nowadays - but doesn't come out and say it directly.

Turns out Dad started to expand a bit once he hit 30. He always, in his own writing, would refer to himself as Slim Hunter - as, in his late teens and early 20s, he was certainly beanpole-esque at a long 193 cm and barely scratching 97 kilos.

For those of you for whom Metric is so much gobbledygook,  that works out to 6'4" and just a touch over 210 pounds.

And by 30 - getting larger. Interestingly, his limbs remained lean and very strong. Unfortunately that meant that all his weight gain for the next 30 years was in his chest and gut. He managed it by remaining active, Hiking, Running, Hunting, and eventually Cycling. I think he probably got back down to 105 kilos from cycling by the time he was 55 - but still had the legs and arms of a leaner man... so still seemed bulky.

Yes, I know Dad always swore he was 6'5". He also always wore cowboy boots. It's easy to add an inch to your height when nobody can see the top of  your head.

At any rate, I was looking Dad in the eye by the time I was 20 years old - and I've never made it past 193cm.

Let's just say that Dad was pretty freakin' large and leave it there.

I don't remember where we were the first time it happened - but I wasn't very old. Probably around 8. That would make Dad 38, and in the worst of his paunch development. He was in a lawn chair, as shown above.

On Grass. On the tiniest slope backward, and to the right. The conditions, as they say, were perfect.

The lawn chair, sensing that Dad was at ease, and therefore vulnerable, suddenly, maliciously and without warning threw him to the ground and clamped its ravenous jaws upon his buttock in an effort to eat him whole.

Dad, never one to be ignominiously eaten by mere furniture, fought back.

This did not appear to be the case from the vantage of the casual viewer, of course. The scene was more reminiscent of an upside-down turtle trying to get clear of a set of bagpipes - and it sounded imaginably similar, too.

After a few minutes of flailing around and some mildish cursing, Dad rolled to his feet, victorious, the mangled carcass of the lawn chair laying in crushed defeat before him. He escaped with only scratches, amidst much tittering from various onlookers.

I said that was the First Time. There were a few others; details mostly the same until the last one which actually drew blood in an attempt to relieve Dad of his kidneys. He liked to show people the scar.

But that was that. Mom found a different brand of lawn chair in Better Homes for Ogres and went shopping, coming back from the Outdoor Shop in the next town... which was in the next province... with four sturdy, thick-rolled, thin tube, very, very sturdily (and therefore, tame) framed chairs.

Which had canvas seats. Nice striped ones.

The canvas on the chairs suffered Dad and weather for a single season, and then promptly split on the first trip the next spring. Dad,  his backside on the ground, arms akimbo and feet dangling, sputtering and cursing somewhat less mildly, fought his way loose form the Very Very Sturdy Frame, and left it where it fell in its disgrace, laying on its side.

Mom looked at the chair. Then back to her spring edition of Ogre Living. Then back at the chair. This went on for some time as Dad, still sputtering, used his chainsaw to cut a stump to sit on.

Well - I presume it was him sputtering... it may have been the chainsaw. The pitch was similar.

Mom eventually put down the magazine with a shrug, picked up the now-denuded lawn chair frame, her bag of macramé cord, and a fresh glass of Sangria from her Camping wine box, and went to work.

Mom macraméd. And Knitted. Pretty much if it had to do with knotting up fibers, she built stuff out of it. We all had really warm sweaters. Nice ones. We had furniture, planters and wall hangings littering our house in The Sticks.

Speaking of knotting things - she also used to cut our hair. But that's, as I like to say, a story for another time.

She also liked to take a box or two of Sangria on camping trips. She says it helped drown out all the sputtering.

At any rate, over several days she built a seat and back out of the macramé cord, weaving and knotting and creating pleasant patterns in tan, cream and green. I suspect it was of her own design, I can't be sure and she can't recall. Eventually, over that summer, she had re-upholstered all four of those chairs.

And they were brilliant. They lasted forever. And superbly comfortable. But there was a drawback... and it was why they were superbly comfortable.

Macramé cord tends to stretch. A few seasons of Dad sitting on them, and the chairs were like little hammocks slung in an upright frame. You get in, and if you're under a certain height... your feet no longer touch the ground.

But you're comfortable. Especially when the backs got bent a little further back from use so your chin wasn't crammed into your chest. It's impossible to get out of the chair without help, but it's okay... you're comfortable.

Just don't decide you need to pee.

One thing though - you couldn't manage a plate in them. Your knees were usually about chest high. Balancing a plate on that was not going to happen.

I haven't sat in one of those chairs in 15 years. Now lawn chairs are geodesic arrangements of piping covered in ballistic nylon - no way you're getting through that. But I said they come with a warning.

Maximum weight 225 lbs.

Dad would love that.

As such, I'm very careful sitting in them. I'm pretty sure that tag means that if you're less than that, you aren't a worthy meal.

The other day when I was thinking about this, I thought, "no way..." and then Googled Macramé Lawn Chairs. Yep, They exist. She could have made a fortune. But probably not.

I'm pretty sure I saw a Macramé Lawn Chair peeking around from a dark corner in the basement of Mom's house when we packed it up last June.

Wouldn't surprise me. It was probably pretty hungry.