Analog Days

no. 45

“Nostalgia is not a strategy.” - Mark Carney, Canadian Prime Minister

When I was a kid, my dad would wake up before everyone else. He made coffee and ate breakfast—usually yogurt, a banana, or oatmeal. He would pore over the newspaper while he ate. My mom would read it later, and at some point the paper would end up in the recycling bin. In sixth grade, I would flip to the science section to find an article. We were asked to read one and summarize it, which I didn’t find easy. Now, I only know one person who subscribes to a physical newspaper: Velma. I like to hand it to Lucca so he can take it to her. I discovered that we still have a local newspaper, and I found the spot in front of the post office where copies are left each day. I pick one up when I walk the neighborhood with Lucca. In it, I found a picture of a newborn bonobo at the Frankfurt Zoo. Leif, Enzo, and I were mesmerized.

There were kids at our house the other day, and they talked about video games.
“Can we go play video games?” they all chimed in.
“No, today is an analog day.”
They ignored me, not understanding the reference.

I think often about the technology that absorbs our lives, encroaching more and more all the time. I spend long stretches thinking about how I will talk to my boys about it. My aunt got me thinking that perhaps they could learn the analog ways first—the newspaper, board games, the atlas, letters, even building a campfire.

At Velma’s, there are all shapes and sizes of wood. Lumber discarded from building projects. Timber from trees that had to come down. She has a fireplace she reads by. I have a fireplace in my house that has rarely been used. On days when the fog socks us in, the house feels chilled. I am often cold, so I started building fires for myself. The boys and I gather wood from Velma’s bountiful stash. Lucca helps me unload it. Leif and Enzo gather what we’ll use for one night and bring it inside. I challenge myself to get better at building fires. I try not to use a fire starter. I collect paper and cardboard and stuff it under the grate. I use the lighter sparingly, adding paper to stoke the fire. I’m drawn to the popping and crackling—it’s crisp and definitive. The boys come in and out, sometimes sitting with me. I wonder if I’ve built one hundred fires. I imagine that at one hundred, I’ll know more than I did when I first started, when the fire frequently went out. I relish the ritual at the end of the day.

Wednesday marks the 100th day of school for the boys. It’s a celebration of their accomplishments and persistence. For me, it’s a marker of time passing without Leifer home. Leif is tasked with a 100-day project. We fold origami paper into cat faces. Leif likes the big cats—leopards, tigers, and cheetahs. We read about them most nights. The boys and I talk about how important apex predators are, those at the top of the food chain. We depend on them. Enzo works hard at his origami, and I’m amazed by his persistence through all seven steps. Enzo likes to draw the faces. We use decoupage to glue the cats onto a giant piece of cardboard—recycled cardboard from protesting. We could have taken a much simpler route with this project, but I’m glad we’re doing something together. The repetitive steps of making one hundred cats distract me from my own worries.

The days move slowly. After school, we are home. There is always something to do at home—that’s what Leifer tells me. The boys do more now: they manage their laundry, take out the trash, and wipe down surfaces. Lucca likes to vacuum. We weed the garden, and still there is more to do. Unscheduled, I find these days more tenable.