Thursday, May 27, 2010
I remember when I used to visit the public library, check out a floppy disc from the desk ("Kung-Fu" or "Oregon Trail"), and sign out a computer for an hour. There's a part of me that misses the clackity-clack of the charcoal grey keyboard tempered by the smell of old paperbacks and the coolness of the dark brown bricks, transporting me from a humid, horse-fly-filled August afternoon in Minnesota into an action-packed world of colors and bits.When my allotted time came to an end, I'd close the program, slide the 5 1/2" floppy back into its protective (tyvek?) sleeve, gather my books (Choose-Your-Own-Adventures, strange tales of North American cryptozoology - Mothman! Goat Sucker! - thick, dinosaur-rich books on paleontology, Superman anthologies, pocket-sized Heathcliff, the not-Garfield, collections) and wait in the air conditioned lobby for my mom to return from her errands. Then we'd head to our home on Marth Road. As the evening cooled a bit, I'd grab my white and pink "L.A." skateboard and ride on my belly down the hill in the neighboring office park. Sometimes I'd try to do tricks like hopping up onto the curb but I'd usually just end up bashing my bare ankles. Then dinner.
Then I'd climb the hollow tree outside by the driveway (once, I was surprised by a raccoon inside the tree and fell off - every time I climbed it after that, I secretly hoped it was still there).
Then I'd dive into my new books for a while, lingering on realistically rendered images of Parasaurolophus and Brachiosaurus, grainy images of Bigfoot plodding through the Northwestern rainforests, and running out of placeholding fingers in my CYOA books.