My mother often reminisces about the night before I was born, when she bowled what she claims was the best game of her life. Not exactly a conventional pre-birth activity. She even admitted to enjoying whiskey sours during her pregnancy—though that’s a tale for another time. I still treasure the “Most Improved Bowler” trophy she earned, a charming little piece with a four-inch marble base and a silver figurine of an elegant woman in a skirt, mid-bowl.
Coincidentally, the very week I entered the world marked the debut of the microwave—an enormous contraption that could easily scare off a small child. My mother won that first microwave, a hulking three-foot-long beast that was so loud it dimmed the lights when in use. This terrifying piece of countertop radiation resided in our home until my sister finally replaced it around 2000, when I was 27. Appliances aren’t designed to last decades, and the long presence of that microwave in my childhood home is nothing short of alarming. Sure, I loved resting my forehead on it as I watched my meals cook, but I can’t pin all my questionable decisions on it—my sister did the same, and she’s now a Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist.
We tried to upgrade my mom’s microwave sooner, but she wouldn’t hear of it. The replacement was smuggled out of the house by my sister, and my mom’s reaction upon seeing its shiny, digital successor was nothing short of heartbreak. It was akin to taking away a beloved family pet and trying to replace it with something entirely different.
But that microwave wasn’t the sole ancient relic in our household. Our TV was legendary in its own right. Remember the days when electronics doubled as furniture? Our TV sat a mere five inches off the floor, encased in a bulky wooden cabinet. We purchased it in 1978, and it remained until 2003 when we finally convinced my mother to part with it for her move to Florida. Only the channel up button worked on the remote, leading to countless frustrating moments as we cycled through 52 channels. It’s amusing to think about now, but she still complains about its absence. When I visited San Jose recently, I learned Mike, her former tenant, still enjoys that TV, claiming it’s the best he’s ever had.
I kept my first Mac PowerBook far longer than I should have. With a 27-year-old microwave and a nine-year-old computer, I realized there might be a genetic predisposition at play. I didn’t turn that computer off for three years, fearing it wouldn’t restart. I avoided software updates, convinced Apple was out to make their products obsolete. My reluctance to replace anything plugged into a wall was clearly inherited.
In 2012, I was still using a 32-inch Sony TV my mom bought me in 1998. Friends often joked about my ancient television. When my husband surprised me with a flat-screen, I feigned enthusiasm, but deep down, I missed my old friend. I mean, who cares that it jutted into the living room like a relic? The thought of parting with it left me feeling nostalgic.
Lying awake one night, I reflected on my attachment to that old TV. I realized it wasn’t just about the technology; it was the memories and the comfort of familiarity that came with it. Aging brings a bittersweet awareness of how quickly youth slips away, and who wouldn’t want to hold onto those moments?
Ultimately, my husband’s new flat-screen found a home in his office, while my trusty TV remained in the living room until I was finally ready to say goodbye. They just don’t make things like that anymore.
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Summary
This article reflects on the nostalgia and attachment to old appliances and memories associated with them, highlighting how these objects represent a connection to our past. The narrative transitions into a personal exploration of family planning and the significance of familiar objects in our lives.